Unfortunately, by the time he started back inside, nothing short of hauling Melanie bodily back to her car and turning on the engine had come to him. Since that was pretty much out of the question, he was doomed. A big fat snowflake splatted on his forehead as if to confirm his decision. He looked up, and several more snowflakes hit him in the face.
“Great, just great,” he muttered. The minute—no, the second—he spotted Destiny again, he was going to wring her neck.
Inside he plunked the baskets down on the round oak table where he, Destiny and his brothers had shared many a meal and played many a game of Monopoly or gin rummy. He grabbed the slim local phone book from the counter and began almost desperately leafing through the pages. There was an inn nearby. If Melanie left now, right this instant, she could be snuggled up in front of its fire in minutes.
“Who are you calling?” she asked as she unpacked the food.
“The inn.”
“Why?”
“It’s snowing. You’re going to need a place to stay.”
Her determinedly cheerful expression finally faded. “It’s snowing,” she echoed.
“Hard,” he added grimly.
She sighed and sank down at the table. “Do you think it’s possible that your aunt controls the weather, too?”
She asked it so plaintively that Richard couldn’t help the chuckle that sneaked up the back of his throat. “I’ve wondered that myself at times,” he admitted. “She has a lot of powers, but I’m fairly certain that’s not one of them.”
He gave his guest an encouraging look. “It’ll be okay. The inn is lovely. It’s not a bad place to be stranded.”
As he spoke, he dialed the number. It rang and rang, before an answering machine finally came on and announced that the inn was closed until after the first of the year. He heard the message with a sinking heart. There was a small motel nearby, but it was no place he’d send his worst enemy, much less Melanie Hart, not if he ever expected to look his aunt in the face again. Of course, he planned to strangle her, so her opinion was likely to be short-lived.
“What?” Melanie asked as he slowly hung up.
“The inn’s closed till after January first.”
She stood up at once and reached for her coat. “Then I’ll leave now. I’m sure I can get back up to town before the roads get too bad.”
“And have me worrying for hours about whether you’ve skidded into a ditch? I don’t think so,” he said, reaching the only decision he could live with. “You’ll stay here. There are lots of rooms.”
“I don’t want to be an inconvenience,” she told him. “There are bound to be some other places I can get a room, if the roads get too bad once I start back.”
“No,” he said flatly, carefully avoiding her gaze so she wouldn’t see just how disturbed he was by the prospect of being stranded here with her for an hour, much less a day or two.
“I feel awful about this,” she said with what sounded like genuine regret. “I knew it was a bad idea, but you know how your aunt is. She gets something into her head, and everyone else just gets swept along.”
“Tell me about it.”
“As soon as we eat, I’ll go to my room and you won’t have to spend another second worrying about me,” she assured him. “I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You won’t even know I’m here.”
“Wouldn’t that pretty much defeat the purpose of this visit?” he asked.
“Purpose?”
“To talk me into reconsidering hiring you,” he said. “We both know Destiny didn’t send you down here just to deliver dinner. Her driver could have done that.”
“Caught,” Melanie conceded, looking only marginally chagrined.
“Well, then, now’s your chance. Start talking,” he told her as he opened a bottle of wine to let it breathe.
“Not till we’ve eaten,” she insisted. “I want every advantage I can get.” She looked over the ingredients for their dinner, now spread out on the table. “Of course, if you want dinner to be edible, you might want to pitch in.”
“You can’t cook?”
“Let’s just say that a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and microwaved oatmeal are my specialties.”
Richard shook his head. “Move over,” he said, nudging her aside with his hip, then almost immediately regretting the slight contact with her soft curves.
“And stay out of my way,” he added for good measure.
She didn’t seem to take offense. In fact, she looked downright relieved. “Can I set the table? Pour the wine?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “The dishes and wineglasses are in the cabinet right up there.”
He glanced over as she reached for them and found himself staring at an inch of pale skin as her sweater rode up from the waistband of her slacks. She had a very trim waist. He wanted very badly to skim a finger across that tiny bit of exposed flesh to see if it was as soft and satiny as it looked. He wasn’t used to being turned on by so little. She had to be some kind of wizard to make him want her without half-trying. Only because he didn’t want to let on how hot and bothered he was did he resist the desire to snag the bottom of her sweater and tug it securely back into place. He could just imagine her reaction to that. She’d know right then and there that she had the upper hand. Who knew how she’d use that little piece of information.
“Have you had this place a long time?” she asked when she finally had all the dishes in her arms. As she turned and set the precariously balanced load on the table, her sweater slid back into place, thank God.
“Since we were kids,” he told her as he scrubbed the potatoes. “Destiny missed the water and the country when she came back from living in France, so we piled into the car one weekend and went exploring. She spotted this house and fell in love with it.”
“I can understand why. The view of the Potomac is incredible. It must be wonderful to sit on the front porch in the summer and watch the boats on the water and listen to the waves.”
“I suppose it is,” he said, distracted by the dreamy note in her voice.
Melanie gave him a knowing look. “How long has it been since you’ve done that?”
“Years,” he admitted. “Usually when I come down here, I bring a pile of paperwork and never set foot outside. I come because it’s peaceful and quiet and I know no one will interrupt me.” He regarded her with a wry expression. “Not usually, anyway.”
Melanie nodded as if she’d expected the response. “I’d read that you were a workaholic.”
“Just proves the media gets it right once in a while.”
“Haven’t you ever heard that all work and no play makes one dull?”
He shrugged. “I never really cared.”
She studied him curiously. “What kind of image do you see yourself projecting as a candidate?”
Richard paused as he was about to put the potatoes into the oven. He hadn’t yet given the matter much thought. He should have. Instead, he’d based his decision to run for office on the expected progression of his life carefully planned out by his father, probably while Richard was still in diapers.
“I want people to know I’m honest,” he began, considering his reply thoughtfully. “I want them to believe that I’ll work hard and that I’ll care about their problems, about the issues that matter to them.”
“That’s