An Irresistible Impulse Page 2

  “One of the reasons this inn was chosen for you folks,” the first officer went on, “is that it is secluded and unknown, so to speak. There’ll be no other guests staying here for the duration of the trial.” Pulling open the large screen door, he stood back. “Hope you’re hungry. Sybil’s a terrific cook.”

  At the moment Abby was indifferent to the enticement offered, for she was suddenly besieged by warring emotions. On the one hand she was thrilled to find herself in the gracious foyer of a sprawling mansion set on acres of land; on the other she felt no freer than a bird in a cage. One part of her felt pure delight at the thought of vacationing at this inn; the other was appalled at that delight, given the sobriety of the occasion. She felt excitement and trepidation, anticipation and apprehension. Hungry?…Not quite.

  “Ah!” came a gentle male voice. “You’re here!” Abby turned to meet her host, a man whose kind expression was in keeping with that voice. “I’m Nicholas Abbott. And welcome to The Inn.”

  Nicholas Abbott extended his hand to each of them in turn. His warmth helped dispel that chill she’d felt moments before. Dressed casually in slacks, an open-necked shirt, and a golfing sweater that buttoned from waist to hip, the innkeeper was as gracious as the setting he’d created. He spoke slowly, reassuringly, as if understanding the unsureness his guests had to be feeling.

  “My wife, Sybil, and I hope to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. We’re really a self-contained entity. But if there’s anything you need and can’t find, please feel free to ask either of us…or your trusty guards.” He cast an eye toward a large room branching from the foyer. “Uh-oh. Looks like your trusty guards are hungry.” The men in question stood looking longingly toward the end of the room that was beyond Abby’s view. “Let’s go have lunch,” her host suggested gently. “The others have just begun. I’m sure they won’t mind pausing for further introductions.”

  His words brought home the fact that, if this was the beginning for Abby, there were others for whom it was the third day of sequestration. Curious, she followed Nicholas Abbott toward the adjoining room.

  The two court officers stood aside to let the small troop enter. Abby found herself in an enormous room, the front half of which was comfortably furnished in typically New England parlor style, the rear half of which was an elegant dining room dotted with casually set tables for four, at which were scattered nine other jurors and two additional court officers.

  “Hear ye!” Nicholas made a lively gesture of clapping his hands for attention. It was far from needed. The newcomers had captured every eye in the room the instant they’d entered it. “We’ve got another three to add to the group.” Speaking more softly, he extracted first names from Abby, Louise, and Tom, then went carefully around the room giving similar identifications to each guarded face.

  Abby couldn’t have remembered eleven names in one round if she’d tried. The most she could do was to note a fairly even sexual split and the predominance of jurors older than herself. Just one woman appeared to be close in age, perhaps even a year or two younger. This woman’s name she made a point to catch. Patricia. Blond-haired and fair-skinned, Patricia returned both her interest and the half-smile Abby was able to offer before being ushered to a free table.

  Moments later, she found herself seated with her fellow new arrivals and a court officer, a woman who had quietly shifted her place setting to their table from that at which she’d begun the meal.

  “I’m Grace Walsh.” She grinned knowingly. “…Just in case you didn’t catch the name the first time around. I’ll be here with you throughout the trial.”

  “You mean that they don’t give you any time off either?” Tom grunted in a tone just short of sardonic.

  Grace shrugged off the question with a dismissing wave. “Oh, I’ll probably have a morning or afternoon off every now and then, but for the most part…you’re stuck with me.”

  Smiling, Abby took a closer look at this person with whom she was “stuck.” In her late forties, Grace Walsh made a very proper appearance, with her brown hair anchored in a staid bun, her face devoid of makeup, her blue uniform fitting her ample body with just a hint of room to spare. Yet there was no sign of the grim matron in this woman, no clue to suggest that she might next be walking a criminal to and from a prison wagon. Rather, she seemed eminently approachable…so much so that Abby yielded to her own clamoring curiosity.

  “Tell me, Grace,” she began, helplessness written across her features, “how is this all supposed to work? I mean, I know that we’ll be cut off from the outside world. But exactly how far does it go? There are those little Day-to-day things that people do—laundry, phone calls, reading. How much of that will be affected?”

  The kindness with which Grace responded did little to blunt her words. “Everything, I’m afraid. You’ll come into contact with no one but courtroom personnel, your fellow jurors, those of us who’ll be staying with you, and the staff here at the inn.” She shifted her gaze to the waitress who approached bearing a large tray. “This is Katherine Blayne, the Abbotts’ oldest daughter. She lives with her own family back in town, but she’s here helping out every day.” Then she turned to Katherine. “The stew tastes great!”

  The eldest Abbott daughter grinned. “There’s plenty more whenever you’re ready.” Lowering her tray onto a nearby stand, she transferred a basket of bread, a central vegetable dish, and individual salads to the table before returning with a large serving bowl and dishing out hearty helpings of a steaming beef stew. “I hope this is okay for you folks. If any of you have any dietary restrictions, please let us know. We’ll be glad to make substitutions.” Katherine glanced quickly at the table to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything and then returned to the kitchen.

