The Fifth Season (4 page)

“Not a thing,” he answered, pausing to read an article. “What’s this?”

She peered over his shoulder and tried to not let apprehension reach out and betray her. “What does it look like?”

“A newspaper article.”

“You win first prize, Mr. Connor. I’m happy to see you can read.” She reached over and grabbed the yellowed sheet of paper.

“Why do you have an article on the Good Friday Agreement?”

“I’m a proper Irish Catholic and keep up on my politics,” she said.

“I buy that, but that still doesn’t answer my questions.”

“Too bad,” she hissed, relieved that he’d obviously missed the printed names of party members and their families. It wouldn’t take a brain surgeon to connect Emilie Gallagher with Emma O’Malley. “Now, if you don’t need anything then what’re you doing here?”

He stared at her.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, refusing to acknowledge her fear and insecurity.

“I came to apologize, but…” he shrugged, standing up with the grace of a panther, “it seems I’ve only intruded further.”

“Apologize for what?” she asked, trying to direct the conversation away from the contents of her box.

“For laughing at you. It was rude.” Stone backed out of her room and leaned against the jamb. “I didn’t mean anything by it, and I’m sorry I didn’t respect your privacy. We need to learn to live together, and I was wrong. Again, I’m sorry.” As silently as he’d arrived, Stone Connor disappeared.

“How does he do that?”

Reaching up and removing the clip from her hair, Emma exhaled a frustrated breath. She snapped the lid closed on the strongbox. One day, she wanted to see these pictures and think of only the happy days. That time wasn’t yet, and if she retained possession of these documents, it might never arrive.

But the thought of burning the only link to her heritage created a cavern of sadness large enough to swallow her whole. Absently scratching her head, she ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the snagged clumps.

With a quick glance out the window, she realized the sun no longer burned bright but had faded to a late afternoon pale yellow. Time to shower and change then prepare to face Stone. Emma craved peace, but her current predicament guaranteed the opposite.

***

Emma lit the last candle and stood back to survey the dinner table. She’d decided on an outdoor meal. The brilliant red of the dying sun burned fiercely in the background casting a soft glow across the backyard. The grill sizzled with seasoned steaks, scalloped potatoes, and thick, marinated asparagus. Her mouth watered at the tantalizing aroma of garlic and onions.

She heard Stone clear his voice before walking onto the deck. Turning, a polite smile in place, Emma welcomed him to dinner. “I thought that you might like a sampling of River Run hospitality. Most guests prefer to eat here, and I think it would help for you to experience a bit of the atmosphere we provide.” She noted he’d cleaned up still appeared to be a disheveled wreck, with long hair and scraggly beard. His jeans were clean but well-worn with the knees shredded enough to reveal skin. The dark, long-sleeved shirt bore the name of a football team she vaguely recognized. However, it was the edge of muscle beneath the fabric that bothered her in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Whatever,” he grunted and slid into one of the wooden deck chairs surrounding the small table.

Emma shook her head and ignored his bad manners. Consoling herself with the fact that in a few days the place would be bustling with activity, she served the platter of savory meat. Stone dug into his food with the relish of a starved man. He finished his steak, had several helpings of the sliced potatoes and onions and polished off most of the asparagus. Peering at her plate, his eyes sparked when he saw how much meat still remained.

“Here,” she sighed in exasperation. “Take it.” Pushing the plate toward him, she couldn’t help but laugh in amazement when he scooped up the meat, giving her a cheeky grin, and scarfing it down in several quick bites.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, still chewing. “I can’t tell you the last time I’ve eaten this well.”

“You certainly don’t appear to be starving.”

“I said eaten this well, not eaten. I consume food for energy, but this…” he pointed his knife around the table. “This is heaven.”

“Thanks, I think,” she said.

Resting his knife on the edge of the plate, he tossed his napkin on the table and settled back in the chair. Emma started to blush as his eyes raked her from top to bottom, scrutinizing every part of her body. He reached for the red wine and poured himself a liberal helping.

“We need to set the game rules in place,” he said after savoring the dry, heady Cabernet.

She gulped down a swallow herself and attempted to look at him with as much brazen audacity as he did her. “Game rules?”

