The Welcoming

up-tempo now, something brisk and Latin. A mambo, he thought. Or a merengue. He wouldn’t know the difference. Apparently Charity knew well enough. She moved through the complicated, flashy number as if she’d been dancing all her life.
    Her skirt flared, wrapped around her legs, then flared again as she turned. She laughed, her face level and close to her partner’s as they matched steps. The first prick of jealousy infuriated Roman and made him feel like a fool. The man Charity was matching steps with was easily old enough to be her father.
    By the time the music ended he had managed to suppress the uncomfortable emotion but another had sprung up to take its place. Desire. He wanted her, wanted to take her by the hand and pull her out of that crowded room into someplace dim and quiet where all they would hear was the rain. He wanted to see her eyes go big and unfocused the way they had when he’d kissed her. He wanted to feel the incredible sensation of her mouth softening and heating under his.
    “It’s an education to watch her, isn’t it?”
    Roman jerked himself back as Bob eased over to pluck a sandwich from the tray. “What?”
    “Charity. Watching her dance is an education.” He popped the tiny sandwich into his mouth. “She tried to teach me once, hoping I’d be able to entertain some of the ladies on occasions like this. Trouble is, I not only have two left feet, I have two left legs.” He gave a cheerful shrug and reached for another sandwich.
    “Did you get the computer fixed?”
    “Yeah. Just a couple of minor glitches.” The little triangle of bread disappeared. Roman caught a hint of nerves in the way Bob’s knuckle tapped against the server. “I can’t teach Charity about circuit boards and software any more than she can teach me the samba. How’s the work going?”
    “Well enough.” He watched as Bob poured a cup of tea and added three sugars to it. “I should be done in two or three weeks.”
    “She’ll find something else for you to do.” He glanced over to where Charity and a new partner were dancing a fox-trot. “She’s always got a new idea for this place. Lately she’s been making noises about adding on a sunroom and putting in one of those whirlpool tubs.”
    Roman lit a cigarette. He was watching the guests now, making mental notes to pass on to Conby. There were two men who seemed to be alone, though they were chatting with other members of the tour group. Block stood by the doors, holding a plate full of sandwiches that he was dispatching with amazing ease and grinning at no one in particular.
    “The inn must be doing well.”
    “Oh, it’s stable.” Bob turned his attention to the petits fours. “A couple of years ago things were a little rocky, but Charity would always find a way to keep the ship afloat. Nothing’s more important to her.”
    Roman was silent for a moment. “I don’t know much about the hotel business, but she seems to know what she’s doing.”
    “Inside and out.” Bob chose a cake with pink frosting. “Charity
is
the inn.”
    “Have you worked for her long?”
    “About two and a half years. She couldn’t really afford me, but she wanted to turn things around, modernize the bookkeeping. Pump new life into the place, was what she said.” Someone put on a jitterbug, and he grinned. “She did just that.”
    “Apparently.”
    “So you’re from back east.” Bob paused for a moment, then continued when Roman made no comment. “How long are you planning to stay?”
    “As long as it takes.”
    He took a long sip of tea. “As long as what takes?”
    “The job.” Roman glanced idly toward the west wing. “I like to finish what I start.”
    “Yeah. Well . . .” He arranged several petits fours on a plate. “I’m going to go offer these to the ladies and hope they let me eat them.”
    Roman watched him pass Block and exchange a quick word with him before he crossed the room. Wanting time to think, Roman slipped back into the west wing.
    It was still raining when he came back hours later. Music was playing, some slow, melodic ballad from the fifties. The room was dimmer now, lit only by the fire and a glass-globed lamp. It was empty, too, except for Charity, who was busy tidying up, humming along with the music.
    “Party over?”
    She glanced around, then went hurriedly back to stacking cups and plates. “Yes. You didn’t stay long.”
    “I had work to do.”
    Because she wanted to keep moving, she switched to emptying