Remington held up three fingers. “Three shots.” He folded two fingers so only his index finger was standing. “One woman.”
“If that is your defense, I believe I understand why you do contracts and not trial law. Who was the woman?”
“Mrs. Tyler.”
“Now you have disappointed me with your very poor lie. That is not her perfume. The scent is too cloying.”
“MollyTyler,” said Remington. “The daughter-in-law. After we returned from our walk and you went to your room, I went to the gaming parlor and bar for a drink. I told you I wanted to make Jacob Junior’s acquaintance before tomorrow and the arrival of Miss Carolina on Blue’s arm. In the event that he recognizes a—what did his mother call her?”
“Several things,” Phoebe said dryly, “but a ‘bride of the multitude’ stands out in my memory.”
“Yes, there was that. In the event he recognizes a bride of the multitude when he sees one, I did not want him barring her from the hotel before she got as far as the front desk.”
“I recall that was your intention. I also recall that was two hours ago.”
“Yes, well, Junior is as loquacious as his mother, and his wife provided a steady echo of everything he had to say. Neither of them shares Amanda Tyler’s ticklish sense of humor.”
“The moral high ground, I suppose,” she said. “That explains the three whiskeys. What explains the perfume?”
“Molly Tyler might have stumbled into me when I excused myself.”
“Might have?”
“Hmm. I don’t want to think that she tried to hug me, so let’s leave it at that. She has a taste for good whiskey and no head to hold it.”
“I wish I had gone with you.” She closed her eyes. “More hot water, please.”
Remington obliged her, pulling the plug first to let some of the water drain before he added more. When he shut off the tap, he asked, “Are you stubborn enough to sleep there?”
“I might be.”
“All right.” He stood and began to undress.
Phoebe opened one eye the narrowest of fractions. “Are you entertaining the notion of joining me?”
“I am.”
“Hmm.”
Because a murmur was hardly an objection, Remington continued to unbutton his jacket. He hung it on a peg by the door, added his vest, his shirt, and then turned his attention to the belt and fly of his trousers. He was lowering himself to the stool to remove his boots when Phoebe rose abruptly from the tub. She whipped the turban towel off her head and wrapped it around her in a single, fluid motion. Remington stared at her as she tightly secured the towel just above her breasts and carefully stepped out of the tub.
“It’s all yours,” she said.
“But—”
Phoebe pointed to the tub. “Yours,” she repeated. Her comb was lying on the granite-topped sink basin and she walked past Remington to retrieve it. She turned to him as she began working it through her hair. “I don’t care if the woman was Mrs. Tyler Junior or Mrs. Tyler Senior, I am not sharing a bath or a bed with any man who stinks of another woman’s perfume.”
“Oh.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Remington dropped like a stone to the stool and yanked off his boots, his socks, and then pulled his light cotton undershirt over his head. He tossed the shirt at another wall peg, grinning when it hit its mark and hung there. Phoebe, he noticed, was not as impressed with the feat as he was.Her mouth had flattened and she was shaking her head in a mildly reproving fashion. For some reason her withering look deepened his grin.
“Did your father teach you how to do that?” she asked. “I don’t see how. Fiona says he leaves his clothes where he drops them.”
“That was never an option for Ben and me. We had to get them off the floor. Ellie insisted. So we made a game of it.”
Phoebe leaned against the basin as a tangle in her hair thwarted her comb. She held the knot against one palm and carefully used the comb’s teeth to tug at it. “You and Ben are close.”
