The Welcoming

that it would hold off until he was back at the inn.
    He placed the call, waited for the connection.
    “Conby.”
    “DeWinter.”
    “You’re late.”
    Roman didn’t bother to check his watch. He knew it was just shy of 3:00 a.m. on the East Coast. “Get you up?”
    “Am I to assume that you’ve established yourself?”
    “Yeah, I’m in. Rigging the handyman’s lottery ticket cleared the way. Arranging the flat gave me the opening. Miss Ford is . . . trusting.”
    “So we were led to believe. Trusting doesn’t mean she’s not ambitious. What have you got?”
    A bad case of guilt, Roman thought as he lit a match. A very bad case. “Her rooms are clean.” He paused and held the flame to the tip of his cigarette. “There’s a tour group in now, mostly Canadians. A few exchanged money. Nothing over a hundred.”
    The pause was very brief. “That’s hardly enough to make the business worthwhile.”
    “I got a list out of the office. The names and addresses of the registered guests.”
    There was another, longer pause, and a rustling sound that told Roman that his contact was searching for writing materials. “Let me have it.”
    He read them off from the copy he’d made. “Block’s the tour guide. He’s the regular, comes in once a week for a one- or two-night stay, depending on the package.”
    “Vision Tours.”
    “Right.”
    “We’ve got a man on that end. You concentrate on Ford and her staff.” Roman heard the faint
tap-tap-tap
of Conby’s pencil against his pad. “There’s no way they can be pulling this off without someone on the inside. She’s the obvious answer.”
    “It doesn’t fit.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    Roman crushed the cigarette under his boot heel. “I said it doesn’t fit. I’ve watched her. I’ve gone through her personal accounts, damn it. She’s got under three thousand in fluid cash. Everything else goes into the place for new sheets and soap.”
    “I see.” The pause again. 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