Connecting Rooms
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz
Date: 2014-01-27 00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Suspense; Romance; Anthologies; Mystery; Contemporary; Fiction; Contemporary Romance
Description: Available for the first time as a standalone eBook novella, #1 New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz's Connecting Rooms . Amy Comfort is a real estate agent on Misplaced Island, a quaint, remote town located off the coast of Washington. When she sells an old Victorian manse to the sultry, sexy Owen Sweet, a private investigator relocating from Seattle, sparks fly from the get-go, though both Amy and Owen decidedly ignore their natural chemistry. Until, that is, Amy enlists Owen's help in looking into her aunt Bernice's fiance Arthur Crabshaw, who Amy suspects is not what he seems.
Publisher: Pocket

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

About the Author

Chapter 1

No one ever said that the devil couldn’t have a rose garden, Amy Comfort thought. It just seemed a trifle out of character. On the other hand, the rose garden of the old Draycott place was no ordinary one. And Owen Sweet, Amy had decided, was no ordinary gardener.

“Are you, or are you not, a private investigator?” Amy demanded.

“Depends,” Owen Sweet answered. With the lethal precision of a fencer, he used a pair of garden shears on a clotted mass of evil-looking vines.

“What does it depend on?”

“On whether or not I feel like working at it.” Owen took hold of the severed vines with heavily gloved hands. He ripped the old vegetation away from the window with a single, powerful motion. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Owen took no notice of her sarcasm. He seized another tangle of vines and dispatched them with ease.

Amy watched, morosely fascinated. She couldn’t help it. She liked watching Owen Sweet.

The vegetation he was attacking with such diligence had grown so thickly over the windows of the old house that it had effectively blocked all sunlight from reaching some of the rooms.

Not that sunlight was a common commodity here on Misplaced Island, Amy thought. The forgotten little patch of land located off the coast of Washington sat squarely in the middle of a rain shadow. A perpetual mist shrouded the island on good days. Dense rain poured down the rest of the time.

The local joke was that the island had earned its name when its original discoverer had temporarily misplaced it in the fog. Whatever the truth of that story, there was no doubt but that one had to be determined to find Misplaced Island.

And, Amy thought, one had to have either a powerful motivation or an extremely odd sense of whimsy to make one’s home here. She wondered which of those two possibilities applied to Owen Sweet.

“Owen, this garden went wild years ago, just like the house.” Amy was growing increasingly exasperated. Time was running out, and she needed Owen Sweet. “It can wait a few more days before you tame it.”

Owen paused briefly to look at her. His sea-green eyes gleamed in the misty gray light. “I’m in the mood to do it now.”

Sweet was definitely a misnomer, Amy reflected, not for the first time. As far as she had been able to discern, Owen was anything but sweet, in either nature or temperament. She suspected he was yet another result of a baby having been switched at birth. Happened all the time, they said. Amy wondered what Sweet’s parents had thought when they discovered that they had been given a little green-eyed, black-haired demon to raise.

He was proving to be stubborn and thoroughly irritating, but there was something about the man that fascinated Amy. She did not know him very well, even though she had sold him the Draycott place. No one on the island really knew Owen Sweet.

He had moved to Misplaced Island two months ago. Amy had met him when he walked into the real estate office she operated out of the parlor of her cliffside cottage. She had been stunned by her reaction to him. Hunger and longing and a singing sense of joyous discovery barely began to describe it.

She had tried to squelch the feelings. True, she was a struggling romance novelist on the side, but Amy was far too pragmatic to believe in love at first sight. On the other hand, she trusted her own instincts when it came to people. They had stood her in good stead in the real estate business, and she saw no reason to discount them when dealing with members of the opposite sex. One thing was for certain. Those instincts had never reacted with such overwhelming intensity to any of the handful of men she had dated.

Owen had appeared oblivious of her carefully concealed response to him. He had announced without preamble that he’d already toured the island on his own and had checked out the available properties. He had decided to buy the Draycott place.

Amy had been horrified. Everyone on the island knew that the old Draycott house, a Victorian monstrosity, was a disaster from foundation to roof. She had dutifully done her best to steer Owen toward other real estate opportunities, but he had refused to listen to her advice. In the end a sale was a sale. Amy had reluctantly written up the deal.

The only good part about the transaction, she had told herself, was that Misplaced Island was a very small community. She would see Owen Sweet again. She could only hope it wouldn’t be in the course of a lawsuit over the Draycott sale. Some buyers tended to blame the real estate agent when they discovered they had made a bad bargain.

But Owen had appeared to be content with his new home when, to her secret delight, Amy had begun to encounter him with increasing regularity at the post office, in the checkout line at the island’s only grocery store, and at the tiny bookshop. One of the few facts that she had gleaned concerning him was that he was a voracious reader. At the rate he ordered books from Mrs. Akers, the owner of the bookshop, he would single-handedly keep her small store in the black during the coming winter.

But last week had been the real turning point. After running into her at the post office, Owen had invited Amy to join him for a cup of coffee at the town’s one and only café. The conversation had concerned such riveting matters as the weather, the latest novels they had each read, and the limited ferry schedule. Amy had walked on air all the way back to her cottage. Hope had bloomed within her.

She stifled a small, wistful sigh as she watched Owen free another window from its shroud of clinging vines. There was a lean, supple strength about him that captivated her senses. While it was true that, objectively speaking, Owen’s grim features could have been created by someone who would have been equally adept at designing junkyard dogs, Amy found him strangely compelling. Which probably said far too much about the limited social life on Misplaced Island, she told herself.

Then again, she had not even been aware of a lack of a social life until Owen had arrived.

She watched him now with brooding determination. This was the first time she had paid a call on Owen Sweet since he had moved into his crumbling abode. She had come on business, not for social reasons. She needed this man. She needed him badly.

It wasn’t as if she had a lot of choice. The small sign on the front door of the old Victorian ruin Owen called home said it all. It read SWEET INVESTIGATIONS.

Owen Sweet was the only private investigator on Misplaced Island. There was not a lot of call for his type of work in the small community. Amy was quite certain that since his arrival he had yet to get a single case. She had naively believed that he would be thrilled to have work. Obviously, she had been mistaken.

Amy braced one hand against the garden’s stone wall and drummed her fingers with simmering impatience. Unaware or uncaring of her irritation, Owen Sweet went about his work among the grotesquely tangled rosebushes that clogged the garden.

The roses had been abandoned along with the crumbling ruin of a house years ago. Instead of dying off in a bittersweet, genteel manner, they had gone wild, with a vengeance. They climbed the garden walls as though bent on escaping a prison. They formed impenetrable thickets across the cracked paths, choked the empty fishpond, and had apparently been intent on marching up the steps and into the sun porch. Owen Sweet had arrived in the nick of time.

“Can I take it from your attitude that you are not interested in working for me?” Amy asked bluntly.

“Yeah.” Sleek muscles moved easily beneath Owen’s black T-shirt as he shifted an armload of defeated vines to a growing pile in the center of the garden. “You can draw that conclusion.”

“Very well, then, you leave me no choice.” Amy removed her hand from the stone wall and straightened in resignation. “I shall have to find someone else.”

Owen’s mouth curved slightly. “Good luck. The last time I looked in the phone book, I was the only PI on the island.”

Amy brushed her hands together and started toward the sagging gate. “I had hoped to give my business to someone local because I believe in supporting the local economy. But since you’re not interested, I’m sure I can find someone in Seattle who will be happy to take my money.”

“Seattle?”

Amy was aware that Owen had gone very still behind her. She did not turn around. “If I hurry, I can catch the afternoon ferry.”

“Damn. Hold on just a minute.”

Satisfaction surged through Amy. She had been in real estate long enough to sense when a buyer had undergone a quick change of heart. She paused at the gate to smile at Owen with polite inquiry.

“Was there something you wanted, Owen?”

He scowled ferociously, an expression that did nothing to soften his harsh face. “Yeah. Some answers.”

“Sorry, I don’t have time to chat. The ferry leaves in a couple of hours and I haven’t finished packing.”

“Let’s get real here.” Owen stripped off his gloves as he strode toward her along the garden walk. “What does a woman like you need with a private investigator?”

“ ‘A woman like me’?”

“No offense, Amy, but you’re hardly the type to have the sort of problems that require the services of someone in my line of work.”

“What would you know about my problems?”

Owen came to a halt in front of her and planted his fists on his hips. “You’re not exactly a mystery woman. You’ve been living on Misplaced Island for nearly a year. During that time you’ve opened a real estate agency and published a romance novel. Before you came here, you worked the condominium market in Seattle. You aren’t exactly rich, but you did all right in your own real estate investments.”

Amy was taken aback. “Good grief. How did you—”

“Everyone on the island seems very fond of you,” Owen continued ruthlessly. “I seriously doubt that you have any enemies around these parts. You are thirty years old and have never been married. You do not flirt with married men, so the local women have no reason to dislike you. You are not dating anyone at present, so you have no reason to employ an investigator to tail an errant boyfriend.”

Amy gazed at him with mingled anger and amazement. “Are you quite finished?”

“No, not quite. You appear to live like a cloistered nun, Ms. Comfort. Therefore, I find it difficult to believe that you have got yourself into a situation that requires an investigator.”

“You seem to have done a fairly thorough job investigating me. May I ask why?”

Owen wiped his sweat-dampened forehead with the back of one muscular bare arm. “That should be sort of obvious.”

“Well, it’s not obvious to me.”

He gripped the top of the drooping gate and contemplated her with narrowed eyes. “No, I can see that.”

“I don’t know what this is all about, nor do I have the time to find out. If you’re not going to accept my case, I’ve got to find someone else. Please excuse me.”

Amy tried to open the gate. Owen took no notice of her effort. Instead, he leaned heavily back against it and folded his arms across his chest. He looked annoyed but resigned.

“Okay, tell me about it,” he said.

“Tell you about what?”

“This problem of yours. The one that requires an investigator.”

Amy fixed him with a frosty glare. “It’s a confidential matter. I see no reason to discuss it with someone who is not going to be working for me.”

“Hell, I’ll take the case. Now tell me what’s got you in such an uproar.”

“I don’t think that I care for your unprofessional manner.”

“Sorry, it’s the only manner I’ve got.” He considered her thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then he came away from the gate and took her arm. “Come on, let’s go inside. I’ll make you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all your problems.”

“I’m no longer sure that I want you handling my case.”

“Don’t be silly. A few minutes ago you were practically begging me to take your precious case.”

“I was not begging you. And furthermore, I’ve changed my mind.”

“So have I.”

Amy thought about digging in her heels, but her options were extremely limited. It would take time to hunt up an investigator in Seattle. And money. She did not possess unlimited quantities of either. She allowed Owen to lead her up the steps.

The interior of the house was as run-down and abandoned-looking as the garden, but at least nothing appeared to be actually growing on the walls or springing up through the floorboards.

Threadbare velvet curtains that had faded to a peculiar shade of maroon flanked the grimy windows. An atmosphere of gloom and decay hovered over the front parlor. Several pieces of heavy, claw-footed furniture clustered near the black-marble fireplace. There was very little paint left on the walls and the wooden floors were raw and scarred.

A pang of guilt went through Amy, temporarily erasing her irritation. “I did try to warn you that this was a fixer-upper.”

“A fixer-upper?” Owen gave her a derisive look. “It’s a life sentence. Wiring’s shot. Plumbing’s rusted out. Roof needs repair. I’ll have to replace the furnace before winter sets in, along with all the appliances.”

“Don’t you dare blame me. I made you read every single word on the seller’s disclosure statement. You knew what you were getting into when you bought this place.”

“Did I? That’s debatable.” But Owen appeared perversely satisfied with his purchase. “Have a seat.” Not ungently, he pushed her toward a high-backed, velvet-covered sofa. “I’ll get the coffee.”

Amy sat down gingerly and surveyed the shabby interior of the parlor. She shook her head in amazement. It was true that she had sold him the house, but she had no idea what he was doing here in it. Why had he come here to Misplaced Island? she wondered.

Owen reappeared a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with a French press coffeepot and two cups. He set his burden down on the battered old coffee table.

“All right, tell me what this is all about.” He sank into the depths of one of the massive wingback chairs.

“It’s a very straightforward case,” Amy said crisply. “My aunt, Bernice Comfort, has recently announced her engagement. I want you to investigate her fiancé, Arthur Crabshaw.”

Owen looked up as he poured coffee. “Why?”

“Because there’s something about Crabshaw that I don’t quite trust. I met him a couple of weeks ago, and I have the distinct feeling that he’s hiding something. He appeared out of nowhere a few months after her husband, Uncle Morty, died, and immediately swept Aunt Bernice off her feet.”

“You write romance novels, don’t you? I would have thought you’d have approved of Crabshaw’s technique.”

“If you’re not going to take this case seriously, please tell me now so that I can find another investigator.”

“I’m serious. You have no idea just how serious.”

