by Jill Winters
His lips touched hers and just like that, his mouth was firmly, warmly kissing her—and she was kissing him back. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted deeper into the kiss, feeling blissfully overwhelmed by the seductiveness of his mouth, his tongue, everything about him, and then sanity broke in—and the words of Cameron and Trevor drifted back. Don't get too close to him.
When the kiss broke, Nicole pushed back from him. His eyes searched her face. She tried to speak but could not claw the words out of her throat. She felt caught all of a sudden and could barely look at him when she said, “I should go.” Then she turned.
“No...”
“I—I have to check on Puddle,” she added hastily. She was getting in too deep. She didn't know enough. His story doesn't map. Wasn't that what Trevor had said?
Nicole already knew that she hadn’t been thinking clearly lately.
Making her way up the sandy beach to the grass, and then to the porch, she thought she heard Michael call to her. But she wasn't sure, because her mind was speeding as chaotically as her pulse. When she finally unlocked the door and stepped inside, she exhaled a breath and paused and told herself that it was just as well when—abruptly, there was a knock.
She froze.
“Nicole,” a voice said. “Open the door.”
PART II
Chapter Twenty-six
As soon as Michael's eyes locked with Nicole's, his face turned hungry. Coming through the door in one swift step, he reached for her, slid his hand around her neck and pulled her forward. With a soft gasp, Nicole's mouth melded to his, her body stunned and exhilarated. Michael kissed her with possession, more ardently than he had on the beach.
The door shut behind him. She moaned and grabbed at his pullover. His other hand snaked around her waist, pressed her tightly up against his body. As her lips clung to his, he slicked his tongue into her mouth. A sudden, scorching heat burned between her legs.
Soon Michael's hands were on her breasts. He wasted little time touching her through her clothes. Rather in an instant he seemed to have pulled her jacket open and off, and pushed her sweater up. One hand slid up over Nicole's neck, holding her there. Not hurting her, but clasping her neck firmly, the warmth of his palm seeping straight into her skin, arousing her to the point of breathlessness. Then he was peeling down her bra cup and running his palm over her naked breast, across her nipple.
Nicole clung to him. She savored the feeling of his hands on her bare skin, hands that should be cold from outside but were warm and a little rough. He made a husky sound in his throat, as he slid his hands over her bottom then gripped onto it. When their lips broke apart, their foreheads touched, until Nicole's gasp was devoured again. All she knew was that she was clutching onto him, her body collapsed against his, as they somehow walked their way backward, through the archway, and eventually to the living room. She could feel him hard, pressing insistently against her stomach; instinctively she licked her lips, moaned.
Once Michael tore his mouth from hers, he dragged his tongue down her neck. Her knees almost buckled, but she gripped onto him to steady herself and then, just catching her breath, she whispered, “Stop. Wait...”
“Okay,” Michael agreed. He was breathing raggedly, too, which aroused her more, to be so desired by him. His mouth was wet and partly open, his lips were luscious in a way that she had never noticed until now. “What’s wrong?” he said.
“I…this is too fast.”
He nodded as though he knew she was right, yet he didn’t pull away.
Nicole inhaled a breath and stepped back a few inches. Her palms rested on his shirt, and he stilled his hands on her waist. “I don’t really know enough about you,” she continued. “I mean…even though it seems longer, you’ve really only been here for one week.”
“It does seem longer,” he admitted.
“And…well…I don’t want to seem accusatory or anything, but…” A bit sheepishly, her eyes skirted around the room, until she managed to blurt out what she was thinking. “Well, how much vacation time do you have anyway? Aren’t they expecting you back at your job soon? You never talk about your job—and what about the part for your boat? Nothing’s come to the mailbox yet. I hope you don’t feel I’m butting into your business or anything—”
“No, no, of course not,” Michael said quickly, and in a rather deft motion, he slid his hand more firmly around her waist and brought her down on the sofa beside him.
