The Welcoming

type who would want to make money the easy way. Nor did she seem the type who craved all the things easy money could buy. But that was instinct, not fact.
    The problem was, Conby ran on facts. Roman had always relied heavily on instinct. His job was to prove her guilt, not her innocence. Yet, in less than two days, his priorities had changed.
    It wasn’t just a matter of finding her attractive. He had found other women attractive and had brought them down without a qualm. That was justice. One of the few things he believed in without reservation was justice.
    With Charity he needed to be certain that his conclusions about her were based on more than the emotions she dragged out of him. Feelings and instincts were different. If a man in his position allowed himself to be swayed by feelings, he was useless.
    Then what was it? No matter how long or how hard he thought it through, he couldn’t pinpoint one specific reason why he was certain of her innocence. Because it was the whole of it, Roman realized. Her, the inn, the atmosphere that surrounded her. It made him want to believe that such people, such places, existed. And existed untainted.
    He was getting soft. A pretty woman, big blue eyes, and he started to think in fairy tales. In disgust, he took the brushes and the paint pans to the sink to clean them. He was going to take a break, from work and from his own rambling thoughts.
    In the gathering room, Charity was thinking just as reluctantly of him as she set a stack of records on the table between Miss Millie and Miss Lucy.
    “What a lovely idea.” Miss Lucy adjusted her glasses and peered at the labels. “A nice old-fashioned tea dance.” From one of the units in the east wing came the unrelenting whine of a toddler. Miss Lucy sent a sympathetic glance in the direction of the noise, “I’m sure this will keep everyone entertained.”
    “It’s hard for young people to know what to do with themselves on a rainy day. It makes them cross. Oh, look.” Miss Millie held up a 45. “Rosemary Clooney. Isn’t this delightful?”
    “Pick out your favorites.” Charity gave the room a distracted glance. How could she prepare for a party when all she could think of was the way Roman had looked at her across the breakfast table? “I’m depending on you.”
    The long buffet and a small server had been cleared off to hold the refreshments. If she could count on Mae—and she always had—they should be coming up from the kitchen shortly.
    Would Roman come in? she wondered. Would he hear the music and slip silently into the room? Would he look at her until her heart started to hammer and she forgot there was anything or anyone but him?
    She was going crazy, Charity decided. She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to three. Word had been passed to all the guests, and with luck she would be ready for them when they began to arrive. The ladies were deep in a discussion of Perry Como. Leaving them to it, Charity began to tug on the sofa.
    “What are you doing?”
    A squeal escaped her, and she cursed Roman in the next breath. “If you keep sneaking around I’m going to take Mae’s idea of you being a cat burglar more seriously.”
    “I wasn’t sneaking around. You were so busy huffing and puffing you didn’t hear me.”
    “I wasn’t huffing or puffing.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glared at him. “But I am busy, so if you’d get out of my way—”
    She waved a hand at him, and he caught it and held it. “I asked what you were doing.”
    She tugged, then tugged harder, struggling to control her temper. If he wanted to fight, she thought, she’d be happy to oblige him. “I’m knitting an afghan,” she snapped. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m moving the sofa.”
    “No, you’re not.”
    She could, when the occasion called for, succeed in being haughty. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I said you’re not moving the sofa. It’s too heavy.”
    “Thank you for your opinion, but I’ve moved it before.” She lowered her voice when she noticed the interested glances the ladies were giving her. “And if you’d get the hell out of my way I’d move it again.”
    He stood where he was, blocking her. “You really do have to do everything yourself, don’t you?”
    “Meaning?”
    “Where’s your assistant?”
    “The computer sprang a leak. Since Bob’s better equipped to deal with that, he’s playing with components and I’m moving furniture. Now—”
    “Where do you