by Helen Brenna
Turning and crossing the street, he slowly climbed the steep hill several blocks off Main. With old, but well-kept single-family homes, this appeared to be the residential section of the tourist town. Instead of the Victorian mansions he’d halfway expected to see, these were average-size dwellings. He should’ve known she’d try to settle anonymously amidst the salt of the earth.
On hitting Oak Street, he turned and monitored the house numbers. Long ago, he’d memorized the address, wanting absolutely no paper trail for this place, and having studied the island map back at the ferry office, he knew he was close.
A few blocks later, he stopped in front of an ancient stone fence and glanced at the white Cape Cod with black shutters and a porch addition off the side. This modest home wasn’t at all what he’d expected. The house was dark other than a stream of weak light glowing from the back. Her bedroom. She was still awake.
What did she look like? His dreams? His memories? Or had she shaken off the past and embraced change?
Time to find out.
Slowly, he trudged up the sidewalk, climbed the front steps and hesitated on reaching her porch as beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Quiet music sounded from inside, mixing with the damp night air as he leaned against a post and caught his breath.
This was a mistake. If she slammed the door in his face he couldn’t blame her. After what he’d done, he unequivocally derserved it. Before he could turn away, the door burst open. A woman’s figure, small but curvy stood in shadow, backlit by pale light. At first, he couldn’t see her face, but then his eyes adjusted and her features cleared.
Oh, man. The air puffed out of his chest and his limbs went numb. When he’d first met her, she’d been only twenty-three to his thirty-two, going on fifty. Somehow, the years had made her even more beautiful than the day he’d spotted her in that hole-in-the-wall bar. She’d put on a little weight, which to his way of thinking only served to heighten the attractiveness of her curves. Her hair was longer and curlier, although the color was still that creamy blonde, promising the softness of down, the scent of heaven.
She said nothing, only stared at him as something akin to recognition dawned.
“Hello, Missy,” he whispered.
She stepped back as if she’d seen a ghost, but then, he figured, she had. “Jonas,” she whispered, putting a hand to her chest. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Better late than never,” he mumbled as the adrenaline he’d been running on finally fizzled. His legs fell out from under him. He hit the wall, keeled over and collapsed onto the porch floor.
“Jonas? Jonas.” Her hands touched his chest. Nice, soft hands. Hands that spread warmth all the way to his limbs. Hands he’d dreamed of more than he cared to remember. “Oh, my God, you’re bleeding!”
Disoriented, he gazed into her eyes, eyes as startlingly green as a new spring leaf, eyes that had once looked at him as if he were the only spot of clarity in her fuzzy crystal ball. “No doctors, Missy,” he murmured, her face blurring in his vision. He could barely keep his eyes open. “Can’t…no one…can find me.”
Then his world turned black and silent.
CHAPTER TWO
WAS HE REAL OR SOME KIND of spirit?
Missy reached out to see if she could touch the man’s arm and jerked back the instant her senses registered not only cold and wet, but a solid form. How could this be?
Maybe it wasn’t really him.
Quickly, she took in everything about the man lying on her porch. His clothes, damp sweatshirt, faded jeans. Pushing aside the hood shadowing his face, she studied his features. Straight, hawklike nose. Intensely set brows, furrowed even now. Lashes, thick and black and long enough to set any woman’s heart fluttering. So much so familiar, and yet enough that was different to make her wonder.
This man looked like a sleazy drug dealer. He probably hadn’t taken a razor to his cheeks for weeks and his hair was not only long enough to curl it didn’t look very clean. Jonas, always meticulous about his appearance, had kept his midnight-black hair military short and his face shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Then there was the hardness to this man’s jawline that seemed all wrong. A cynical set to the mouth—
His mouth. That was it. The sight of this man’s lips sealed it. How many times had she traced with the tip of her finger that dramatic upper arc? That full lower swell?
It was him. It was Jonas.
