A Bungalow For Two

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Frannie ran her fingertips over the scratchy blanket that enveloped her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound nosy. It’s none of my business what line of work you’re in.”

Scott got up and stoked the fire, then sat back down. “I’m not trying to be evasive, Miss Rowlands. The truth is, this is what I do. This is it. I live in this cottage. Sometimes I collect and sell firewood.”

Disappointment scissored through Frannie. She had imagined that her handsome rescuer might be a doctor, lawyer or business tycoon. Surely anything but a common beach bum.

“When I’m in the mood, I build furniture out of driftwood, but it’s not a profitable occupation. It takes me too long to create each piece, and no one’s willing to meet my price.”

“I know the feeling,” Frannie conceded. “Sculpting is like that at times. It’s feast or famine. When I have a commission I’m on easy street. When I don’t, I’m on a penny-pincher’s budget. It was never a problem when I lived at home, but now that I’m on my own…”

“It can be a challenge,” he agreed. “But I always have a few dollars in my pocket. Enough to get by.”

“Did you ever think of, um, you know, going out and—”

“Getting a real job?”

“Something like that.”

Scott’s voice took on an oddly menacing tone, as if he were lashing out at some invisible adversary. “The corporate world is filled with potholes and booby traps. I’ve seen men swallowed whole by the duplicity and hypocrisy. I’ve seen them sell their souls and the souls of their families for just a little more power and wealth. It’s a deadly, diabolic life. I want no part of it.”

There was only the sound of the thundering downpour until Frannie found her voice. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Mr. Winslow. I’ve known some very honorable businessmen. Men who are honest and generous and—”

He stood abruptly. “It’s late, Miss Rowlands.” He took a step toward her, his towering frame silhouetted against the firelight. “I imagine you’d like to get some sleep.”

A knot of apprehension tightened in Frannie’s chest as he loomed over her. “Sleep? I—I hadn’t thought about it.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

She shrank back against the couch, her fingers clutching the blanket around her shoulders. What would she do if this strange, agitated man attacked her? Ruggs, asleep by the fire, couldn’t save her. And there wasn’t another living soul in shouting distance. She might be able to grab the poker, knock him out and run. But where would she go in this deluge? And surely with his strength, he could wrestle the poker from her grip and use it on her.

Her fear crescendoed as he held out his hand and said in a tone both forceful and compelling, “Come, Miss Rowlands. Don’t be afraid. You know where the bedroom is.”

Chapter Five

“I don’t need the bedroom, Mr. Winslow. I’m fine right here on the couch,” Frannie declared with all the boldness she could muster.

“Nonsense, Miss Rowlands. You’re my guest. You take the bedroom and I’ll take the couch. It’s the least I can do.”

“All right, if you insist.”

“I insist.”

Relief washed over her. Thank heavens, he meant her no harm. He was just offering her a place to sleep! Still wrapped in her blanket, she got up off the couch and headed for the bedroom. She recalled the lock on the door. It meant she could rest without fear.

But when Scott followed her down the hall into the bedroom, her anxieties sparked again. He went over to the bed and pulled off a blanket. Then, seeing the expression on her face, he held up his palm in a gesture of peace. “Don’t worry, I’m just getting myself a blanket.” He looked back at the bed. “I could change the sheets if you want to wait a minute.”

Frannie waved him off. “No, thanks, I’ll probably just curl up on top of the bed.”

“Well, make yourself at home. You’re the first company I’ve had here. It’s nothing fancy, but I think you should be comfortable. I’ll put clean towels in the bathroom. Feel free to shower if you like.”

Frannie took a backward step and shook her head. “I’m pretty tired. I’ll just get some shut-eye.”

“Fine. Mind if I take one of the pillows?”

“Of course. They’re yours.”

Scott grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his arm with the blanket. He stood beside the bed for a moment, gazing at Frannie. In the soft glow of the hurricane lamp, he looked ruggedly handsome. “So I guess we’re all set, Miss Rowlands. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes. Thank you. Good night.” As he started for the door, she said, “Wait! I forgot about Ruggs. I should bring him in here with me.”

Scott looked back at her and shrugged. “He’s fine sleeping by the fire. I doubt you’ll be able to rouse him anyway.”

“I know, but I just thought—”

Comprehension flickered in his eyes. “Oh, you think you’ll be safer with your dog in here with you. Is that it?”

“I—I didn’t say that.”

“But I can see it in your eyes. What do you think I’ll do, Miss Rowlands? Attack you in my own home? I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me.”

Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Mr. Winslow. But you must admit we find ourselves in a rather unusual situation.”

“Circumstances always look worse in the midst of a howling storm. Don’t worry. Things will look infinitely better in the morning. Good night again, Miss Rowlands.”

As soon as he was outside the door, Frannie scurried over and turned the lock. With a sigh of relief, she sat down on the bed and let the blanket fall from her shoulders. Mr. Scott Winslow would have to break down the door to get to her now. The bedsprings creaked as she moved. She wondered if he was standing outside the door listening. Waiting.

She got up and glanced at her reflection in the bureau mirror. She looked ghastly, her makeup blotchy, her long blond hair disheveled. The flannel shirt hung on her like an oversize nightshirt, and the sweats were baggy. If only she felt free to take a shower and wash her hair. But that was a luxury she couldn’t afford right now. Mr. Scott Winslow seemed like a nice enough guy, but one never knew. There was no sense in taking chances and putting herself in harm’s way.