Kiss the Moon by Carla Neggers

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 couldn’t control, like the certainty that her turn-of-the-century dump was made-up. “She and Harriet use the syrup at the inn and sell the surplus to guests.”
    He settled into a chair opposite her. Even in black leather, he didn’t look out of place. He had an obvious ability to make wherever he was his space. The New York financial district, the Tasmanian wilderness, a charming New England inn. “Is Harriet your cousin on your mother’s side?” he asked.
    Already they were on dangerous ground. Penelope shook her head. “No, Harriet and my father are first cousins. She’s between my mother and me in age—they’ve just always gotten along.” And that was all he needed to know about Harriet Chestnut.
    “Are you related to everyone in town?”
    “Not quite.”
    Terry brought two individual pots of tea, two small plates of warm currant scones and two little crockeries, one of soft butter, one of raspberry preserves. Penelope smiled and thanked her, then said to Wyatt, “After nearly dying today, I’m putting jam and butter on my scones.”
    “I didn’t realize it was that close a call.”
    “It wasn’t, but anything to justify butter and jam.” She split open a scone, spread a generous amount of butter and checked her tea. “Another minute.” She settled in her chair, trying to ignore a flutter in the pit of her stomach. Lying to the national media was one thing, to a Sinclair another. “I’m sorry I got your family all stirred up about your uncle’s plane.”
    Wyatt broke off a piece of his scone, smeared on a bit of butter.