Missy snapped off the porch light and glanced around outside. Other than raindrops splattering her porch roof, all was quiet. There were no footsteps. No rustling of bushes. No shadows slinking near the trees. As far as she could tell no one had followed him.
Grabbing his wrist, she felt for a pulse. His skin was cold and clammy, but she located a thready pulse. He’d only lost consciousness. Glancing at his prone form, she barely held herself back from hauling off and kicking him good and hard. “I should let you bleed to death, you bastard.”
The sight of his profile, haggard and worn, gave her pause. His skin was ashy and pale. “I’m going to hate myself for this.” She grabbed his hands, dragged his dead-weight into her living room, snatched up his pack and shut the door. Then she put his knapsack off into the corner and bent over his still form.
His outer jacket had fallen open, displaying a patch of blood seeping through his sweatshirt. She pulled the fabric aside. A large padded bandage taped to his skin was soaked through with more blood. She eased off the bandage.
Oh, God. A bullet wound. Who would want to kill a man already dead to the world?
Although the shot appeared to have gone clear through Jonas’s side, the wound was still bleeding. Grabbing a clean towel, Missy pressed it against the gaping holes, both front and back, but blood continued to flow. No doctors. What had he gotten himself into this time? Didn’t matter. She couldn’t do this on her own. The only problem was that gossip traveled on a little island the size of Mirabelle like rain down a gutter, but if she didn’t act quickly—
Sarah? Too complicated.
Ron and Jan? Her neighbors, the Setterbergs, had become more like a mother and father since she’d moved to Mirabelle. They’d drop everything to help, but how could she explain Jonas? No. She couldn’t handle disillusioning them. Not them.
Sean. He’d keep this quiet.
Grabbing the phone, she dialed his number only to hear a recorded message. “You’ve reached Dr. Griffin…”
At the end of the familiar greeting, she said, “Sean, it’s Missy—”
The phone line crackled. “Missy?” He was obviously screening his calls. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, but I need your help. For someone at my house. Can you come right away?”
Sean lived only a few blocks down the street in a home very similar to Missy’s. “What’s the condition? I need to know what supplies to bring.”
She hesitated. “A gunshot wound.”
There was a long pause on the line. “What—”
“Please. He needs you right away.”
“He? Missy—”
“I’ll explain when you get here. Hurry.”
She hung up, knelt back down and applied pressure to Jonas’s wound. As she stared at his face, memories enveloped her. The helicopter wreckage, the charred black remains of a body, the wake, the funeral. It hadn’t been a dream. It had been real. She’d relived every god-awful minute of it for years afterward. Jonas was supposed to be dead. Yet here he was on the floor, hurt but very much alive. It didn’t make sense.
“How could you do this to me?” she whispered, emotion clogging her throat.
A brisk knock sounded on her front door. She peered through the curtain to find Sean standing on her steps, yanked open her door and ushered him inside.
Sean took one look at Jonas and, biting back the questions, flung off his raincoat and tossed it over a nearby chair. “Let’s get him up somewhere, so I can work.” A few moments later, after half carrying, half dragging Jonas’s heavy body toward the back of her house, they had
him lying atop her bed. “Let’s get these wet clothes off him.”
While Sean held up Jonas’s limp frame, she tugged off his sweatshirt and shirt. “Get his pants off, too,” Sean ordered as he went about cleaning the wound. “We need to get him warm.”
Missy went to the waistband of Jonas’s jeans and hesitated as her fingers touched the line of black hair trailing down his bare abdomen. Heat spread through her as she glanced at Jonas’s toned upper body. He’d been lifting again, heavily, and his skin seemed darker than normal, as if he’d been in the sun.
“Missy!” Sean said, snapping her out of her appraisal. “We don’t have any time to waste. This man’s in shock. Get him warm. Quick.”
She grabbed the waistband of Jonas’s jeans and worked to undo the button, draw down the zipper and drag the damp fabric off his too-cool skin. Thank heavens his boxers remained relatively in place.
