It was maddening. “I suppose our Miss Ford hasn’t heard of Swiss bank accounts.”
“I said she’s not the type, Conby. It’s the wrong angle.”
“I’ll worry about the angles, DeWinter. You worry about doing your job. I shouldn’t have to remind you that it’s taken us nearly a year to come close to pinning this thing down. The Bureau wants this wrapped quickly, and that’s what I expect from you. If you have a personal problem with this, you’d better let me know now.”
“No.” He knew personal problems weren’t permitted. “You want to waste time, and the taxpayers’ money, it’s all the same to me. I’ll get back to you.”
“Do that.”
Roman hung up. It made him feel a little better to scowl at the phone and imagine Conby losing a good night’s sleep. Then again, his kind rarely did. He’d wake some hapless clerk up at six and have the list run through the computer. Conby would drink his coffee, watch the
Today
show and wait in his comfortable house in the D.C. suburbs for the results.
Grunt work and dirty work were left to others.
That was the way the game was played, Roman reminded himself as he started the long walk back to the inn. But lately, just lately, he was getting very tired of the rules.
***
Charity heard him come in. Curious, she glanced at the clock after she heard the door close below. It was after one, and the rain had started nearly thirty minutes before with a gentle hissing that promised to gain strength through the night.
She wondered where he had been.
His business, she reminded herself as she rolled over and tried to let the rain lull her to sleep. As long as he did his job, Roman DeWinter was free to come and go as he pleased. If he wanted to walk in the rain, that was fine by her.
How could he have kissed her like that and felt nothing?
Charity squeezed her eyes shut and swore at herself. It was her feelings she had to worry about, not Roman’s. The trouble was, she always felt too much. This was one time she couldn’t afford that luxury.
Something had happened to her when he’d kissed her. Something thrilling, something that had reached deep inside her and opened up endless possibilities. No, not possibilities, fantasies, she thought, shaking her head. If she were wise she would take that one moment of excitement and stop wanting more. Drifters made poor risks emotionally. She had the perfect example before her.
Her mother had turned to a drifter and had given him her heart, her trust, her body. She had ended up pregnant and alone. She had, Charity knew, pined for him for months. She’d died in the same hospital where her baby had been born, only days later. Betrayed, rejected and ashamed.
Charity had only discovered the extent of the shame after her grandfather’s death. He’d kept the diary her mother had written. Charity had burned it, not out of shame but out of pity. She would always think of her mother as a tragic woman who had looked for love and had never found it.
But she wasn’t her mother, Charity reminded herself as she lay awake listening to the rain. She was far, far less fragile. Love was what she had been named for, and she had felt its warmth all her life.
Now a drifter had come into her life.
He had spoken of regrets, she remembered. She was afraid that whatever happened—or didn’t happen—between them, she would have them.
Chapter 4
The rain continued all morning, soft, slow, steady. It brought a chill, and a gloom that was no less appealing than the sunshine. Clouds hung over the water, turning everything to different shades of gray. Raindrops hissed on the roof and at the windows, making the inn seem all the more remote. Occasionally the wind gusted, rattling the panes.
At dawn Roman had watched Charity, bundled in a hooded windbreaker, take Ludwig out for his morning run. And he had watched her come back, dripping, forty minutes later. He’d heard the music begin to play in her room after she had come in the back
“I said she’s not the type, Conby. It’s the wrong angle.”
“I’ll worry about the angles, DeWinter. You worry about doing your job. I shouldn’t have to remind you that it’s taken us nearly a year to come close to pinning this thing down. The Bureau wants this wrapped quickly, and that’s what I expect from you. If you have a personal problem with this, you’d better let me know now.”
“No.” He knew personal problems weren’t permitted. “You want to waste time, and the taxpayers’ money, it’s all the same to me. I’ll get back to you.”
“Do that.”
Roman hung up. It made him feel a little better to scowl at the phone and imagine Conby losing a good night’s sleep. Then again, his kind rarely did. He’d wake some hapless clerk up at six and have the list run through the computer. Conby would drink his coffee, watch the
Today
show and wait in his comfortable house in the D.C. suburbs for the results.
Grunt work and dirty work were left to others.
That was the way the game was played, Roman reminded himself as he started the long walk back to the inn. But lately, just lately, he was getting very tired of the rules.
***
Charity heard him come in. Curious, she glanced at the clock after she heard the door close below. It was after one, and the rain had started nearly thirty minutes before with a gentle hissing that promised to gain strength through the night.
She wondered where he had been.
His business, she reminded herself as she rolled over and tried to let the rain lull her to sleep. As long as he did his job, Roman DeWinter was free to come and go as he pleased. If he wanted to walk in the rain, that was fine by her.
How could he have kissed her like that and felt nothing?
Charity squeezed her eyes shut and swore at herself. It was her feelings she had to worry about, not Roman’s. The trouble was, she always felt too much. This was one time she couldn’t afford that luxury.
Something had happened to her when he’d kissed her. Something thrilling, something that had reached deep inside her and opened up endless possibilities. No, not possibilities, fantasies, she thought, shaking her head. If she were wise she would take that one moment of excitement and stop wanting more. Drifters made poor risks emotionally. She had the perfect example before her.
Her mother had turned to a drifter and had given him her heart, her trust, her body. She had ended up pregnant and alone. She had, Charity knew, pined for him for months. She’d died in the same hospital where her baby had been born, only days later. Betrayed, rejected and ashamed.
Charity had only discovered the extent of the shame after her grandfather’s death. He’d kept the diary her mother had written. Charity had burned it, not out of shame but out of pity. She would always think of her mother as a tragic woman who had looked for love and had never found it.
But she wasn’t her mother, Charity reminded herself as she lay awake listening to the rain. She was far, far less fragile. Love was what she had been named for, and she had felt its warmth all her life.
Now a drifter had come into her life.
He had spoken of regrets, she remembered. She was afraid that whatever happened—or didn’t happen—between them, she would have them.
Chapter 4
The rain continued all morning, soft, slow, steady. It brought a chill, and a gloom that was no less appealing than the sunshine. Clouds hung over the water, turning everything to different shades of gray. Raindrops hissed on the roof and at the windows, making the inn seem all the more remote. Occasionally the wind gusted, rattling the panes.
At dawn Roman had watched Charity, bundled in a hooded windbreaker, take Ludwig out for his morning run. And he had watched her come back, dripping, forty minutes later. He’d heard the music begin to play in her room after she had come in the back
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