She glowered at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it. Why are you suspicious of Crabshaw?”

“My aunt was left quite comfortably well off after Uncle Morty died two years ago,” Amy said carefully. “She lives in a small town on the coast. Villantry, Washington. Know it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s the sort of town where everyone knows everyone else. Crabshaw lived there himself at one time, but he left the place some thirty years ago. Now he’s back.”

“And you think he returned because he heard that your wealthy aunt is available?”

“Let’s just say that there’s something about Crabshaw’s appearance on the scene that smacks of opportunism,” Amy said.

“What exactly is it about Crabshaw that worries you?”

“It’s hard to explain.” Amy frowned. “He seems nice enough, and Aunt Bernice is obviously mad about him. But I sensed something a bit shifty beneath the surface.”

“Shifty.”

“Yes.”

“Shifty is a rather vague term, Amy.”

“I can’t be any more specific. I just know that there’s something not quite right about that man. I have very good people instincts, you know.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Yes, it is,” Amy retorted. “Look, I’m going to drive to Villantry this afternoon. Just a social visit, as far as Aunt Bernice is concerned. I’ll be staying at the Villantry Inn for a couple of days, because my aunt is having her house remodeled. I want you to come with me.”

Owen looked baffled. “What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“Check out Arthur Crabshaw, of course. Surely you don’t need me to tell you how to conduct a simple investigation.”

“You’d be amazed at what I need.”

Amy scowled. “I want you to rummage around in Crabshaw’s background. Find out if he’s on the level. But I don’t want my aunt to realize what you’re doing. If he’s legit, I’d rather she didn’t know that I hired you. It would be embarrassing and awkward.”

“Embarrassing and awkward.” Owen nodded sagely. “That’s me.”

Amy blushed. “I didn’t mean that as a personal remark.”

“Right.” Owen leaned back in his chair and stuck out his legs. He crossed his booted feet and regarded Amy with a truculent expression. “I’m supposed to go to Villantry with you, but no one is supposed to know who I am or what I’m doing there, is that it?”

Amy gave him an approving look. “Precisely.”

“Villantry is a very small town. I’m not going to be able to hide very easily.”

“I don’t intend to keep you hidden.”

“Just how do you plan to explain my presence?”

Amy smiled a trifle smugly. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it all worked out. I’ll pass you off as my fiancé.”

Chapter 2

That evening Owen sat next to Amy in the restaurant of the Villantry Inn and wondered what the hell had come over him. But the question was strictly rhetorical. He knew the answer. Amy Comfort had come over him. Or, to be more precise, he sincerely hoped that their acquaintance would develop to the point where that eventuality became a distinct possibility.

He’d wanted Amy Comfort from the first moment he’d seen her. He would never forget that shattering instant of acute knowledge. He had walked into her parlor office, intent on purchasing the old Draycott place. The moldering pile of timber and stone had appealed to him on sight. He had been determined to possess it, regardless of the price.

He’d felt the same way about Amy, although there was nothing moldering about her. Just the opposite. She was fresh and vital and alive. Her chin-length hair was the color of honey and her intelligent eyes were a mesmerizing shade of ultramarine blue.

She was not beautiful in the classic sense, but there was an appealing quality in her firm chin, high cheekbones, and straight little nose. There was something else there, too, an indefinable essence that he suspected an older generation would have labeled strength of character.

She reminded Owen of the wild roses in his garden. She would not fade when the going got tough, the way his first wife had. Amy would endure and flourish, just as the flowers in the Draycott garden had endured and flourished. Owen was not sure how he knew that, but he was very certain of it.

The extent of his desire for Amy had astounded him, because he’d assumed that he was well past the point when passion and desire could dazzle his senses and shake up his world. He was within spitting distance of forty, after all, and he had not gotten this far the easy way. One broken marriage and a checkered career that included a stint in the military and later as a private investigator had taught him that the world was painted in shades of gray.

But the day he had met Amy, Owen had started viewing life in living color again for the first time in years.

He had decided upon his goal in a heartbeat, but years of training had taken over at that juncture. He was, by nature, a careful, methodical man. He had told himself that he had to approach Amy in a subtle manner. Misplaced Island was a very small community. If he moved too quickly, there would be gossip. Amy might be embarrassed. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off.

It was clear to Owen that she led a busy but largely solitary life. He had established immediately that she had not dated anyone since her arrival on the island. That meant the path was clear for him.

He was no ladies’ man, but he was determined to woo her with all the finesse at his command. Carefully planned trips to the post office, the grocery store, and the bookshop had netted him a series of seemingly casual encounters. He had told himself that she was getting used to him. She certainly seemed happy enough to run into him several times a week.

He had been encouraged with the results of his invitation to coffee last week. He had been consumed with plotting a dinner invitation when she’d blindsided him with the offer of a job this afternoon.

He had been dumbfounded when she had strolled into his wild garden and offered him a case. He had also been chagrined to learn that weeks of cautious maneuvering had been for naught. After all his painstaking efforts, she apparently viewed him only as a man who happened to have a useful expertise. She wanted to do business with him, not go to bed with him.

Owen stifled a silent groan. His only hope now lay in the fact that he had managed to get connecting rooms here at the Villantry Inn. There was something about adjoining rooms that created a sense of intimacy, he told himself.

To hell with delicacy and masculine finesse. It was obvious to Owen that the time had come to take a more aggressive approach to the business of courting Amy Comfort. Subtlety was lost on the woman.

“I do wish you two could have stayed with me,” Bernice said for the fourth time. “But what with the remodeling and all, there’s just no place to put you. The house is a mess, isn’t it, Arthur?”

“Afraid so.” Arthur Crabshaw, a sturdy man with gray hair and friendly eyes, smiled at Amy. “You know how things are during a remodel. Chaos and destruction. And I don’t have room at my place.”

“The Inn is perfect for us,” Amy said quickly. “Isn’t that right, Owen?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Owen was vividly conscious of the fact that the curve of Amy’s thigh, demurely draped in a flowing hunter-green silk skirt, was less than six inches from his leg. Wistfully, he considered the connecting rooms one flight above. “Perfect.”

Arthur Crabshaw forked up a fried oyster with gusto. “The Inn’s got the best food in town.” He winked fondly at Bernice. “With the exception of Bernice’s cooking, that is. Nothing compares to that.”

Bernice, a robust, athletic-looking woman in her mid fifties with lively eyes and short, upswept hair that had been dyed a pale gold, blushed. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled at Owen.

“Amy’s quite a gourmet cook herself,” Bernice confided to Owen. “But I’m sure you’ve already discovered that.”

Owen felt Amy stiffen next to him. He slid her a sidelong glance and was amused to see the barely veiled panic in her gaze. She was apparently not accustomed to subterfuge. She was on the verge of coming unglued at the first mild probe into their relationship. Gallantly, he stepped in to fill the breach.

“So far I’ve done all the cooking,” he said, thinking of the pot of coffee he’d made that afternoon.

“Oh, then you must be a vegetarian also,” Bernice said brightly.

Owen heard Amy’s fork clatter loudly on the wooden table. He glanced down at the chunk of halibut that sat squarely in the middle of his plate. “I make an exception for fish. Health reasons.”

“Well, Amy eats fish on occasion, too.” Bernice waved that aside, as if it were common knowledge. “Now, then, the two of you must tell us everything. How did you meet? I swear, Amy, when you told me that you were going to move to that little dinky island, I was extremely worried about your social life.”

“I know you were, Aunt Bernice,” Amy said.

“I realized you were burned out after that dreadful incident last year,” Bernice continued. “And I knew you wanted peace and quiet so that you could devote more time to your writing. But I never thought you’d be happy for long in such a small, isolated community.”

Amy shot Owen a quick, unreadable glance. “Misplaced Island suits me. I’ve been very happy there.”

“So I see.” Bernice bubbled with enthusiasm. “Imagine, after all these years, you’ve finally discovered the man of your dreams on Misplaced Island.”

Amy turned pink. “Uh, yes, well, you know what they say. Love is where you find it.”

“The name of the island says it all,” Owen said dryly. “I guess Amy and I weren’t fated to find each other until we both got ourselves misplaced in the same place.”

“I’m not so sure it’s any harder to find love in a small town than it is in a big city.” Crabshaw chuckled. “Just look at Bernice and me. If I hadn’t come back to Villantry after all these years, I never would have found her.”

“What made you return to Villantry, Arthur?” Amy asked boldly.

Owen winced at her less than casual tone. But Crabshaw did not seem to mind the pointed question.

“I got tired of the desert,” Arthur said. “After thirty years of Arizona sunshine, I realized I missed the rainy Northwest. The only thing I miss about Phoenix is the year-round golf.”

“Arthur loves golf,” Bernice explained. “He plays every chance he gets, don’t you, dear?”

Arthur smiled. “I do indeed. Got a game scheduled for tomorrow morning, in fact. The Villantry Golf Course is not exactly world-class and the rain has a way of canceling out a lot of games, but I figure that’s a small price to pay to live here.”

“Life is so unpredictable,” Bernice said. “What a coincidence, eh, Amy? You and I both finding true love where we least expected it.”

Amy began to look anxious again. “Right. Hey, what’s all the excitement about here in Villantry? We saw banners hanging over the main street. Something about fireworks in the park on Saturday evening.”

“Didn’t you know?” Arthur popped another oyster into his mouth. “The town is going to dedicate the new wing of the Raymond C. Villantry Memorial Public Library on Saturday. Big event. Madeline Villantry and her son, Raymond Junior, are pulling out all the stops.”

“The new library wing is really a very generous gift to the community,” Bernice said politely.

Amy raised her brows. “Do I detect a note of dutiful peasant gratitude?”

Bernice made a face. “Sorry about that. The Villantrys are nice enough in their own way, and Lord knows they’ve done a lot for this town. But they never forget for one minute that they are the leading family in Villantry. Very conscious of their position, if you know what I mean. Madeline is quite good in the role of Lady Bountiful.”

Owen grinned briefly. “But the noblesse oblige stuff from the lady of the manor gets to be a bit thick at times, I take it?”

Bernice rolled her eyes. “I’m afraid so. Then, too, even though we’re all adults now, I suppose a part of me can’t quite forget that when we were in high school together, Madeline was the acknowledged beauty of the town. She got every boyfriend she wanted, including one or two of mine.”

Arthur shifted uneasily in his chair and cleared his throat. “Villantry Fishing built this town. Most of the jobs here are connected to the company. I worked for Villantry myself years ago, before I went off to Arizona.”

“What did you do in Arizona?” Owen asked easily. He pretended not to notice Amy’s sharp glance.

“Started a construction company. Got lucky. Hit the building boom in Phoenix. Always thought I’d retire there, but after my wife died I felt restless. Did some traveling and then, on a whim, I decided to see what had happened to my hometown.”

“We met in the library,” Bernice said with a rueful laugh. “So I suppose one could say that we owe the Villantrys.”

Arthur paused with the fork halfway to his mouth. “Speaking of Villantrys,” he murmured, “here comes the lady of the manor herself, and Junior. He runs the business now, you know. Took over when his old man died three years ago.”

Owen glanced up to see a handsome woman in her fifties moving regally down the aisle between a row of tables. She was followed by a man in his early thirties who looked as if he was on the wrong coast. He wore a pale yellow sweater tied around his neck and a bored look that spoke of having grown up with a sense of entitlement.

The dining room hostess trotted deferentially ahead of the pair, as though to make certain no rude serfs lumbered into their path. Madeline paused briefly at various tables to greet people with heavy-handed graciousness. Raymond Junior paused with her. He was not so gracious, however. He appeared impatient.

A moment later the entourage halted beside the table where Owen and the others sat. Owen and Arthur got to their feet. Madeline acknowledged their chivalry with an aloof inclination of her head. The nod said more plainly than words could have that such good manners were only to be expected.

“Do sit down, both of you.” Madeline’s smile was polite, but her voice was laced with a certain pinched quality. Her gaze touched Arthur briefly before sliding away. “Bernice, Arthur, I’m so glad we ran into each other here tonight. I heard about your engagement, and I want to congratulate both of you.”

“Thank you, Madeline.” Bernice gestured toward Owen and Amy. “I’d like you to meet my niece, Amy Comfort, and her fiancé, Owen Sweet. They’re visiting.”

“How do you do,” Madeline said. “This is my son, Raymond.”

Raymond gave Owen a curt nod. “Our table’s ready, Mother.”

A fleeting frown of disapproval flickered across Madeline’s noble features, and then it was gone. “Yes, of course. You will excuse us?”

“Enjoy your dinner,” Bernice said cheerfully.

“Thank you.” Madeline glanced once more at Arthur and then she was gone.

Something in Arthur Crabshaw’s gaze caught Owen’s attention. In spite of his opinion of the crazy case and the fact that he had more important things on his mind at that moment than solving it, his instincts went on yellow alert.

