A PERVERSE SENSE of humor made Charity insist they eat the charred sandwiches in the dining room, an elegant yet small space adjoining the living area. She used the dimmer switch on the crystal chandelier hanging over the lace-covered table and lit the white tapers rising majestically from pewter candlesticks created by Paul Revere.
She and Wyatt had debated whether to drink red or white wine with burned cheese sandwiches and had settled, surprisingly without much argument, on a bottle of cabernet. Charity had poured it into two goblets of hand-cut lead crystal and served the sandwiches on antique Spode china. In honor of the occasion Wyatt took off his hat and hung it on one of the dining room chairs. “I’m glad to see that Nora allows the candles to be burned,” he said as he took a bite of his sandwich.
“She told me to use them if I wanted to, as long as I was careful.” She tried not to fixate on a lock of brown hair that fell in sexy abandon over Wyatt’s forehead. Bringing her attention back to dinner, she picked up her sandwich and took a tentative bite. It tasted like a charcoal briquet. She chewed and swallowed. “Delicious.”
“Better than a mouthful of arena dirt.” Without the hat shadowing his eyes, the twinkle was more visible.
“I suppose these plates and glasses are antiques.”
Charity nodded. “Considering our track record, I’m probably tempting fate to bring them out, but I’ve been using her fine china all week. Nora does use her dishes and glassware.”
“I know. I remember these plates.” He glanced beside his chair where MacDougal whined and wriggled his stubby tail. “Hey, Mac, give it up. Trust me, you don’t want a piece of this cheese sandwich anyway.”
“He’s not after your sandwich,” Charity said.
“And I don’t blame him. It tastes like a jogging shoe.”
She gave him a withering glance because he probably expected her to, but he looked so good in the candlelight her heart wasn’t really in it.
“A name-brand jogging shoe,” he amended. “I’m so hungry I really don’t care.”
“I offered to make a new batch.”
“Not with real conviction.” He gave her an off center grin. “I figured things could get worse. Are you sure you want to tackle a turkey tomorrow?”
“A turkey is easy. You just stick it in a roaster and put it in the oven. Then you take it out when it’s done.”
“If you say so. I’ve never cooked one in my life.”
Neither had Charity, but she’d be damned if she’d tell him that. The directions were printed right on the turkey wrapper, and she could read. “I tell you, it’s a snap.”
“Okay, but I—” Wyatt paused as the dog continued to whine. “What is it with you, Mac? I’ve never seen so much dedication to a cause.”
“He wants the wine.”
“No way. Dogs don’t like wine.”
Charity laughed. “This one does. Nora made the mistake of letting him taste some once, and he’s been a fool for it ever since.”
Wyatt stared at her. “And you give it to him?”
“Of course I don’t give it to him! I’m here to take care of MacDougal, not get him drunk.”
“Just asking. I want to make sure I understand all the rules. Speaking of which, am I allowed to have a second glass?”
“That’s up to you, but I don’t want anybody staggering around Nora’s house endangering the Waterford crystal.”
“I promise that two glasses of wine will not make me stagger.”
Charity gestured toward the bottle. “Then help yourself.”
“Thanks.” He uncorked the bottle and held it up. “Any more for you?”
“No, thanks.”
“In danger of staggering, Charity?”
“Of course not.” She sounded priggish and didn’t like the image. “Oh, all right. Half a glass.”
“Stand back, folks. She’s kicking over the traces. Next thing you know she’ll be dancing naked on the table.”
“Do you practice being obnoxious or does it just come naturally?”
He winked at her. “It’s a gift. Come on, let’s take our wine into the living room.” He pushed back his chair.
“Don’t sit on the white damask sofa with that red wine,” she cautioned, following him.
“Then I’ll sit on the rug.”
“The rug’s a hundred and twenty years old. I’m not sure a red wine stain would ever come out of it.”
He made a face. “All this priceless stuff sure crimps a guy’s style.”
“And what style would that be, cowboy?” Charity chose an old Boston rocker.
Wyatt walked over to the frosty bay window, reached across the window seat and cleared one pane with a wipe of his sleeve. He gazed out into the snowy night as he sipped his wine. “Freedom, I guess.”
She had to admit he looked a bit like a caged animal standing in the shadowed cave of the window staring out into the darkness. There was a restless set to his shoulders that clashed with a room designed for quiet pursuits like reading and needlepoint.
He turned and gestured around the room with the wineglass. “The opposite of all this.”
Charity bristled at the implied criticism of a woman she idolized. “Nora had this place built for her, with no consideration of what a man would want in a house. That’s pretty unusual, and I admire her for it.”
“And you’d like to do the same someday?”
“Absolutely. Nora set the standard for me a long time ago.”
“Really?” He walked out of the shadows by the window and moved toward her. “Just how long have you known my aunt?”
“I met her nineteen years ago, when I was ten. My mother brought me down from Boston for a feminist retreat Nora hosted in this house.”
Wyatt nodded. “She was always big on feminism.”
“And you’re not?”
