Blue Moon Bride. Renee Roszel

his nerves were shot, and so far his stay at the inn hadn’t helped his mental state. Facing the fact that he’d been put in charge, he walked to the reservation desk, outfitted in what was once a hallway closet. He grabbed the receiver. “Jerric here.”

      “What?” the male voice on the other end of the line asked.

      Roth felt like an idiot. “I mean, Blue Moon Inn.”

      “Who is this?”

      Roth didn’t enjoy this kind of phone call. “Who is this?” he asked.

      “This is Sheriff Deacon Vance. I ask again, who is this?”

      “Oh, Sheriff. This is Roth Jerric, a guest at the inn. Mrs. Peterson went to bed. She asked me to tell you you’re too late. I’m guessing you don’t need to come out.”

      “Too late?”

      Roth was relieved to hear the sheriff’s confusion. “That’s what she said, along with other things—something about Madam Fate and hopes crashing on rocks. To tell the truth…” He had a thought that seemed worth exploring. “Does the woman have a drinking problem?”

      Hearty laughter exploded on the other end of the line. “What she has is a meddling problem. Tell me, Jerric, is a young, attractive female staying at the inn?”

      He thought about Hannah Hudson, her lithe, slender frame and free-falling blond hair. He recalled stunning, gray-green eyes and remembered the first time he noticed them. He and Hannah happened to be on the same elevator when their glances chanced to meet. He was so struck by the rare beauty of those eyes he’d lost his train of thought. That never happened to him, so the moment stuck in his mind. And her smile. He recalled that, too—singularly sweet. Every time he saw it he had the feeling it reached clear to her soul.

      Tonight she hadn’t smiled. Quite the contrary. But to answer the sheriff’s question, she was damn attractive, even with the attitude. “Yes, there’s an attractive woman staying here.”

      “Ah-ha.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “It means, Joan Peterson is up to her matchmaking tricks,” he said. “She called me insisting a prowler was roaming the grounds. Wanted me there pronto. On the way I got sidetracked rescuing a teenage couple from their overturned pickup. When will young lovers learn that French kissing while traveling sixty miles an hour on a country road isn’t very bright? They were lucky they wore their seat belts and the streambed they ended up in wasn’t deep.” There was silence on the line for a few seconds. “Look, apologize to her for me,” he said. “Tell her duty called and I’m sorry about the blue moon.”

      “Right.” Roth didn’t quite catch the last thing Deacon said. “What about a blue—”

      Too late. The sheriff had hung up. What did he mean he was sorry about the blue moon? “Is everybody crazy around here?” he asked the empty lobby.

      Turning away from the registration desk, he stared down the hallway where he had last seen Joan Peterson. At a loss, he began to get angry. He’d come to the blasted inn hoping to conjure up a new burst of optimism and clarity. So far all he’d managed to conjure up was a bucket load of female outrage.

      CHAPTER TWO

      HANNAH’S vow to keep her distance from the annoying Roth Jerric wasn’t as easy to keep as she hoped, considering they shared a bathroom. That afternoon when she arrived, the idea of sharing it with strangers hadn’t seemed alarming. She’d pictured some sweet elderly couple that would retire early, or newlyweds oblivious to anyone but each other, or some health nut who would hike or canoe all day.

      In her worst nightmare she never imagined her bath-mate would be her belittling ex-boss, or so—well, so conspicuously male. Her problems began when she returned from her midnight sojourn in the garden, worn-out and ready for a long soak in the tub. When she started to open the door, she heard the shower running. Darn the man. Why couldn’t he have showered in the hour he had once he left her alone?

      Though she preferred to think she and Roth had nothing in common, by the next morning things were shaping up to appear that they shared an identical sleeping, waking and hygiene schedule.

      She had just gone into the bathroom when she heard a knock. Being close to the booming sound, she jumped and gasped. Never in her life had the simple act of taking a bath caused her so much anxiety. She stood there naked, her nerves raw, one step away from climbing into the ancient clawfoot tub. “What?” she asked, stress ripe in her tone.

      “Are you about done?”

      “No,” she said minimally, preferring not to give him a mental picture of her nudity. “It’ll be at least fifteen minutes.”

      A pause, then, “Would you mind if I came in and got my electric shaver?”

      “I would mind very much. I’m not—decent.”

      A moment passed before he responded, then, “Could you get decent? It’ll just take a second.”

      Her impatience rose. “We’re going to have to work out a schedule so this doesn’t keep happening,” she shouted.

      “Good idea,” he said. “So, is that a yes or a no?”

      “A yes or a no about what?”

      “About coming in?”

      This guy’s pushiness was enough to give any sane person the screaming meemies. She wanted to tell him exactly where he could go, with her blessing, but decided not to fight it. He’d only keep knocking and harping on about his dratted shaving kit until he got his way. Heaving a groan, she called, “Just a second.” She unlocked the door that led to his bedroom, then stepped into the tub and drew the plastic curtain around her. “Okay, come in and get it over!”

      “Thanks.” His door opened. “I appreciate it.”

      “Whatever! Just hurry.” As she wrapped herself more securely in her green, plastic cocoon, she looked at him and her eyes went wide. “You’re not decent!”

      He was about to retrieve his shaving gear from a drawer under the sink when she spoke. He stilled and glanced in her direction. “The hell I’m not.” He straightened and spread his arms, displaying his bare upper torso, which, she was sorry to notice, showed off fantastic pectorals and a shamelessly trim and sexy stomach. His hip area was covered, barely, by a towel that started too far below his navel and ended provocatively high on the thighs. Roth Jerric had a decidedly cruel streak.

      “Okay, you’re minutely decent,” she said grimly.

      His forehead crinkled as though he’d been slapped. “For the record, Miss Hudson, men have a particular aversion to being alluded to as minute.”

      “Your glaring male insecurities are not my problem, Mr. Jerric.” She freed an arm to indicate his “minute” attire. “What is that thing, a hankie?”

      “Funny.” He gave the shower curtain she’d wrapped herself up in a slow perusal. “Now I have a question for you.” When he returned his attention to her face he watched her with eyes that missed nothing and revealed less. “You’re wrapped in plastic.”

      “That’s not a question.”

      “Okay. Let’s try this.” He indicated her with flick of his hand. “That’s your idea of getting decent?”

      “At least I’m covered.”

      “Yes.” He nodded. “You are.” He crossed his arms with languid, muscled grace she wished she could dismiss without a foolish increase in her heart rate. “There’s one flaw in your fashion statement, however.”

      “Really?” She clutched the curtain more tightly around her, hating being put on the defensive, especially by a man who thought of her as inferior. “What might that be?”

      “I