Not red alert, Owen noticed, just yellow. But a warning light had definitely flashed. He felt Amy go very still beside him. He wondered if she had sensed the same thing he had.

No doubt about it: Arthur Crabshaw and Madeline Villantry had a history.

•  •  •

Two hours later Owen sat in a chair near the window of his darkened room and contemplated the closed door that stood between him and Amy.

He had been studying the door for nearly twenty minutes, ever since he and Amy had returned from dinner and coffee in the lounge.

After due consideration, Owen had finally concluded that the logical approach was the obvious one. He would simply knock on the connecting door. When Amy opened it from her side, he would tell her that he wanted to discuss the case. It was as clever an excuse as any.

Having considered and determined upon a course of action, he gripped the padded arms of the chair and started to get to his feet. An authoritative knock from Amy’s side of the door stopped him in midrise.

“Owen? Are you in there?” Her voice was muffled, but the excited urgency in it was unmistakable. She knocked again, this time with a bit more insistence.

Owen told himself not to get his hopes up. The odds were against the likelihood that Amy had fallen for him sometime during dinner and now wanted to share a passionate good-night embrace.

Nevertheless, he walked across the room with enthusiasm and opened the door with anticipation.

Amy stood there, her hand raised for another peremptory knock. Her honey-colored hair was pinned in a frothy knot on top of her head. She was wearing a heavy, quilted bathrobe that rendered the average nun’s habit scandalous in comparison. Owen smiled at the sight of her. She looked freshly scrubbed, and he was willing to bet that she had already brushed her teeth.

“I thought you might want to discuss the case,” she said eagerly.

Owen’s enthusiasm and anticipation vanished in a puff of smoke. So much for his fond dream of having Amy fall into his arms. Back to Plan A. “I was afraid of that.”

Her brows snapped together. “What?”

“Never mind.” Owen stepped aside and swept his hand out to invite her into his room. “Come on in and have a seat. I’m at your service. Hell, I’m even willing to unlock the little refrigerator over there and open one of those itsy-bitsy bottles of wine.”

Amy scowled. “Those tiny bottles are horribly overpriced for what you get.”

“No problem. I’ll just put it on my expense account.”

Amy halted midway into the room. Alarm flared in her eyes. “Expense account?”

“Sure. That’s how this PI business works, you know.” He closed the connecting door and strolled to the small refrigerator. He used the small key to open the door. “I bill you by the hour and then tack on all the little extras. Adds up nicely.”

“Good heavens. I hadn’t realized. That could get rather pricey.”

“Yes, indeed.” Owen removed a minuscule bottle of brandy and paused to examine the label. “Name of the game, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe we should have discussed your fees in more detail.”

“Too late.” Owen splashed the brandy into two glasses. “I’m already on the job. And once I start something, I always finish it.”

Her expression relaxed. “You’re teasing me.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” She took one of the glasses from his hand. “You know, you’ve been acting a little weird since you agreed to take this case.”

“Maybe that’s because the case is a little weird.” He took a sip from his glass. “First time I ever went undercover as a client’s fake fiancé. By the way, you want some advice?”

She looked immediately wary. “What advice?”

“Try not to get that deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression in your eyes whenever someone makes a reference to our engagement. Sooner or later you’ll blow our cover.”

Her mouth fell open in shock. “Good grief. I’m that bad?”

He stared at her full, parted lips. “Maybe you just need to loosen up a bit.”

“Loosen up?”

“Mellow out. Get into the role.” He closed the distance between them with long, slow strides. “Try to become more comfortable with the idea of having a relationship with me.”

She nibbled on her lower lip. “Relationship?”

“It should feel natural.” He stopped in front of her. “Otherwise you’re going to panic whenever someone says the magic word, engagement.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to panic.”

“No?” He put his hands on her shoulders. “How will you react if, for the sake of maintaining the deception, I do something like this?”

He bent his head and covered her mouth with his own.

Chapter 3

Amy froze beneath the impact of Owen’s kiss. Just like a deer caught in a car’s headlights, she thought. Owen had been right. The concept of an intimate relationship with him did strange things to her nerves.

But the rest of her body seemed to have no problem with the idea. Owen was kissing her. After all these weeks of her wondering and fantasizing, he was actually kissing her.

Hot excitement flashed through Amy, erasing the momentary paralysis. With an awkward, slightly jerky movement, she wrapped her arms around Owen’s neck and kissed him back with all the bottled-up passion she had been concealing for nearly two months.

Her response appeared to take Owen by surprise. He staggered a little under the gentle assault. But he did not release her. He recovered his balance immediately and began to rain kisses on her throat.

“Amy?”

“Oh, my God, this is amazing.”

“You can say that again.” Owen scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the room to the bed. “When I think of all the time we’ve wasted.”

“Yes, yes, I know what you mean.”

He set her down on the bed and fell on top of her. Her bathrobe had been a faithful friend for years, but it had not been designed to defend its wearer from such treatment. It promptly separated. One of Owen’s jeaned legs found its way between Amy’s thighs.

“Owen.”

“Damn,” he whispered. “This is incredible. You’re incredible.”

Amy was dazed by the waves of passion that were coursing through her. She felt deliciously crushed beneath Owen’s not inconsiderable weight. The heat of his body triggered a series of lightning strikes within her. She could feel the fires they ignited. The flames burned most intensely in her lower body, liquefying all that they touched.

Owen found the pins in her hair and tore them free. “Like honey in my hands.” He seized a fistful of the stuff and buried his nose in it. “You smell so good.”

“So do you.” The realization astonished her. She had never before noticed a man’s smell unless she happened to be standing downwind of one who had failed to use deodorant.

But this unique scent that belonged to Owen was different. Enticing. Enthralling. It did crazy things to her senses. She wanted more of it. More of him.

“Hang on, let me get you out of this thing.” Owen levered himself up on one elbow and tugged at the sash of her robe.

Amy gazed at him, fascinated by the passion that blazed in his eyes. Wonderingly, she touched his hard jaw. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“The delay was my fault. I was going for the subtle approach.” He put a heavy, warm hand on the bodice of the soft cotton gown. His fingers closed gently around one breast. “Don’t ask me why.”

“You feel so good.” She flattened her palm against his chest, delighting in the strength of him.

“So do you.” He bent his head to kiss a nipple. His mouth dampened the fabric of her gown. She gave a small, muffled cry and clutched at his shoulders.

Owen began to tug the nightgown downward. “Amy, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

Realization burst through Amy’s dazzled senses. “Oh, my God, you’re right. This is all my fault.”

“Huh?”

“It’s the case.” She clutched wildly at her sliding nightgown and struggled to sit up. “Don’t you see? It’s the situation we’re in that’s causing you to act like this.”

“What the hell?” Owen fell to the side as Amy squirmed out from underneath him.

“I thought this was all very sudden.” Amy tugged the lapels of her robe together and grabbed for the sash. Her hands were shaking.

“Sudden?”

“Well, it’s not as though you’ve shown any great interest in me until tonight.”

“Amy, for God’s sake, listen to me. You’ve got this all wrong.”

“I don’t think so.” She glowered at him as she scooted to the edge of the bed. “We’ve known each other for several weeks and you’ve never once indicated that you felt anything other than sort of friendly toward me.”

“Sort of friendly?” Owen was beginning to look mildly dangerous.

Amy was mortified. “It’s worse than I thought. You weren’t even feeling particularly friendly, were you? That was just my imagination.”

“Amy, I think we have a small problem here,” he began in an ominous tone.

“Please, it’s all right. I understand exactly what’s happening.”

“I’m glad one of us does.”

“Well, they do say that women are more inclined to analyze situations.”

“Hell.”

“I’ve read about this sort of thing,” she said defensively. “But I should have thought that since you’re the expert in these matters, you’d have been alert for just this type of unprofessional occurrence.”

“Unprofessional?”

She was suddenly outraged by his obstinacy. “Don’t look at me as if you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m sure that as a private investigator, you’ve faced this sort of situation hundreds of times.”

Owen reached out to clamp a hand around her wrist. “For the benefit of this nonanalytical, slow-witted investigator, would you kindly explain what the hell you’re talking about?”

Amy flushed. “You know what I mean. A situation like this, where two people are thrown together in close confines. A situation in which they face a threat of danger. Why, it’s bound to generate a heightened sense of intimacy. Intimacy often breeds passion. Especially when the two people involved are single and of the opposite sex.”

“Hold it.” Owen put his fingers against her lips to silence her. “Stop right there. Let’s take this from the top. First, I have been an investigator for over ten years, and I can assure you that I have never, ever made love to a client. Until now, that is.”

Amy stared at him. “I see.”

“Furthermore, although I will admit that the situation in which we find ourselves has a built-in degree of intimacy, thanks to the cover story you invented for us, I see absolutely no danger here. Therefore, I think we can discount its impact on our sex lives.”

Amy frowned. “I’m not so sure about that. We really don’t know what we’re facing yet. There could definitely be some risk involved.”

“No,” Owen said authoritatively. “There is no threat involved in this damn-fool situation. A certain amount of idiocy on the part of the PI, perhaps. An amazing imagination on the part of the client, definitely. But no threat. Unless you count the threat to my sanity.”

“Owen, we don’t know that for certain.” Amy got up quickly and tied the sash of her robe. “You haven’t even begun to investigate Arthur Crabshaw. The possibility of danger must be present somewhere in the back of your mind. You’re a trained investigator, after all.”

Owen flopped back against the pillows and threw one arm over his eyes. “You’d never know it.”

Amy bit her lip. “Please, I didn’t mean to upset you like this. I should never have knocked on your door tonight. If I’d had any sense, I would have recognized the volatile nature of the situation and waited until morning to discuss the case.”

“Yeah, right.”

Amy edged back toward the connecting door. “I’m sorry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s the adrenaline and hormones and things like that at work. Not genuine emotion.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you’re right about my imagination,” she added sadly.

He removed his arm from his eyes and stared at her with sudden intensity. “What?”

“I do have an overactive imagination. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard for a writer.”

Owen sat up slowly. “So you admit there’s no real danger involved in this loony case?”

She shook her head decisively. “No, I still think we mustn’t discount the very real possibility that Arthur Crabshaw is not what he seems. Did you see the way he reacted to Madeline Villantry tonight?”

Owen hesitated. “Okay, I’ll admit that there may be some kind of connection between them.”

Amy brightened. “I got the exact same impression. This is amazing, Owen. We’re on the same wavelength here.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Owen sat up on the edge of the bed. A thoughtful expression began to replace the combination of irritation and passion that had burned in his gaze a moment earlier. “Don’t get carried away with your brilliant deduction, Amy. It makes sense that Madeline and Arthur knew each other at some point in the past. It’s a small town, after all, and Crabshaw told us that he worked for Villantry before he went off to Arizona to make his fortune.”

“The thing is, Madeline Villantry and Arthur Crabshaw would have been worlds apart socially in those days. After all, she was married to the town’s leading citizen. Arthur worked for her husband. But tonight I got the feeling that there was something more intimate between them.”

“Maybe there was.” Owen stood and began to pace the room. “But whatever happened occurred over thirty years ago. It doesn’t mean anything now.”

“Then why did Crabshaw get that funny look in his eyes when Madeline stopped by our table tonight?”

Owen came to a halt and swung around to face her. “I don’t know.”

Amy was momentarily sidetracked by the sight of him. His dark hair was tousled. His denim shirt had come free of his jeans. All in all, there was a tantalizing, seductive look about him that made her pulse begin to pound once more.

“Something wrong?” Owen asked.

“Uh, no. I was just trying to think this thing through.”

“If you can think clearly at the moment, you’re way ahead of me.” Owen ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, it’s late. Go to bed. In the morning I’ll call some people I know. Have them check into Crabshaw’s Arizona background. I can at least make sure that he doesn’t have a criminal record and that he’s financially solvent.”

“That sounds like a good start.”

“Thanks. I do try to give satisfaction.”

Aware that he was in a strange mood, Amy backed meekly toward the door. She was almost through it when Owen stopped her with another question.

“Amy, what did you mean a few minutes ago when you said you had an overactive imagination?”

She paused in the doorway, clutched the lapels of her robe very tightly, and gave him her best real estate saleswoman smile. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Have I told you that you’re a very bad liar?”

“Don’t ask me any questions if you don’t like my answers,” she flared.

Owen raised his eyes briefly to the ceiling in a beseeching expression. Then he fixed her with a look of dogged patience. “Amy, the relationship between a private investigator and his client is founded on mutual trust and confidentiality. If I don’t feel that I can rely upon your answers, I won’t be able to work for you.”

“Oh.” She frowned.

He took a deliberate step toward her. “I think we need to get this relationship back on track. The fastest way to do that is to be completely honest with each other.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

He spread his hands. “I’ll get right to the bottom line. Did you really kiss me a few minutes ago because you were driven into a paroxysm of violent passion by the close confines and threat of incredible danger that we face together?”

“Well, no. At least, I don’t think so.”

