“It’s late.”
She swallowed. “So?”
“So it’s been a long day and I don’t want to drive any more tonight.” This wasn’t strictly true, since he did drive farther, at least until he reached his house where the exterior light washed invitingly down over the deck.
“Don’t worry,” he said as he put the truck into Park. “There are several bedrooms, including the one in the guesthouse, that you can choose from.”
“I have a lot to do tomorrow,” she argued, even though it was patently obvious that he wasn’t going to budge. “Your grandmother’s party is—”
He covered her mouth with his hand. Lightly. But the fact that he’d done it at all was enough to make her go rigid.
“Don’t worry,” he said in a mock whisper. “I’ll take you into Weaver in the morning. Nobody’ll be the wiser.” He dropped his hand and shoved open his door.
She swallowed hard, watching him circle around the front of the truck. Moonlight shone down over his dark gold hair. He was so ridiculously beautiful it stole her breath. But it was the man inside who shined even brighter.
Would Ros ever know just how long he, and his father before him, had been watching out for her? Would she ever get over being kept in the dark about her father’s true nature? Or would she deny the truth, even if proof were physically presented to her?
The door beside her opened.
“Well? Are you coming in or do I bring you a blanket because you want to do something stupid like sleep in the truck?”
That, at least, spurred her to action. “I don’t want to sleep in the truck,” she assured him a little waspishly. What kind of prude did he think she’d become?
“All right, then.” He held out his hand.
She didn’t allow herself any time to think. She just took it and slid out through the door. But when she was standing firmly on the ground, she pulled her hand away and curled her fingers into her palm, holding on to the warmth that lingered.
He never needed to know. He was already leading the way up the steps of the deck.
She followed. “Which bed has the cleanest sheets?” Her voice was tart.
He turned and looked at her. “Mine.”
Her foot nearly missed the next step. Her breath parked itself uncomfortably in her chest.
She peered up at him, wishing she could read his face. But he’d reached the top of the stairs and the light from the house was behind him, making his expression a wealth of impenetrable shadows. “Is that an invitation?”
“Do you want it to be?”
She felt her lips move, but no words would come. It was worse than when she’d made her first court appearance on her first real case. So many thoughts pushing inside her, all wanting to escape, and not a single one to emerge in anything remotely resembling a coherent statement.
She opened her mouth again.
A loud, yowling sound cut through the night, eclipsing the strangled sound she’d managed to emit.
She thought of bears again. Of mountain lions and who knew what else. “What was that?”
He chuckled suddenly as he turned and went over to the kitchen door and pulled it open. “That, sweetheart, is the cat.”
Chapter Eleven
The cat?
Nell looked over her shoulder out into the night as the yowl sounded again. Plaintive. Annoyed.
“And from the sounds of it,” Archer added, “he’s none too happy about missing being fed.”
She turned and followed him quickly into the house. “That doesn’t sound like any housecat I’ve ever heard. Are you sure we haven’t been feeding a bobcat?”
He reached into a lower cupboard and came out with a plastic bucket filled with cat food. “It’s not a bobcat,” he dismissed. “Go find a bedroom. I’ll be back.” He brushed past her on his way out the door again.
She watched Archer from the doorway until the night swallowed him. After everything, she still felt wobbly inside.
Do you want it to be?
She hugged her arms around herself and walked out of the kitchen. Once more, that same soft light automatically came on.
She walked down the hall, passed the powder room with its pedestal sink and stopped at the staircase. His study and a small bedroom were on the other side.
The bedroom possessed a bed. Not quite as narrow as a twin, but not as wide as her overly soft bed at the Cozy Night, either.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, looking toward the room and feeling her pulse throb.
Do you want it to be?
Upstairs, there were three more bedrooms. Not including his.
Even the guesthouse had a bed. He’d told her so.
That was the best choice. The wisest choice. Don’t even stay the night under the same roof.
She closed her hand over the square newel post. Placed her toe on the bottom step.
What would the cost be if she went up the rest of the steps?
She took her foot from the stair again. Walked past the staircase. But instead of going into the bedroom with the narrow bed, she turned and went into his study, instead.
Bookshelves lined three of the walls. Not just any ordinary bookshelves, either. No, these started at the floor and went all the way up to the ceiling. A dark metal rail for a rolling ladder two-thirds of the way up ran continuously around the three walls, too.
She crossed to the closest wall. Ran her palm lightly over the wildly mismatched spines. He seemed to have a little bit of everything. Biographies. Political commentaries. Science fiction. Historical fiction. Satire. Thrillers. Poetry. Even—
Her trailing fingers stopped atop the sweetly familiar name. Julia Brewster.
She slowly pulled out the narrow book. The glossy dust jacket was pristine. She smiled slightly as she touched the familiar rotund little penguin on the cover. “Hello, Monty,” she murmured. “What are you doing here in this house?”
“Keeping company with Seuss and Dahl.”
She turned on her heel, clutching the book against her chest. She felt engulfed by
