The Welcoming

ashtrays. She’d held on to her guilt long enough. “I was tired this morning, but that’s no excuse for being rude to you. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that you couldn’t enjoy yourself for a few hours.”
    He didn’t want to accept an apology that he knew he didn’t deserve. “I enjoy the work.”
    That only made her feel worse. “Be that as it may, I don’t usually go around barking orders. I was angry with you.”
    “Was?”
    She looked up, and her eyes were clear and direct. “Am. But that’s my problem. If it helps, I’m every bit as angry with myself for acting like a child because you didn’t let things get out of hand last night.”
    Uncomfortable, he picked up the wine decanter and poured a glass. “You didn’t act like a child.”
    “A woman scorned, then, or something equally dramatic. Try not to contradict me when I’m apologizing.”
    Despite his best efforts, his lips curved against the rim of his glass. If he didn’t watch himself he could find he was crazy about her. “All right. Is there more?”
    “Just a little.” She picked up one of the few petits fours that were left over, debated with herself, then popped it into her mouth. “I shouldn’t let my personal feelings interfere with my running of the inn. The problem is, almost everything I think or feel connects with the inn.”
    “Neither of us were thinking of the inn last night. Maybe that’s the problem.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Do you want the couch moved back?”
    “Yes.” Business as usual, Charity told herself as she walked over to lift her end. The moment it was in place she scooted around to plump the pillows. “I saw you dancing with Miss Millie. It thrilled her.”
    “I like her.”
    “I think you do,” Charity said slowly, straightening and studying him. “You’re not the kind of man who likes easily.”
    “No.”
    She wanted to go to him, to lift a hand to his cheek. That was ridiculous, she told herself. Apology notwithstanding, she was still angry with him for last night. “Has life been so hard?” she murmured.
    “No.”
    With a little laugh, she shook her head. “Then again, you wouldn’t tell me if it had been. I have to learn not to ask you questions. Why don’t we call a truce, Roman? Life’s too short for bad feelings.”
    “I don’t have any bad feelings toward you, Charity.”
    She smiled a little. “It’s tempting, but I’m not going to ask what kind of feelings you do have.”
    “I wouldn’t be able to tell you, because I haven’t figured it out.” He was amazed that the words had come out. After draining the wine, he set the empty glass aside.
    “Well.” Nonplussed, she pushed her hair back with both hands. “That’s the first thing you’ve told me I can really understand. Looks like we’re in the same boat. Do I take it we have a truce?”
    “Sure.”
    She glanced back as another record dropped onto the turntable. “This is one of my favorites. `Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’” She was smiling again when she looked back at him. “You never asked me to dance.”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “Miss Millie claims you’re very smooth.” She held out a hand in a gesture that was as much a peace offering as an invitation. Unable to resist, he took it in his. Their eyes stayed locked as he drew her slowly toward him.

Chapter 5
    A fire simmered in the grate. Rain pattered against the windows. The record was old and scratchy, the tune hauntingly sad. Whether they wanted it or not, their bodies fitted. Her hand slid gently over his shoulder, his around her waist. With their faces close, they began to dance.
    The added height from her heels brought her eyes level with his. He could smell the light fragrance that seemed so much a part of her. Seduced by it, he brought her closer, slowly. Their thighs brushed. Still closer. Her body melted against his.
    It was so quiet. There was only the music, the rain, the hissing of the fire. Gloomy light swirled into the room. He could feel her heart beating against his, quick now, and not too steady.
    His wasn’t any too steady now, either.
    Was that all it took? he wondered. Did he only have to touch her to think that she was the beginning and the end of everything? And to wish . . . His hand slid up her back, fingers spreading until they tangled in her hair. To wish she could belong to him.
    He wasn’t sure when that thought had sunk its roots in him. Perhaps it had begun the first moment he had seen her. She was—should