“So why did you kiss me?”

She gripped the edge of the door and lifted her chin proudly. “If you must know, I kissed you because I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I sold you that Victorian horror of a house. There. Are you satisfied?”

He stared at her as if he’d just walked into a brick wall. “Amy.”

“Good night, Owen. I’ll meet you downstairs for breakfast. I shall want a complete status report on this case and a detailed outline of your plans for the remainder of this investigation by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. We have no time to waste.”

Amy slammed the connecting door behind her and hurried into her room. She took a deep breath. After a few seconds she opened the door again. Owen was still standing in the middle of the room, staring at the door. “Why did you kiss me?” she asked.

His mouth quirked and a sexy gleam appeared in his eyes. “Same reason. Been wanting to do it since I bought the house.”

Amy felt her insides turn to jelly. “Oh.”

“See you in the morning.”

“Right.” Amy closed the door again, this time very quietly. Then she snapped off the light, removed her robe, and threw herself down onto the bed.

She contemplated the shadowed ceiling for a very long while before she finally went to sleep.

Chapter 4

Owen used a copy of the Villantry Gazette to shield his gaze as he watched Amy walk toward him. The no-nonsense impact of her determined stride across the Inn’s coffee shop was severely undercut by the pink in her cheeks and the shyness in her eyes.

It took a lot to make a real estate agent turn shy, Owen reflected with some satisfaction. Last night’s events had obviously had an unsettling effect on Amy. He took that as a good sign and set about composing his strategy for the day.

She was self-conscious about what had happened between them, preferring to blame it on adrenaline and hormones. He would act as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred. He would be businesslike and professional. That might help her relax.

The important thing was that now, after weeks of shilly-shallying around with the subtle approach, he finally knew for certain that she was anything but indifferent to him. She might have concocted a ludicrous reason to explain away the white-hot desire that had flashed between them, but she was definitely not indifferent.

“Good morning.” He put down the paper and lazily got to his feet as Amy reached the table.

“Hi.” She gave him a practiced real estate agent’s smile as he pulled out her chair, but her eyes reflected far less certainty. “How are things going?”

Owen blanked at the question. He seriously doubted that she was inquiring about how he had survived a night complicated by an erection the likes of which he had not endured since his late teens.

“What things?” Owen asked cautiously.

“The investigation, of course. You said you were going to make some calls this morning.”

“Oh, yeah, right. The investigation.” Owen tried a businesslike smile of his own as he resumed his seat. “It’s going just fine. I made my calls before I came downstairs. Should know something by this afternoon.”

“Great.” Amy opened her menu with a snap. “What about the next step?”

Owen cleared his throat. He did not delude himself into thinking that she was referring to the next step in their relationship. “We’ll have to see what sort of information comes in from my contacts before we can make concrete plans.”

“In that case, why don’t we go to the library later this morning.”

He shrugged. “Why not? There’s not much else to do until I get some response to my calls. We can take a look at this fancy new wing the town plans to dedicate on Friday.”

Amy looked up from the menu with a small frown. She glanced hurriedly around the room and then leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I meant that we should go to the library to do some research, not to kill time.”

“Research on what?”

“On Arthur Crabshaw.”

“In the library?”

“For Pete’s sake, you’re supposed to be the trained investigator here. Why am I having to do all the work?”

“Because you have a natural aptitude for it?” he suggested with bland innocence.

“Stop teasing me. You know perfectly well why I suggested the library.”

“I do?”

“Of course. We might be able to learn something about Crabshaw if we look through old newspapers from the time when he worked for Villantry.”

“You know something, Amy? You have a one-track mind. I suppose you need it in the real estate business, though, don’t you? What do you do? Sink your teeth into a client and refuse to let go until he signs on the dotted line?”

She gave him a puzzled look. “I’m just trying to keep you focused on the job at hand. Are you always this vague about your work? Does the pressure get to you or something? Is that what went wrong in Portland?”

Owen drummed his fingers on the table. “Amy, you are not going to find anything of interest on Crabshaw in thirty-year-old editions of the Villantry Gazette.”

“What makes you so sure of that?”

Owen swore under his breath. “Think about it. If Crabshaw had been involved in an old scandal or if he had left town under a cloud, do you honestly believe that Madeline Villantry would have been so polite and gracious to him last night?”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought about that.”

“She went out of her way to congratulate him and your aunt on their engagement. This is a small town, and the Villantrys have obviously ruled it for years. If Crabshaw had done anything thirty years ago that was considered the least bit unsavory, Madam Villantry would not have stopped at our table.”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“Thank you. I like to think that I’m not completely unsuited to my work.”

“Still, it won’t hurt to look in the old papers, will it?” Amy continued brightly. “As you said, it’s not as if we have anything better to do this morning.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. “Is this why you had to quit your high-powered real estate career in Seattle? In your zeal to close a big deal did you finally manage to push one of your clients a little too far?”

To his amazement, Amy paled. “That question does not deserve an answer.” She took a deep breath and returned her full attention to the menu.

•  •  •

An hour later Owen found himself reluctantly ensconced in front of a microfilm reader. He was supposed to be perusing the headlines of the old issues of the Villantry Gazette that were rolling slowly past his gaze, but his real attention was on Amy. She sat at the machine next to him, her attention on another reel of the Gazette.

Owen was still berating himself for the unwitting crack about her real estate tactics. He had obviously stumbled into awkward territory. It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that something bad had happened in Seattle. He recalled a remark Bernice had made at dinner. Something about Amy being burned out after “that dreadful incident last year.”

At the time, Owen had concluded that Bernice had been referring to an affair that had gone sour. He hadn’t paid much attention to the comment because whatever it was, it was in the past. He was only concerned with Amy’s future.

“Find anything interesting?” Amy asked in a muted tone.

“Interesting?” Owen paused to read the headlines that were moving slowly across the screen. “Let’s see. ‘Villantry Eagles Break Six-Game Losing Streak.’ How does that sound?”

“About as exciting as ‘Raymond C. Villantry Dedicates New Library.’ ”

Owen glanced around. “I guess that would be the old library now. The one we’re in.”

The Raymond C. Villantry Memorial Public Library, a sturdy structure in the tradition of old-fashioned municipal buildings, was surprisingly busy for a small library on a Friday morning, Owen thought. As a book lover himself, he took a certain pleasure from that fact.

In one corner a gaggle of preschool-age children had assembled to listen to fairy tales read by a librarian. Their shouts of glee and shrieks of horror drifted across the cavernous main room. The children’s mothers, no doubt grateful for the respite in parental duties, perused the display of new books.

The janitor, a balding, middle-aged man in coveralls, set up a sign in front of the women’s room and disappeared inside with his wheeled bucket and well-used mop.

Three elderly men sat at tables in the newspaper section poring over copies of the Wall Street Journal. Two librarians and a small group of what appeared to be concerned citizens hovered near the entrance to the new wing. They were apparently making final arrangements for Saturday’s dedication ceremony. As Owen watched, they were joined by Raymond Villantry Jr., who strode through the door wearing a business suit. When he appeared, there was a chorus of respectful greetings. Then the entire group disappeared into a conference room and closed the door.

“Look, here’s a picture of Madeline Villantry standing next to her husband.” Amy leaned closer to the screen. “I’ll bet she was prom queen, homecoming queen, and head cheerleader.”

“You can tell all that from a photo?”

“See for yourself.”

More than willing to take advantage of the offer to move closer to Amy, Owen shifted position to get a better view of her screen. “Right. Definitely prom queen.”

The old black-and-white photo was grainy and blurred, but there was no hiding the fact that Madeline Villantry had been a beautiful woman in her younger days. She stood beside her husband, the late Raymond C. Villantry Sr., who was holding forth from a lectern in front of the library.

Amy wrinkled her nose. “He looks like a politician.”

“Yeah. Junior is a dead ringer for his old man, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Amy frowned at the photo. “I’ll bet that was not a happy marriage.”

Owen glanced at her in surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“I’m not sure. Something about the expression on Madeline Villantry’s face. Poised. Gracious. Aloof. Dutiful. Anything but happy.”

“I think you’re trying to read a little too much into a thirty-year-old photo.”

“Maybe.” Amy shrugged. “Not that it matters to us. Aunt Bernice said that Raymond C. Villantry Sr. died three years ago.”

“And young Raymond Junior took over the company. Wonder how he likes being called Junior.”

“Between you and me, he doesn’t look any nicer than his father.”

“I don’t think that being nice is a job requirement for running a company the size of Villantry.” Owen took advantage of the situation to lean in just a little closer.

He caught a whiff of the flowery fragrance of Amy’s hair and inhaled deeply. Along with it came a more intriguing scent. Warm, female, and deliciously spicy. He did not think he would ever be able to get enough of it. Of her.

“Owen,” Amy hissed.

“Sorry, I was just trying to get a better look at the picture.”

“Never mind that. Look.”

“At what?”

“Arthur Crabshaw. He just walked into the library. See? Over there by the magazine rack.”

Owen straightened reluctantly and turned to look at the racks. Sure enough, Crabshaw was leafing through a new copy of Newsweek. “So what?”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Reading a magazine?”

“That isn’t funny. Owen, he told us that he was going to play golf this morning.” Amy scowled impatiently. “It’s not raining, so why did he cancel his game?”

“Why don’t we ask him?”

“Don’t be silly. He’s up to something. I know it. I told you there was something shifty about that man.”

“Amy, the first rule in the investigation business is not to jump to conclusions. Crabshaw simply dropped into the library to scan a few magazines. Don’t make a federal case out of it.”

“He’s leaving the magazine rack. Don’t let him see you.”

“Why not?”

“Because we want to keep an eye on him. We need to find out where he’s going.”

“I think he’s headed for the men’s room,” Owen said.

“Oh.”

Owen rested one arm over the back of the hard wooden library chair and watched Arthur Crabshaw disappear into the men’s restroom. Amy looked severely disappointed.

“Cheer up,” Owen said. “Maybe he’ll do something really suspicious when he comes out of the john.”

“You think this is amusing, don’t you.”

“I think you’re overreacting,” he said gently. “Why are you so determined to prove that Arthur Crabshaw is up to no good?”

“I told you, I don’t want him to take advantage of Aunt Bernice.”

“Just because he happened to return to Villantry a few months after your uncle died doesn’t mean he’s out to marry Bernice for her money.”

“I still say the timing is very suspect. Be careful, he’s coming out.”

Owen dutifully retreated a little farther behind the shelter of the microfilm reader. Arthur Crabshaw emerged from the men’s room and headed swiftly toward the front door of the library.

“He seems to be in a big hurry all of a sudden,” Amy observed.

Owen chewed on that for a while. He hated to admit it, but there was something about Crabshaw’s behavior this morning that was at odds with the genial man who had entertained them at dinner last night. Whatever it was, it reminded Owen of the look that had been in Crabshaw’s eyes last night when he had chatted with Madeline Villantry.

Owen reached a decision.

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

He got to his feet and walked casually toward the men’s room. He passed the three elderly men bent over their financial papers. None of them bothered to look up from the stock market listings. The janitor, whose name tag read E. TREDGETT, had finished mopping the women’s room. He started off toward the new wing with his clanking wheeled bucket.

Raymond suddenly emerged from the conference room, apparently intent on heading toward the restroom. He walked out just as the janitor went past the door. The toe of Villantry’s Italian leather shoe struck the bucket. Sudsy water sloshed over the edge.

“Damn it, Eugene, watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, sir.” Eugene Tredgett seemed to fold in on himself. He hurriedly used his mop to clean up the spill.

Raymond appeared to realize that Owen was watching the small incident. He scowled and then apparently changed his mind about his destination. With a disgusted shrug, he turned back into the conference room and closed the door.

Owen gave the janitor a sympathetic smile. Tredgett acknowledged it with a wan nod and trundled off with his bucket and mop.

Owen went through the swinging door of the men’s room.

The gleaming, white-tiled facility was empty. Owen dismissed the two urinals with a glance and then considered the two stalls. Amy would never forgive him if he didn’t make a thorough search of the premises.

He walked into the first cubicle and lifted the tank lid. There was nothing inside the tank except water and the usual float-ball assembly.

He went into the second stall and tried again.

A sealed envelope was taped beneath the lid.

Chapter 5

“Take it easy, Amy,” Owen said. “Calm down. This may have nothing to do with Crabshaw. I need time to think. I’ve got to get more information before I can decide what to do next.”

Amy scowled at him across the picnic table. It wasn’t easy. Every time she looked at Owen a flood of memories washed over her. She could still feel the heat of his mouth on hers. She was certain that his arms had left permanent impressions on her body. But his stubbornly slow, methodical approach to his work was going to drive her crazy.

“Are you nuts?” she demanded. “It’s got everything to do with Crabshaw. There’s a thousand dollars inside that envelope and Crabshaw was the last man to go into that restroom before you. He must have been the one who left the money under the tank lid.”

