lock, and he’d wondered what the hell anyone thought they were going to steal out of the old rust bucket, but it had never occurred to him to tie those minor annoyances to the barrage of requests that continued to pour in for him to come back to the tables and play.
The bad luck streak had continued, though, with the stakes escalating each time. Dan’s brand-new work truck had been stolen and found in a drainage ditch, half bashed in, tires gone, one door missing, and another job site had flooded due to a water pipe break that hadn’t been anywhere near where Brett’s crew had been working at the time. Brett had begun to wonder what in the hell was going on, but the cops hadn’t turned up any evidence on who might have been responsible for the stolen truck much less tied it to the job site problem he’d been sure was vandalism, so he’d done a little digging on his own, but got no answers. Then another one of his job sites half burned down, his landlady started having a string of trouble at the boarding house she owned and he lived in…and the demands for his return to the tables had taken on a decidedly…concerned tone.
And he’d finally put two and two together.
So he did the only thing he could do. He got out of Vegas, putting as much distance between the folks he cared about and himself as possible. He’d let it be known that he was leaving town, leaving Dan’s employ, his leased rooms at Vanetta’s place…all of it, behind him. If somebody wanted him that badly, they were going to have to come after him, and no one else.
And here he was, four, almost five weeks later, in Vermont, of all places, exhausted, confused, and no longer sure he’d done the right thing in leaving. Nothing else had happened since he’d left, which initially he’d taken as proof that he’d been the target all along. Only, as the weeks continued to pass, no one was tracking him down as far as he could tell, and no one was trying to contact him, either, much less pressure him to return. Apparently his blunt declaration of permanent retirement and the added step of leaving his hometown completely had been taken seriously.
He’d talked to Dan throughout his cross-country sabbatical, who’d been monitoring everyone Brett was worried about, and…nothing. Not a single incident. He’d begun to think Dan was right, that it was just a string of incredibly bad luck. That, maybe, after all his amazing good fortune, the odds had simply finally caught up with him. But there was still that niggle, that suspicion, that wouldn’t entirely go away.
If he was right, and returned, as Dan was encouraging him to do…he was afraid it would stir things up again. And, to be honest, he didn’t know if he wanted to return or what, exactly, he’d be returning to. Dan’s renovation business was something Brett had done while figuring out his next step, but working for or with Dan wasn’t the actual step he wanted to take. Not in the big picture, anyway. He wanted to finally put all his education to use, do something that energized him, that he could be passionate about. He just didn’t know exactly how to go about doing that, or what form, exactly, that passion would take.
But it was time he figured his shit out. So he’d stopped running, stopped trying to second guess, just…stopped. He’d checked into Kirby’s bed-and-breakfast because it was as good a place as any to stop his flight…and because the unique architecture of the old place called to him.
His thoughts turned to his hostess. Kirby Farrell. It was true that he’d been a little self-involved of late—okay, more than a little—but not so much so that he wasn’t aware of the way she’d been watching him. And that, more surprisingly, he’d wanted to watch her right back. She hadn’t recognized him, which he’d have never presumed she should, at least not outside Vegas. But on his trek around the country, he’d been amazed at the number of people whose paths he’d crossed who apparently had nothing better to do than watch a bunch of strangers bet ridiculously large sums of money on a card game on late-night cable.
He’d been relieved that Kirby wasn’t one of them. Which was only part of why he’d been drawn to her. On the surface, she was a contradiction. Her frame was long, lean, and willowy; her hair a soft brown, her eyes an even softer gray. He’d seen his share of dancers and she had that long, lean dancer’s body. Only she was all ballet and Swan Lake…not two pasties and a monstrous sequin-covered head piece.
She was all grace and refinement and he would have guessed her to be the quiet and reserved type. Very proper. Classy. Elegant.
But there had been nothing reserved about the way those soft gray eyes had cataloged every inch of him. She came across as educated, smart, her expression one of polite kindness when she smiled…and yet as he trudged up the stairs to his room just now, he’d have bet against the house that she was staring openly at his ass.
So, instead of thinking about the bed that awaited him, and the sweet oblivion of sleep, he found himself wondering how a real honest-to-God smile would transform that oh-so-serious face of hers, and what her laughter would sound like. And if she was as direct in all areas of her life as she’d been standing in her own driveway, giving him quite the once-over.
He dropped his bag by the door, yanked his clothes off, and let them drop where they fell. Then he debated for all of two seconds on the merits of taking a shower first, before giving in to the siren call of the huge sleigh bed with its soft-looking spread and mounds of pillows. At the moment, it looked like heaven on earth. And something told him, after meeting Ms. Inn Proprietor, who seemed attentive to detail, at least where his person had been concerned, she hadn’t been any less so in her accommodations.
And he was right.
A long groan of abject appreciation rolled out of him without a conscious effort as soon as his weight sank into the heavenly perfection that was his new bed. He might not climb back out of it ever again.
He tugged a pillow under his head, tucked another one under his arm, his eyes already drooping before he could even contemplate getting under the covers instead of laying stark naked on top of them…but that was the last thought he had.
Until she screamed.
He shoved up on his elbows and blinked the cobwebs away. He had no idea how long he’d been out, and for a moment thought maybe he’d just been dreaming. Then there came a loud clatter from somewhere outside the back of the house, which had him instinctively moving off the bed and ducking to look out the window in his room before he really put thought to deed.
There, almost directly down below, was Kirby Farrell, Proprietor, hanging from a rather high limb of a huge oak tree. If it hadn’t been for the season and total lack of foliage, he wouldn’t have seen her at all. Her feet and legs were wiggling as she tried to get a better grip on the branch, but it was clearly much bigger around than her slender hands.
He shoved the window open and stuck his head out. “Hang on, I’ll be right down.”
She angled her head to look up, then her eyes rounded and she struggled even more furiously as the movement seemed to loosen her already precarious grip.
Brett turned and headed for his bedroom door; then he belatedly realized he wasn’t wearing anything. He hopped into his jeans and snagged his shirt off the floor before running down the winding staircase, pulling the black tee over his head as he went. He had no idea where there might be a back door to the place, so just headed out the front and ran to the back. There he found a long ladder laying on the ground and the innkeeper still hanging on for dear life, far too high above him to drop safely to the ground, or for him to attempt to catch her. He didn’t see where he could climb the tree and get her down without risking shaking her off, so he grabbed the ladder and lifted it off the ground and tried to position it as close to her as he could.
“I’ll hold it steady,” he called up. “Just let me get it against the branch, then swing your leg over so you
