Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

The room is clear.

I open the duffel bag. There are two days’ worth of clothes, exactly enough for my mission here. The cash keeps anyone from finding me. Along with my service weapon.

I don’t have any form of identification. It comes with the job.

I’m always someone else—never me.

When my cell phone vibrates in my pocket, I already know who it is before I look at the screen. I pull the device out and flick the answer button before pressing it to my ear. “Yeah?” My voice is low, rough. I can’t afford to have her hear me talking, especially to him.

My handler is a bastard. One who will be calling every day for updates. This isn’t supposed to be a high-pressure job. It’s not a hit, like many others I’ve been tasked with. But he’ll act like it is.

“Sitrep,” he says without greeting me. It’s not personal. Being in this line of work, there’s no reason to be friendly with anyone. It’s business.

“I’m going to need more time to talk to her, build up trust,” I inform him. Even though I could tell him more about her, I don’t. I hold back her comment about something that had happened in her past.

“Get it done,” he informs me in his usual stone-cold manner.

He hangs up before I can respond.

How the fuck am I going to play this? It’s true that I need a bit more time to find the evidence. And more importantly, I don’t want anyone at the CIA to get any ideas about hurting her to speed up the process. If I said anything to my handler, I’d be yanked from this job so fast my head would spin. And they’d send someone else to finish the hit.

Chapter Three

Marjorie

I can’t get Sam out of my mind. The slightest brush of his fingers along mine had my body responding in ways it hadn’t done in such a long time. I needed to breathe after leaving him to settle in. The moment I walked outside, I pulled in a breath of fresh air, but still, my skin was hot where he’d touched me.

I’ve never had such an innate reaction to any man.

It’s a solitary life. I spend my time focused on the inn, rather than making a connection to someone. The fear of losing them, having my heart broken, doesn’t sit well with me. I’m more comfortable on my own. Safer, too.

I’m almost certain he’ll be awake early in the morning, so I set my alarm to wake me at five. It will give me enough time to cook a full breakfast. I want to make sure he’s happy and enjoys his time in my home. I know what it’s like to need a haven.

It’s more than my role as the innkeeper.

There’s a long-dormant feminine side of me that wants to comfort him.

I head into my workroom. The half-bound book waits for me. My tools are lined up. A breath of quiet relief releases. This is why I do this. There are many things I could bind, of course. Novels. Encyclopedias. Even personal journals. I prefer to do scrapbooks. There’s something beautiful about documenting the past. About embossing it and gilding it.

My small online shop accepts limited orders. I’m sent boxes of photo albums. Sometimes they come with torn ticket stubs or fading wedding invitations. Telegraphs from soldiers to their loved ones waiting at home. This is history. Permanence. This is home.

I don’t have a past. No pictures. No papers. Only memories–and dark ones at that.

When I wake up in the morning, I stretch in my cotton-and-lace sheets.

My fingers are stiff from working late, but I don’t regret it. The work cleared my mind.

I pull the curtain open. I’m met with a sky brilliant with color–the orange glow of sunrise meeting the sparkle of sea. It feels like we’re right on the edge of the world.

A figure darkens the sand.

Male. Tall. Muscled. He runs briskly along the shoreline wearing only shorts and shoes. No shirt, even though it must be cold. I can feel the chill pressing against the glass of the window. It could be anyone, theoretically. There are other businesses. Other houses. But I know everyone in Eben Cape. And besides, this looks like the mysterious Sam Smith.

It feels like him, even though I’ve barely seen him. And never shirtless.

He’s sweaty. Glistening. There’s a rhythmic quality to his stride. It moves the muscles of his chest. My mouth becomes dry. It’s rude to stare, but I can’t turn away.

And so I watch until he disappears into the shoreline.

A moment passes, and I laugh at myself. Are you so hard up for male company that you’re lusting after the only single man who’s presented himself?

Sometimes the life of an innkeeper is as lonely as the one on the road.

The scrapbooking business takes a backseat to the inn. It’s great for nights or days when we’re vacant. I have a regular schedule for when we have guests, which includes making breakfast.