“I feel something very electric whenever I touch you or kiss you.”

  She drew in a quick breath and her face was suddenly vulnerable. Interesting. She could talk about sex and sexual theories, but the minute theory became personal and he tried to put it into practice, she backed off. Her blue eyes clouded and her brows pulled together.

  He stepped forward and pulled her against him so fast she didn’t have time to protest. Her heart tripped beneath her breasts, he could see it in the pulse at her throat. “Feel that current passing between us?”

  “That’s not electricity,” she said, her voice suddenly breathless.

  “What about this?” And he kissed her.

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  TURN LEFT

  AT SANITY

  NANCY WARREN

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Chapter 1

  “Do you remember George Murdoch?” asked Aunt Lydia around a mouthful of cucumber sandwich. “He was a regular customer.

  Sometimes he’d bring that fiddle of his and play to the girls.” She smiled mistily. “He was a fine, fine man.” At seventy-five, Aunt Lydia was an im-probable redhead with a tendency to live in the past.

  The dainty woman on the blue velvet settee, whose hair was white and float-away delicate, nodded. “He was hung.”

  “Really, dear? I thought they’d done away with capital punishment in Idaho,” said Betsy Carmichael, who’d come in her Sunday best to take tea.

  “More Earl Grey, ladies?” Emmylou Sargent walked among them with the heavy silver teapot she’d inherited along with the former brothel and some of the retired working girls. Afternoon tea at the Shady Lady bed and breakfast in Beaverton, Idaho, was a tradition Emmylou had

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  started a year or so ago when she realized she was going to need a lot more business if she was going to make a go of running a B&B in a town where tourism had plenty of room to grow and the local industries were . . . unconventional.

  After filling the bone china teacups, she passed around the cucumber sandwiches and the thin slices of lemon cake she’d baked from a recipe in a ten-year-old issue of Gourmet. She didn’t figure, in a house that was over a hundred years old, its residents not much younger, that anyone would care if she used a recipe from the last decade. There were days she thought no one would notice if she served decade-old cake.

  She had to admit that afternoon tea wasn’t a roaring success. No one but the aunts who lived at the Shady Lady and their friends, who were too poor to pay, ever showed up, but it had become such a Sunday afternoon ritual that Emmylou kept it up anyway. It gave them something to do, a chance to dress up in the finery they all loved, and reminisce about their good old days.

  By now Emmylou knew all the stories as well as if she’d been there when the Shady Lady had been upgraded from boom town brothel to become a vital part of the innovative Dr. Emmet Beaver’s practice for healthful living, both mental and physical. The ladies gathered in the sitting room had been Intimate Healers.

  Now they were old ladies, and Emmylou, who’d grown up here, was their collective granddaughter since her beloved Gran had passed on.

  The sound of the doorbell shocked the assembled company of women into silence. The door-

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  7

  bell never rang. Anyone who lived in Beaverton would walk on in; the door was never locked.

  “Could it be a guest?” Olive wondered aloud.

  At the words, Lydia sat straighter and re-arranged the folds of her red silk dress to its best advantage. Since she was self-conscious about her varicose veins, she crossed her legs and tucked them against the brocade sofa.

  “I’ll go and check,” Emmylou said. She’d tried over and over to explain to Lydia that guest had a different connotation now that the Shady Lady was a B&B than it had forty years ago.

  She didn’t have any bookings coming in today. Heck, she didn’t have any bookings all month—it wasn’t hard to keep track. Probably, Geraldine Mullet had been watching Gone with the Wind again and was here to warn them all that the Yankees were at the door, ready to burn their barns and commandeer their plantation houses. When she was bound and determined to save Tara, Geraldine wasn’t bad company. It was when she suggested burning the place themselves so those damned Yankees couldn’t take them over that Emmylou had to draw on all her tact.

  However, when Emmylou emerged from the parlor into the entrance foyer, it wasn’t Geraldine standing there looking like Vivien Leigh might look today if she were still alive.

  In her hall was a man she’d never set eyes on before.

  A gorgeous man.

  He was tall, with black hair that would have been completely straight but for the errant cowlick above his left eyebrow. His eyes were

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  pewter gray, or maybe steel. He had the kind of face that made her remember that the heavy silver teapot she still held was sterling, and wish she’d hidden it before blundering out here.

  If it had been Civil War times, he wouldn’t have been gambling ne’er-do-well Rhett Butler, he’d have been a Union officer here to take what he could get, whatever her opinions on the matter. He didn’t look to be a charmer or a gambler, this one; he looked like a hard-eyed predator.

  She swallowed and said, “Can I help you?”

  He turned those eyes on her and she felt a prickle of sensation climb her neck. Fear? Curiosity? She couldn’t name it, but the feeling made her uneasy.

  “Yes. I understand this is the only accommodation in town.” His voice was crisp and completely unaccented, as though any kind of twang or lilt would be a waste of his precious time. No pleasantries, either, she noted, though his eyes gave her a very thorough once-over while she stood there staring.

