he had come perilously close to a line he didn’t dare cross. He could hardly breathe, much less think. Until he was certain he could do both, he was silent.
“Go to bed, Charity.”
She stayed where she was, certain that if she took a step her legs would give way. He was still close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. But she looked into his eyes and knew he was already out of reach.
“Just like that?”
Hurt. He could hear it in her voice, and he wished he could make himself believe she had brought it on herself. He reached for his beer but changed his mind when he saw that his hand was unsteady. Only one thing was clear. He had to get rid of her, quickly, before he touched her again.
“You’re not the type for quick sex on the kitchen floor.”
The color that passion had brought to her cheeks faded. “No. At least I never have been.” After taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. She believed in facing facts, even unpleasant ones. “Is that all this would have been, Roman?”
His hand curled into a fist. “Yes,” he said. “What else?”
“I see.” She kept her eyes on his, wishing she could hate him. “I’m sorry for you.”
“Don’t be.”
“You’re in charge of your feelings, Roman, not mine. And I am sorry for you. Some people lose a leg or a hand or an eye. They either deal with that loss or become bitter. I can’t see what piece of you is missing, Roman, but it’s just as tragic.” He didn’t answer; she hadn’t expected him to. “Don’t forget the lights.”
He waited until she was gone before he fumbled for a match. He needed time to gain control of his head—and his hands—before he searched the office. What worried him was that it was going to take a great deal longer to gain control of his heart.
***
Nearly two hours later he hiked a mile and a half to use the pay phone at the nearest gas station. The road was quiet, the tiny village dark. The wind had come up, and it tasted of rain. Roman hoped dispassionately that it would hold off until he was back at the inn.
He placed the call, waited for the connection.
“Conby.”
“DeWinter.”
“You’re late.”
Roman didn’t bother to check his watch. He knew it was just shy of 3:00 a.m. on the East Coast. “Get you up?”
“Am I to assume that you’ve established yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m in. Rigging the handyman’s lottery ticket cleared the way. Arranging the flat gave me the opening. Miss Ford is . . . trusting.”
“So we were led to believe. Trusting doesn’t mean she’s not ambitious. What have you got?”
A bad case of guilt, Roman thought as he lit a match. A very bad case. “Her rooms are clean.” He paused and held the flame to the tip of his cigarette. “There’s a tour group in now, mostly Canadians. A few exchanged money. Nothing over a hundred.”
The pause was very brief. “That’s hardly enough to make the business worthwhile.”
“I got a list out of the office. The names and addresses of the registered guests.”
There was another, longer pause, and a rustling sound that told Roman that his contact was searching for writing materials. “Let me have it.”
He read them off from the copy he’d made. “Block’s the tour guide. He’s the regular, comes in once a week for a one- or two-night stay, depending on the package.”
“Vision Tours.”
“Right.”
“We’ve got a man on that end. You concentrate on Ford and her staff.” Roman heard the faint
tap-tap-tap
of Conby’s pencil against his pad. “There’s no way they can be pulling this off without someone on the inside. She’s the obvious answer.”
“It doesn’t fit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Roman crushed the cigarette under his boot heel. “I said it doesn’t fit. I’ve watched her. I’ve gone through her personal accounts, damn it. She’s got under three thousand in fluid cash. Everything else goes into the place for new sheets and soap.”
“I see.” The pause again.
“Go to bed, Charity.”
She stayed where she was, certain that if she took a step her legs would give way. He was still close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body. But she looked into his eyes and knew he was already out of reach.
“Just like that?”
Hurt. He could hear it in her voice, and he wished he could make himself believe she had brought it on herself. He reached for his beer but changed his mind when he saw that his hand was unsteady. Only one thing was clear. He had to get rid of her, quickly, before he touched her again.
“You’re not the type for quick sex on the kitchen floor.”
The color that passion had brought to her cheeks faded. “No. At least I never have been.” After taking a deep breath, she stepped forward. She believed in facing facts, even unpleasant ones. “Is that all this would have been, Roman?”
His hand curled into a fist. “Yes,” he said. “What else?”
“I see.” She kept her eyes on his, wishing she could hate him. “I’m sorry for you.”
“Don’t be.”
“You’re in charge of your feelings, Roman, not mine. And I am sorry for you. Some people lose a leg or a hand or an eye. They either deal with that loss or become bitter. I can’t see what piece of you is missing, Roman, but it’s just as tragic.” He didn’t answer; she hadn’t expected him to. “Don’t forget the lights.”
He waited until she was gone before he fumbled for a match. He needed time to gain control of his head—and his hands—before he searched the office. What worried him was that it was going to take a great deal longer to gain control of his heart.
***
Nearly two hours later he hiked a mile and a half to use the pay phone at the nearest gas station. The road was quiet, the tiny village dark. The wind had come up, and it tasted of rain. Roman hoped dispassionately that it would hold off until he was back at the inn.
He placed the call, waited for the connection.
“Conby.”
“DeWinter.”
“You’re late.”
Roman didn’t bother to check his watch. He knew it was just shy of 3:00 a.m. on the East Coast. “Get you up?”
“Am I to assume that you’ve established yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m in. Rigging the handyman’s lottery ticket cleared the way. Arranging the flat gave me the opening. Miss Ford is . . . trusting.”
“So we were led to believe. Trusting doesn’t mean she’s not ambitious. What have you got?”
A bad case of guilt, Roman thought as he lit a match. A very bad case. “Her rooms are clean.” He paused and held the flame to the tip of his cigarette. “There’s a tour group in now, mostly Canadians. A few exchanged money. Nothing over a hundred.”
The pause was very brief. “That’s hardly enough to make the business worthwhile.”
“I got a list out of the office. The names and addresses of the registered guests.”
There was another, longer pause, and a rustling sound that told Roman that his contact was searching for writing materials. “Let me have it.”
He read them off from the copy he’d made. “Block’s the tour guide. He’s the regular, comes in once a week for a one- or two-night stay, depending on the package.”
“Vision Tours.”
“Right.”
“We’ve got a man on that end. You concentrate on Ford and her staff.” Roman heard the faint
tap-tap-tap
of Conby’s pencil against his pad. “There’s no way they can be pulling this off without someone on the inside. She’s the obvious answer.”
“It doesn’t fit.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Roman crushed the cigarette under his boot heel. “I said it doesn’t fit. I’ve watched her. I’ve gone through her personal accounts, damn it. She’s got under three thousand in fluid cash. Everything else goes into the place for new sheets and soap.”
“I see.” The pause again.
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