They both angled their sitting positions to face each other. “Nicole…” he began, “there’s something I should have told you. Right from the start.” Nervously, she waited. So Cameron and Trevor had been right; there was more to this story.
Michael continued, “I should have told you, but I was…ashamed. See, the truth is, I don’t have a job to go back to. I got fired recently for punching my boss.” Her mouth dropped open in genuine surprise. “I didn’t want to tell you,” he went on, “because I didn’t want you to think I was some kind of thug. I’m really not like that.”
“I know you’re not,” she said gently. “But why did you punch him then?”
“Because he’s a—you know I’m really trying not to curse as much with you, but this one’s gonna be tough.”
Nicole smiled at him, and she reached for his hand, squeezed it with affection. “I’m glad you told me the truth.”
His palm turned in hers and he locked their fingers together. “As for my boat, it’s an easy fix, but I just haven’t been in a rush to do it, honestly—because I’ve been having so much fun with you.” At that, her emotions flooded, making it feel as though her heart filled up her entire chest. He reached over to hug her then, and she climbed up to wrap her arms around his neck.
“We have plenty of time then,” she said, speaking softly into his shoulder. “Let’s go more slowly, okay?”
“Of course,” he murmured. “Anything you want.”
***
“I'm telling you, that man is trouble.”
“Now, calm down, I'll make you some tea. You're going to get yourself upset.”
“I don't want tea, Ginger. I want that man to leave.” Despite what she said, Hazel was visibly upset. Few people ever saw Hazel like this—no makeup, only the gleam of cold cream residue on her face, her dark hair covering her shoulders, falling in tired waves over the lapel of her bathrobe and her hands wringing, anxiously. “You need to call the police,” she added. “Of course I would do it myself but I'm...too busy.”
Too busy. Ginger knew that wasn't true. Hazel was never too busy to make her demands heard. Ginger knew her older sister better all too well. Despite some of the things that Hazel had done in the past, Ginger still loved her, and pitied her at times.
Now Ginger sighed, prepared to endure another of Hazel's diatribes about this man, Michael King, docked right behind the house. Why hadn't he left? What was he up to? On it would go. Ever since Walt Baker had been legally declared dead, Hazel had developed a paranoia about the police. Over the years, her insistence on privacy had worsened into an obsession. Ginger could see that her sister's bombast was often a cover for her own grasping anxieties. Even tonight—the clutching, the pacing up and down—and all over vacationer Michael King.
“I fail to see why Nicole Sheffield is doing nothing to encourage the man to leave. It's an absolute disgrace.”
“I think his boat's disabled,” Ginger offered as a gentle reminder. Then she rose from the vanity that had been their mother's.
“Are his legs disabled as well?” Hazel shot back. “There are at least four perfectly good inns with current availability, all within walking distance, as a matter of fact.”
“Don't let it upset you so,” Ginger suggested and tapped her older sister's hand, which was clutching a handkerchief. “I'll go make you some tea—”
“God knows what's going on between them,” Hazel remarked bitterly. “That must be why she doesn't even care how her neighbors feel.”
“Oh, Hazel, now I really don't believe
anything is going on,” Ginger assured her.
“They're probably performing lewd, immoral acts as we speak,” Hazel insisted. She was always so sure about people, but it was never the good in people; it was only the bad, the flawed, the “lewd.” It was why she barely acknowledged Vickie Finn whenever their paths crossed, although Ginger was still pleasant toward her. Hazel insisted that Vickie had become a tramp, and therefore a disgrace to the town. But in fairness, Vickie had spent her youth being so morbidly overweight. The only boy who seemed to show any interest in her at all was Todd Finn. After she'd lost the weight, she had probably liked the attention she suddenly got from other men. Sure, Vickie had become a bit flashy, but Ginger doubted it went beyond flirting.
Perhaps it was ironic—considering Ginger's own personal life—but it was hard to see people as such secretive, predatory creatures. She had trouble picturing her neighbors doing all the things that Hazel privately accused them of. “I take it doesn't bother you? To have some stranger practically outside our back door, ready to pry into our personal business—”
“I really can't believe he would take an interest in our personal affairs.”
