The Welcoming

the phone rang and he watched her jolt.
    “About time,” Block said. He was almost swaggering as he walked to the phone. “Yeah? Who the hell’s this?” After listening a moment, he gave a pleased laugh. “I like dealing with a title. Where’s my plane, Inspector Conby?”
    As quickly as she dared, Charity tugged the curtain open another inch.
    “Over here,” Block ordered.
    She dropped her hand, and the plate rattled to the counter. “What?”
    He gestured with the gun. “I said over here.”
    Roman swore as she moved between him and a clear shot.
    “I want them to know I’m keeping up my end.” Block took Charity by the arm, less roughly this time. “Tell the man I’m treating you fine.”
    “He hasn’t hurt me,” she said dully. She forced herself to keep her eyes away from the window. Roman was out there. He would do his best to get her out safely. That was his job.
    “The plane’ll be ready in a hour,” Block told her after he hung up. “Just enough time for that pie and another cup of coffee.”
    “All right.” She crossed to the counter again. Panic sprinted through her when she looked out the window and saw no one. He’d left. Because her fingers were unsteady, she fumbled with the pie. “Roger, are you going to let me go?”
    He hesitated only an instant, but that was enough to tell her that his words were just another lie. “Sure. As soon as I’m clear.”
    So it came down to that. Her heart, her inn, and now her life. She set the pie in front of him and studied his face. He was pleased with himself, she thought, and she hated him for it. But he was still sweating.
    “I’ll get your coffee.” She walked to the stove. One foot, then the other. There was a buzzing in her ears. It was more than fear now, she realized as she turned the burner up under the pot. It was rage and despair and a strong, irresistible need to survive. Mechanically she switched the stove off. Then, taking a cloth, she took the pot by the handle.
    He was still holding the gun, and he was shoveling pie into his mouth with his left hand. He thought she was a fool, Charity mused. Someone who could be used and duped and manipulated. She took a deep breath.
    “Roger?”
    He glanced up. Charity looked directly into his eyes.
    “You forgot your coffee,” she said calmly, then tossed the steaming contents into his face.
    He screamed. She didn’t think she’d ever heard a man scream like that before. He was half out of his chair, groping blindly for the gun. It happened quickly. No matter how often she played back the scene in her mind, she would never be completely sure what happened first.
    She grabbed for the gun herself. Block’s flailing hand caught her across the cheekbone. Even as she staggered backward there was the sound of glass breaking.
    Roman was through the window. Charity landed on the floor, stunned by the blow, as he burst through. There were men breaking through the barricaded doors and rushing into the room. Someone dragged her from the floor and pulled her out.
    Roman held the gun to Block’s temple. They were kneeling on the shattered glass—or rather Roman was kneeling and supporting the moaning Block. There were already welts rising up on his wide face. “Please,” Roman murmured. “Give me a reason.”
    “Roman.” Royce laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s over.”
    But the rage clogged his throat. It made his finger slippery on the trigger of the gun. He remembered the way Charity had looked at him when she had seen him outside the window. Slowly he drew back and holstered his gun.
    “Yeah. It’s over. Get him the hell out of here.” He rose and went to find Charity.
    He found her in the lobby, wrapped in Mae’s arms.
    “I’m all right,” Charity murmured. “Really.” When she saw Roman, her eyes frosted over. “Everything’s going to be fine now. I need to speak with Roman for a minute.”
    “You say your piece.” Mae kissed both of her cheeks. “Then you’re going to get in a nice hot tub.”
    “Okay.” She squeezed Mae’s hand. Strange, but it felt more like a dream now, as if she were pushing her way through layers and layers of gauzy gray curtains. “I think we’ll have more privacy upstairs,” she said to Roman. Then she turned without looking at him and started up the stairs.
    He wanted to hold her. His fingers curled tight into his palms. He needed to lift her against him, touch her hair, her skin, and convince himself that the nightmare was