“It could have been left by someone earlier this morning.”

“Hah. What are the odds?”

“Okay,” he muttered, “I’ll grant you that a coincidence like this is something of a long shot.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Amy threw up her hands, exasperated. “Who else would have left that money inside a toilet tank? I think it’s safe to say that there aren’t that many people here in Villantry who could come up with that kind of cash.”

“Amy, that envelope could have been taped inside the lid at any time during the past week, or even the past month. Hell, it could have been left there sometime during the past year, for all we know. No one checks the inside of a toilet tank unless the toilet acts up.”

“You’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you.”

“I’m going to be careful. Methodical. I’m going to take it one step at a time. That’s the way I do things, Amy.”

“Hmm.” Amy folded her arms on the picnic table and glumly surveyed Villantry Park. She and Owen had come here to discuss their next move, but so far all they had done was argue about it.

They were seated at a table located near a magnificent mass of rhododendron bushes. The stately Raymond C. Villantry Memorial Public Library was at the far end of the park. The Villantry Inn was on the opposite side. There was a bandstand in the center.

A pond, complete with ducks and a couple of geese, added eye appeal to the attractive setting. Banners announcing fireworks hung over the entrance of the park.

Amy was frustrated by Owen’s approach to this startling new development in the case. On the other hand, she had to admit that he was the expert.

“All right. Hypothetically speaking,” she said, making an effort to sound reasonable, “what sort of scenario do we construct to explain that envelope you found?”

Owen raised one black brow. “Hypothetically speaking, I’d say that it looks as if Arthur Crabshaw is being blackmailed.”

“Blackmail.” Amy tasted the word with a sense of dreadful wonder. “Holy cow.”

Owen fingered the envelope in his hand. “It’s conceivable that he’s been told to leave the money in the men’s room of the library. Think about it. Anyone can go into a public library at any time when it’s open. A person can hang around for hours, a whole day even, without anyone taking much notice. The victim can leave the money at any time. The blackmailer can pick up the payoff whenever he feels like it.”

Amy peered at him as she digested that. “You do realize what this means.”

“Why do I have the impression that you’re about to enlighten me?”

She ignored that. “It means Crabshaw really does have some deep, dark secret. Something he’s hiding from my aunt. Something that is worth paying blackmail to conceal.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe?”

“It’s a possibility,” Owen conceded. “That’s all I’m willing to admit at this point. I will, however, add the simple observation that the blackmailer is probably male. Which does eliminate approximately half the people in town.”

“Male? Oh, yes, of course. The payoffs are being left in the men’s restroom. So whoever goes in to retrieve them is probably of the masculine persuasion. Right. Good thinking.”

“I try,” Owen said.

“All right, Mr. Hotshot PI, what do we do next?”

“We follow Plan A.”

“Which is?”

“We wait for some of my morning phone calls to be returned. I want a little more information in hand before I confront Crabshaw.”

Amy’s mouth went dry. “You’re going to confront him?”

“Sometimes a surprise frontal assault is the quickest way to get an answer. I’ll pin him down this afternoon.”

Amy hesitated. “Shouldn’t we go to the cops or something?”

“With what? A handful of money that we happened to find in the men’s room? There’s no way in hell to prove that it’s a blackmail payoff. They’d probably put an ad in the Villantry Gazette inviting someone to claim it.”

“I see what you mean,” Amy said. “But confronting Crabshaw could be dangerous. If he’s so desperate to protect his secret that he’s willing to pay blackmail, he won’t take kindly to your questions. He might become violent.”

Owen smiled slightly. “I don’t believe this. Are you actually worried about me?”

“Yes, of course I am. I’ve hired you to solve this case. I would feel terrible if something happened to you.”

Owen’s green eyes darkened with irritation. “Have a little faith, Ms. Comfort. I realize that I no doubt appear to be downwardly mobile, professionally speaking, but I think I’m still capable of dealing with the likes of Arthur Crabshaw.”

Amy flushed. “I didn’t mean to insult you. And I don’t think you’re downwardly mobile just because you gave up your business in Portland and moved to Misplaced Island. Heck, I did the same thing.”

“True.”

Silence fell on the picnic table. Amy was suddenly acutely conscious of the chattering of a pair of ravens, the distant shouts of youngsters playing on the swings, and a large, furry dog that was pointing one of the ducks on the pond.

“So why did you move to Misplaced Island?” she finally asked very softly.

Owen shrugged. “Got burned out, I guess. After I got out of the military, I got my PI ticket.”

“Somehow I don’t see you in the military. I’ll bet you don’t take orders well.”

Owen smiled wryly. “You’re right. It wasn’t a good career path for me. But I had married young. No education to speak of. I needed a job, and the military provided a way to support a wife. She left me after I got out of the service. Said she couldn’t take the unstable income. She fell for someone else while I was working to get my business up and running. After the divorce I worked harder. Spent the last ten years doing other people’s dirty work.”

“Dirty work?”

“Staking out people who try to defraud insurance companies. Trapping embezzlers. Finding missing persons. That kind of thing.”

“And you got tired of it?”

“Let’s just say I woke up one morning and realized I didn’t like my clients any more than the people they paid me to catch. The insurance company executives spent their time trying to avoid paying legitimate claims. The corporate executives were more cold-blooded than the embezzlers who stole from them, and the missing persons usually had very good reasons for not wanting to be found.”

Amy smiled sympathetically. “Nothing was black-and-white, huh?”

“Just shades of gray. A lot of gray. I had made some money on the side by buying fixer-uppers, doing the repairs myself in my spare time and reselling the houses at a nice profit. I decided to invest some of the money and use the rest of it to fix up my own life.”

“On Misplaced Island.”

“That’s it.” Owen looked at her. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“What made you decide to move to Misplaced Island?”

“Seattle real estate is hard on a body. I worked the downtown condo market. There was a lot of pressure. I guess I burned out, too. Also, I wanted more time to write. And then something happened last year.”

“Your aunt called it a ‘dreadful incident.’ ”

Amy grimaced. “I still get occasional nightmares.”

“What happened?”

“Most people don’t realize it, but real estate agents tend to lead adventurous lives. They never know what they’re going to find when they open the door of what is supposed to be an empty house or condo. I’ve had a variety of surprises.”

“Somehow, knowing you, that does not amaze me.”

She smiled wryly. “I once showed a condo to a staid, elderly couple. I’d finished the tour of the front room, kitchen, and bedrooms. We walked into the master bath and found two people making love in the jetted tub. They were so involved in what they were doing that they never even heard us.”

Owen grinned briefly. “Make the sale?”

“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. It was the jetted tub that clinched the deal. The elderly couple couldn’t wait to try it out themselves.”

“I take it that was not the ‘dreadful incident’ that made you decide you’d shown one condo too many.”

“No.” Amy propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her hands. “Walking in on a murder in progress did that

“Murder.”

“Uh-huh. I came through the front door just after a respected businessman named Bernard Gordon had shot his partner. A little dispute over investment capital, apparently. Gordon was on his way out of the condo just as I arrived. We collided in the front hall.”

Owen’s gloriously unhandsome features shaped themselves into an ominous mask. “You could have been killed.”

“Gordon tried to do just that. He knew I could identify him. Fortunately, he was already rattled because of the first killing. His shot went wild. I had a chance to hurl my cellular phone at him. He instinctively ducked. I ran back the way I had come and headed for the emergency stairwell. I didn’t dare wait for the elevators.”

Owen closed his eyes briefly. “My God.”

“Gordon tried to chase me down the stairwell. But he stumbled on one of the steps.” Amy shuddered. “He fell to the bottom. Broke his neck.”

Owen exhaled heavily. “Damn.” He reached across the table and took one of her hands in his. He crushed her fingers gently in his own.

Silence descended once more. Amy and Owen watched the ducks on the pond for a long while.

•  •  •

“Nothing. Nada. Zilch.” Owen glanced at the notes he had made during his last phone call. He flipped the small notebook shut and tossed it onto the bedside table. He looked at Amy, who was lounging, arms folded beneath her breasts, in the connecting doorway. “Arthur Crabshaw is as clean as you can expect a fifty-five-year-old businessman to be.”

“No scandals while down in Arizona?”

“No. At least not that my sources could determine in such a limited period of time. I suppose it’s possible that Crabshaw left a few bodies buried under one of his strip malls, but I don’t think it’s very likely.”

Amy tapped her toe, thinking. “The blackmail arrangement we witnessed this morning seemed fairly amateurish, didn’t it?”

“Yes.” Owen walked to the window and looked out at the park. “A toilet tank lid in a library restroom. Definitely the work of an amateur. And a local amateur, at that.”

“Local?”

“Crabshaw was told to leave the money in the public library. The implication is that he’s being blackmailed by someone here in Villantry.”

“Okay, that makes sense. But he’s been gone for thirty years.”

“And that means that his deep, dark secret, whatever it is, probably dates back thirty years,” Owen said softly.

“To the time when he worked for Raymond C. Villantry?”

“Yes.” Owen turned away from the window. “I think it’s time I paid a call on Arthur Crabshaw.”

“I’ll get my purse.”

“You will stay right here in this room,” Owen said.

“I’m paying your tab, remember? That means I can make executive decisions.”

“When I’m on a case, I give the orders.”

“You need me to help analyze his reactions,” Amy said persuasively. “I’m very good at that kind of thing. It’s my real estate sales experience, you see. I’m what you might call an amateur practicing psychologist.”

“Forget it, Amy. I’m handling this alone.”

•  •  •

Arthur Crabshaw looked momentarily nonplussed to see Amy and Owen on his doorstep. Amy was sure she saw evidence of tension around his eyes. But he recovered with alacrity. He smiled genially and ushered them into his front room.

“Well, well, well.” He closed the door. “This is a surprise. What can I do for you two?”

“How was the golf game this morning?” Owen asked softly.

Arthur’s smile slipped for only an instant. He quickly got it back in place. “Fine. Just fine. Shot a three over par. Although I have to admit that on the Villantry Golf Course that’s not saying a great deal.”

“Must have been a fast round,” Owen said.

Arthur’s gaze turned wary. “Why do you say that?”

Amy held her breath as Owen removed the incriminating envelope from his pocket.

“Because you finished in time to visit the library, didn’t you?” Owen said.

Arthur stared at the envelope. Then he raised his eyes to meet Owen’s unrelenting gaze. His expression crumbled into weary despair. “How did you find out?”

“Amy and I were in the library at the time. We saw you go into the restroom. I went in after you and found this.” Owen glanced at the envelope. “I thought maybe you’d like to talk about it.”

“There’s not much to say now, is there?” Arthur sank down heavily into an armchair. “If you’ve got the money, that means the blackmailer didn’t get his payoff. He’ll reveal the truth, just as he threatened to do in his first note.”

Owen went to stand in front of Arthur. “What happens if he does reveal the truth, Crabshaw?”

“Madeline Villantry will be humiliated in front of her family and the entire town.” Arthur sighed. “And I seriously doubt that Bernice will marry me when she discovers that Madeline and I once had an affair. Bernice is such a sensitive woman. Bad enough that Madeline used to steal her boyfriends back in high school. How will she feel if she finds out that I was once Madeline’s lover?”

Chapter 6

“I think you’d better start from the beginning,” Owen said.

“I worked for Madeline’s husband, Raymond C. Villantry.” Arthur massaged his temples. “Just like almost everyone else did at the time. I was young. Couldn’t afford college. But I was determined to make something of myself.”

“At Villantry?” Amy asked.

“No, I had my sights set a lot higher. But Villantry was a start, and a good one. I knew who Madeline was, of course. Everyone in Villantry did. Her family was as rich as the Villantrys. I didn’t move in Madeline’s circles in those days, though.” Arthur grimaced. “Only the Villantrys did.”

“Go on,” Owen said.

“Madeline married Raymond Villantry right out of college. Everyone said it was a perfect match. I honestly believe that she was wildly in love with him in the beginning. But Villantry just took her for granted. He was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. Then, after he got it, he lost interest. The only exception was the company. He was passionate about it.”

“What happened?” Amy asked gently.

“I was doing well at Villantry.” Arthur leaned his head back against the chair. “Had a flair for business. Madeline and I were thrown together on a number of occasions because she was on the planning commission for the original library building. Civic duty and all that.”

“Why did that bring the two of you together?” Amy asked.

“Villantry’s firm had expanded beyond fishing by then. It was into construction. It was going to build the library. I was assigned to act as a liaison between the planning commission and the company. Raymond Villantry had better things to do with his time than fuss with the library that was to be named in his honor.”

“Such as?” Owen asked. He was aware that Amy’s gaze was softening rapidly. He was not surprised. He recalled their conversation regarding his move to Misplaced Island. He’d suspected all along that she had a soft heart.

Arthur’s mouth twisted. “Such as making a number of trips to Seattle. Villantry was having an affair in the city. A lot of people were aware of it, but of course no one actually said anything to Madeline. No one thought she knew. I came across her one day after a committee meeting. She was sitting all alone in a conference room, crying her heart out.”

