Two years ago, his luck ran out and tragedy struck during a climbing expedition in Tasmania, when bad weather and bad judgment combined to leave him bug-infested, dehydrated, infected, with three broken ribs, a broken leg and his hiking companion and best friend dead at his side. Penelope had read about the incident in the papers. Even the Cold Spring Reporter had picked up the story.
She didn’t notice any obvious lingering effects of such a terrible ordeal. Maybe he’d gnashed his teeth and pushed, pulled, argued, rebelled and thrown himself into enough danger over the years to have established a certain peace with himself. Except he didn’t look peaceful, either.
It was way too early, she reminded herself, to draw any conclusions about what Wyatt Sinclair did and didn’t feel. Indeed, she’d probably do herself a favor not to go down that path at all. She heard he’d moved back to New York to become some sort of money type on Wall Street, possibly because of his experience in Tasmania. Then again, sooner or later, all Sinclairs made it back to Manhattan to prove they could make money and didn’t need the family fortune.
Of course, she also heard his father had disinherited him. Rumors were forever circulating around town about Sinclairs, and Penelope had learned not to believe everything she heard.
She glanced at him. The black eyes were squinting as he stared at the landscape, the square jaw set hard. For sure, getting lost in the New Hampshire woods for a few hours and running out of gas in a small plane would be nothing to Wyatt Sinclair. A pop fly to Plattsburgh and back to deliver a package would bore him silly—he’d probably dump fuel just to liven things up.
But Penelope loved her work, and she couldn’t believe she’d screwed up again. Damned near running out of fuel. How stupid. She wanted to blame the reporters, the hoopla over her discovery in the Sinclair woods, the anticipation of having to explain herself to Brandon Sinclair’s investigator—but that wasn’t it. This sort of thing had been happening before she’d wandered into the woods and found a forty-five-year-old plane wreck. She and her father had been at loggerheads for weeks over her inability to concentrate.
Maybe it was just spring fever, she decided.
Whatever it was, she was grounded and off to town with a Sinclair—and at the Sunrise Inn, no less. And it was her suggestion. Lord, what a day. But the only cure for it was tea and scones, despite the risk of running into Harriet, who’d wanted to meet a Sinclair her whole life. Considering her impulsiveness of late, Penelope supposed she should never mind Harriet and worry about herself instead. With that black Sinclair gaze probing her from across the table, she could blurt out everything. Clearly, he’d come to Cold Spring to find out if she was lying. If he concluded she was, he’d have the truth from her. It was that quiet, natural arrogance, she thought. She could sense it, even as they roared down Main Street in her truck. He’d simply get her to tell the truth, and he knew he would.
The Sunrise Inn was tucked onto a point that jutted into the lake just off Main Street. Harriet and Penelope’s mother had bought it twelve years ago and painstakingly turned the relatively simple Queen Anne into a charming, popular lakeside inn. It was painted deep brown and had a curving porch that overlooked the lake and a smaller screened porch that looked out on one of the inn’s many stunning, award-winning gardens. Of course, at this time of year all the gardens were covered with mulch and melting snow, and the porch furniture was in storage.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention you’re a Sinclair,” Penelope said as she lurched around a pothole. “It’ll just complicate things—and for heaven’s sake, don’t mention that episode at the airport to my mother, if she’s here. She hates planes. If I come home alive, that’s all she needs to know. She’s still having fits about having to call a search party on me this weekend.”
He turned to her. “Do you like living life on the edge?”
“I don’t like it. It just sometimes turns out that way.”
She led him up a brick walk. Since the house faced the lake, the inn’s main entrance was at the back, up a set of stone steps. A spring grapevine wreath graced the door, its pretty dried tea roses, larkspur and pepper berries a colorful contrast to the snow, mud and patches of sopping, grayish grass. Inside, stairs curved up to the right, and the wide entry opened into a sitting room with a fireplace and the front desk. Immediately to the left, off the entry, was an elegant parlor, almost completely Harriet’s doing with its dark wood and damask fabrics. She’d added an 1893 rosewood upright piano, a dozen needlepoint pillows, even an easel for drawing.
Penelope immediately felt the heat of the sitting room fire and smelled apples and cinnamon and something faintly tangy—oranges, perhaps. Harriet always liked to keep something fragrant simmering, and if there was snow on the ground, there was a fire in the fireplace. She was convinced her guests wanted fires.
In borderline temperatures like today’s, that meant it got toasty fast. Penelope unzipped her flight suit about six inches. She’d worn a black T-shirt underneath, a mistake on a day filled with lies, reporters, a flying screwup and Wyatt Sinclair. She groaned. “It’s hot in here. I can’t believe Harriet has a fire going. It’s almost fifty degrees outside.”
Sinclair cut her a quick smile. “Downright balmy, isn’t it?”
“Compared to the eighteen degrees it was two weeks ago, yes. I’m suffocating.”
She grabbed what was left of her braid with both hands, let it drop and undid her zipper another inch.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Wyatt twitching. With a white-hot jolt, she realized he wasn’t her father or one of the guys from town. He was a Sinclair, and he would be attuned to everything physical in his surroundings. Including her. Especially her, because she was the reason he was here. He wanted to know about his uncle’s plane.
That he was obviously aware of her meant nothing. She didn’t have to be his type or even particularly attractive—she had only to be breathing for him to scope her out. It was simply the nature of the beast.
Scones, she reminded herself.
Fortunately, neither Harriet nor her mother—in fact, no one—was at the front desk. Penelope led Sinclair down a short hall to the left, past the wood-paneled bar and up another short hall to a cheerful octagonal room that served as the inn’s dining room. It jutted from the main house, with views of both the gardens and the lake. With nothing in bloom, the tables and windowsills were decorated with pots of narcissus, paperwhites, daffodils and hyacinths. They were a cheerful touch that complemented the white linens and blue willow china.
Penelope greeted Terry, the manager of the Octagon Room and sole server of afternoon tea, and quietly asked, “Is Harriet or my mother around?”
“Harriet’s upstairs, and I think Robby’s at the sugar house.”
Penelope couldn’t hide her relief. She was pretty sure Sinclair noticed. He was in observational mode, keying in on every nuance. Best to remain on guard, no matter how good the scones, how tired she was after her long day.
“Do you want me to tell Harriet you’re here?”
“No—that’s okay. We’re just having tea and scones.”
“Of course. Any table’s fine. We were crowded yesterday and this morning, but I think all the reporters have checked out by now.”
Terry was clearly curious about the man at Penelope’s side, but Penelope had no intention of introducing him. She wanted to convince Wyatt of her sincerity and honesty and hurry him back to New York. She chose a table in front of a window with the best view of the lake and a blue pottery dish brimming with daffodils.
“My mother does sugaring in the spring—the sap’s running like crazy,” she explained to Wyatt, just to say something. She wanted to distract him from coming to judgments she