“I didn’t say that. I believe in equal rights for women. But I resent being classified as the enemy just because I was born with different equipment between my legs than you have.”
“Men have been classifying women that way for generations.” Charity tried to convince herself they were having a political, not a sexual conversation. And she tried to keep her gaze from drifting below his belt. She failed on both counts. The heat of awareness swept through her as she considered, in detail, his “equipment.”
“I had the feeling that you carry that sort of chip on your shoulder,” he said.
She glanced upward into a chiseled face that attracted her far more than it should. She took refuge in rhetoric. “How can I not have a chip on my shoulder? I’m more likely to end up poverty-stricken than you, more likely to be raped, more likely to be—”
“Taken care of,” he interrupted. “More likely to inherit the money accumulated by a man, because you’ll live longer, on average. More likely to be—”
“Passed over for a promotion, to be defeated in an election,” she countered.
MacDougal trotted between them and sat with his tongue out as his head swiveled from one to the other.
“He doesn’t like confrontation,” Charity said.
Wyatt crouched down and massaged MacDougal’s spine. “No, he’s a laid-back wino, aren’t you, Mac?”
“Don’t you dare give that dog any wine.”
Wyatt looked at her, his gaze level with hers as he continued scratching the ecstatic Scottie. “Relax, Charity. I’m going to be a good boy.”
Charity watched his supple fingers giving pleasure to the dog and almost wished he wouldn’t be good. She had nothing, absolutely nothing, in common with this bull rider. But he was the sexiest man she’d met in a very long time.
WYATT STROKED the dog, but what he wanted desperately to do was stroke the woman, to take her hair out of its confining twist on top of her head, to remove the glasses as a prelude to removing a whole lot more. His urges astonished him. He wanted her not because she wore a seductive outfit, but because she didn’t; not because she’d given him an unspoken invitation, but because she hadn’t.
Their conversations inevitably became dueling matches, which should be a turnoff. Instead they heated his blood. Charity Webster represented everything he didn’t want in a woman, and he desired her with a fierceness that made him tremble.
“Where am I sleeping?” he asked, deciding maybe they should end the evening before he lost control of his better judgment and kissed her.
“I put your duffel bag in the downstairs guest room.”
He nodded as he continued to rub MacDougal’s back. The dog closed his eyes in ecstasy. “That’s where my parents used to sleep. I had the little bedroom upstairs, next to Nora’s.” He wondered if Charity had put them on separate floors on purpose. “You’re taking Nora’s room, then?”
“Yes.”
He noticed the clipped answer, the flicker of heat in her gaze before she looked away. A carefully developed instinct told him that it wouldn’t take much to lure her into his arms. Another glass of wine, perhaps. Some soft music on the stereo. A teasing invitation to dance.
Giving MacDougal a final pat, he stood. “I’ll help you with the dishes, and then I think I’ll turn in.”
She stood, too, and finished the last of her wine. “Don’t worry about the dishes. There’s not much.”
He could be imagining the regret in her tone, but somehow he didn’t think so. Dammit, should he make a move? No. Charity was so different from the women he usually took to bed that he had a premonition the outcome might be different, too. That might be what Nora was after, but he didn’t want to start anything that couldn’t be finished quickly and cleanly, with no hurt feelings on either side.
“I’ll help with the dishes,” he said. “Otherwise you might accuse me of being a male chauvinist pig who’s afraid of getting caught with his hands in a pan of soapsuds.”
“Tell you what. You can take MacDougal to the backyard for his evening outing while I do the dishes.”
That was so blatantly dividing up the jobs along gender lines that even Wyatt rebelled. “Are you afraid I’ll break one of Nora’s plates? Because I’ll have you know I washed those same plates for her when I was fifteen, and I didn’t break a single one.” Actually, he’d broken two, which made the statement literally true. But he wasn’t fifteen anymore. “Come on, Charity. You’re so ready to trumpet the feminist cause. Put your money where your mouth is and take the dog out while I do up the dishes.”
Her chin lifted. “Very well.”
He almost laughed at her aristocratic response. Every time she got high-and-mighty with him, it made the prospect of penetrating that facade harder to resist. But he would resist, for his sake and hers.
CHARITY STOOD outside in the swirling snow and stomped her feet to keep warm. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her ski jacket and turned up the collar, but bits of snow still found their way down her neck to bestow chilly kisses. Her green beret didn’t do much to keep her head warm, either. Out of habit she’d brought MacDougal’s leash, which was also stuffed into her pocket. She hardly needed to worry about him running away on a night like this.
His coat must be protecting him pretty well, though, she thought, because he floundered through the snow chasing snowflakes and generally seemed uninterested in doing what he’d been brought out to do. Charity glanced over her shoulder through the kitchen window. It was fogged from the steam of hot dishwater, but she could make out the hazy outline of Wyatt doing dishes wearing his Stetson.
“This is ridiculous, Mac,” she muttered, turning back to the cavorting dog. “I’m the brains of this operation, so how come I end up with the worst job while Wyatt’s got it easy? I’m glad Nora’s not here to see this sorry turn of events.”
MacDougal woofed and raced through a snowdrift.
“Come on, dog. Get down to business. You’re going to be sopping wet by the time we go back inside.”
The Scottie ran to the other side of the yard and began barking at a bush.
“Hey! It’s a bush! Nobody’s out in this snowstorm except you and me. So—” The rest of Charity’s tirade lodged in her throat as a shadow moved beside the bush.
“MacDougal, come!” she managed to gasp. The dog trotted obediently toward her as she stared at the-bush. Keeping her attention on the shadow, she fumbled for MacDougal’s collar and snapped the leash into place. The bulky figure shifted again, and she could swear it emitted a cloud of steamy breath. It was way too big to be a skunk or a raccoon. A bear? There weren’t any bears around Saybrook. Unless a bear had escaped from a zoo somewhere. She jerked on Mac’s leash and started backing toward the door. “Wyatt! Wyatt, come out here!”
Almost instantly he barreled out of the back door in his shirtsleeves, an apron tied around his jeans. “What? What’s wrong?”
Holding tight to Mac’s leash, she hurled herself into the safety of his arms, which enclosed her with reassuring strength. She’d never been so glad to see a protective alpha-male in her life. “S-something’s out there.” She looked up into his shadowy face. “Something like a b-bear.”
“Take it easy.” He sounded out of breath, and he wrapped her tighter in his arms. “It’s okay. Where?”
“By the bush over there.” She tilted her head in its direction. She could feel his heart pounding where her hand rested on his shirt. His nearness was so comforting she forgot to feel guilty about his being outside with no coat.
“I don’t see anything.”
“It was there. Mac was barking at it.”
“Okay. Let’s get you back inside. Then I’ll take Mac out again and we’ll investigate.”
“Okay.” She went inside, sheltered by his arm and chastened by her overwhelming gratitude that he was around to protect her. “Do you have your gun?”
“What gun?”
“Don’t all cowboys have guns?”
“Not if they fly the friendly skies,” he said as he ushered her inside and shut the door after them. “You’d have a devil of a time getting through the metal detector with a six-shooter strapped to your hip.” Once they were inside he released her.
Immediately she missed the firm pressure of his arm around her and wanted it back. But that was idiocy. His arms around her now would create a danger inside the house greater than the one outside. “Well, you can’t just go out there with nothing.”
“Sure I can.” He reached for his jacket. “I wouldn’t take a gun out there even if I had one. I’d probably nail some neighbor’s dog.”
“If that was a dog, he’s huge. And nobody’s pet would be roaming the neighborhood in this weather.” She noticed his damp shirt. “And you’re all wet. You’ll catch your death of cold.”
Wyatt grinned at her as he buttoned his jacket. “Any more comments, or am I free to go?”
“Take something to defend yourself with. Take—” she glanced around the kitchen “—a rolling pin.”
His dimple flashed. “No.” He held out his hand for MacDougal’s leash.
She handed it to him and for a brief moment their fingers met. She’d never been so aware of a simple, casual touch. She tried to keep the mocking tone in her voice. “What’s the matter, would a rolling pin spoil your macho image?”
His probing glance held hers a second longer than necessary. He could probably see right through her attempt at bravado. “Yes, it would,” he said. Then he wound the leash around his hand and opened the door. “Keep the home fires burning, Charity.”
“Be careful,” she called after him.
He poked his head back in the door. “Worried about me?”
“Wyatt Logan, you are not taking this seriously! There could be a serial killer out there, or a wild animal escaped from the zoo, or an inmate from the state mental hospital, or—”
“An alien from outer space?” he asked with mock seriousness.
“Go on, then! Get yourself killed.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, ma’am.” He touched the brim of his hat and closed the door.
Charity wrenched it open again. “Just don’t expect me to retrieve the body!” she shouted after his retreating back.
He kept walking into the snowy yard. “Well, Mac, she just eliminated the element of surprise. Now we’ll have to use our brute strength to overpower those aliens.”
INSIDE HIS HOUSE, Alistair’s heart slammed against his ribs when Charity’s words blasted through his earphones. Don’t expect me to retrieve the body! Nora’s body. It was lying somewhere, unburied. He had to find out where. He’d read enough Patricia Cornwell mysteries to know that the authorities found all sorts of evidence on the body.
It had taken him a good hour to plant a bug just outside Nora’s back door. Or as close to a bug as he could manage—the microphone from his karaoke machine. He’d commandeered every length of connecting wire in the house, which meant dismantling his surround-sound system.
He’d barely finished burying the wires in the snow and almost hadn’t made it into hiding behind that bush when Charity had unexpectedly come outside with the dog, but the near discovery had been worth it. He already had Charity on tape claiming to be the brains of the operation. Then, typical of a woman like that, she’d refused the messy job of retrieving Nora’s body.
The nephew was obviously the hitman, but the plot had apparently been hatched by none other than Charity Webster, Nora’s trusted friend and protégée. Alistair sighed. ‘Twas ever thus. In his experience, good deeds seldom went unpunished.