by Nora Roberts
Given what she did for a living, and the gardening she’d be working on throughout the season, Fiona knew manicures were a waste of time and money.
But this was Indulgence Central.
Their last day, too, she reminded herself. She might as well make the most of it—and go home with pretty fingers and toes even if she’d mangle them within twenty-four hours in reality.
Besides, it felt good.
She admired the breezy, beachy pink on her short but currently well-shaped nails as she slid her feet into the warm, churning water at the base of the pedicure chair. A chair, she thought, that offered a slice of heaven as it vibrated up and down her back.
Cindy, who’d given her the pretty nails, brought her a cup of water with thin lemon slices floating in it. “Comfortable?”
“I passed comfortable and am on my way to euphoria.”
“That’s what we like to hear. Do you want the same polish on your toes?”
“You know, let’s go crazy on the toes. The Purple Passion.”
“Fun!” She lifted Fiona’s feet out, patted them dry, then brushed on a warm green clay. “We’re going to let this mask set for just a few minutes, so you just relax. Can I get you anything?”
“I’ve got it all.”
Snuggling into her chair, Fiona opened her book and let herself fall into a romantic comedy that was as much fun as her choice of toenail polish.
“Good book?” Cindy asked when she came back to sit and rinse off the clay.
“It is. Exactly perfect for my mood. I feel happy, relaxed and pretty.”
“I love to read. I like crazy horror and gruesome murder mysteries. I don’t know why they relax me, but they do.”
“Maybe because when you’re reading the book, you know you’re safe, so it’s fun to be scared.”
“Yeah.” Cindy began to smooth Fiona’s heel with a pumice stone. “I hate listening to the news because, well, it’s real, and so much of it’s just awful. Accidents, natural disasters, crime.”
“Or politics.”
“Worse yet.” Cindy laughed. “But when you’re reading about bad things happening in a book you can hope the good guys are going to win. I like when they do. Save the girl—or the guy—or the human race. Catch the killer and make him pay. It doesn’t always happen for real. I’m scared they’re never going to catch that maniac who’s killing those women. Four now. Oh! Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Fiona willed herself to relax her foot again. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Four?”
“They found her a couple of days ago. Maybe you didn’t hear. In the Cascades, in Oregon. I know it’s miles and miles away, but it really scares me. If I have late appointments, my husband comes by to pick me up. I guess it’s silly because I’m not a college girl, but it just spooks me.”
“I don’t think it’s silly.” Fiona sipped the lemon water to ease her dry throat. “What does your husband do?” she asked to change the subject so Cindy could chatter, and she could think.
A couple of days. Sylvia’s decree—no papers, no TV.
She’d known, which meant Mai knew, too. And they’d kept it from her. To give her some peace of mind, she thought. A little slice of oblivion before reality grabbed her by the throat again.
So, she’d do the same for them, she decided. She’d maintain the pretense for this last day. If death haunted her, she could, for now, keep the ghosts to herself.
IT WASN’ T LIKE HIM, Simon thought as he frowned at the flowers on Fiona’s kitchen table. He didn’t buy flowers.
Well, for his mother every now and again, sure. He wasn’t a philistine. But he didn’t buy flowers for women on impulse, or for no good reason.
Coming home after a couple days—okay, four days—away wasn’t a good reason.
He didn’t know why the hell he’d bought them, or why the hell he’d missed her so much. He’d gotten a lot of work accomplished without her taking up his space and time, hadn’t he? And he’d drafted out more designs because he’d had more time alone, working and living on his own schedule.
His and the dogs’, anyway.
He liked a quiet house. He preferred a quiet house—one without the annoying obligation of having to remember to pick up his socks or hang up wet towels, or stick dishes in the dishwasher unless he damn well felt like it.
Which, like most normal members of his species, meant when there were no more clean socks, towels or dishes.
Not that she asked him to pick up his socks or hang up his wet towels or stick his dishes in the dishwasher. That was her brilliance. She said nothing, so he felt obligated.
He was being trained, he realized. No doubt about it. She was training him as subtly and consistently and effortlessly as she did the dogs.
To please her. Not to disappoint her. To develop habits and routines.
It had to stop.
He should throw the stupid flowers out before she got home.
When the hell was she getting home?
He looked at the stove clock again, then walked outside so he’d stop looking at the clock.