  “Hmmmph!” Louise scoffed softly as she eyed the heaping plate before her. “And I was worried about my husband gaining weight…”

  Grace turned to Louise and said cheerfully, “One of the beauties of this place is the opportunity for exercise. There’s a pool out back, but now that the end of September’s here it may be too cool to swim. If any of you run, though, Ray over there”—she quirked her head toward the guard who’d driven the van and now sat at the table she’d left earlier—“would be more than glad to take you. He’s a pro. Enters marathons and all. And the paths around this estate are ideal for running.”

  The thought held major appeal for Abby. She’d been running since she first moved north and discovered that the fresh air—warm in summer, crisp in spring and fall, downright frigid though invigorating in winter—did miracles for the cobwebs that formed periodically in the private corners of her mind.

  “I might just take him up on that,” she quipped. “I have this funny feeling that after sitting in the courthouse seven or eight hours a day I’m going to need something.”

  Her reference to the trial seemed to sober them all. As Abby listened for it, conversation in the room was sparse. Rather, there were the sounds of eating—silver touching china, the clink of glassware as it moved from table to mouth and back, an occasional cough. Eyes down, she focused on her lunch, eating absently, trying to tell herself that a certain awkwardness was only natural. After all, the people in this room had been thrown together through circumstances quite beyond their control. Each had his own life, his own friends, his own loyalties…and there were still two more jurors to be added to the unlikely assortment.

  “When do you think the trial will begin?” she broke the silence on impulse to home in on Grace.

  The woman raised her eyes skyward. “With any luck we’ll get our jury completed this afternoon. If so, opening statements should begin tomorrow morning.”

  Nodding, Abby returned to her meal. Tomorrow morning. At least she wouldn’t be waiting around as some of these others had done. Two more jurors. Her thoughts took a frivolous turn as she wondered again whether that enticingly human male with his casual stance and his amused expression would be one of the two. A surreptitious glance toward the other
tables convinced her that he’d be by far the most attractive of the group.

  Then her eye met Patricia’s, and the other gave a meaningfully exaggerated yawn. So the group was as fascinating as she’d feared? Ah, well, there was always Scrabble, or a good book, or if worst came to worst, she could spend her free time writing letters to Sean.

  She hadn’t realized she’d chuckled aloud until Louise called her on it. “You don’t seem as bothered by the situation as we are. No husband at home? Kids? Job?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied softly, “I certainly have a job. But you’re right. I don’t have a husband or children to worry about. It makes a difference.”

  Evidently her frank concession was enough to quell the older woman’s curiosity. There were no more questions asked. Indeed, the meal progressed in silence through gingerbread à la mode and a welcome pot of herb tea. It was only when the foursome prepared to leave the table that Grace spoke up.

  “There’s one thing I’d like to ask you all now,” she began. “The judge will elaborate on this tomorrow morning, but let me say quickly that you aren’t to discuss this case with anyone. That means no talks with each other after court or at night. I know it might get pretty tense holding it all in, but that’s the rule. We ask that you honor it.”

  She’d ended on such an urgent note that for the first time the three nodded in agreement. “Good. Now then,” she resumed more buoyantly as they headed for the lobby, “you’ve each been assigned a room. That’s another nice feature about The Inn—private rooms for all. I think I’ll have Mr. Abbott show each to his own. Clean up if you want. Take a rest. Then,” she paused to look around for her quarry, “if I can corral my colleagues we can get down to the business of taking you back to your homes to pick up your things.”

  It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that Abby finally arrived at her house. She was accompanied by another female officer, Lorraine Baker, who’d come to her rescue after Grace had taken off with Louise. It was quite an experience, she was later to muse, to walk through one’s own house with a stranger in constant tow. But it was in keeping with the rules of sequestration that had been outlined earlier. Nothing was to influence her now—not the morning’s paper which lay neatly on the kitchen table, nor the daily mail, which the policewoman dutifully sorted and censored, nor the best-selling novel, newly bought and ripe for the packing, that told the story of a psychopathic rapist.

  Lorraine was at her elbow examining everything. Most things—clothing, cosmetics, blow-dryer—were easily approved and promptly stowed in Abby’s canvas traveler. Other things, to her dismay, were vetoed. A headphone cassette system to run with was out, as was a portable radio or any other device for providing a musical accompaniment to relaxation. As Lorraine explained, there couldn’t be any risk of an outside message “infiltrating by electrical means.”

  The phone rang three times. Each time Lorraine deftly reached it before Abby. That, too, was an experience. For when the first caller was identified as her neighbor, Cindy, and Abby extended her hand for the receiver, she was as amazed as her friend to hear Lorraine politely explain that though Abby couldn’t talk, Lorraine would be glad to relay the conversation.