“Get every bit of wet fabric off him,” Sean said. “Or it’ll drain his heat.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.” Sean was pulling supplies out of his bag. “Now.”
Missy did her best to avert her gaze as she tugged at Jonas’s boxers. The moment she cleared his ankles, she drew a heavy quilt over his lower body, but the image of his nakedness was already branded in her mind. No wonder no man had been able to measure up, in more ways than one, all these years.
Dammit. Stop it. He ruined your life once. Do not let him ruin it again.
Resolutely, she glanced at Sean. “What else can I do to help?”
A half hour later, Missy having assisted where needed, Sean had cleaned and stitched the entrance and exit wounds as well as two other cuts and had finally stopped the bleeding. While he’d been busy, they’d barely spoken other than requests for this and that.
He was wrapping Jonas’s chest, when he said, “This guy’s lucky the bullet went straight through his side, but he’s got a broken rib. Various other cuts and contusions.” He pointed at the slices on the side of his face, as if Jonas had been punched by a man wearing a ring, and the bruising on his arms and abdomen. “Someone really worked him over, but from the old scars it looks like he’s used to it.”
Missy well remembered the other bullet wound on Jonas’s shoulder, but the three-inch scar on his right arm was something new.
“He’ll need to be on antibiotics,” Sean went on. “And he’ll need this bandage changed at least—”
Jonas’s hand shot out and grabbed Sean’s wrist. His eyes fluttered open and he glared at Sean. “Who are you?”
“Jonas!” Missy hissed. “Let him go!”
Sean stared back at Jonas. “That’s a damned strong grip for a half-dead man.”
“Answer my question or lose a hand.”
Sean’s only sign of emotion was the slight flaring of his nostrils. Missy had never seen the calm, unflappable doctor this angry. She placed her hand on Jonas’s. “Let him go right now, Jonas, or so help me God I will kick you out of my house!”
Without glancing at her, Jonas loosened his hold on Sean’s wrist.
Sean slowly pulled away. “My name’s Sean Griffin. I’m Mirabelle’s only doctor.”
Jonas threw an accusatory glance in her direction.
“I considered letting you bleed to death.” She glared back at him. “But I wasn’t sure how to dispose of the body.”
Jonas turned back to Sean. “Tell anyone I’m here, and if I get the chance…I’ll kill you.”
“You hurt her—” Sean tilted his head toward Missy “—and I’ll kill you. ”
Jonas’s gaze flashed at Missy as he was assessing the connection between her and Sean. His eyes held the barest hint of betrayal before he quickly looked away. “Understood.” Clearly in a lot of pain, he lowered his eyelids and seemed to focus on his breathing.
“Here.” Sean poured a couple pills out of a bottle, reading Jonas better than most. “This’ll help with the pain. Let you sleep.”
“Don’t need it,” Jonas growled.
Sean sighed. “Fine.” He set the medication on the bedside table.
Missy crossed her arms and frowned at Jonas. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”
“It’ll have to wait until morning.”
“I want answers now.”
He cocked his head toward Sean. “Then he needs to leave.”
Sean shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere until I know Missy’s safe. How do I know whoever shot you won’t be showing up on her doorstep in the middle of the night?”
“Because I know how to cover my tracks. I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re idiot enough to almost get yourself killed.”
Jonas made a quick move toward Sean, but clearly the pain knocked him flat on his back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Doc.” Jonas gritted his teeth. “So why don’t you just get the hell out of here?”
Glaring at Jonas, Missy quickly gathered the medical supplies and led Sean out of the bedroom and down the hall. “I’m sorry about all of this.”
“It’s not your fault.” He stuffed everything she held back into his bag and glanced uncertainly into her eyes. “Maybe I should stay. I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone with that man.”
That man. She almost laughed. “It’s all right. He won’t hurt me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“Who is he, Missy?”
