The Welcoming

stance, which hid a wiry readiness.
    No one paid much attention to him, though a few of the women looked twice.
    He was just over average height, with the taut, solid build of a lightweight boxer. The slouchy jacket and worn jeans hid well-toned muscles. He wore no hat and his thick black hair flew freely away from his tanned, hollow-cheeked face. It was unshaven, tough-featured. The eyes, a pale, clear green, might have softened the go-to-hell appearance, but they were intense, direct and, at the moment, bored.
    It promised to be a slow, routine assignment.
    Roman heard the docking call and shifted his pack. Routine or not, the job was his. He would get it done, file his report, then take a few weeks to figure out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
    He disembarked with the smattering of other walking passengers. There was a wild, sweet scent of flowers now that competed with the darker scent of the water. The flowers grew in free, romantic splendor, many with blossoms as big as his fist. Some part of him appreciated their color and their charm, but he rarely took the time to stop and smell the roses.
    Cars rolled off the ramp and cruised toward home or a day of sightseeing. Once the car decks were unloaded, the new passengers would board and set off for one of the other islands or for the longer, colder trip to British Columbia.
    Roman pulled out another cigarette, lit it and took a casual look around—at the pretty, colorful gardens, the charming white hotel and restaurant, the signs that gave information on ferries and parking. It was all a matter of timing now. He ignored the patio café, though he would have dearly loved a cup of coffee, and wound his way to the parking area.
    He spotted the van easily enough, the white-and-blue American model with Whale Watch Inn painted on the side. It was his job to talk himself onto the van and into the inn. If the details had been taken care of on this end, it would be routine. If not, he would find another way.
    Stalling, he bent down to tie his shoe. The waiting cars were being loaded, and the foot passengers were already on deck. There were no more than a dozen vehicles in the parking area now, including the van. He was taking another moment to unbutton his jacket when he saw the woman.
    Her hair was pulled back in a braid, not loose as it had been in the file picture. It seemed to be a deeper, richer blond in the sunlight. She wore tinted glasses, big-framed amber lenses that obscured half of her face, but he knew he wasn’t mistaken. He could see the delicate line of her jaw, the small, straight nose, the full, shapely mouth.
    His information was accurate. She was five-five, a hundred and ten pounds, with a small, athletic build. Her dress was casual—jeans, a chunky cream-colored cable-knit sweater over a blue shirt. The shirt would match her eyes. The jeans were tucked into suede ankle boots, and a pair of slim crystal earrings dangled at her ears.
    She walked with a sense of purpose, keys jingling in one hand, a big canvas bag slung over her other shoulder. There was nothing flirtatious about the walk, but a man would notice it. Long, limber strides, a subtle swing at the hips, head up, eyes ahead.
    Yeah, a man would notice, Roman thought as he flicked the cigarette away. He figured she knew it.
    He waited until she reached the van before he started toward her.
    Charity stopped humming the finale of Beethoven’s
Ninth
, looked down at her right front tire and swore. Because she didn’t think anyone was watching, she kicked it, then moved around to the back of the van to get the jack.
    “Got a problem?”
    She jolted, nearly dropped the jack on her foot, then whirled around.
    A tough customer. That was Charity’s first thought as she stared at Roman. His eyes were narrowed against the sun. He had one hand hooked around the strap of his backpack and the other tucked in his pocket. She put her own hand on her heart, made certain it was still beating, then smiled.
    “Yes. I have a flat. I just dropped a family of four off for the ferry, two of whom were under six and candidates for reform school. My nerves are shot, the plumbing’s on the fritz in unit 6, and my handyman just won the lottery. How are you?”
    The file hadn’t mentioned that she had a voice like café au lait, the rich, dark kind you drink in New Orleans. He noted that, filed it away, then nodded toward the flat. “Want me to change it?”
    Charity could have done it herself, but