He didn’t wear a watch for the very specific reason he didn’t want to be bound up in time.
He should’ve stayed home working until she called—or didn’t call. Instead he’d stopped, went into town to buy some supplies—and the christing flowers—and didn’t forget the couple bottles of the red wine she preferred, then came here to check the house.
To make sure, he was forced to admit, that James had picked up his socks and so on. Which, of course, proved unnecessary.
James was either as insanely tidy as Fiona, or well trained.
He hoped it was the latter, at least.
To get his mind off the time, he grabbed a load of tennis balls and thrilled the dogs by throwing them. And when his arm went to rubber decided she needed one of those ball shooters they used for tennis practice.
He changed it up, giving the dogs the stay command, then walking out of sight to hide the balls in various places. He went back around, sat on the porch steps.
“Find the balls!” he ordered.
He had to admit, the stampede and search had its entertainment value, and passed the time he wasn’t paying any attention to.
He ended up with a pile of dog-slobbered balls at his feet, then repeated the routine. But this time he ducked inside for a beer.
The pile of balls waited, but the dogs had gone into their sentries-on-alert stance, facing the bridge.
About damn time, he thought, then deliberately leaned against the post. Just out having a beer with the dogs, he decided. It wasn’t like he was waiting for her, watching for her.
But it wasn’t her car that bumped across the bridge.
He straightened from the post, but waited for the man and woman who got out of the car to come to him.
“Special Agents Tawney and Mantz. We’re here to speak with Ms. Bristow.”
Simon glanced at the IDs. “She’s not here.” The dogs, he noted, were looking to him for direction. “Relax,” he told them.
“We were told she was coming back today. Do you know when she’s expected?”
Simon looked back at Tawney. “No.”
“And you are?”
Simon shifted his gaze to the woman. “Simon Doyle.”
“The boyfriend.”
“Is that an official FBI term?” It stuck in his craw. “I’m helping look out for the dogs while she’s gone.”
“I thought she had three dogs.”
“The one sniffing your shoes is mine.”
“Then would you mind telling him to stop it?”
“Jaws. Back off. Fiona told me you were the agent in the Perry case,” he said to Tawney. “I’ll tell her you came by.”
“You don’t have any questions, Mr. Doyle?” Mantz wondered.
“You wouldn’t answer them, so I’m saving us all time. You want to talk to Fiona. I’ll tell her, and if she wants to talk to you, she’ll get in touch.”
“Is there any reason
you’re so anxious for us to leave?”
“Anxious isn’t the word I’d use, but yeah. Unless you’re here to tell Fiona you caught the bastard who picked up where Perry left off, I don’t want you to be the first thing she sees when she gets home.”
“Why don’t we go inside?” Mantz suggested.
“Do you think I’ve got her tied up or held against her will in there? Jesus, do you see her car? Do you see her dogs?” He jerked a thumb to where Jaws was currently humping a disinterested and patient Newman while Bogart and Peck played tug with one of the ropes. “Don’t they teach basic observational skills in the FBI? And no, I’m not letting you in her house when she’s not here.”
“Are you looking out for her, Mr. Doyle?”
“What do you think?” he said to Tawney.
“I think you have no criminal record,” Tawney said easily, “you’ve never been married, have no children and make a good living, enough to own your own home—which you purchased about six months ago. The bureau also teaches basic data-gathering skills. I know Fiona trusts you, and so do her dogs. If I find out that trust is misplaced, you’ll find out what else the bureau teaches.”
“Fair enough.” He hesitated, then went with instinct. “She doesn’t know about the last murder. The friends with her kept her away from the paper and the TV the last few days. She needed a break. I don’t want her coming back and ramming face-first into it. So I want you to go.”
“That’s fair enough, too. Tell her to contact me.” With his partner, he walked back to the car. “We haven’t caught the bastard yet. But we will.”
“Hurry up,” Simon muttered as they drove away.
He waited nearly an hour more, relieved now as every passing minute decreased the chance of her passing the agents on the road home. He gave some thought to putting a meal together, then spooked himself at the image of welcoming her home with a dinner and flowers.
It was just too much.
The bark of the dogs sent him back outside moments before she drove over the bridge. Thank God, he mused, now he could stop thinking so much.
He strolled casually down the porch steps, then the damnedest thing happened. The goddamnedest thing.
