The Welcoming by Nora Roberts Page A

and he caught it and held it. “I asked what you were doing.”
    She tugged, then tugged harder, struggling to control her temper. If he wanted to fight, she thought, she’d be happy to oblige him. “I’m knitting an afghan,” she snapped. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m moving the sofa.”
    “No, you’re not.”
    She could, when the occasion called for, succeed in being haughty. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I said you’re not moving the sofa. It’s too heavy.”
    “Thank you for your opinion, but I’ve moved it before.” She lowered her voice when she noticed the interested glances the ladies were giving her. “And if you’d get the hell out of my way I’d move it again.”
    He stood where he was, blocking her. “You really do have to do everything yourself, don’t you?”
    “Meaning?”
    “Where’s your assistant?”
    “The computer sprang a leak. Since Bob’s better equipped to deal with that, he’s playing with components and I’m moving furniture. Now—”
    “Where do you want it?”
    “I didn’t ask you to—” But he’d already moved to the other end of the sofa.
    “I said, where do you want it?”
    “Against the side wall.” Charity hefted her end and tried not to be grateful.
    “What else?”
    She smoothed down the skirt of her dress. “I’ve already given you a list of chores.”
    He hooked a thumb in his pocket as they stood on either side of the sofa. He had an urge to put his hand over her angry face and give it a nice hard shove. “I’ve finished them.”
    “The faucet in cabin 4?”
    “It needed a new washer.”
    “The window in unit 2?”
    “A little sanding.”
    She was running out of steam. “The painting?”
    “The first coat’s drying.” He angled his head. “Want to check it out?”
    She blew out a breath. It was difficult to be annoyed when he’d done everything she’d asked. “Efficient, aren’t you, DeWinter?”
    “That’s right. Got your second wind?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You looked a little tired this morning.” He skimmed a glance over her. The dark plum-colored dress swirled down her legs. Little silver buttons ranged down from the high neck to the hem, making him wonder how long it would take him to unfasten them. There was silver at her ears, as well, a fanciful trio of columns he remembered having seen in her drawer. “You don’t now,” he added, bringing his eyes back to hers.
    She started to breathe again, suddenly aware that she’d been holding her breath since he’d started his survey. Charity reminded herself that she didn’t have time to let him—or her feelings for him—distract her.
    “I’m too busy to be tired.” Relieved, she signaled to a waitress who was climbing the steps with a laden tray. “Just set it on the buffet, Lori.”
    “Second load’s right behind me.”
    “Great. I just need to—” She broke off when the first damp guests came through the back door. Giving up, she turned to Roman. If he was going to be in the way anyway, he might as well make himself useful. “I’d appreciate it if you’d roll up the rug and store it in the west wing. Then you’re welcome to stay and enjoy yourself.”
    “Thanks. Maybe I will.”
    Charity greeted the guests, hung up their jackets, offered them refreshments and switched on the music almost before Roman could store the rug out of sight. Within fifteen minutes she had the group mixing and mingling.
    She was made for this, he thought as he watched her. She was made for being in the center of things, for making people feel good. His place had always been on the fringe.
    “Oh, Mr. DeWinter.” Smelling of lilacs, Miss Millie offered him a cup and saucer. “You must have some tea. Nothing like tea to chase the blues away on a rainy day.”
    He smiled into her blurred eyes. If even she could see that he was brooding, he’d better watch his step. “Thanks.”
    “I love a party,” she said wistfully as she watched a few couples dance to a bluesy