  “That’s right,” she said. Business was business and no matter how uncomfortable he made her feel, she was going to be nice to him. He was obviously a guy with enough money for the best clothes, like the casual but no doubt expensive charcoal slacks and black turtleneck sweater.

  His briefcase looked designed by NASA; he gave off the impression of having finished a business meeting in Manhattan and hopping on his Lear jet to get here. Clearly the Lear pilot had no sense of direction or he’d been drinking on the job, because Mr. Corporate had taken a wrong turn somewhere.

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  But, she reminded herself once again, business was business and he didn’t look as though he’d have any trouble paying his bill. Although, when you lived in a town like Beaverton, you didn’t give much credence to appearances.

  “I can wait, if you’re in the middle of something,” he said, polite but cool, motioning to the silver pot.

  “Oh, no, that’s all right.” Carefully, she set the pot on a marble-topped vanity that also held a bouquet of deep pink peonies in a crystal vase, their thin stems struggling to hold the overblown glory of the blooms.

  She stepped behind the ornate reception desk that was built into the foyer and pulled out the leather-bound registration book she’d found in an antique shop. Flipping to a fresh page, she passed the book, and the fountain pen she kept specially, to her new guest.

  Aunt Olive had tried to talk her into a computerized reservation system, but she liked the simple, old-fashioned book. It fit with the period of the Shady Lady and was well able to handle the few paying guests they received. Of course, she wasn’t a complete Luddite. The Shady Lady had a very nice website, which Olive kept up.

  Emmylou also tried to be creative with a small advertising and marketing budget, and people who’d stayed here often recommended the Shady Lady to friends. Maybe they weren’t running the busiest inn in the area, but they were making ends meet and Emmylou was optimistic enough to believe that once more people experienced Beaverton, which was like nowhere else on earth, tourism would grow.

  She watched as the newest guest wrote his

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  Nancy Warren

  name in a bold but perfectly legible scrawl. Like his speaking voice, his penmanship displayed no extra flourishes, no wasted time, no wasted ink. No nonsense.

  When he was done, she read over his entry. Joe Montcrief was his name, and she was pleased to find she’d guessed correctly. His address was in Manhattan.

  “And how long will you be staying with us, Mr. Montcrief?” she asked in her best B&B proprietor’s tone.

  “It’s Joe,” he said. She got the impression that it wasn’t informality that made him tell her that, more that he didn’t want the extra time wasted with all those syllables. He’d even knocked the

  “seph” from Joseph. He should be glad his parents hadn’t christened him Mortimer, or Hora-tio. “I’ll definitely stay two nights, and possibly a third.” No “if it’s all right with you.” No “if you have room.”

  “That’s fine. The Blue Room is available,” she said. In fact, all but the aunts’ rooms were free.

  Four in all. But the Blue was both the priciest and the best she could offer. “It’s got a queen-sized bed and a private bath. There’s a small sitting area—”

  “Is there a desk?”

  “A rolltop.”

  A sligh
t shudder seemed to pass across his face. “Tell me you have Internet access.”

  “Not in the rooms. There’s a hookup in the library.”

  “All right.”

  This poor man was going to be so out of place here that despite her urge to divest him of some of his money, she told him, “You know, there’s a

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  Hilton only an hour’s drive away. You might be more comfortable—”

  He interrupted a second time. “No. This will be fine. Thank you.”

  Her conscience was clear. She smiled at him.

  “Our breakfasts are better, anyway.”

  “What time is breakfast?” He had the most amazing eyes. In the few minutes he’d been in her foyer, they’d changed shades. Not pewter now, more of a Paul Newman blue.

  Since he was her only guest, breakfast was pretty much whenever he wanted it, though she decided to keep her lack of business to herself.

  “Seven to nine, but we can adjust with a day’s notice.”

  “Seven’s fine.”

  “I’ll take your credit card imprint now, please.”

  She wasn’t a bit surprised when he handed over a platinum card.

  “Are you visiting family in town?” she asked.

  “No. I’ve got business in the area.”

  “Really.” She glanced up. She couldn’t imagine what interest he could possibly have here.

  She knew every person and every business for miles and couldn’t picture a single one of them being involved with a sharp-looking man from New York.

  He sent her a bland smile but offered no further information. Whatever his business, she’d know it all soon enough. Beaverton was like that.

  “Will you need help with your luggage?”

  He glanced at her like she was nuts, and only then did she notice the navy blue overnight bag in the corner. “Right this way, then,” she said,

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  picking out one of the ornate brass keys from the board behind her and stepping around the counter.

  She led the way and he followed. As they entered the hallway, she heard the muffled voices from the parlor. It wasn’t tough to guess what the subject was. “We’re serving afternoon tea at the moment,” she said. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  He didn’t answer, so she guessed he wouldn’t be swapping stories with Olive and Lydia over cucumber sandwiches. She breathed a quick sigh of relief. “We serve breakfast in the dining room,”

  she said as they passed the big room she’d set up so prettily with antique and secondhand furniture finds. She’d collected small tables and chairs of different vintages, linen cloths, china and flatware that didn’t match, and that was part of the charm.

