Protecting Peggy. Maggie Price

Mr. Rory? I could draw a picture for her room.”

      “No. I don’t have a little girl or a little boy.”

      “You’re not as lucky as Momma, then.”

      “Clearly, I’m not,” he commented while Samantha shifted her attention back to the carrot.

      Leaning a hip against the island, Rory moved his gaze to the copper pots and baskets hanging from hooks overhead. His attention then went to the butcher-block counters and oversized range and huge refrigerator behind where Peggy stood. “Nice kitchen, Mrs. Honeywell.”

      “Thank you.” In an unconscious gesture, she ran her fingertips across the island’s dark granite top. “This was my grandmother’s house.”

      “Was she born in Ireland, too?”

      Peggy was vaguely surprised he remembered her brief mention of her birthplace. Jay had also been skilled at filing away small details about people.

      “No. My birth mother lived in Ireland. I was adopted by an American couple when I was four months old.” Her mouth curved. “Gran used to say I was a special gift from the Emerald Isle.”

      “With eyes to match.”

      Was it simply her imagination that his voice had lowered, become richer? “I…used to come and stay with Gran in the summers,” she continued, trying to ignore the jump in her pulse. “I spent hours in here helping her cook, my mouth watering from all the delicious scents. This room always felt so homey to me. The whole house, in fact. I want my guests to feel that Honeywell House is more a home than an inn.”

      His eyes narrowed. “Do they feel that way?”

      “Most say they do.” She tilted her head. “When you check out, maybe you’ll let me know your take on the subject.”

      “You’ll want to ask someone other than me about homey feelings. I tested the inn’s water last night and this morning.”

      She blinked. His sudden change of subject had her mentally stumbling to catch up. Putting a hand to her throat, Peggy shifted her gaze to her daughter. Samantha hunched over her drawing, the point of her small tongue caught between her teeth while she put the final touches on Bugs’s oversize carrot.

      A wave of uneasiness swamped Peggy. Despite reassurances from city officials, she had spent countless hours worrying about the town’s water supply and wondering if she should take her daughter out of harm’s way until the crisis was resolved.

      “Is the inn’s water safe?”

      “Yes. Everything checks out.”

      She closed her eyes. Opened them. “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      “It’s been two weeks since they found out the water on Hopechest Ranch was contaminated. Some of the kids who drank it are still sick.”

      “Do you know any of those kids?”

      “No. I’ve only been to Hopechest a few times because the inn keeps me so busy. I do know, though, that Blake Fallon is terribly worried about those kids.” As she spoke, Peggy resumed stirring her pancake batter. “After the agony he went through last year over his father, this is the last thing Blake needs.”

      “What agony?”

      Peggy looked up. “I thought you said you and Blake were friends.”

      “We are.” A look of unease slid into Rory’s blue eyes. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

      “Well, it sounds as if you have some catching up to do.”

      “You’re right. I have an appointment to see him after breakfast.”

      Nodding, Peggy decided to voice the concern she’d had since shortly after the EPA inspector checked into Honeywell House. “Charlie O’Connell claims there’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that contaminated the ranch’s water supply. And how it got there.”

      Rory settled a palm on the counter. “Are you asking me if I agree with him?”

      “Yes, I guess I am.”

      “If O’Connell is conducting his study by the book, he will have taken water samples at the ranch on the day he arrived in Prosperino. Those samples should have been sent to the EPA lab for analysis. Depending on the rarity of the contaminant, it could take weeks to break down its components and make an ID.”

      “That just seems like an awfully long time.”

      “I know it does.” Rory angled his chin. “To put things in context, the breath you just exhaled contains one hundred and two different composites. To conduct a scientific analysis of that one breath, each composite has to be separated, then analyzed. Contaminated water has to be broken down that same way. In a lab, you can’t rush tests, can’t skip steps. That’s why I agree with O’Connell. There’s no way to predict how long it might take to find out what it was that wound up in the ranch’s water. And how it got there.”

      Although she knew next to nothing about Rory Sinclair, instinct told Peggy she could trust what he said. Her gaze went to his hand resting on the countertop, his long, elegant fingers splayed against dark granite. Those long elegant fingers that she somehow knew would work slow, sweet magic against a woman’s flesh.

      A dry ache settled in her throat. For so many years she had ignored her physical needs. Now those needs seemed to double and triple when she was in the same room with this one man.

      “Something wrong?” he asked quietly.

      Peggy looked up, realized he was watching her with the same intense assessment she had seen last night when he walked in on her and O’Connell.

      “Of course not,” she said, pleased that her voice sounded steady. She ran her palms down the thighs of her gray flannel slacks. “It’s just a relief to know the inn’s water is safe.”

      “I’ll continue to test it twice a day as long as I’m here.”

      “I feel guilty not paying you for the testing.”

      “Well, I don’t want your guilt on my conscience.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he flashed her a grin. “I’ll take my payment in dessert.”

      “Dessert?” She’d have to be careful of that grin, Peggy told herself. It oozed recklessness and charm. Made you want to put down your guard and relax in his presence. She knew instinctively he was a man it would be unwise to relax around.

      “Blake says you cook like an angel and that your apricot cobbler is a direct route to heaven.” Rory lifted a shoulder. “I’ve got a sweet tooth that would like to take that trip.”

      He didn’t look like he had a sweet tooth. He looked incredibly fit, his stomach washboard flat, his forearms toned and muscular. What would it be like, she wondered, to feel that well-maintained body pressed against hers?

      The thought brought all of her nerves swimming to the surface. She picked up a jar of herbed vinegar, set it back down. He would not be good for her, she knew that. Still, knowing something wasn’t good for you didn’t stop you from wanting to sample it.

      Which was something she wasn’t going to do. A week from now Rory Sinclair might possibly be back in D.C., working in his lab. And, just because he didn’t have children didn’t mean there wasn’t a Mrs. Sinclair waiting for him at home.

      That she suddenly found herself hoping he didn’t have a wife had Peggy scowling. She had no clue what it was that made her thoughts about one of her guests turn totally idiotic. Whatever it was, she was done with it. She was a professional. A businesswoman.

      “It’s agreed, Mr. Sinclair,” she said in her most efficient tone. “I’ll prepare whatever dessert you’d like each evening in exchange for your testing the inn’s water every day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need