Amy looked at him with sympathetic eyes. “And you comforted her?”

Arthur nodded. “One thing led to another. She wasn’t in love with me, nor I with her. But she needed someone, and she was a lovely woman. And so very brave.” He moved his hands in a vague gesture. “What can I say? We had an affair.”

“What ended it?” Owen demanded. “Did her husband discover what was going on?”

“Oh, no.” Arthur frowned. “No one ever discovered us. At least, I thought no one knew. We were very, very careful. Madeline had her reputation and her family to consider. She was so terrified of being caught that she ended the affair after a couple of months.”

Amy frowned. “Why?”

“She said she had to consider the future of her two young children. She didn’t want to jeopardize their inheritance by risking a divorce. And she had her parents to think of, too. She was their only child. She was afraid that they would be humiliated if we were found out.”

“Hmm,” Amy said.

Owen glanced at her. He was starting to recognize that tone in her voice. “Yes? Did you have something you wanted to share with the rest of the class?”

Amy shrugged. “Not really. It just occurred to me that Madeline made a very financially astute decision.”

“It was a very brave decision,” Arthur corrected gallantly. “For which she paid a great price. She endured an unhappy marriage for years in order to salvage her children’s inheritance and to protect her family from humiliation.”

“There is that,” Amy agreed.

It occurred to Owen that Amy had already deduced the truth about Madeline Villantry’s marriage from the photo she had seen in the old edition of the Villantry Gazette. He turned to Crabshaw. “How many blackmail payments have you made?”

“Two. Or rather, one. I got the first note a few weeks ago, right after Bernice and I announced our engagement.” Arthur nodded glumly at the envelope Owen had placed on the table. “The thousand in there was supposed to be the second payment.”

“So the blackmail is recent?” Owen asked sharply. “You weren’t bothered by any demands until a few weeks ago?”

“No.” Arthur dropped his head into his hands. “I thought there would only be the one payment. Then, two days ago, there was a second demand.”

“There always is,” Owen said.

“But it hasn’t been made, because you took the envelope,” Arthur whispered hoarsely. “Now it will all come out into the open. Madeline’s reputation will be ruined. Bernice will be crushed. And all because of me.”

“No.” Amy stepped forward quickly and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Arthur. Owen will take care of everything. He’ll find out who the blackmailer is and stop him before anything else happens.”

Owen stared at her. “I will?”

She gave him a bracing smile. “Of course you will.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. She had apparently forgotten that she had hired him to discover Arthur Crabshaw’s secrets. He had done precisely that. Nothing had been said about saving Crabshaw’s rear. “Uh, Amy, maybe we’d better discuss this out on the porch.”

“Later, Owen. Right now we need to figure out how to keep the blackmailer silent.”

“The quickest way to pull the blackmailer’s teeth is to call his bluff,” Owen said.

“I can’t risk it,” Arthur whispered.

“Of course not,” Amy murmured. “Owen will handle this.”

Arthur sighed heavily. “What can Sweet do? It’s too late to replace the money. I left that envelope in the restroom shortly after ten this morning. It’s nearly five. By now the blackmailer will have checked the toilet tank lid and realized that I didn’t follow his instructions. He’ll be furious.”

“Don’t fret about it, Crabshaw,” Owen said. “There will definitely be a second chance. And a third and fourth chance, as well. If we allow this thing to go on that long.”

“Which we won’t,” Amy said confidently.

Owen raised his brows but offered no comment. He didn’t need a weather report to tell him that Amy had recently undergone a sea change.

Arthur lifted his head and gave Owen a quizzical look. “What do you mean there will be a second chance? The blackmailer said in his note that he would reveal everything if I didn’t make the payments.”

Owen smiled grimly. “You’re a businessman, Crabshaw. Look at this from the blackmailer’s point of view. If he reveals the truth, it’s all over for him. He can’t expect his victim to make any more payments once the secrets are out in the open.”

The anguish and frustration faded in Arthur’s eyes. Intelligent perception replaced it. “Good point. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“The only way the blackmailer can make money is to keep quiet and apply more pressure on you,” Owen said.

Amy searched his face. “That makes sense. He’s got nothing to gain by revealing the truth, and everything to lose. I’d say he definitely has a strong incentive to try to persuade Arthur to continue with the payments. And when he does, we’ll be ready for him, won’t we.”

“It’s beginning to look that way.”

Arthur stared at Owen with dawning hope. “You’re going to help me?”

Owen looked at Amy, who gave him a glowing smile. He was briefly dazzled by it. He wondered if it was her sign-here-and-you’ve-got-yourself-a-house smile. He’d never actually seen that smile because when he’d bought the Draycott place from her, he’d almost had to type up the papers himself. She had tried to talk him out of the deal right up until the ink was dry. He had to admit the smile was very effective.

“Something tells me I don’t have a lot of choice,” Owen said.

•  •  •

Owen waited until he heard the shower stop in Amy’s room. He killed a few more minutes pacing his room and then strode to the connecting door. He knocked peremptorily.

“Come in, I’m decent,” Amy called.

That was unfortunate, Owen thought wistfully. He yanked open the door. “I want to talk to you.”

“Yes?” Amy met his gaze in the mirror. She was dressed in a pair of blue silk trousers and a matching silk tunic that turned her eyes into jewels.

For a few seconds Owen just stood there, transfixed by the sight of her putting a gold earring on one delicate ear. Desire swept through him, hot, unexpected, and laced with longing. Damn. This was getting bad, he thought. Very, very bad.

“Is something wrong?” Amy prompted.

Owen took refuge in righteous irritation. He braced one hand against the doorframe. “Mind telling me what happened in Crabshaw’s living room this afternoon?”

“What do you mean?” She finished attaching the earring and turned to face him. “We’re going to help Arthur. What’s so complicated about that?”

“Amy, you told me you wanted to prove he was concealing something. Okay, I proved it. Case closed.”

Her eyes widened. “For heaven’s sake, Owen, we can’t stop there. Bernice loves him, and this afternoon I finally concluded that he loves her. We have to help him.”

“I had a feeling you were going to say that. What the hell made you decide that Arthur is a good guy after all?”

“Intuition. And the fact that he’s trying to play the gentleman for Madeline’s and Bernice’s sake.”

“The gentleman?”

“A man who cares about a lady’s reputation and who doesn’t want to see anyone hurt, even thirty years after the affair, must have a strong sense of honor. A man like that will do right by my aunt.”

“Sometimes I forget that you write romance novels in addition to selling real estate,” Owen muttered.

She smiled. “Ready to go down to dinner?”

•  •  •

Two hours later Owen stood with Amy on the veranda that ran the length of the Villantry Inn and contemplated night-shrouded Villantry Park. The summer evening was cool but not cold. The tang of the sea was in the air. Bernice and Arthur had left the Inn after dinner. Owen finally had Amy to himself.

Amy and her case, he amended silently.

“Want to take a walk?” he asked.

Amy nodded. “Sounds lovely.”

He took her arm, and together they went down the steps and strolled into the park. The globes of the tall, old-fashioned lamps that lit the paths cast a warm glow. The Friday night band concert had just concluded its performance. People streamed out of the park.

By the time Owen had gotten Amy as far as the pond, the crowd had dwindled to a handful. Owen studied the library through the trees and rhododendron bushes. It was closed for the day, but the lights were on inside.

Everything about this case seemed to center on the library.

“Looks like someone’s working late tonight,” he said, indicating the building on the far side of the park.

“Maybe some of the people in charge of the dedication ceremonies are holding a last-minute meeting.”

“Let’s see what’s going on.” Drawn by the force of his curiosity, Owen steered Amy along the path that meandered toward the library.

Amy glanced at him speculatively. “Are we going to look for clues?”

“Have I ever told you that you have an overactive imagination?”

“I believe you’ve mentioned it once or twice. So, what are we going to do?”

“I’m not sure. I just want to have a look around. It occurs to me that even though the public library restroom is not a bad choice on the part of the blackmailer, it is a little unusual. Whoever he is, he must feel quite comfortable there.”

“A librarian?”

“Maybe.”

The path that led to the library was deserted. The trees and shrubs that grew in this portion of the grounds were among the oldest in Villantry Park. They blocked the light from the tall lamps and deepened the already thick shadows on the graveled walk.

Owen and Amy had almost reached the library when the front door opened. Voices floated out into the night. Several people appeared in the entrance. Owen brought Amy to a halt in the shadows.

“You were right,” he said softly. “Looks like a committee meeting breaking up.”

They watched the small group cluster for a few minutes on the broad steps in front of the building, exchanging pleasantries. Madeline Villantry appeared in the doorway. Raymond Junior was with her. Raymond appeared terminally bored, as usual.

“Is everything taken care of inside, Betty?” Madeline asked.

“Yes, I think so, Madeline.” A silver-haired matron paused on the steps. “Eugene will turn off the lights and lock up.”

“I’ll see you all tomorrow evening at the ceremony, then,” Madeline said. “Good night, everyone. And thank you once again for your time and effort.”

The committee members moved off in various directions. Most headed toward the small parking lot on the far side of the park.

Madeline and Raymond started along the path that would take them past Owen and Amy.

Owen automatically started to pull Amy into the bushes, then realized belatedly that the rhododendrons were impenetrable and opted for another means of concealment.

He drew Amy into a passionate embrace in the shadows.

“What are you doing?” Amy hissed, startled.

“Don’t want ’em to see us,” Owen muttered. “Kiss me. Make it look good.”

She hesitated only briefly, more out of surprise than anything else, Owen realized. And then she was kissing him back. Her arms locked around his neck. Her mouth opened for him.

Owen’s priorities shifted in a heartbeat. The problem of Madeline and Raymond suddenly dwindled dramatically in importance. All that mattered was the taste and feel of Amy.

He folded her close, hungry for the essence of her, frustrated by clothing, location, and a possible audience. Amy’s mouth was warm and moist and inviting. The gentle curves of her breasts were crushed against his chest. Her soft, muffled whimper of excitement threatened to make him lose control.

The scrape of shoes on gravel, a mildly disapproving murmur, and a soft masculine chuckle brought Owen back to reality. Madeline and Raymond were passing directly behind him now. They had obviously seen the couple in the shadows. Owen hoped that the darkness and the manner in which he was enveloping Amy combined to provide effective concealment.

“Some people have no sense of propriety,” Madeline said coolly.

“Some people have all the luck,” Raymond drawled.

The sound of footsteps on gravel receded into the distance. Owen waited until he was sure Madeline and Raymond were gone and then raised his head. He looked down at Amy, aware that his pulse was still beating heavily and his insides were clenched.

Amy regarded him with eyes that were pools of unfathomable promise. Her lips were still slightly parted.

Owen thought optimistically of the connecting rooms that awaited them back at the Inn. He took a deep breath and released Amy. “We’ll get back to this a little later.”

“We will?” She sounded pleased.

“First things first,” he said manfully. “I want to check out the library’s back door.”

He took her hand and started around the building. There were no tall lamps in the drive behind the library. The only light was from the moon and a weak yellow bulb set above the library’s service entrance. A row of city utility trucks was lined up on the far side of the drive. The graveled area apparently served as a parking lot for Villantry’s service vehicles.

“Why are we going to look at the back door of the library?” Amy asked.

“Because I like to know all the entrances and exits in a situation such as this. I wouldn’t be surprised if the next blackmail note Crabshaw gets instructs him to make the payment tomorrow night.”

“During the dedication festivities?” Amy glanced at him in surprise as she hurried to keep pace with him. “Why then?”

“Think about it. The library will be swarming with people. That means there will be a steady stream of traffic in and out of the restrooms. Perfect cover for the blackmailer.”

“I get it,” Amy said enthusiastically. “You’re going to stake out the men’s room, right?”

“Right. I’ll bet you can see now why I became a big-time private eye.”

“Because of the thrilling excitement?”

“Just think about it. Staking out a men’s room. Got to be the fulfillment of every young man’s dreams of swashbuckling adventure.”

“Yes, of course. I envy you.”

“From what you’ve told me, real estate has its moments, too.”

“Don’t remind me.” Amy smiled briefly. Then she frowned in the shadows. “But, Owen, I don’t see how you can be so certain that the note—” She broke off suddenly as one of the city trucks roared to life. “What in the world?”

Across the drive, a set of headlights flashed on at full beam, blinding Owen. He realized that he and Amy were pinned in the glare. And to think he had accused Amy of looking like a deer caught in headlights. This was the real thing, Owen thought. He couldn’t see what was happening. But he could hear all too well.

Tires screeched as the big vehicle shot forward. The truck bore down on Owen and Amy with deadly intent.

Chapter 7

Amy had barely registered the blinding light when she heard Owen suck in his breath.

“Damn,” he whispered.

