He glanced around, but the big, white-on-white kitchen was empty. A tray sat on a center island. A coffee carafe stood by an empty cup and saucer. Plastic wrap covered a plate of fresh fruit. By the stove, an open box of eggs waited beside a frying pan. Through a door on his left, he heard mumbled conversation.
He started toward the female voice and crossed the threshold. A woman stood on tiptoe in front of shelves. As he watched, she reached up for something on the top shelf, but her fingers only grazed the edge of the shelf.
Nash stepped forward to offer help, but at that moment the woman reached a little higher. Her cropped sweater rose above the waistband of her black slacks, exposing a sliver of bare skin.
Nash felt as if he'd been hit upside the head with a two-by-four. His vision narrowed, sound faded and by gosh, he found himself experiencing the first flicker of life below his waist that he'd felt in damn near two years.
Over an inch of belly? He was in a whole lot more trouble than he'd realized. Apparently his boss had been right about him burning out.
A loud shriek brought him back to the here and now. Nash moved his gaze from the woman's midsection to her face and saw his hostess staring at him with wide eyes. She pressed a hand to her chest and sucked in a breath.
“You nearly scared the life out of me, Mr. Harmon. I didn't realize you were up already.”
“Call me Nash,' he said as he stepped forward and reached up for the top shelf. 'What do you need?'
“That blue bag. There's a silver bread basket inside. I'm making scones and I usually put them in the larger basket but as you're my only guest at present, I thought something smaller would work.' He grasped the blue bag and felt something hard inside. After lowering it, he handed it to her. She took it with a shake of her head.
“I always meant to be tall,' she told him. 'Somehow I never got around to it.'
“I wasn't aware it wasn't something you could get around to. I thought it just happened.'
“Or not.' She unzipped the bag and pulled out a silver wire basket. 'Thanks for the help. Would you like some coffee?'
“Sure.' He led the way back into the kitchen. While he leaned against the counter, she ran hot water into the carafe, then drained it and wiped it dry. After filling it with coffee, she turned back to him. 'Cream and sugar?'
“Just black.'
“The scones should be ready in about five minutes. I had planned to make you an omelette this morning. Ham? Cheese? Mushrooms?' Last night he'd barely noticed her. What he remembered had been someone female, tired and strangely dressed. He had a vague recollection of spiky blond hair. Now he saw that Stephanie Wynne was a petite blonde with wide blue eyes and a full mouth that turned up at the corners. She wore her short hair in a sleek style that left her ears and neck bare. Tailored black slacks and a slightly snug sweater showed him that despite the small package, everything was where it needed to be. She was pretty.
And he'd noticed.
Nash tried to figure out the last time he'd noticed a woman-any woman-enough to classify her as pretty, ugly or something in between. Not for two years, he decided, knowing that figuring out the date hadn't been much of a stretch.
“Don't bother with eggs,' he said. 'Coffee and the scones are fine.' He glanced at the tray. 'And the fruit.' Stephanie frowned. 'The room comes with a full breakfast. Aren't you hungry?' More than he'd been in a while, but less than he should have been. 'Maybe tomorrow,' he said instead.
A timer on the stove beeped softly. Stephanie picked up two mitts and pulled open the oven door.
The scent of baked goods got stronger. Nash inhaled the fragrance of orange and lemon.
When she'd set two cookie sheets of scones onto cooling racks, she dug through a drawer and pulled out a linen napkin, then draped it in the silver basket.
“This morning we have orange, lemon and white chocolate scones,' she said as she pulled a small crystal dish of butter from the refrigerator. 'They're all delicious, which is probably tacky of me to say seeing as I made them, but it's true. Being a man, you won't care about the calories, so that's a plus.' She offered him a smile that made the corners of her eyes crinkle, then nodded toward the door next to him.
“The dining room is through there.' He took the hint and moved through to the next room. He found a large table set for one. The local paper lay on top of a copy of
Stephanie followed him into the room, but waited until he was seated before serving him his breakfast. She poured coffee, removed the plastic wrap from his plate of fruit and made sure the butter was within easy reach. Then she wished him
Nash picked up one of the still-steaming scones. The scent of orange drifted to him. His stomach still growling, he took a bite.
Delicate flavors melted on his tongue. Hunger roared through him, as unfamiliar as it was welcome. He sipped the coffee next, then tried a strawberry. Everything tasted delicious. He couldn't remember the last meal he'd enjoyed, nor did he care. Instead he plowed through four scones, all the fruit and the entire carafe of coffee. When he was finally full, he pulled the copy of
A burst of laughter interrupted his perusal of the business section. He frowned as he realized he'd been hearing more than just Stephanie in the kitchen for some time. The other voices were low and difficult to make out. A husband? Probably.
The thought of a Mr. Wynne caused Nash a twinge of guilt. He didn't usually go around looking at other men's wives and admiring their bare skin.
He turned the page on the paper and started to read again, only to be interrupted by the sound of footsteps racing down the hall. He looked up in time to see three boys running toward the front door.
“Walk! We have a guest.' The command came from the kitchen. Instantly three pairs of feet slowed and three heads turned in his direction. Nash had a brief impression of towheaded boys ranging in age from ten or twelve to about eight. The two youngest were twins.
Stephanie stepped into view and gave him an apologetic smile. 'Sorry. It's the last week of school and they're pretty wound up.'
“No problem.' The boys continued to study him curiously until their mother shooed them out the door. The twins ducked back in for a quick kiss, then waved in his direction and disappeared. Stephanie stood in the foyer with the door open until a bus pulled up in front of the house. Through the window in the dining room Nash could see the boys climb onto the bus. When it pulled away, Stephanie closed the front door and walked into the dining room.
“Did you get enough to eat?' she asked as she began to clear his dishes. 'There are more scones.'
“I'm fine,' he told her. 'Everything was great.'
“Thank you. The original scone recipe dates back several generations. My late husband and I rented a guest house from an English couple many years ago. Mrs. Frobisher was a great one for baking. She taught me how to make the scones. I also make shortbread cookies that melt in your mouth. I would be happy to leave a few in your room if you'd like.' Nash told himself that her mention of a 'late husband' didn't mean much more than that he didn't have to feel guilty for noticing Stephanie's bare stomach. The entire point of their encounter earlier that morning was that he wasn't as dead inside as he'd thought. Good news that was not particularly meaningful.
He glanced at her face and saw the expectant expression in her blue eyes. His brain offered a replay of her conversation and he cleared his throat.
“If it's not too much trouble,' he said.
“None at all. The boys prefer chocolate chip cookies. I guess shortbread is an acquired taste that comes with age.' She offered a polite smile and carried his dishes out of the dining room.
Nash flipped through the sports section, then closed the paper. The news no longer interested him. Maybe he would go for that drive now and explore the area.
He rose, then paused, not sure if he should tell his hostess he was leaving. When he traveled it was usually on business and he always stayed in anonymous hotels and motels. He'd never been in a bed and breakfast before. While this was a place of business, apparently it was also Stephanie's home.
He looked from the kitchen to the foyer, then decided she wouldn't care what he had planned for his day. After fishing his car keys out of his pocket, he walked across the gleaming hardwood floor and out to the curb where he'd left his rental car.
Two minutes later he was back in the Victorian house. He walked into the kitchen, but it was empty. He crossed to the stairs and glanced up. Was she cleaning his room, or had she gone up to her private quarters? A loud
