of his name, spoken so softly, rippled through him like a heatwave. “Can we go upstairs?”
This time he did break out in a sweat. Was she suggesting what he hoped she was suggesting? Damn. He would have brought the entire cake over if he’d known chocolate was the pass key.
“Uh, sure.”
“Do you have the key?”
Why would he have the key to her room? “Don’t you?”
She opened one eye, then the other and sat up straight Her brow knotted as she stared at him. “Why would I have a key to Digger’s room?”
Damn, damn, damn. That’s what she meant. “Oh, right. I can, uh, get the key from Jerome, the desk clerk.”
She watched him for a moment. “Did you think I was asking you up to my room?”
That cool tone was back now, the vulnerability and sadness gone; a fierce, accusatory look glinted in her eyes. “Mr. McCants, I’ll have you know I’m an engaged woman. And even if I weren’t, I don’t invite strange men up to my room.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she invited men she knew, but somehow he didn’t think she’d appreciate the humor. Damn. Engaged.
But not married. He stood and offered her a hand. “Is the ring on a layaway plan?”
Ignoring him, she rose and brushed past him. “It’s not quite official yet. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Just making conversation.” Grinning, he followed her. “So who’s the lucky guy?”
She stopped and turned so abruptly he nearly ran into her. “Let’s just get the room key and get this over with, all right?”
An elderly couple, Ed and Thelma Winters, walked by just then, and stared. Sam smiled at them and nodded. Faith blushed.
“Red’s a lovely color on you, Faith,” he whispered. “You should wear it more often.”
With a groan, she turned on her heels and walked to the front desk. He followed, cursed his bad luck and Faith Courtland’s not quite official fiancé, whoever the hell he was.
The two-room “suite,” as the desk clerk had called it, was no bigger than a closet, Faith thought as Sam opened the door and she stepped inside. Late-afternoon sun peeked through the blinds into the dark, stuffy room. The faint aroma of old cigars lingered in the stale air.
“No one’s been in here except Jerome since Digger disappeared.” Sam flipped up the blinds and opened a window. Light poured into the room, illuminating dust motes that scattered as the breeze rushed in carrying the scent of honeysuckle vine. He turned back to her, brushing off his hands. “Hardly the residence of a multi-millionaire.”
Yes, indeed, Faith agreed, glancing around. The furniture was sparse, nothing more than a simple blue couch and scarred coffee table, a fat easy chair, a large brown metal desk and mismatched chair. In the bedroom, a king-sized bed and small dresser. Simple was the only word to describe it.
She walked around, trying to imagine why he lived like this. He could have bought a villa in Spain. A chateau in France. An estate in Cape Cod. He could have lived anywhere he wanted, bought anything he wanted. Yet he chose to stay here in Cactus Flat, to work in a coffee shop, to mine for silver, and to live in a rented hotel room.
“You still think this is the same Digger Jones you’re looking for?” Sam asked, watching her as she walked back into the living room. He’d pulled off his suit jacket, tugged off his tie, and settled his long, muscular frame in the easy chair, slinging both arms over the back.
The I-told-you-so look in his eyes annoyed her, but then she was still smarting from his believing that she’d suggested they go to bed together. And they’d just met, for heaven’s sake!
The nerve of the man. The arrogance. So what if he was good-looking and had a certain...charm. That certainly didn’t mean a woman was going to drop her knickers if he crooked a finger.
But there was that woman at the reception, that redhead who had fawned all over Sam, batting her eyelashes and leaning up against him. And that blonde who’d come up to Savannah and asked where Sam was. She’d had a predatory look in her eyes, too. No wonder the man had a swelled head.
Forcing her mind back to the issue, Faith moved to the desk in the corner. Under a white tablecloth sat what appeared to be a computer—the only incongruous article in the modest room. She pulled the dusty cloth off the large monitor and turned to grin at Sam. “My, my. What have we here?”
The computer, and a monitor, were top-of-the-line, stateof-the-art equipment. A laser printer—color, no less—and also first-class, sat beside the computer. Sam’s eyebrows lifted and the surprise in his eyes gave Faith a certain sense of satisfaction. “There’s a fax, too,” she said somewhat smugly. “Now what do you think an old silver miner would want with all this equipment?”
“Games?” Sam rose and moved closer, peering down at the computer as if it were an alien spaceship.
“War games, maybe.” She pulled a pair of glasses out of her purse, slipped them on, then flipped on the computer and monitor. “This baby could launch a missile.”
The computer hummed and the monitor flashed a soft amber light. She entered her password, then pulled up the file labeled EJCORP. Sam stood behind her, watching as she pulled up file after file, accounts with suppliers, stats on the eastern chain of restaurants, profit-and-loss statements on the division that handled the frozen food division.
“This is the main office,” she explained, pulling up the Boston file. “Mr. Montgomery—Digger—had the entire company at his fingertips here.” She laughed softly. “I’d always imagined a large, elegant office somewhere, surrounded by rich woods, lush carpeting and silver paperweights.”
Frowning, Sam picked up a baseball-sized chunk of granite sitting on top of several thick manila file folders and stared at it. “Looks like he had a lot of people imagining wrong.”
She glanced up at him over her shoulder. She’d been so immersed in pulling up the files that she hadn’t realized how close he’d moved in behind her, that one hand rested on the back of her chair, brushing her shoulder. She forced herself to ignore the jolt of heat that shot through her body. “So you finally believe me?”
He shrugged, setting the rock back on the desk. “I’m not sure what I believe. I’ve known Digger Jones my entire life. As far back as I can remember he’s been mining silver, frying burgers and grilling steaks. Nobody could cook like that man. He makes—made—an apple cobbler that made you want to cry, it was so good. The only other cobbler I ever had that even came close was at—”
He stopped and Faith twisted around to face him, her lips slowly turning up at the corners. They said it at the same time. “Elijah Jane.”
Could it be? Digger Jones, hardened, crusty old miner and café owner, owner of a multimillion-dollar business?
Sam sat on the edge of the desk and dragged his hands through his hair. This was too incredible. Impossible. Sam looked up at Faith, who was watching him with a touch of amusement in her eyes. He thought her glasses made her look