When she stepped out of the car, when he saw her standing in the fading sunlight, the fragile blooms of the dogwoods behind her, his heart actually leaped.
He’d always considered that sheer bull—just an overworked phrase in poetry or romance novels. But he felt it—that surge of pleasure and emotion and recognition inside his chest.
He had to restrain himself from rushing her, as the dogs did, bumping one another in their joyful hurry for strokes and kisses.
“Hi, guys, hi! I missed you, too. Every one of you. Were you good? I bet you were.” She accepted desperately loving licks while she rubbed wiggling, furry bodies. “Look what I’ve got.”
She reached inside the car for four huge rawhide bones. “One for everybody. Sit. Now sit. There we go. Everybody gets one.”
“Where’s mine?” Simon demanded.
She smiled, and the quieting sun flared off her sunglasses. As she walked to him, she opened her arms and just took him in.
“I was hoping you’d be here.” He felt her breath—the deep in, the deep out. “You made me another chair,” she murmured.
“That’s for me. You’re not the only one who likes to sit. Not everything’s all about you.”
She laughed, hugged tighter. “Maybe not, but you’re just what I need.”
He eased back until he found her mouth with his—and found it was just what he needed.
“My turn.” He shifted to knee and nudge the dogs back, and caught it. Just an instant as the change of angle let him see through the tinted lenses and into her eyes.
He slipped them off her face. “I should’ve known women couldn’t keep it shut down.”
“You’re wrong—and sexist. They didn’t tell me, and I returned the favor by not letting them know I heard.” Her eyes changed again. “Did you tell them not to say anything to me? To make sure I didn’t read about it in the paper, catch it on the news?”
“So what?”
She nodded, laid her hands on his cheeks, kissed him lightly. “So thanks.”
“That’s just like you, slipping around the normal reaction of being pissed and telling me I didn’t have the right to butt in and decide for you.” He opened the back of her car for her suitcase. “It’s how you get around people.”
“Is it?”
“Oh yeah. What’s this other stuff ?”
“I bought some things. Here, I’ll—”
“I’ve got it.” He hauled out two shopping bags. “Why do women always come back with more than they left with? And it’s not sexist if it’s true.”
“Because we embrace and enjoy life. Keep it up and you won’t get your present.”
She led the way in, and he dumped all the bags by the base of her steps. “I’ll take them up later. How did you find out?”
She took off her shoes, pointed at her toes.
“Your purple toenails told you?”
“The technician who gave me the pedicure. She was just making conversation.”
Damn it. He hadn’t considered basic gossip.
“So that’s what you people talk about during those rituals? Murder and dead bodies?”
“Let’s put it in the category of current events. And let’s go back, get some wine. I’d really like a glass of wine.”
She saw the flowers when she stepped into the kitchen. The way she stopped cold and stared told him she was just as surprised he’d bought her flowers as he’d been.
“You made me another chair and you brought me flowers.”
“I told you, the chair’s mine. The flowers just happened to be there so I picked them up.”
“Simon.” She turned, wrapped herself around him.
Feelings winged into him, slapped against one another. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Sorry, but you’ll have to tough it out. It’s been a really long time since a man brought me flowers. I forgot what it’s like. I’ll be right back.”
The dogs followed her out—afraid, he assumed, she’d leave again. He got out a bottle of wine, pulled the cork. She came back with a small box as he poured her a glass.
“From me and the dogs. Consider it a thank-you for helping out with them.”
“Thanks.” It had weight for a small box, and, curious, he opened it. He found a slender doorknocker. The copper would verdigris over time, he thought, and add to its appeal. Raised letters ran down its length, and the knocker itself formed a Celtic knot.
“It’s Irish. I figured Doyle, there has to be Irish in there. Fáilte means—”
“Welcome. Doyle, remember?”
“Right. I thought if you put it on the door, sometimes it might even be true. The welcome, that is.”
He glanced up to see her smiling. “It might. Either way it’s nice.”
“And you could get one made—I bet Syl could find a metal artist to do it—to put up when you’re not in the mood for company. It could say ‘Go away’ in Gaelic.”
“That’s a pretty good idea. Actually, I know how to say ‘Fuck off’ in Irish, and that might be more interesting.”
“Oh, Simon. I missed you.”
She was laughing when she said it, and as she reached for her