“Yes. We’ve an entire year to spend beneath this roof and it won’t due for us to be at constant odds and tip-toeing around one another. I don’t feel like being an invader in a hostile camp.”

Emma nodded. “I hadn’t meant to make you feel that way. I suppose I’m the one that owes you an apology.” As much as she hated to admit it, he made sense.

Stone shook his head and held his hand up to ward off her sputtering. “No more apologies, and no more invasions of privacy. I won’t ask personal questions, and you’ll provide me with the same respect. I shouldn’t have pried earlier. We’re employer and employee and that’s how things need to remain. I expect you to run this resort with the same efficiency and strive for success that you offered my grandmother. In return, I’ll do what I can to ensure that the new owners maintain your services. In the meantime, I’ll begin work on sprucing up the exterior and doing whatever you deem necessary to continue our five-star rating. Is that agreeable?”

“Yes,” she whispered, more than a little shocked that he wasn’t being more difficult.

“Do you want your rooms back?”

“Oh no, I only use them when we’re on downtime like this week. I’m fine where I am, but thank you.”

“Okay.” Stretching his legs he rose from the table. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she said, successfully hiding the sadness she felt because he was leaving.

He paused before entering the house. “By the way,” he said, turning to face her. “Keep your watch-pig away from me.”

“Pocahontas?”

“Yeah, Porkahontas.”

She glared at him and started to rise. Of all the insulting, conceited, ignorant things this man could do, stooping to the level of calling her pig names appeared downright childish in her book.

“Pocahontas will remain in the barn.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What?” She knew she sounded curt, but her anger wouldn’t stay in the background.

“You’re frowning. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said. “My brain’s just rushing through everything that needs to get done before the weekend. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He grinned and winked. Emma’s eyes widened when she realized he’d been teasing her. All sorts of foreign reactions sprung forth from within, including little flashes of heat that burned from the pit of her stomach down to the tips of her toes. Damn those muscles.

She glowered at the man before her and ignored the throat-tightening response to his wicked smile.

“You’re still frowning.”

“Don’t make fun of Pocahontas,” she said.

Tilting his head back, he laughed loudly.

“I’ll make a note of it.” Stone turned and walked into the house. “Let’s meet in the morning to review what needs to be done. I’ll help you prepare for the weekend.”

Suddenly the space without Stone Connor seemed too quiet and too empty. “Sure, no problem,” she said absently, watching as he retreated through the living room and back toward the master suite. Picking up the half-full bottle of wine, she filled her glass. With a sigh, she settled in to enjoy the cool evening air. Alone.

***

Stone reached his room. His heart beat like a manic drummer, and he crossed the hardwood floors in five angry strides. Flinging open the French doors, he inhaled the crisp air. He’d done it. Made his speech and escaped.

The atmosphere, the dinner, the attraction that bristled beneath the well-protected layer of emotional detachment he and Emma devised, accumulated into an extremely volatile grenade. How many times had he resisted the urge to lean forward and touch her? He’d lost count.

Emma O’Malley was a contradiction with a capital “C.” She intrigued him, and she frightened him. Stone recognized the precarious situation, and he promised himself to tread lightly and remain distant.

He’d ignore her allure. Ignore her mystery. He’d pay no attention to whatever it was that made her squirm with apprehension. Wandering outside, the cool night air caressed his skin.

Deep in thought, Stone hadn’t been paying attention to his actions and suddenly discovered he stood beneath the deck. There she was. Like a moth to light, he’d been drawn to her essence.

Emma leaned against the wood railing, face turned up to the brilliant stars that scattered the sky like a swarm of fireflies. Her hair hung loosely down her back. His fingers itched to run the silken strands across his palms, to feel it tickle his bare chest.

It would never happen.

Retreating back into the shadows, Stone headed silently to his room.

His brain reviewed what needed to be done. Fix up the resort, scrutinize the books, prepare to sell, ignore the gorgeous redhead that fired his blood.

Stone’s eye caught the shadow of a man walking along the fence post. Every sense went into overdrive, and he melted into the night, to observe…to protect.