In the next instant she felt his arm wrap around her waist with the force of a steel band. He lifted her off her feet and hauled her up the three steps that led to the library’s back entrance.

The truck engine thundered.

“Owen.”

“In here. Move. He may have a gun.”

Owen half-pulled, half-carried her into the shadows of the small alcove that concealed the doorway. Then he shoved her hard against the stone wall and held her there. She gasped for breath, dimly aware that he was shielding her with his body.

The city truck came so close to the steps that Amy was almost convinced it would plow straight through the back door of the library.

But at the last possible instant, it veered aside. With an angry howl it lumbered off into the night, a ravenous beast deprived of its prey.

Owen did not move as the sound of the truck engine receded into the darkness. Amy was pressed so tightly against the cold stone she could feel the grit on her cheek.

“You okay?” Owen finally asked. His voice was curiously flat.

“Yes. I think so.”

He slowly stepped back, releasing her. “Son of a bitch.” There was no emotion in the phrase. “He was aiming for us. You could have been hurt. Killed.”

Amy hugged herself. The unnaturally even tone in Owen’s voice was somehow more frightening than the near miss. This was a whole new side to the man. A dangerous side.

“An accident,” she said, grasping for a more reasonable explanation than the one Owen had concocted. “Some kid taking a joyride in a city truck.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I have a hunch that it was attempted murder.”

Amy was dazed. “You think that the blackmailer was behind the wheel?”

“I think there’s a very high probability of that, yes.”

“But how could he know that you’re a threat to him? As far as everyone in town is concerned, you’re just my fiancé.”

“My guess is that he doesn’t know I’m out to trap him,” Owen said quietly. “It’s more likely that he’s figured out that I took Crabshaw’s money before he could get to it. I told you that I thought he was in the library yesterday, watching the payoff. He saw me go into the restroom after Crabshaw left. And when he went to make the pickup there was no envelope.”

“So he leaped to the conclusion that you had gotten to it ahead of him. But following that logic, how does he think you learned of the payoffs and where they were made?”

Owen frowned. “Maybe he figures that I accidentally discovered the envelope. Or he may think that Crabshaw confided in me. Who knows? He probably believes that you and I are in this together.”

“Perhaps he was simply trying to frighten us away from Villantry,” Amy suggested slowly.

“It’s possible that was his goal.” Owen took her hand.

“Where are we going?”

“To wake the local chief of police.”

Amy instantly dug in her heels. “But, Owen, if you tell him about this, you’ll have to tell him everything. I don’t want to betray Arthur’s confidence unless we must.”

“Don’t worry. I’m a professional, remember? I know how to talk to a cop.”

Amy looked at him. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t ask. It’s a trade secret.”

•  •  •

“Some joyridin’ kid, no doubt.” George P. Hawkins, chief of police of Villantry, poured himself a cup of coffee.

Amy smiled weakly. “That’s what I said.”

“Or a drunken transient.” Hawkins carried the cup back to his desk and lowered his considerable bulk into the chair. “Happens once in a while. Come mornin’ we’ll find the truck abandoned outside of town or in a ditch. You’ll see.”

Owen lounged against the wall near the office window and studied Hawkins with brooding speculation. “Whoever was behind the wheel aimed directly for us. If we hadn’t made it up the steps and into the alcove, we wouldn’t be here talking to you now.”

Hawkins squinted at Owen. “Which brings up an interestin’ point. Mind tellin’ me just what you two were doin’ out there behind the library at this hour of the night?”

Amy caught Owen’s eye and held her breath. She could hardly blame him if he told Hawkins the whole story, but a part of her still wanted to protect Arthur Crabshaw.

Owen shrugged. “Amy and I took a walk in the park after the band concert.”

“The park I can understand,” Hawkins said. “But what the hell were you doin’ behind the library buildin’?”

“Looking for privacy,” Owen said smoothly. “We got there just as some meeting was ending. We went around the corner to avoid the crowd.”

Hawkins gave him a man-to-man look. “You two want privacy, you better leave Villantry. This is a small town. Everyone knows everyone else’s business here.”

“Is that a fact?” Owen asked politely.

“It’s a fact, all right.”

Owen straightened away from the wall. “Then it shouldn’t take too long to find out who was behind the wheel of that city truck, should it? If and when you do find out who nearly ran us down tonight you can reach us at the Villantry Inn.”

Hawkins glowered at him. “I know where you’re stayin’.”

Owen smiled coldly. “Right. This is a small town. You know everything.”

“Yep. I also know you two got connectin’ rooms at the Villantry Inn. Try usin’ them next time, instead of takin’ a walk in the park.”

•  •  •

“What a rude man,” Amy said as they walked into the Inn lobby a short while later.

“Hawkins is a cop,” Owen said with a surprisingly philosophical air. “Rudeness is a job requirement.”

“I fail to see why.”

“You wouldn’t if you ever took a job as a cop.”

The front desk clerk, a thin young man with thick glasses, smiled tentatively at Owen. “Mr. Sweet, there’s a message for you. From Arthur Crabshaw. He wants you to call him.”

“Thanks.” Owen paused at the front desk to collect the slip of paper.

Amy was aware of the tension in his hand as he guided her toward the stairs. She said nothing as they walked up the one flight to their rooms. When they started down the hall, she slanted a questioning glance at Owen’s set face.

“What is it?”

“I won’t know for sure until I return Crabshaw’s call. But I can make a guess.”

“Oh, my God, you don’t think—”

“Shush.” Owen opened the door of her room and ushered her inside.

Amy turned, expecting him to go next door to his own room. Instead, he stepped through her door and closed it behind him. She raised her brows.

Owen smiled faintly as he switched on a light. “No point being coy, is there? We’re supposed to be engaged. Hell, even the local chief of police knows we’ve got connecting rooms.”

Amy flushed. “Yes, I know, but—”

“When you go undercover, you’ve got to make it look real or it won’t work.”

“I keep forgetting you’re the professional here,” Amy muttered.

“I’ve noticed.” He went to the table, picked up the phone, and dialed the number on the slip of paper.

“Arthur? This is Owen Sweet. Yeah, I got your message. What’s up?” Owen fell silent, listening for a moment. “I hear you. Calm down.”

Amy watched anxiously.

“Right. Tomorrow night,” Owen said. “Just as I thought. Follow instructions exactly. We’re going to nail the bastard this time. I’m not in the mood to give him any more rope. He just tried to run us down. No, I’m not joking. Amy could have been killed.” Owen paused. “Yes, I’m sure it was him. A kid? That’s what Amy thinks, too, but I’m not a great believer in coincidences.”

Amy waited until he had hung up the phone. “Another blackmail note?”

Owen nodded. “Arthur says it arrived earlier this evening. He’s to leave the money in the library restroom tomorrow night.”

“Just as you suspected.” Amy was impressed. “But why would the blackmailer use the same location over and over again?”

“He probably can’t think of a safer place. The restroom is still the one spot where any man in town can be seen with no questions asked. And as I told you, it will be busier than usual tomorrow night because of the crowd.”

Amy nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “If the blackmailer suspects that you know about the payoffs, he’ll be nervous when he sees you at the dedication ceremonies tomorrow evening.”

“Not necessarily. He realizes that although he knows who I am, I don’t know who he is. He can go in and out of the men’s room just as freely as I or any other man in the crowd can. But he won’t take any chances this time. He’ll make it a point to get in there right after Crabshaw. He won’t know that I know about the drop-off. He’ll think it’s safe to go in as soon as he can.”

“Before you have a chance to grab the money?”

“Right.”

•  •  •

Amy listened to the silence from the adjoining room for a long time before she couldn’t stand it any longer. She could almost hear Owen’s brain grinding away in solitude.

It struck her that he had probably spent a lot of his life alone. The very nature of his chosen profession indicated that he was accustomed to relying solely on himself. There was a core of strength in Owen Sweet that rarely developed in those who relied on other people.

He possessed an old-fashioned, Wild West sort of character, she thought. He was the kind of man who, a century earlier, would have ridden into town alone, cleaned out the bad guys, and then left without a backward glance.

She pushed aside the covers, got out of bed, and padded to the closed door that linked the two rooms. She put her ear against the wooden panel and listened. Still no sound. But she was certain that he was not asleep.

She knocked once, very softly. Owen opened the door immediately.

Almost as if he had been waiting for her.

She smiled tremulously up at him. “You’re not in bed.”

“I’m thinking.”

“I know.” She shivered. “I can’t sleep, either. I keep seeing those headlights coming straight toward us.”

“Amy.” He drew her into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

Amy felt something inside her begin to relax. She rested her head on his shoulder. “It’s all my fault. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“For what?”

“For getting you into this mess. I swear, I never had any idea that this would get so complicated.”

He framed her face in his powerful hands. His eyes gleamed in the shadows. “You don’t have a clue just how complicated things have gotten, do you?”

Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers.

His kiss was different this time. Instead of reckless eagerness and hot passion, there was gentleness and a tender warmth. Amy gave herself up to the sweet persuasion without a single qualm.

“Amy?” His voice was ragged but under control.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Thank God.” Owen whispered against her throat. “I thought I was going to go crazy.”

He picked her up and carried her through the doorway into his room, then set her down amid the turned-back sheets of his bed. She looked up at him with dawning wonder as he stripped off his shirt and jeans.

She loved him.

The realization came with quiet certainty, not as a bolt out of the blue. Amy knew that she had recognized the truth deep inside weeks ago. She reached up to take him into her arms.

Owen came to her then.

His body was heavy with desire. Amy felt him shudder at her touch. His hands trembled slightly as he eased aside her quilted robe.

“I’ve never wanted anything so much in my life,” he said against her mouth.

He kissed her throat as he undressed her. And then he lowered his mouth to her breasts. Heat flooded Amy’s body. Owen’s hand slid upward along her leg, squeezing gently. His fingers moved to the inside of her thigh. Amy gasped.

Owen covered her mouth once more, drinking in the small sound she made. He cupped her softness and then probed, opening her to his intimate touch. She gave another muffled cry and clutched at his shoulders. A frantic sense of urgency stormed through her.

Owen continued the tender torment, stoking the flames within Amy until she could not stand it any longer. She twisted on the sheets.

“Owen, please.” She parted her legs and fought to pull him to her. “Please.”

“I think I’ve been waiting for this forever.” Owen leaned across Amy to open a drawer in the bedside table.

The movement brought his broad, strong chest directly over Amy’s face. She kissed one flat, male nipple and ran her fingers through the curling hair that surrounded it. Then she reached down between their damp bodies to stroke him. It was like touching warm steel. Owen was utterly rigid with his need. Hard and hot and throbbing. When her fingertips moved on him he shuddered. Amy’s body responded with another tidal wave of heat.

A moment later Owen was ready. He moved between her thighs, braced himself on his elbows, and looked down at her with burning eyes. He held her gaze as he pushed slowly, carefully, deliberately into her. Amy drew in a sharp breath as her small muscles stretched to accommodate him.

And then he was inside, filling her completely.

“Amy.” There was a world of wonder and need in the single word.

Owen began to move. Amy took flight. Mindlessly, she gave herself up to the delicious, spiraling tension. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She heard her own voice calling Owen’s name over and over again.

And then, without warning, her climax exploded in a series of rippling vibrations that sent pleasure to every nerve in her body. Amy was breathless. All she could do was cling to Owen as the world whirled around her.

She was vaguely aware of his fierce, hoarse shout of masculine satisfaction. He surged into her one last time. She felt every muscle in him tighten.

After a long, long moment, Owen shuddered and collapsed along the length of her. Together they drifted in the darkness, locked in each other’s arms.

•  •  •

A long while later, she stirred beside Owen. She stretched languidly, aware of a sense of joyous satisfaction. Before she could even begin to savor her newfound love, a thought struck her. She sat bolt upright in bed.

“Good grief. Owen.”

“What’s the matter?” Owen sounded like a sleepy lion that had recently been very well fed.

“I just thought of something.” She turned to look down at him. “If you’re right in thinking that it was the blackmailer who tried to run us down tonight, then that means that it was a . . . what do you call it?”

“A crime of opportunity?”

“Right, exactly. A crime of opportunity. After all, he couldn’t have known we’d be walking behind the library at that hour. He must have followed us.”

“Maybe.” Owen sounded unconvinced.

“You think there’s another possibility?”

“Amy, there are lots of possibilities. It could have been one of the people who attended that meeting in the library tonight or someone who was wandering around in the park after the band concert. Whoever it was, he saw us and recognized us, in spite of the fact that we were wrapped up in each other’s arms.”

“No great trick, I suppose, when you think about it. This is a town in which everyone knows everyone else. We must stand out like sore thumbs, even in the dark.”

“Yeah.”

Amy had a sudden vision of Madeline Villantry’s son. She recalled his comment as he had walked past Amy and Owen. “You don’t think Raymond Junior is behind this, do you? I think he might have recognized us tonight.”

