The Welcoming by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online

would be gone in a matter of days. Before he was done he might very well destroy her life.
    It was his job, he reminded himself.
    He saw her, walking out to the van with those long, purposeful strides of hers, the keys jingling in her hand. Behind her were the newlyweds, holding hands, even though each was carrying a suitcase.
    She would be taking them to the ferry, he thought. That would give him an hour to search her rooms.
    He knew how to go through every inch of a room without leaving a trace. He concentrated first on the obvious—the desk in the small parlor. It was common for people to be careless in the privacy of their own homes. A slip of paper, a scribbled note, a name in an address book, were often left behind for the trained eye to spot.
    It was an old desk, solid mahogany with a few rings and scratches. Two of the brass pulls were loose. Like the rest of the room, it was neat and well organized. Her personal papers—insurance documents, bills, correspondence—were filed on the left. Inn business took up the three drawers on the right.
    He could see from a quick scan that the inn made a reasonable profit, most of which she funneled directly back into it. New linens, bathroom fixtures, paint. The stove Mae was so territorial about had been purchased only six months earlier.
    She took a salary for herself, a surprisingly modest one. He didn’t find, even after a more critical study, any evidence of her using any of the inn’s finances to ease her own way.
    An honest woman, Roman mused. At least on the surface.
    There was a bowl of potpourri on the desk, as there was in every room in the inn. Beside it was a framed picture of Charity standing in front of the mill wheel with a fragile-looking man with white hair.
    The grandfather, Roman decided, but it was Charity’s image he studied. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her baggy overalls were stained at the knees. From gardening, Roman guessed. She was holding an armful of summer flowers. She looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world, but he noted that her free arm was around the old man, supporting him.
    He wondered what she had been thinking at that moment, what she had done the moment after the picture had been snapped. He swore at himself and looked away from the picture.
    She left notes to herself: Return wallpaper samples. New blocks for toy chest. Call piano tuner. Get flat repaired.
    He found nothing that touched on his reason for coming to the inn. Leaving the desk, he meticulously searched the rest of the parlor.
    Then he went into the adjoining bedroom. The bed, a four-poster, was covered with a lacy white spread and plumped with petit-point pillows. Beside it was a beautiful old rocker, its arms worn smooth as glass. In it sat a big purple teddy bear wearing yellow suspenders.
    The curtains were romantic priscillas. She’d left the windows open, and the breeze came through, billowing them. A woman’s room, Roman thought, unrelentingly feminine with its lace and pillows, its fragile scents and pale colors. Yet somehow it welcomed a man, made him wish, made him want. It made him want one hour, one night, in that softness, that comfort.
    He crossed the faded handhooked rug and, burying his self-disgust, went through her dresser.
    He found a few pieces of jewelry he took to be heirlooms. They belonged in a safe, he thought, annoyed with her. There was a bottle of perfume. He knew exactly how it would smell. It would smell the way her skin did. He nearly reached for it before he caught himself. Perfume wasn’t of any interest to him. Evidence was.
    A packet of letters caught his eye. From a lover? he wondered, dismissing the sudden pang of jealousy he felt as ridiculous.
    The room was making him crazy, he thought as he carefully untied the slender satin ribbon. It was impossible not to imagine her there, curled on the bed, wearing something white and thin, her hair loose and the candles lit.
    He shook