“An FBI agent. At least he used to be.” That didn’t answer the real gist of his question, but Missy didn’t know where to begin.
Sean stared at her, as if trying to make sense out of the situation. From the moment he’d moved to the island last fall, Missy had felt a connection with him. Though he was guarded, rarely sharing anything of his past, she understood. She had secrets, too.
Most of the islanders speculated about a romantic relationship between her and Sean, but she’d never considered the two of them closing down Duffy’s on more than one occasion as anything more than a good time, especially since he’d never officially asked her out or made any attempt to kiss her.
They were friends. Good friends, but still only friends. She could trust him, and she owed him the truth. At least part of it. “It’s a long story,” she whispered. “I need you to keep this between us.”
“Missy?” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Who is he?”
She swallowed and looked into his eyes. “He’s my husband.”
J ONAS STRUGGLED TO MAINTAIN consciousness, strained to hear the conversation taking place down the hall. Whispers. Quiet and intimate. Missy with another man. He didn’t know why it should surprise him. As far as she knew, he was dead, and his death would’ve only given her a ticket to ride anything and anyone her freestyle heart desired.
Old familiar stirrings of jealousy reared up inside him and, at the sound of the front door closing and steps coming down the hall, he quickly tamped back the feelings. He couldn’t spare the energy for jealousy. Not now. Not ever.
Slowly, Jonas retrieved his gun from the bedside table. He slipped it under the covers only seconds before Missy came back into the room, looking confused and unsettled. “Why—”
“Will your doctor tell anyone about me?” he interrupted, not at all up for the interrogation she was sure to be formulating.
“No.”
“Who is he to you?” he murmured in spite of himself.
“None of your business.”
“I need to—”
“You’re dead, remember. You have no needs or rights when it comes to me!”
“Well, unless that divorce you were planning went through before my death, you’re still my wife. And I’m still your husband.”
“Husband? I haven’t had a husband for more than four years. As a matter of fact, as absent as you were for most of our marriage, I’m not sure the term husband ever applied to you.”
He closed his eyes and took several breaths in and out. “I just need to make sure your doctor can be trust—”
“Good for him,” he murmured.
Suddenly tired to the bone, Jonas wrapped his fingers around the cold but oddly comforting grip of his gun. As he closed his eyes, the remembered sound of gunshots echoed through his mind. One. Two. Then, as if in slow motion, he once again saw Matthews taking a direct double hit to the chest and flying through the air.
Jonas remembered turning, his weapon drawn, and that’s when he’d gotten hit in his side. He’d managed to fire off several shots. Before spinning out of the alley, he’d hazarded a quick glance at Matthews. His partner had been lying in a puddle on the ground, his head bent backward at an unnatural angle. Dead. This time for real.
Fatigue settled swiftly over Jonas. He was tired of the lie he’d been living these past years. Tired of trying to be someone he wasn’t. Tired of…just plain-ass tired.
“Jonas?” Missy said.
Feigning sleep, although the reality wasn’t far off, Jonas didn’t answer. More so than hearing her, he sensed her stepping back, maintaining her distance.
“Jonas?” she said impatiently. “I want some answers.”
He imagined her standing there with her arms crossed protectively in front of her, her chin tucked defensively. He let his breathing turn heavy and she hesitated. She wouldn’t touch him. He knew it, was counting on it.
“Are you awake?” She waited a minute, maybe two, then he heard her rummaging through a dresser drawer. Suddenly, she spun around and flicked off the light. “Asshole,” she muttered on her way out of the bedroom.
Yeah? Tell me something I don’t already know.
“T HE BIGGEST DEAL OF MY LIFE is coming together!” Delgado yelled. “You assured me nothing—nothing—would get in my way!”
“Don’t worry.” Pretending a calmness he sure as hell wasn’t feeling, Mason Stein spoke into his cell phone while searching the frame of the couch. “You’re still on.”