The man stopped about a hundred yards from the back deck and let loose a low, eerily familiar whistle. Emma waved and leaned across the wooden boards to blow kisses at the stranger. It didn’t take long for bitter awareness to spark…the man’s height, his stance, his overconfident superiority oozed across the space.

For the first time in twenty years, Stone stood less than a state away from his father.

Chapter Three

Emma sat up in bed. What was that noise? She thought she’d heard a thump, but couldn’t be certain. She sat and focused on her surroundings then slid from the warmth of her bed and tip-toed to the door. Another loud crash reverberated against the walls of the resort. Her heart slammed against her chest. She grabbed her umbrella as a weapon, flung open the doors and ran into the main kitchen.

Nothing.

She heard the roosters, General Coleman and Colonel Mustard, announcing daybreak. A quick glance outside confirmed the early morning hour. Emma started to turn her head away from the window when she saw debris smack onto the wooden deck.

What on earth?

Footsteps shuffled above. There was someone trying to break in through the roof. Rushing down the hall, she knocked quietly on Stone’s door.

“Stone.” Emma kept her voice low, attempting not to alert the intruder. When he didn’t answer, she cracked it open. “Stone?”

Damn. Where was he?

Emma considered her options. She could call the police, but at thirty miles away they’d take forever. She could grab Margaret’s .22 and deal with the intruder herself. Yes, Emma decided. That’s exactly what she’d do. It was time to take a stand and stop being the fraidy-cat her life had molded her into.

With light footsteps, she retreated to her corner of the resort. Emma pulled on a pair of jeans and old denim shirt, mentally pep-talking her way through the upcoming scene.

Get the gun.

Go to the attic.

Climb on the roof.

Shoot the bastard.

Piece of cake.

Why wouldn’t her hands stop trembling? She went to the locked safe in the garage and swapped her umbrella for the Ruger. Silently ascending the staircase, Emma passed the upper suites and opened a small, narrow door at the end of the corridor. The squeaky hinge made her wince. Did the intruder hear? And where was Stone?

Her step was light, but the age of the rickety staircase leading to the attic signaled her presence. The gun rested in the crook of her arm, a comfort against the dangerous element outside.

Bending beneath the low beams and creeping forward, Emma stifled a sneeze silently promising to clean the place out before the next influx of guests. Another crash echoed from outside. For an intruder, this guy wasn’t very sharp.

Cursing her pride, Emma realized how difficult she’d made the past few days for Stone. He didn’t feel responsible for River Run because she’d not allow it. It was hers. But it wasn’t. It was Stone’s, and if she’d acknowledged that then he’d be the one protecting the resort and not her.

He’d been withdrawn but amiable to any request she made. They’d worked out a schedule. Rolling her eyes, she realized it all revolved around food. Morning coffee equaled discussions on daily duties, sandwiches at lunch meant a review of finances, and dinner always entailed a battle over impending guests and Stone’s involvement. What involvement? She’d refused every appeal he’d made. Emma inhaled deeply. Her mind was rambling.

She reached the tiny gable window. Deep breaths. Aim and shoot. Offense not defense. That was the solution.

With shaking fingers, Emma slowly slid open the window. She crawled out the narrow space, gun at the ready. The soft trickle of a small pebble washing down the roof caused her baby hairs to stand at attention. Someone was here…but where?

A large hand snaked out, snatching the gun and making her lose her foothold. Down she skidded, across the dewy shingles, her momentum gathering speed no matter how hard she tried to slow down.

Her arms flailed backward, hands clawing at the air. She connected with a strong arm then a grip of iron seized her, yanking her painfully up, away from the impending death-for-certain sled ride over the roof. Inhaling shakily, Emma raised her eyes and connected with a fury of blue-steel.

“What in blazes are you doing up here?” Stone bellowed.

“Be quiet,” she whispered.

Glaring, he dragged her up the wooden shingles. She scrambled for a foot hold, slipped, and fell into his arms. Eyeing her warily, Stone sat and pulled her down in front of him, tugging her tightly between his legs and against his chest. His heart pounded against her ear, and Emma realized that the calm, cool indifferent persona was a farce.