“I still say you should call the police. Tell them that this man has to leave. He is a suspicious character! We don't feel safe!”
Sympathetically, Ginger told her again not to worry so. The last thing she was going to do was point out that Hazel should just call herself. It would only upset her sister more. Especially since Ginger knew the truth: because of what had happened in the past, Hazel could not bear to court any police attention whatsoever.
Strangely, Hazel was even more scared of change than she was of the police. A stranger docked so close by, for an open-ended period of time, someone who had not grown up here, who had no ostensible business here, who didn't belong here—well, ultimately, that was the kind of anomaly that Hazel's anxiety would latch onto. It was the kind of change from the norm that Hazel would rail against, irrationally even.
And surely, she ascribed far more curiosity to this man, Michael, than he truly possessed. Why on earth would this young man care about the family history of two old ladies next door?
“Ginger, did you hear me?”
“Yes, yes, now sit down,” Ginger coaxed, “I'll make you some Earl Grey with lemon peel, would you like that?”
“I want you to call the police,” Hazel reiterated, her voice a bit wobbly. “Tell them that man is presenting a disturbance.”
But he's not, Ginger wanted to say. But it was easier to accommodate. There had been a time when Ginger wanted to be free of Hazel's domineering ways, when Ginger had attempted to strike out on her own...
She shook the memory away now. It was so long ago and had been fraught with so many unhappy revelations, it wasn't worth remembering.
“All right,” Ginger finally agreed, “I will call first thing in the morning. How's that?” For a moment, Hazel's eyes lit up like a child's and Ginger patted her shoulder. “Just sit down at Mama's vanity and I will bring you a nice mug of tea. I'll brush your hair while you drink it.”
Suddenly there was a creaking noise. It seemed to come from the third floor, the attic room above them. Alarmed, Hazel's eyebrows shot up.
“It's just the house settling,” Ginger assured her and left the room. On her way down the hall, she considered how different things would be if Walt Baker were still here. If he hadn't disappeared, well...
Surely, Hazel would not need Ginger the way she did now.
Chapter Twenty-seven
A short time later, Nicole had changed into striped pajama pants and a green tee shirt. She got under the covers next to Michael. Setting sex aside, she had invited him to sleep over. He was on his side of the bed now, wearing only boxer-briefs.
“Cute shirt,” he remarked, eying the big pink heart decal that spanned her breasts.
“Thanks,” she said and leaned over to kiss him goodnight. The kiss was soft and enticing, and could have led to more, before she gently pulled back.
“You sure you want me to stay?” he confirmed.
“Of course.”
“Okay. ‘Night, Nicole.” He slid deeper into the covers as she flicked off the light.
“Goodnight.” In the darkness, she smiled to herself and added, “Don’t roll too far away.”
***
While Nicole slept, Michael steadily shifted his body to the edge of the bed and peeled back the covers. Once he was on his feet, he glanced back.
She was sleeping soundly, her even breathing like the faintest hum of a radiator or something from his memory.
Furtively, he crept downstairs and went straight to the library. He knew exactly where he was going even before he switched on the light—back to the seascape he had started to examine when Puddle had pulled him away. Now Michael reached for the painting, carefully detaching it from its hook. This could be it, the measurements and dimensions were right—
Gingerly, he ran his finger along the back, feeling for the slight catch where the heavy brown paper had puckered on the seam. The puckering was an indication that the backing had been re-sealed at some point. Michael was hoping that would leave the backing vulnerable to being pulled back without any tearing.
Damn—it wouldn't give.
Perhaps the puckered opening was the result of age or humidity instead of tampering. Even with Michael's prodding, the rest of the paper backing wouldn't budge. He had no choice but to tear it. Slowly, deliberately, he ripped it away from the thick frame in one straight line. Then another tear along the bottom, making an L. He had to shimmy the thing to loosen, but finally the painting disconnected from its frame, fell backward and landed thickly in Michael's open palm. Damn, it was heavy.