  Yes, Abby would be serving on the Bradley jury. No, she wouldn’t be home again until the trial was over. Yes, it would be a big help if Cindy could call the medical center and tell them the news. No, Abby couldn’t have visitors. No, she didn’t want to cancel the mail, but would Cindy be kind enough to pick it up for her and sort through it for anything critical? Yes, she had everything she needed, and anything else could be picked up later by one of the court officers. Oh, and could she call Celeste O’Brien and ask her to take over her natural childbirth classes for the next few Saturday mornings? And Sean…would she be a sweetheart and call him for her?

  As it happened, the last was unnecessary. For the second call, coming while the receiver was still warm, was from none other than the doctor himself. Had she just gotten home from the courthouse? She what? Who was this? And why couldn’t Abby come to the phone?

  Abby’s expression warmed in amusement as Lorraine related one after the other of the questions Sean fired. Taking her cue from Abby, she humored him gently. Sean, however, was barely appeased when he finally hung up moments later.

  “That was not a happy man,” was Lorraine’s wry observation.

  “No,” Abby mused as she gathered together several professional journals, some notebooks, pens and pencils, and the leisure reading that had finally been deemed acceptable. “I didn’t think he would be.” She sighed. “At least he can’t blame me.”

  As she’d anticipated that morning, Abby most definitely sensed relief at the prospect of several weeks away from Sean. She needed the break; things had grown claustrophobic.

  The peal of the phone wrenched her from her thoughts, though only for a minute. For it was Sean again, with a second round of questions. How long would the trial be lasting? Couldn’t he see her—even for a chaperoned visit? How could she possibly be chosen to serve on a jury? After all, she was a nurse and as such was in great demand!

  Once again Lorraine fielded the inquiry with practiced flair, relating Abby’s responses in those few instances when they were offered. For the most part, Abby stood back and let her guard take the flak. If she was truly to be “protected” during this experience, she reasoned impishly, shouldn’t such protection begin at home?

  With Sean off the phone once more, though, there was little else to be done. The thermostat was lowered, the lights turned off. After a final check of the house, Abby lifted her bags and helped stow them in the wagon Lorraine had driven.

  As the car moved ahead and the house fell behind, she was filled with the same anticipatory excitement she’d felt that morning in the courthouse. She’d had her wish; she’d been chosen. Now she was looking forward to the experience.

  Later, back at the inn, unpacked and washed up and changed into a soft silk shirtwaist, Abby headed downstairs toward the living room, where cocktails were being served. Cocktails. Two drinks per night by decree of the judge, she’d been told only half in jest. Therapeutic…if purely optional.

  Pausing on the threshold of the room, she eyed the reserved gathering. The jurors. Her counterparts. Somehow she felt discouraged by her impression of them as a subdued, even stoical group. Not that merriment was called for, given the purpose of their presence, but a certain conviviality might help pass the time. Perhaps a drink or two would do wonders at that….

  “Lively crew, isn’t it?” came a voice of conspiracy close by her ear. Its deep velvet sound quickly conjured the image of a most intriguing man. Though she’d never heard him speak, the tone that warmed her now held that same spirit she’d seen etched in his features that morning. There was lightness, and a sense of adventure, plus a certain ability to take it all in stride.

  Catching her breath and closing her eyes, Abby dared to hope in that instant that she might be right. Then, tempering enthusiasm with caution, she slowly turned.

  Two

  At close range, he was much taller than Abby would have imagined, but he looked every bit as exciting as he had that morning. And if she’d feared the loss of his humor with his selection as a juror, she was quickly heartened by the vibrant sparkle of his eyes.

  “Hi,” she offered more breathlessly than she’d intended. “I wasn’t sure you’d made it.”

  “Nor I you,” he countered in quiet confidence. “Believe me, it’s a relief.” He cast a glance past her shoulder into the room. “I’m not sure about these others….”

  Abby’s gaze joined his, her voice as low. “I know. Not too encouraging, is it?”

  “To say the least. It’s obvious they’d rather be anywhere but here.”

  “Not you?” she asked, turning to look pertly up at him.

  His grin bore a hint of that air of conspiracy she’d heard in his voice moments earlier. “No more so than you.”

  His cocked brow seemed to invite her elaboration, but she wasn
’t quite ready to accept the invitation. Rather, she looked back toward the group, which stood in awkward clusters around the room. “It’s a hardship for many of them, I guess.”

  “Not enough to be excused…”

  “No, but still, in their minds, it may be an ordeal.”

  “Not in yours?” he reversed the questioning. She had no choice but to follow suit.

  “No more so than in yours.” She grinned, feeling suddenly and surprisingly happy. “I’m Abby Barnes.”

  A large hand was extended her way. “Ben Wyeth here. It’s my pleasure.”

  In fact, the pleasure was hers. For his hand was warm and encompassing, his fingers confident in their grasp. And his smile…his smile did something very delightful to her insides. She could only nod more shyly and wait until he released her and spoke again.