Samuel wasn’t proud of the things he’d done as a youth. He had found a release for his pent-up anger in self-destructive ways. First by skipping school, then by hanging out with a bad crowd and roaming the streets at night and, finally, by vandalizing the town’s courthouse. After that prank, only the intervention of his uncle had kept him from spending time in juvenile court. Considering their pasts, it wasn’t surprising that the animosity between himself and the sheriff had continued on into adulthood.
Simply put, they rubbed each other the wrong way. Neither of them held much respect for the other.
Samuel raked both hands through his hair in frustration. He’d dealt with the sheriff and his narrow-minded views all of his life. Right now the man’s opinion of him was the least of his concerns. At the moment Jessie Pierce promised to be a bigger problem.
What was he thinking, agreeing to meet her for dinner?
Sheriff Broward was right about one thing. His father was dead and buried. No one cared about him or his reputation. No one but his son, that is. Jessie wanted to find out the truth behind her mother’s death. She didn’t care whether that truth cleared his father’s name or not.
Samuel shook his head. Just how much would dredging up the past really help?
If they were to uncover the truth and find that someone else had murdered Eve Pierce, then what? It was too late to change his father’s fate. But it could shake a murderer from his hiding place. Jessie’s good intentions could very well put both of them in danger.
Jessie. In his mind’s eye, he saw her standing next to him on the deck. Once again he saw the stubborn tilt of her chin as she faced Sheriff Broward. The delicate slope of her neck as she raised her head in defiance. Her supple curves as the wind molded her clothes tight against her body. Samuel’s blood warmed, his own body hardening at the memory. He drew in a deep breath, willing the untimely awakening of his libido under control. Jessie was a beautiful, strong-willed woman. But she was no match for a murderer.
Tonight he had no choice but to tell her to forget the past. To leave Prudence Island before it was too late.
If only she would listen.
She had never been this nervous, Jessie realized, as she prepared for Samuel’s arrival.
After her encounter with him that morning on the shrimp boat, she’d felt the need to get rid of some restless energy. So she’d spent the entire day cleaning and inspecting the cottage, reacquainting herself with her only physical link to a forgotten past. She hadn’t found any clues to her mother’s death. Only a few pictures of herself as a child…and of her mother.
But the pictures were priceless. They showed a love that had been undeniable. In each photo her mother held her close. Whether they were walking hand in hand on the beach or building sand castles near the water or sharing an ice cream sundae on the porch, they wore carefree smiles. Heartfelt smiles that were impossible to feign.
The love she’d witnessed in these photos made her all the more confused. She didn’t understand what had happened to her since her mother’s death. How could she have forgotten this beautiful, loving woman?
Jessie shivered, glancing around the cottage’s large kitchen. Now, with the lights shining brightly to ward off the night, