She’d be willing to bet he didn’t. Temple Wyatt didn’t seem the type to admit to any weakness. Not even a small one. And she’d guess that he generally didn’t accept sympathy, either, no matter how well meant. But he was right on target about their being strangers. Which was, in the end, what made Daisy bite her tongue and keep further compassionate words to herself.
She thought about him, though, in the few short minutes he was gone to get the flashlights. Wyatt was a man who fished in deeper more troubled waters than she’d ever suspected from their earlier encounters. It was plain to see he hadn’t had the easy childhood she’d assumed.
Well, her sisters always accused her of shooting her mouth off first and asking questions later.
Temple returned, a flashlight in each hand. Their fingers brushed as he passed her one. Shaken by the suddenness of his touch, Daisy almost dropped hers.
“Careful,” he cautioned. “Here, let me lead the way. I have the larger beam.”
Again Daisy pulled from his grasp. “No need. I know the way blindfolded. This happens a lot during storms. I’ll go alone.”
“It does? Why haven’t you had the place rewired, then?”
Daisy glared through the circle of light. “Oh, I can give you about eight thousand reasons. Which is, I believe, the last estimate in dollars for rewiring.”
“Money well spent if you ask me.”
“Nobody did. My banker has this funny quirk about depositors not spending funds they don’t have. Stay put until I get back. And don’t plug anything in when the lights come back on. Got it?”
Temple clicked his heels and bowed. “Yes, ma’am. But how will we discover the weak link in the system?”
From the landing below, her voice floated back. “Easy, Sherlock. Look in the mirror. Then repack half of those fancy electronic toys you unboxed.”
Temple leaned over the railing to watch the progress of her flashlight. Quite the repertoire for a shrimper—from Shakespeare to that classic children’s story, The Water Babies—right? Not to mention Sherlock Holmes. He sighed. Why hadn’t his daughter bonded with someone more .. predictable? Someone who wasn’t so damned eccentric? Daisy Sloan was not only unconventional, she was careless. And careless spelled danger, of which the Wyatts had had enough.
Maybe he’d shell out part of the reward money, after all. With a few stipulations of course. Temple wondered what else this odd house on stilts needed to make it safe. Fuses, indeed! Even his resort in far-off Tonga had circuit breakers. Or had Daisy Sloan planned this display, hoping to put the bite on him? Like Miranda had done so many times.
The lights sprang to life, erasing unhappy memories. Temple blinked, closed his eyes and massaged away the strain. It had been a long tiring day. Perhaps he’d forget about setting up his office tonight and just hit the sack. His father used to say that everything looked better in the light of day. Of course, he’d never met Miss Shrimp Boat here.
Speak of the devil… Temple heard her whistling offkey as she took her sweet time getting back. On second thought, his optimism about daylight was probably misplaced.
Temple was still scowling when Daisy reached the top step.
“Now what?” she demanded. “I had a whole box of fuses. Nary a copper penny did I use. Just please refrain from plugging in all of those machines at one time.”
“But I need all of them to run my business.”
“Then pay a visit to the Strand. It might appeal to you since it was once the greatest backing center between New York and San Francisco. I’m sure someone there has commercial space they’d love to lease you.”
“That isn’t an option. My resorts are in different time zones. The staff needs access to me at all hours of the day or night.”
“Twenty-four hours a day? But when do you sleep?” She sounded annoyed again.
“I’m a light sleeper. Insomniac might be a better word for it.”
“Oh, great. That’s what I hated at the hospital. People prowling around keeping me awake. I really wish you’d find another place to rent.” As if to underline her statement, Daisy yawned. “Sorry,” she muttered. “It’s been a long day.”
“I was just thinking that myself,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But if you don’t mind, I’d still like to look in on Rebecca before I turn in.”
She did mind. Her room looked like the wreck of the Hesperus. But he had those wounded shadows in his glacial blue eyes again. How could she, in good conscience, refuse him? “I, ah, no. I don’t mind. Follow me.”
“Thanks. I found her koala bear. Straylia, she calls him. One of my resort managers in Brisbane sent him to her. She was too small to pronounce Australia.” He smiled. “Let me get him. I’d like her to have the bear when she wakes up in the morning. Who knows, it may trigger some memory. Dr. Rankin said she’ll be most susceptible to remembering during the first few minutes after waking.”
Daisy nodded absently. Why hadn’t Dr. Rankin told her that?
“This way,” she mumbled, discreetly trying to snatch up the pair of shorts and grimy tank top she’d discarded on the floor earlier. At least she’d picked up the tackle box and put it on top of the chifforobe. She hadn’t wanted Becca to get hurt on any of the barbed hooks. For sure, if Wyatt was planning on making a habit of traipsing through her bedroom every night, she’d have to change her ways.
With a wry face, Daisy hurried past the bed, which still sat unmade. Making her bed wasn’t any higher on her list of priorities than washing dishes. But Wyatt didn’t say a word about the clutter. Daisy wished she knew what he was thinking.
In truth, Temple gave no more than a cursory glance at the big four-poster bed. His eyes were glued to the wall of windows, through which a giant moon glowed, looking for all the world as if you could reach out and touch it. The two opposite walls were paneled in some dark wood. The fourth held an inviting brick fireplace. On the polished teak mantel sat a replica of a three-masted clipper. There were others, but the one on the mantel was the most impressive. His gaze straying to it again, Temple ran smack into Daisy. He hadn’t seen her stop.
She grasped his arm and held a warning finger to her lips.
Temple stiffened and drew back. Her hands were warm, and—surprisingly—well kept. Frowning, he clutched the koala to his chest as he breathed in the subtle scent of magnolias the woman exuded. Moonlight and magnolias were two weaknesses of his. Weaknesses he hadn’t indulged in for so long he was surprised his body remembered how to react. And who would’ve thought he’d feel this punch to his midsection at the touch of some…some seafaring siren? It darn sure wasn’t smart. Not when the siren clearly belonged to one of the roughand-tumble pirates of Penzance.
“You needn’t act so horrified.” Daisy saw the way he’d studied her room, and she’d seen the look on his face. “I’m well aware my bedroom isn’t up to Wyatt Resorts standards. Just don’t say a word. Not one word. I’ll give you a few minutes in here with Becca now, but tomorrow, we’ll set down some rules for visitation.”
Rules. Temple was jolted out of his stupor long enough to nod and turn his gaze to the bed where his daughter lay curled, sucking her thumb. The slight sexual stirring he’d experienced toward Daisy had faded, and in its place he felt a surge of love for his curly-haired daughter that weakened his knees. With shaking hands, he bent and propped the bear against the bed rail.
Temple was glad to see the sturdy oak rails on either side of the narrow bed, although he hadn’t liked seeing his daughter in a crib at the hospital. She was too big for a crib. Too independent. And if she’d been herself, Rebecca would have been the first to object to being treated like a baby. Nevertheless, after all she’d been through, Temple knew he’d rest easier with the rails. He didn’t want her falling out of bed. A strange bed, in a strange house. Rebecca had never liked sleeping anywhere but in her own bed. Or rather, she used to feel that way. But look at her now. Sound asleep.
He knelt, reached out a hand to touch her bright golden curls, then drew b
ack without disturbing her. An unpracticed prayer stumbled through his mind.
Daisy saw the motion and his hesitation. She experienced his anguish and felt compelled to help. “Her medical team is quite sure she’ll regain her memory and her speech,” Daisy whispered. “It’s only a matter of time.”
Temple glanced up. “And then I’ll have to find a way to tell her about her mother,” he said haltingly. “What’ll happen then? Will she have a relapse? Lose her speech again?” His fingers curled around the wood railing. “Will you have answers for my daughter then Miss Sloan?”
Daisy fell silent. She felt a shiver of unease and rubbed her arms to ward off the chill. He still thought she knew more about the accident than she was telling. But she didn’t. “Stay a bit longer if you like, but try not to wake her,” she said in a soft voice. Then she left.
SOME TEN MINUTES LATER, when Temple walked back into her room, Daisy Sloan was seated at a battered rolltop desk. The top half of an old buoy had been made into a lamp that hung down and shed light over her right shoulder. As he approached, she picked up a worn brass propeller, about five inches in diameter, and plunked it down on the papers she’d been sorting.
Bills, Temple decided when he drew closer. A passel of them by the look of it. And she looked pale in the light. Exhausted. Vulnerable. Which dumbfounded him. He’d pegged her as the tough sort. The type to play the best odds and always come out on top. Now he wasn’t so sure.
When he’d first entered the room, he’d intended to press her about the accident. To hammer at her until she broke down and told him what she’d been holding back. The question that came out of his mouth, however, made no reference to the accident. “What time is Rebecca likely to be up in the morning, Miss Sloan?” Temple saw that she’d expected something else, too, and that she was relieved.
Daisy smiled. The smile transformed her face and chased the fatigue from her eyes. Temple felt momentarily bewildered, but glad he’d let instinct lead him.
“Rebecca’s been waking between six-thirty and seven,” Daisy said, glancing up at the battered ship’s clock that graced the wall above her desk. “Oh, and don’t be concerned if she cries out in the night.” A slight frown creased her brow. “I’m never sure if she’s awake during those spells. The nurses didn’t think so. She seems to drift off again if I just rock her.” Daisy’s brow lost its pucker. “Those nightmares have decreased in the past week. Now if we can just keep them on the run…” Her smile spread. “Call me Daisy, please. After all, we’re going to share a bathroom. Frankly it makes me nervous sharing a bath with someone who calls me Miss Sloan.” She mimicked his serious tone.
“Share a…” Temple flushed. “Miss Sloan,” he stammered, “I—”
Daisy laughed aloud. “See? There you go again. Well, work on it tonight—seeing that you’re an insomniac and you don’t have your fax machine to keep you entertained.”
She tipped back in her chair and let her laughter flow freely. Then she sat upright and said, “Good night, Wyatt. You’ll find your room in perfect order. I stripped that bed today and remade it with clean sheets myself. Oh, and Becca helped. So you won’t find a snake waiting beneath the covers. Besides, I didn’t know you’d be its occupant.”
Curious feelings washed over Temple as he pictured Daisy Sloan’s small capable suntanned fingers smoothing the crisp sheets of his bed. Suddenly it wasn’t his sheets her hands were caressing but his skin, and the air between them seemed to grow thick and warm.
Did she know what he was thinking? He tugged at the neck of his knit shirt, his eyes seeking a quick exit.
It was stress, he told himself. Caused by long months of worry over Rebecca and then finding her in shock, his ex-wife probably dead. Miranda’s lovely face haunted him at night. Something about this story didn’t ring true. He and Miranda had their differences, but he couldn’t believe she’d put herself or their daughter in danger. He edged back toward the door until he felt the cooler air from the hallway. It cooled his skin and restored his sense of logic.
Why should he trust this woman? He was here only because the kangaroo court in this town was biased in her favor. Maybe he wouldn’t share her damned bathroom. There was always the filling station down at the corner.
No way in hell did he plan to get chummy enough to be on a first-name basis—even though he’d suggested it earlier himself. Daisy. The name was all wrong for her. Someone named Daisy should be sweet. Sweet, wide-eyed, delicate. Not a tough babe who hauled in smelly shrimp nets out in a cove called Rum Row. Judging by her own words, anyone who did that courted trouble. Her mother would have done better to name her Pandora. Troublemaker. Pain-in-the-ass troublemaker, at that.
Temple roused himself to find that he was hovering in her doorway, sweating. He brushed his palms down the sides of his jeans to rid himself of the shivery sensation left by her melodious laughter. She was his landlady. Period. Nothing more. And there was distinct reluctance on both sides of this arrangement.
“Good night, Miss Sloan,” he said stiffly. Then he was out the door and gone.
Daisy stared after him. Well, if that didn’t beat all. For a minute she’d thought there was a slim possibility Temple Wyatt might turn out to be an okay guy. Apparently not. Oh, well, why did she care? It wasn’t as if she needed him for a friend or anything.
Daisy yawned twice in a row, then shook herself awake enough to return to the task of figuring how to pay her bills.
Two hours later, after covering half a notebook with numbers, it became painfully evident that, to make ends meet, she did need Wyatt’s rent money.
Daisy Sloan didn’t like needing anyone. She threw her pencil down on the pile of bills and spent the next hour staring disconsolately at the moon. At last she picked up the phone and dialed Sal Coletti—to offer him her boat. He wouldn’t mind being awakened for a reason like that.
And Daisy wouldn’t need Temple Wyatt nearly so much if she could get her boat back on the water.
CHAPTER FIVE
WARM RAYS OF SUNLIGHT streamed in through the window in Daisy’s bedroom and awakened her from a dream. She sat up and squinted, disoriented by the familiarity of her own room. Having grown accustomed to tossing about on the hard narrow hospital cot, Daisy couldn’t believe she’d slept so soundly last night. She would have snuggled back to enjoy it a moment longer except that her thoughts suddenly leapfrogged to the reason she’d been bunking at the hospital.
Becca. Daisy stopped in the middle of a stretch. “Look out, Troublemaker,” she warned the cat occupying the end of her bed. She threw back the covers, her feet already on the floor feeling for evasive slippers.
Panic gripped her. Not once during the night had Becca cried out. Nor was there a peep out of her now. And the time must be—what? Daisy grabbed for the captain’s desk clock that sat beside her bed. It had been one of her father’s prized possessions. The worn gold hands showed a few minutes after eight.
Daisy dashed for the alcove. She skidded to a stop beneath the archway, awash with relief. Becca was sitting up in bed, awake and well. Blond curly locks tumbled about her tiny face, and blue eyes stared solemnly at Daisy over the top of the fat brown koala bear.
A smile began at Daisy’s toes and worked its way up. Did Becca recognize the stuffed toy? Was this the break-through the doctors had hoped for? Her heart pounded excitedly. Could recovery be this simple? If so, Daisy’s tenure as Temple Wyatt’s landlady would come to an abrupt end. Why did the notion cause her a moment’s regret? After all, what mattered most was that Becca emerge from her shell, a whole and happy child.
Bending slowly, Daisy pushed visions of the child’s father aside. She lowered the bed rail and gently combed her fingers through Becca’s curls. “Good morning, sweetheart. Look who’s come to visit. Is it Straylia?”
Becca promptly stuck a thumb in her mouth and held up her other arm, begging Daisy to pick her up. Straylia fell off her lap and hit the floor.
“Uh-oh.” Even as Daisy said the words and
knelt to retrieve the bear, she froze and stared at Becca. Was it her imagination, or had the girl exclaimed, “Uh-oh,” too? Hardly daring to hope, Daisy got slowly to her feet, waiting to see if the sound would be repeated.
Instead, Becca lunged for the bear and almost fell out of bed.
As bad luck would have it, the girl’s father chose that moment to make an appearance. Cellular phone glued to his ear, Wyatt strode through the door in time to see his daughter take a header.
“Catch her!” he shouted. Dropping the cordless phone, he covered the distance to the bed in one giant leap.
The suddenness of his move frightened Becca, and she began to scream.
Daisy, who’d lunged at the same time, slipped and landed ignominiously at Wyatt’s feet. At least she’d succeeded in preventing Becca’s fall.
The terror on his daughter’s face drove Temple back again. He tripped over Daisy’s fox terrier, who’d stuck his nose in to investigate the commotion. Temple wavered, windmilled his arms, but still lost his footing. He landed hard, his left hip crushing the case of his cellular phone.
Pipsqueak yelped and dashed into a corner.
Over the din of his barking and Becca’s wailing, Daisy heard the unmistakable crack of plastic. She winced.
Wyatt grimaced in pain.
“Good going, Your Grace,” she grumbled at Wyatt’s lack of poise as she scrambled toward the startled but uninjured child. Pulling Becca into her arms, Daisy crawled on her knees to the far corner of the room. “Quiet, Pipsqueak,” she ordered the dog in the same tone she’d used to scold the man.
Temple’s left hip was so painful he wasn’t sure it would ever function again. But even if he’d been mortally wounded, no way would he allow Daisy Sloan or anyone else to call his sweet little daughter names.
“Why is it, Miss Sloan,” he managed at last through clenched teeth, “that you can’t ever seem to use anyone’s proper name? My daughter is Rebecca. Not Becca and not Pipsqueak.” Propping himself up on one elbow, he frowned. “Why’s she still crying? Is she hurt? Hungry? I’ll bet that’s it. Rebecca’s always starving when she wakes up.” He grasped the bed and tried to stand, but couldn’t and dropped back to the rug with a moan.
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