When Michael bent his head and angled the painting to the side, he saw that it was only half an inch thick—with no demarcation in the side edge whatsoever. The face of the painting was coated in an almost slippery layer of dust, signaling that the dust was not fresh, and therefore that the seascape was not likely a recent paint job intended to cover something else.
Cursing his under his breath, he assembled it back together. The scuffed remnants of glue barely adhered the backing to the frame, but the half-ass job would have to do. When he hooked it back up, he gave it an extra press, flattening it to the wall.
“Michael?”
Startled, he looked over.
Nicole was in the doorway. Smiling sleepily at him, she said, “I saw the light. What are you doing?”
“Hey you,” he said, feigning a relaxed demeanor. “I couldn't sleep, so I was looking for another book to borrow.
“Did you find anything you want?”
“Yeah,” he said playfully and eyed her up and down. With a grin, she blushed.
“I can’t sleep either,” she said. “Want to play Poker?”
“Sure,” he agreed without hesitation.
“I’m going to check on Puddle first.”
“Okay, but Nicole, understand that we’re gonna play for real this time.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
“I mean it,” he insisted, as he followed her toward the kitchen. “No ‘girl discount,’ no special treatment.”
“Uh-huh…”
“I’m not gonna go easy on you this time.”
She turned abruptly, causing her ponytail to flip to the side with spunk. In that moment, she looked like a cheerleader or something equally too upbeat and too good for him. Tilting her head, she assessed him. “You know, you’re cute when you’re trying to be scary.”
With mock resignation, he shook his head. “Those are fighting words, right there.”
“Let’s play.”
***
On the way out the following morning, Nicole was startled to run into The Hermster on the front porch, kneeling beside a box of tools. “Oh, hi, Mac,” she said brightly. It was a cold day, but the sun cast a white light on the steps.
“Morning, Nicole,” he said with a folksy nod, then glanced at Michael, who was coming
up behind her.
“This is my friend, Michael,” Nicole said. “Michael, this is Herman MacDonald—Mac. He was a friend of my aunt's.”
Instead of shaking Michael's hand, Mac simply nodded to him, then spoke directly to Nicole. “I was just doing some work on the porch, like we talked about.” By way of demonstration, it seemed, he held up a hammer. Funny, she hadn't heard any hammering that morning. As if reading her mind, Mac added, “I just got here.”
“Okay, great. Thanks again. But I feel bad because I'm heading out for a bit so I won't be here to offer you a cold drink or a cup of coffee, something to thank you for your troubles.”
Mac waved her off as though such amenities were crazy talk. “It's the least I can do.” Hmm, she really didn't see how. How did Mac figure that he owed her something? The two of them had only just met.
“Don't be silly; I really appreciate it,” was all she said.
“What are you working on here, Mac?” Michael asked.
“Ah...broken step,” he replied. Nicole didn't want to mention the loose railing; she had already told Mac about that and she certainly didn't want to come off like she was nagging him. He was doing her a favor, after all.
Gently, Michael touched Nicole's waist. “Nicole, you should have told me something was broken on the porch. I would have taken care of it for you.”
“I didn't realize—apparently Mac had been doing some repairs for my aunt when...” She let her words trail off for obvious reasons.
With a nod, Michael said, “If there's anything else, let me know, though, okay?”
Call it wild infatuation, but her heart skipped in a way that Mac's offer didn't inspire.
“Between you guys, my dad, and my friends—I am being more taken care of than any girl deserves.”
Mac smiled at her and said, “Can't blame anyone for that. You're very daughterly.”
The comment surprised her. Tilting her head, she asked, “What do you mean, 'daughterly'?”
Averting his eyes, Mac shrugged. Took a cloth out of his overall pocket and wiped down his hammer. “Just that there's something about you—makes men want to protect you, look out for you.”
