Connecting Rooms Read Free Page A

first time in years.
    He had decided upon his goal in a heartbeat, but years of training had taken over at that juncture. He was, by nature, a careful, methodical man. He had told himself that he had to approach Amy in a subtle manner. Misplaced Island was a very small community. If he moved too quickly, there would be gossip. Amy might be embarrassed. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her off.
    It was clear to Owen that she led a busy but largely solitary life. He had established immediately that she had not dated anyone since her arrival on the island. That meant the path was clear for him.
    He was no ladies’ man, but he was determined to woo her with all the finesse at his command. Carefully planned trips to the post office, the grocery store, and the bookshop had netted him a series of seemingly casual encounters. He had told himself that she was getting used to him. She certainly seemed happy enough to run into him several times a week.
    He had been encouraged with the results of his invitation to coffee last week. He had been consumed with plotting a dinner invitation when she’d blindsided him with the offer of a job this afternoon.
    He had been dumbfounded when she had strolled into his wild garden and offered him a case. He had also been chagrined to learn that weeks of cautious maneuvering hadbeen for naught. After all his painstaking efforts, she apparently viewed him only as a man who happened to have a useful expertise. She wanted to do business with him, not go to bed with him.
    Owen stifled a silent groan. His only hope now lay in the fact that he had managed to get connecting rooms here at the Villantry Inn. There was something about adjoining rooms that created a sense of intimacy, he told himself.
    To hell with delicacy and masculine finesse. It was obvious to Owen that the time had come to take a more aggressive approach to the business of courting Amy Comfort. Subtlety was lost on the woman.
    “I do wish you two could have stayed with me,” Bernice said for the fourth time. “But what with the remodeling and all, there’s just no place to put you. The house is a mess, isn’t it, Arthur?”
    “Afraid so.” Arthur Crabshaw, a sturdy man with gray hair and friendly eyes, smiled at Amy. “You know how things are during a remodel. Chaos and destruction. And I don’t have room at my place.”
    “The Inn is perfect for us,” Amy said quickly. “Isn’t that right, Owen?”
    “Yeah. Fine.” Owen was vividly conscious of the fact that the curve of Amy’s thigh, demurely draped in a flowing hunter-green silk skirt, was less than six inches from his leg. Wistfully, he considered the connecting rooms one flight above. “Perfect.”
    Arthur Crabshaw forked up a fried oyster with gusto. “The Inn’s got the best food in town.” He winked fondly at Bernice. “With the exception of Bernice’s cooking, that is. Nothing compares to that.”
    Bernice, a robust, athletic-looking woman in her mid fifties with lively eyes and short, upswept hair that had been dyed a pale gold, blushed. Her eyes sparkled as shesmiled at Owen.
    “Amy’s quite a gourmet cook herself,” Bernice confided to Owen. “But I’m sure you’ve already discovered that.”
    Owen felt Amy stiffen next to him. He slid her a sidelong glance and was amused to see the barely veiled panic in her gaze. She was apparently not accustomed to subterfuge. She was on the verge of coming unglued at the first mild probe into their relationship. Gallantly, he stepped in to fill the breach.
    “So far I’ve done all the cooking,” he said, thinking of the pot of coffee he’d made that afternoon.
    “Oh, then you must be a vegetarian also,” Bernice said brightly.
    Owen heard Amy’s fork clatter loudly on the wooden table. He glanced down at the chunk of halibut that sat squarely in the middle of his plate. “I make an exception for fish. Health reasons.”
    “Well, Amy eats fish on occasion, too.” Bernice waved that aside, as if