Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

Hesitation holds me in its grip. I have to force the words out around the knot of tension in my throat. “Would you like a room? We have an opening.”

He looks around, and I have the strange sense that he can see through the walls, that he knows we’re completely empty. “Something overlooking the ocean.”

“Absolutely. Most of our rooms have stunning views. Some with their own private balconies. There’s a corner suite available if that’s—”

“Any of them will work.” He growls the words. Everything about him is rough, textured, hard. It makes me feel like a cat. I want to rub myself against him, the way a bear pushes against a tree. Because his edges would feel good against me.

“I’ve booked your room. Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”

He offers a small, humorless smile. “Business. There’s no pleasure here.”

A shiver runs through me. The desolation in his tone strikes a chord inside me. A chord of remembrance. Of empathy. I know what hopelessness feels like. It makes me determined that he enjoy his stay here. “How long would you like the room?”

He hesitates, his brown eyes darkening. “Three days.”

There’s something strange about the way he says them. As if they’re a lie. Which is a strange thought to have. Why would he lie about that? I don’t know, but my gut feels certain he’s not telling me the whole truth. Well, that’s all right.

Guests are allowed their secrets.

Just as the innkeeper is allowed hers.

I push the old-fashioned ledger across the scarred oak countertop, showing him where he can fill out his information and quoting him our off-season rates for the room.

He grips the pen with a casual strength. Sam Smith, he writes.

A fake name? I don’t let my expression betray me. “Can I see your ID?”

He pulls out his wallet and sets down a stack of cash on the desk. Without counting, I’m guessing it’s enough to cover all three nights. At least I know I’ll get paid—even if he’s bullshitting about his name.

But I should still demand to see identification.

It’s a normal part of checking into inns and hotels. Only the seediest motels allow people to pay cash only with a fake name. He studies me, his waiting almost fatalistic, as if he’s expecting me to turn him away.

It makes my heart clench.

I know what it’s like to be afraid of being turned away.

I also know what it’s like to use a fake name.

“That works,” I say, keeping my tone light.

“Thanks.”

Is he in some kind of trouble?

It’s not my business. That’s what I tell myself as I grab a set of keys from the hook behind me. Even charming old bed and breakfasts use key cards these days. It’s easier to manage, for sure. My antique keys disappear with a guest every so often, despite the large wooden tag with Lighthouse Inn’s logo.

“Let me show you to your room,” I say, but as I move past him, I scent him. That’s the only word for it. I scent him, the way a female lion might sense a male. My body becomes lithe and liquid in response. This close, I can see the shadows on the planes of his face. Broad shoulders. There’s a sense that he’s hunting me. Which means I’m the prey.

We stand in the small vestibule between the front desk and the door. It’s too small a space for the both of us, but we breathe in those moments—in, out, in, out. I stare into eyes so dark they make me shiver. It’s not just the color of them. It’s the bleakness.

Then I force myself to look away. To step aside.

This man is dangerous to me.

Chapter Two

Sam

My focus should be on work.

But as I follow the pretty little innkeeper up the stairs, I can’t stop admiring her gorgeous ass. It’s tight and round, causing my palm to tingle with the need to touch. But I force the thoughts from my head. No pleasure. That’s exactly what I told her, and it’s what I meant. I don’t get to touch her, though I can’t help but look.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask with forced nonchalance.

We reach the landing, and she turns back to smile at me. “It’s mine. I own it. My name is Marjorie, by the way. Marjorie Dunn.”

I knew that, of course. I know so much about her she’d be terrified. She’s owned the property for five years. It’s the same year when she mysteriously appeared as Marjorie Dunn. There’s no record of her from before that.

“A few years,” she calls over her shoulder.

I follow her slowly, admiring the sight of her ass. The rest of it’s lovely, too. The entire package of this woman and her quaint little inn. It feels welcoming for a stranger but still homey and lived in. A strange sensation. Most of my life has been spent in hotel rooms and safehouses. And before that, low-rent apartments devoid of affection.