Always A Mcbride. Linda Turner

wind, of course. It’ll probably howl all night long.”

      As far as she was concerned, there was no better sleeping weather, but her guest looked far from pleased with the forecast. His frown deepening, he scowled, then obviously decided there was no use whining about the weather. “As I was saying before the lights went out, I need a room. Preferably something private, where I won’t be disturbed.”

      His tone was cool, almost snooty, and that alone told Phoebe that he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. As a paying guest, he had a right to expect peace and quiet, and she would be as accommodating as she could, but she didn’t like his tone at all. What was his problem, anyway? she wondered, narrowing her blue eyes at him in irritation. Hadn’t his mama taught him he’d go a lot further in life if he used please and thank you?

      Lifting the candle, she held it up so that it illuminated his face and made no secret of the fact that she was openly studying him. He was, she silently acknowledged, a good-looking man. Lean and rangy, with an angular face and a hard jaw, there was something about him that was vaguely familiar, though Phoebe was sure she’d never met him before. She would never have forgotten those eyes. Piercing, brown and sharp with intelligence, they met her gaze head-on and seemed to see into her very soul.

      For no explicable reason, she felt her heart kick, and she didn’t like the feeling at all. Frowning, she asked, “How long were you planning on staying? Just tonight or until your car’s fixed?”

      “Actually, longer than that,” he replied stiffly. “Probably a month, maybe longer. At this point, I can’t really tell you more than that.”

      Phoebe loved Liberty Hill, but she wasn’t blind to the fact that there was little about it that would attract a tourist for longer than a day or two. Especially one who appeared to be as sophisticated as this man. His clothes might be damp and torn from his accident, but even so, it was obvious that they were well-cut and expensive. What was his story? What was he doing here?

      Curious, she arched a brow at him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you going to do here for an entire month? You can walk from one end of town to the other in about ten minutes.”

      For a moment, he hesitated as if he didn’t want to tell her, before he finally said, almost defiantly. “I’m a writer. I’m working on a book.”

      Phoebe couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told her he was the head chef for the Titanic. She liked to think she was a fairly good judge of people, but she’d never have guessed that the man had a creative bone in his body. He just didn’t look like a writer. Not that a writer had any particular look, she admitted. But she’d always thought of writers and artists as exotic introverts who could do things with words or paint or clay that she and most people could never even dream of. In no way, shape or form did that describe her unexpected guest. If she’d had to guess what he did for a living, she would have taken him for some kind of power broker. He had class-A personality written all over him.

      Still, he could have been friendly. He wasn’t. In fact, he seemed almost angry. Granted, he had a right to be out of sorts after he’d wrecked his car in the storm, but she had a feeling his anger went deeper than that. And that disturbed her. She liked people…liked talking to them, cooking for them, getting to know them. Getting to know this man wouldn’t be easy. Everything about him said back off.

      For no other reason than that, she should have sent him back out into the rain in search of a room somewhere else. People who booked a vacation at a bed and breakfast weren’t just looking for a place to spend the night. They were looking for an escape, a place where they could go to get away from the stress of their everyday lives. She didn’t know if the other guests Myrtle had lined up for the next few weeks would be able to do that with this man in the house.

      But how could she send him away? It was a miserable night and he’d already had more than his share of trouble. And it wasn’t as if he could find someplace else in town to stay. The nearest hotel was thirty miles away! How was he supposed to get there? Walk? He’d wrecked his car!

      Her ex-boyfriend would have told her she was a soft touch and whatever the stranger’s story was, it wasn’t her problem. But that was one of the reasons Marshall was an ex. She couldn’t be that unfeeling, especially when someone was in trouble. Giving into her inherent need to help, she opened the door wider and invited him inside. “Please, come in. I’m Phoebe Chandler,” she added with an easy smile as he stepped over the threshold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

      “Taylor Bishop,” he growled.

      Holding out her hand, she flashed her dimples at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Taylor. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here.”

      He closed his fingers around hers, but only gave her hand a perfunctory shake before releasing it. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

      He couldn’t have insulted her more if he’d tried. After everything her grandmother had done to turn the place into a bed and breakfast—and all the work she, herself, intended to do to make the Mountain View Inn the best in the state—she wanted his stay to be a heck of a lot more than just fine!

      Annoyed, she smiled, but it wasn’t easy. “I hope it’s better than that. So if there’s anything you need—or don’t like—just let me know. If I can’t fix the problem, I’ll find someone who can.”

      “I’m not particular about things. All I want is to be left alone to work in peace.”

      Well, that was blunt enough, Phoebe thought, irritated. If he thought she was going to bother him, he could think again. He could have all the peace and quiet he wanted. “Then you should be pleased with your room,” she said. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

      Turning, she led him carefully up the stairs and found herself wishing the lights would hurry up and come back on. She’d never realized before just how intimate and inviting candlelight was. Or how quiet Myrtle’s Victorian house was, even in the midst of a storm. As they carefully made their way up the grand staircase, she could almost hear the pounding of her heart as his shadow followed hers. Did he realize they were the only two people in the house? Was he as aware of her presence as she was of his? What the heck was going on?

      Telling herself not to get fanciful, she led him to a room at the back of the house. “It’s small, but I think it will suit you nicely. You won’t be able to hear the street noise from here and it has a nice view of the garden. You won’t be disturbed while you work.”

      The room was, in fact, quite comfortable and was decorated with red plaids and heavy furniture designed to appeal to a man. Taylor Bishop took one look at it in the light of the candle she held and reached for his wallet. “This is fine. You do take credit cards, don’t you?”

      His tone was cool…and all business. Irritated, Phoebe reminded herself that he was only a guest—unfortunately, her first—and she didn’t have to like him. He wasn’t going to stay forever. If he didn’t care about his creature comforts, that was his problem. It was her job to see that his stay—and every other guest’s—was as comfortable as possible, and that’s what she intended to do.

      Her tone as businesslike as his, she added, “The bathroom is across the hall—there are extra towels in the linen closet if you need them. Breakfast is served between seven and ten in the dining room. If there’s anything in particular you would like added to the menu, just tell me and I can have it for you the following morning.”

      Not giving him a chance to say anything, she rattled off a list of the inn’s other amenities. “If there’s anything else you need, just let me know and I’ll try to get it for you. Enjoy your stay.”

      Giving him a curt nod, she didn’t wait to see if he had any questions, but simply turned and headed for her room further down the hall. She knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t understand why someone like Taylor Bishop stayed at a bed and breakfast. He obviously wasn’t the type to enjoy it. Logically, she knew he hadn’t had any other choice—there were no other public lodgings in town—but he still irritated her.