Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

Marjorie’s eyes go from me to the filing cabinet. “I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in there for you.”

“No.” I push a hand through my hair. It’s an imitation of exasperation, but real frustration pushes at my chest. “There’s nothing. My career’s given me a nasty habit.”

“A habit?” Suspicion darkens her eyes along with curiosity.

“I have this drive to find information. To… uncover.” Marjorie watches me, her body angled slightly away. But she hasn’t left the room yet. She hasn’t run away, which would be a damned shame. “I can’t help it. Even in a place like this.”

She worries at her lip with her teeth. “That’s really strange, Sam.”

“It’s terrible. That’s what it is.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. I hate it. I’ve hated it for years. The CIA made me into this person early on, but it’s not who I wanted to be. Some asshole looking through your filing cabinets—Jesus.”

Marjorie takes a small step into the room. “You didn’t do any harm,” she offers. I hate that I’m doing this to her. Hate it. She’s still trying to play the role of the innkeeper. Keeping the peace when I don’t deserve it. “It’s just scrapbooking stuff.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.” I’m lying to her. It’s just another day on the job. Lying through my teeth. Pretending to be a man I don’t want to be. “You were all pale when you came in here. The gun scared you.”

“Yeah,” she admits in a soft voice. “It did.” Marjorie’s skin stays slightly pale.

The pretty little innkeeper looks small. Alone.

“I’m sorry you came across it that way.” I open my arms wide. Two reasons. One, to offer her a goddamn hug, like a civilized person and not a murder for hire. Two—to show her I don’t have another gun at my waist.

Marjorie looks for it.

There’s nothing there. I didn’t carry anything with me for my run.

A couple seconds of hesitation, and she rushes across the room and tucks herself into my arms.

Chapter Seven

Marjorie

The warmth of him calms me in spite of myself.

No part of me should want to be near Sam. He’s going through my things, searching for something in a room I never gave him permission to be in. He did this on purpose. Sam waited until he thought I was distracted to come in here.

My heart pounds. A CIA agent at the inn can’t mean anything good. But his strong arms wrapped around me and the masculine scent of him battle against my fear.

He feels good.

He looks even better. It was a mistake, ever allowing myself to be attracted to this muscled, dangerous man.

Sam is not bothered by my fear. His heart hasn’t picked up speed. He’s steady. “You’re okay,” he says.

“I’m not. And I think you should leave. You were going through my things.” They’re not even my things, really. I don’t have much from my old life in the filing cabinets. It’s mostly business records and a scrapbook that was returned to me in the mail. I never heard from that family again. Maybe they had to disappear because a man like Sam showed up at their house before they could accept the delivery.

He creates space between us so he can look into my eyes. Sam looks into them like he’s finding more information there. I don’t really want to give it to him. “Listen. I’m not going to hurt you, Marjorie. There’s no need to be afraid.”

The cold fear in my veins reminds me of everything I’ve tried to forget. Everything I’ve tried to keep locked outside. The Lighthouse Inn is a boundary between me and my past. I’ve worked hard to make it peaceful and light. It’s never dark. Never terrifying. That’s the experience I offer to my guests.

Sam is trying to give it to me. That’s what it seems like. But how could he when he’s the one who stuck into my workroom?

“You don’t have to be afraid. I was an asshole, but you’re not in danger.”

I want to say that I don’t believe him. Except he hasn’t asked me to. That, more than anything, makes me believe him. The sound of his voice soothes me. I know I shouldn’t want to be soothed, and not by him, but he’s warm and confident. “I’m afraid.”

“I understand.” He keeps his voice low and his palms steady on my back.

Those two words are proof of his experience. The way he says it makes me think he knows.

He does.

Sam is running from violence, too. A dark life. A risky one. And what he found when he stepped into my inn was solace. This is a safe harbor for him, just like it is for me.

Which is what I intended all along. I wanted to make a safe, comfortable place for people. I just never meant to invite danger into it.