  She’d have to remember to freshen the flowers on all the tables. She’d also have an opportunity to add some variety to her morning menu. Since Aunt Olive only ate brown toast with raspberry jam and coffee, and Aunt Lydia had a bowl of oatmeal and stewed prunes every morning of her life, there was little scope for the imagination. Tomorrow, she’d put on a full breakfast—who cared if it was only for one man’s enjoyment? Maybe he’d send all his Wall Street friends to Beaverton for their holidays.

  The thought made her smile as they got to the broad oak stairway and climbed.

  For some reason, she felt suddenly self-conscious. Naturally, since he was behind her on the stairs, chances were that her customer was watching her back. Big deal. So why did she feel

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  this hot, twitchy feeling as though her black skirt was too short and too tight?

  She was glad when the endless stairway ended and she could show him his room. Its robin’s egg blue and white striped wallpaper looked fresh, and yet fit with the late 1800s period when the Shady Lady had been built. The four-poster bed was original to the house, though the mattress was new. She wanted her guests to have the best night’s sleep they could ever remember. It was, after all, what her great-great-grandmother had promised when she’d opened the brothel. Naturally, she’d had her own ways of ensuring her gentlemen guests slept well. Emmylou relied on top quality mattresses, Irish linen bedding, and her bucolic setting to do the job.

  She ran a quick eye over everything, but there was no dust anywhere. The room looked as fresh as if the last guest had checked out this morning instead of three weeks ago.

  The chintz duvet cover, in yellow with green-stemmed lilacs printed on it, was as fresh as springtime. The ceramic jug and basin gleamed on the old washstand; the rolltop desk, which had belonged to the great Dr. Emmet Beaver himself, had the rich patina of age; and the old Axminster on the floor held the grooves of a recent vacuuming.

  Her guest didn’t say anything, merely de-posited his briefcase on the floor and placed his overnight bag on the easy chair she’d set by the window. Two other arm chairs flanked the fireplace.

  “The fireplace works,” she told him. “It’s gas-powered.” She showed him where the switch was located.

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  “Fine,” he said again, sounding extremely uninterested in the fireplace. She supposed he wasn’t here to curl up in front of the fire with a good book, or enjoy the view of her garden.

  Right, he was here to work. The room might be a little frou-frou for him, but then if you were going to stay in a former brothel turned bed and breakfast, surely you had a hint what you were getting into.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled, then.”

  “Thanks. Oh, do you have a list of restaurants in town?”

  She blinked at him.

  “For dinner?”

  “Right.” Her mind raced. Where could she send him that wouldn’t have him speeding back to New York before his first good night’s sleep?

  A sleep, come to think of it, that he looked as though he could use.

  A gleam of humor flashed across his face and she wanted to catch hold of it. How it transformed that cold, all-business countenance into something warm and teasing. “People do eat here?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’m trying to remember who’s open on Sunday nights. I’ll check and let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, here you are then,” she said, and stepped closer to hand him his key. As she reached him, he held out his hand, palm up. A strong hand.

  Clean, callus-free, and ringless. Once more she felt that curious prickling at the back of her neck like a premonition.

  When she returned downstairs, she popped her head into the parlor long enough to say,

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  “I’m going to make fresh tea.” She could use a cup.

  She entered the parlor with the fresh tea and a few more sandwiches, knowing they were all dying to hear about the new guest, when the object of their curiosity walked in. Since she hadn’t dreamed he’d want to sit around drinking tea with old ladies, she was surprised. Even more so when she saw that he was carrying an overweight and rather smug-looking tortoiseshell cat.

  “Does this cat belong to someone?” he asked in that crisp voice.

  “Why, Mae West, what have you been doing?”

  Aunt Olive said. “We were napping together.

  When I came down here, she was still asleep.”

  “She seems to have woken,” said their guest, though that wasn’t entirely true. The cat purred lazily in his arms, its bright green eyes only half open. That cat knew darned well she wasn’t allowed in the guest rooms. Maybe she was trying to fool them into thinking she’d been sleep-walking.

  “I’m sorry,” Emmylou said. “Mae West is curious.” She was also man mad, hence her name. “I hope she didn’t disturb you?”

  “She was banging on my window and howling.”

  She held out her arms, but Mae West wasn’t having any of it. She flopped to her back and turned so she could bury her head against that muscular chest. Emmylou wanted to laugh, but Joe Montcrief didn’t look particularly amused.

  He was probably calculating his dry cleaning bill, since his cashmere was liberally covered with cat hair.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, taking a firm

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  hold of the cat, which meowed in protest. As she scooped up the animal, her fingers inadver-tently dug into Joe’s belly and she couldn’t help but notice that he sported a nice hard set of abs.

  He smelled like something they didn’t get a lot of at the Shady Lady. Like young, virile man. For a second she envied the cat, then gave herself a mental shake and dumped Mae West on the floor. With a brrp, the cat stalked to the couch and leaped to Aunt Olive’s lap.