“We’ll find out tomorrow night.” Owen tugged her down on top of him. “In the meantime. I’ve got better things to do.”

She smiled demurely. “I suppose you want to get some sleep.”

“Hell, no. Us private eyes can go for days without a good night’s sleep. It’s in the genes.”

Chapter 8

“. . . And so I am proud to dedicate the new wing of the Raymond C. Villantry Memorial Public Library.” Madeline Villantry’s cultured tones rang out from the speaker’s podium that had been set up in the center of the library. “We should all be proud of our community’s commitment to literacy. A free nation cannot exist without such a commitment. I thank you, friends and neighbors. I salute all of you who helped make our fine library what it is today.”

Enthusiastic applause broke out from the large crowd gathered in the library. Madeline Villantry smiled graciously from the lectern.

Owen leaned toward Amy, who was standing next to him in the throng. “You get the feeling she really means all that talk about progress and literacy?”

“Yes, I do,” Amy said resolutely. “I know she looks like she’s trying out for the role of Queen of Villantry, but Aunt Bernice and Arthur believe that Madeline is honestly committed to this town’s welfare. I think they’re right.”

“Maybe. But I’m not so sure about Raymond Junior over there. I have a hunch he’s not the altruistic sort.”

“I won’t argue that point.” Amy scrutinized Raymond, who was following his mother down from the small speaker’s stand. “But who knows? Maybe he’ll learn.”

“I won’t hold my breath.” Owen stopped clapping. He kept his eyes on the door of the men’s room as the crowd broke up and began to mill around.

Amy stood on tiptoe in an effort to see over the heads of the people swarming in front of her. “What’s happening?”

“Crabshaw went inside the men’s room a few minutes ago. He just came back out. Now he’s headed outside to join your aunt at the punch table.”

“Darn, I can’t see a thing.”

“I can,” Owen assured her.

There had been a light but steady stream of males coming and going through the swinging men’s room door during the past hour. Tredgett, the janitor, had been busy as he made a heroic effort to keep up with the demands that had been placed upon the facilities. As Owen watched. Tredgett emerged from the women’s room, removed the small sign he had temporarily placed in the doorway, and wheeled his bucket and mop next door to the men’s room.

Raymond Junior followed the janitor inside.

Amy peered at Owen. “So? What do you see?”

“Someone who’s bent on cleaning up,” Owen said softly.

“What the heck does that mean?”

“It means that this case is almost concluded.” He gave her a repressive look, aware that he had to be forceful and authoritative if he wanted Amy to follow orders. She didn’t seem to take them any better than he did. “Wait right here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Amy’s eyes widened. “Where are you going? Did you spot the blackmailer?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, you will not. You will do as you’re told. I’m not taking any more chances with your neck.”

“But, Owen, what can possibly happen here?”

“That’s what I said to myself last night when we made that little detour behind the library,” he muttered. “Stay put.”

Without glancing over his shoulder to see if Amy had obeyed him, Owen slipped away from her side and began to ease through the crowd. The conversations ebbed and flowed around him.

In a few minutes it would all be over, Owen thought as he made his way toward the men’s room. The identity of the blackmailer was obvious. It should have been from the beginning, but Owen admitted to himself that he’d been distracted by more personal considerations.

It was time to confront the culprit, wrap up the case, and get back to worrying about the more important dilemma he faced. Nabbing a blackmailer was simple compared with the problem of trying to figure out if Amy loved him.

He’d been sweating that out since he had awakened to an empty bed this morning. His initial response to the discovery that Amy was not lying beside him had been a surge of emotion that he knew came very close to something that could be labeled fear. For a terrible instant his sleep-fogged brain had registered an anguished sense of loss. Amy was gone.

Reality had returned with the sound of the shower in her room. She had not left him in the middle of the night. She had merely risen to take her morning bath.

Owen had taken a deep breath and regained his usually unshakable sense of control. But he had not been able to shake the memory of the unnerving sensation he had experienced when he had found himself alone in the bed.

The door of the men’s room swung open. Raymond Junior strolled out. He paused for a moment to search the crowd. His gaze fell on Owen. He nodded sternly and then turned to walk toward the knot of people gathered around his mother.

Owen propped one shoulder against the wall and watched the swinging door. He did not have to wait long. It soon opened again.

Tredgett, the janitor, emerged, dragging his bucket behind him. Without looking at anyone, he trundled off toward a door at the far side of the central gallery.

Owen followed at a leisurely pace. When he reached the door, he went through it quietly. He found himself in a dimly lit storage room. Stacks of aging magazines and newspapers lined one wall. The shelves on the opposite wall were filled with dusty books that looked as if they were awaiting repair.

There was no sign of the janitor, but a sliver of light gleamed beneath a closed closet door. Owen smiled humorlessly. He went toward the closet and opened the door. He found himself gazing into a small space filled with mops, sponges, and other assorted janitorial equipment.

Tredgett was inside the closet. He was busy counting the bills he had just removed from a plain white envelope. He jumped at the sight of Owen.

“Busy day,” Owen observed.

Panic and rage lit Tredgett’s eyes. He clutched the money in one fist. “Damn you,” he whispered. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Why have you been nosing around in my business?”

“I’m the naturally curious type.”

Tredgett’s face worked furiously. “Bastard. I warned you last night. If you and your lady friend think I’m going to share this money with you, you’re crazy.”

“The janitor,” Amy murmured from the shadows behind Owen. “Of course. The one man who is always going in and out of restrooms.”

Owen groaned. “Amy, I told you to wait outside.”

“I couldn’t let you finish this alone.”

Tredgett’s desperate gaze shifted wildly from Owen to Amy and back again. “Leave me alone or I’ll tell all.” He picked up a jar of cleaning solvent and hurled it at Owen.

Owen easily sidestepped the jar. Unfortunately, in the process, he collided with Amy, who had come up behind him. She yelped as she fetched up against a row of metal bookshelves. The shelves shuddered beneath the impact. Several tattered volumes cascaded down from the top shelf.

Owen whirled around at the sound of the toppling books. “Amy, look out.”

She reacted instantly, leaping aside. Two heavy volumes struck the floor at her feet, barely missing her head.

Tredgett seized the opportunity. He burst out of the janitorial closet and made for the back door.

“You okay?” Owen asked Amy.

“I’m okay. Owen, be careful.”

He whirled around and sprinted after Tredgett, who was already at the back door.

It wasn’t much of a contest. Tredgett was twenty years older and thirty pounds overweight. Owen caught him just outside the door. He pinned the janitor to the wall of the alcove.

“I’ll tell everyone about the affair between Crabshaw and Mrs. Villantry,” Tredgett blustered. “I swear I will.”

“And go to jail for blackmail?” Owen asked pleasantly. “Now, why would you want to do that?”

“Crabshaw will never press charges. He’ll never admit that he’s been paying blackmail. You can’t prove a damn thing.”

“I wouldn’t be too certain of that.” Madeline Villantry emerged from the storage room. She was followed by Arthur and Bernice and Raymond Junior. “Arthur finally told me what was going on this morning. I informed him that if his private investigator discovered the identity of the blackmailer, I would insist that he press charges. One simply cannot tolerate this sort of thing.”

“Now, Mother,” Raymond began. “I think we should talk about this before we make any decisions.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” Madeline assured him.

Tredgett jerked furiously in Owen’s grasp. “Private investigator?” He stared at Owen and then looked helplessly at Arthur Crabshaw. “You hired this damned PI?”

“I hired the damned PI,” Amy said briskly. “And he’s solved the case brilliantly.”

“Thank you,” Owen said.

“He certainly has.” Bernice smiled warmly at Owen. “Arthur also told me everything. It was very gallant of him to try to protect Madeline and me, but entirely unnecessary. Arthur’s relationship with Madeline is thirty years in the past. Who cares about it now?”

“Precisely,” Madeline murmured. “My parents are dead and my children are adults. There is no one left to protect.”

Arthur looked at Owen. “You were right. The best way to pull the blackmailer’s teeth was to tell everyone involved what was going on.”

“It’s usually the easiest way to put a stop to this kind of thing,” Owen said.

Raymond Junior scowled in confusion. “For God’s sake, Mother, are you telling me that you and Arthur Crabshaw had an affair thirty years ago? And that the janitor knew about it?”

“Eugene Tredgett used to work for Villantry,” Madeline explained. She gave Tredgett a disgusted look. “Apparently he saw something that was none of his business.”

“No one ever notices the janitor,” Tredgett muttered.

“Good God.” Raymond looked scandalized. “I can’t believe this.”

“Don’t worry about it, Raymond.” Madeline turned to go back into the library. “It’s none of your business, either. These things sometimes happen, even in the best of families. Now, stop blathering on about it. We have our civic duty to perform this evening.”

“But, Mother . . .” Raymond hurried after Madeline. The pair vanished into the shadows.

Arthur took Bernice’s hand. He looked at Owen. “I owe you.”

“No you don’t,” Owen said. “Amy is the one who hired me. She’s already taken care of the bill.”

Shock and pain replaced the admiration that had lit Amy’s eyes a moment earlier. Too late, Owen realized that she had misinterpreted his words. She thought he meant that he had taken last night’s lovemaking as payment for services rendered.

Police Chief Hawkins lumbered out of the storage room gloom. “What the hell’s going on? Mrs. Villantry said I was needed out here.” He paused when he caught sight of Owen. “Damn. Shoulda guessed that this would involve you, Sweet. You know something? We’ve had more trouble in the forty-eight hours you’ve been in town than we’ve had in a year.”

“Just doing my civic duty, Chief.”

“Sure.” Hawkins squinted at the defeated Tredgett. “Any chance you’ll do it somewhere else in the future?”

“Count on it,” Owen said.

•  •  •

Owen stood on his side of the doorway that linked the two Inn rooms and watched Amy as she packed her suitcase. This was the first opportunity he’d had to speak to her in private since Eugene Tredgett had been taken into custody earlier in the evening. He’d been waiting for this moment for hours. Now that it was here, he couldn’t seem to find the right words.

Amy had been determinedly cheerful and aggressively polite while they had been in the company of others. It seemed to Owen that she had chattered on about everything under the sun except their relationship. She had finally fallen silent when they had climbed the stairs to the connecting rooms.

“Amy . . .”

“I’m almost packed,” she assured him as she stuffed a pair of jeans into the suitcase. “I know you want to be on the road first thing in the morning. We’ll be able to leave right after breakfast.”

“Forget it. I’m not worried about leaving on time.” Owen shoved his hands into his back pockets. “Amy, I want to talk to you.”

“I’m listening.” She disappeared into the bathroom to check for any items she might have left on the sink.

Irritation replaced some of Owen’s uneasiness. “I’m trying to have a relationship discussion out here,” he called.

She emerged from the bathroom with her quilted robe over her arm. “Good thing I checked the hook on the door. I almost forgot my robe.”

Owen gazed at the robe with a shattering sense of longing. “Amy, I think you misunderstood something I said tonight. When I told Crabshaw that you had paid for my services, I didn’t mean it the way I think you think I meant it.”

“Really?” She came to a halt in the middle of the room. “How did you mean it?”

“I just meant that you and I had a separate understanding.”

She stood very still, clutching her robe. “Do we?”

“I thought so.”

“What sort of ‘understanding’ do we have, Owen?”

Owen began to feel desperate. He was no good at this kind of thing. “For God’s sake, didn’t last night mean anything to you?”

“Everything.”

“I realize we haven’t known each other very long.” Owen shoved a hand through his hair. “I had planned to take it slow. I wanted you to get to know me. I wanted you to—” He broke off abruptly. “What did you say?”

“I said that last night meant everything to me.” Amy’s eyes were brilliant. “What about you?”

A joyous hope welled up inside him. He was dazzled by the brilliant colors that suddenly lit his world. “It meant everything to me, too. Amy, I love you.”

“I love you, Owen.” Amy dropped the robe and opened her arms.

Owen gathered her close and kissed her for a very long time. “Something tells me we’re not going to get much sleep tonight,” he said eventually. “Maybe we’d better not try to get that early-morning start after all.”

“If we don’t check out before noon, they’ll charge us for an extra night,” Amy warned him.

“Don’t worry about it.” Owen picked her up and carried her through the connecting door into his room. “I’ll just put the extra night on my expense account.”

About the Author

The author of many New York Times bestsellers, JAYNE ANN KRENTZ uses three different names. As Jayne Ann Krentz she writes contemporary romances and romantic suspense. She uses Amanda Quick for her novels of historical romantic suspense, and Jayne Castle for her futuristic and paranormal romantic suspense. After earning a BA in history and a master’s degree in Library Science, she worked as a librarian before becoming a full-time writer. She lives with her husband, Frank, in Seattle, Washington. Visit her website at www.krentz-quick.com.

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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1995 by Jayne Ann Krentz

This title was previously published in 1995 by Pocket Books in an anthology titled Everlasting Love.

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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition January 2014

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ISBN 978-1-4767-7136-6