Protecting Peggy. Maggie Price

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      She had not felt such a deep, hollow ache since those terrible days after Jay died nearly five years ago.

      Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, Peggy rinsed the sprigs of spearmint, then laid them on a paper towel to dry. Maybe the reason she felt so uncharacteristically empty was that Rory Sinclair had reminded her so much of the husband she had loved and lost. For that reason, too, it was only natural she hadn’t been able to put the tall, lanky scientist out of her mind.

      Until right now, she resolved as she turned to the center island and poured the pecans she’d chopped earlier into the bowl of batter. She had guests to feed, rooms to clean and orders to place with two food distributors and a local winery. After four years, the running of the inn and the chores that went with it were so ingrained that they normally left her brain free to think about anything that struck her fancy.

      Although musing about a man with the tough, intense face of a warrior might be pleasurable, she wasn’t going to allow herself that diversion. Her relationship with Jay had taught her that she was a woman readily drawn to a man with an aura of danger about him. She had no intention of again letting herself be tantalized by a man like that. Especially one who was just passing through.

      “Good morning.”

      Peggy’s stomach gave an intriguing little flip at the sound of Rory Sinclair’s voice. She looked up to find him with one shoulder propped against the doorjamb, his dark gaze focused on her in total concentration. He looked impossibly handsome in black jeans and a gray polo shirt, its sleeves shoved up on his forearms. His jet-black hair glistened wetly from what she assumed was his morning shower.

      “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair.”

      “Rory.”

      She gave him a cool smile even as heat crept up her neck. How long, she wondered, had he been standing there watching her and Samantha?

      “There’s coffee in the dining room. Two of the guests—the ladies who are judging categories in the winter arts festival—are already there.” Peggy inclined her head toward the doorway opposite from the one in which he lingered. “You can get to the dining room through that door. I’ll serve breakfast in about fifteen minutes.”

      “Whatever you’re cooking smells great.” Rory strolled across the kitchen, pausing when he reached the side of the center island from where Samantha sat eyeing him, the pink crayon gripped in a fist that had gone motionless above the paper.

      “Momma’s making pancakes with nuts in ’em. They’re my favorite.”

      “Pecans,” Peggy amended. “And cinnamon-apple sausage to go with the pancakes.” Since she was adamant about her daughter learning manners, Peggy added, “Samantha, this is Mr. Sinclair. He checked in last night after you were in bed.”

      Having grown up in an inn constantly filled with strangers, there was nothing shy about the way Samantha scooted the piece of paper his way. “Do you like my picture, Mr. Sink…Mr. Sinkle?”

      He smiled. “I think ‘Rory’ is a much easier name. It’s a great picture, Samantha.” He tilted his head. “How old are you?”

      “Four,” she replied, holding up the accompanying number of fingers. “I’ll be five in May. What do you think my picture is of?”

      Peggy raised a brow as he bent his head to examine the pink, misshapen drawing. Samantha had a habit of using her artwork to test the guests. Ordinarily, Peggy would have chided Samantha into telling what it was she was drawing, but for some reason she was curious to see how Rory Sinclair handled the situation.

      “It’s a bunny,” he answered gravely. “With long, pink eyelashes.”

      Samantha’s smile beamed like sunshine. “His name’s Bugs. Someday I’m going to have a real bunny. My momma says we’ll have to see about that. Now I have to draw Bugs a carrot ’cause he’s hungry.” Laying the pink crayon aside, she plucked an orange one, furrowed her brow, then started coloring.

      Peggy lifted her gaze, met Rory’s blue one. “And I have to finish breakfast ’cause my guests are hungry. As I said, there’s coffee in the dining room.”

      “And two lady art judges. I got all that the first time around.” He glanced down. “Samantha, are the ladies in the dining room going to judge your picture, too?”

      “No, Momma wants to hang this one in my room.”

      “Well, it would have been a sure winner. It’s a really good picture.”

      “I know.” She paused, looking suddenly thoughtful as she stared up into his face. “Do you have a little girl, too, 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?”

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