Heart of Gold - By Tami Hoag Page 0,7

away,” he said, pushing his coat back and tucking his hands into his trouser pockets.

Faith sucked in her breath. She knew William had tried to implicate her in his scheme after the fact. She also knew that the Justice Department had found nothing to substantiate his claims. That Shane Callan nevertheless believed she was guilty hurt her pride. She might have told herself it didn’t matter what he thought, but that didn’t take the sting out of his snide remarks.

“I bought this inn with a bank loan and money invested by friends. That’s the truth. Believe it or don’t.” With that she turned on the heel of her sneaker and marched down the hall like a petite field general.

As she took Callan through the various floors and wings of the rambling house, she recited the history of the place in the manner of an uninspired tour guide. She hoped she was boring him to death. He was nothing but trouble, and she didn’t want him anywhere near her, she reminded herself, resolutely pushing the memory of the sensation of his fingers on her breast far, far away.

Setting a brisk pace, she led him down one hall after another. They passed through guest rooms and sitting rooms. On the main floor they wandered through a library and a room Lindy called the “Aminal Room,” where Captain Dugan had covered the walls with mounted heads of exotic beasts. They cut through the ballroom, where murals adorned three walls and a grand piano sat near an outer wall that was made almost entirely of glass.

Agent Callan didn’t seem to appreciate the high ceilings and polished wood floors or the antiques or the views of the ocean. As Faith took him from the Victorian section of the house to the smaller Italianate section, then back to the Cape Cod and the original two-room cottage, his mood grew darker than the beard that shadowed his lean cheeks. By the time they arrived back at their starting point, he was swearing under his breath.

“This damn place is indefensible,” he said, scowling at Faith as if it were her fault. “There are so many ways in and out of here, it would take an army to watch them all.”

Faith laughed. This situation was so weird it was funny. What did the man think, that she should live in a bomb shelter?

“Apparently Captain Dugan never considered the paranoid needs of the average G-man when he built the place,” she said dryly, then checked her watch and sighed. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Callan, I have to see to dinner.”

His scowl bounced right off her as she turned with her pretty nose in the air and headed for the kitchen. With grudging admiration Shane gave her points for standing up to him. She had a lot of sass … and a fabulous fanny.

“Ms. Kincaid?” His low, rough voice made her turn around in her tracks. “I need a room.”

Faith nibbled at her lip. Her first impulse was to stick him in the farthest corner of the house, but she doubted he would go for that.

“Which room is yours?”

Before she could catch herself, she looked right at the door to her bedroom, not three feet from Callan. Shane gave her a sly, sexy smile and checked the room behind him, the room directly across the hall from hers.

“I’ll take this one.” Before she could voice a protest, he picked up his suitcase and went inside.

The room was small but tastefully decorated with period antiques. A fancy reproduction of a hurricane lamp squatted on a square oak table that served as a nightstand. There was an afghan folded on the seat of a pressed-back rocker in one corner. A pitcher and bowl sat on an embroidered runner on top of the dresser. The decor was decidedly feminine. Tiny flowers and vines covered the cream-colored background of the wallpaper. Ruffles and flounces adorned the four-poster bed. Dried wreaths hung on the wall, and the scent of something sweet drifted on the air. There was a very homey feel to the place.

Shane frowned. Home. What would he know about it? It had been so long since he’d been home, the memory of it seemed unreal to him.

Going through a routine that was automatic, he popped open his suitcase and began to unpack. The first thing that came out was a book of poetry. The second was a sterling flask of Irish whiskey. He poured himself a shot and tossed back half of it.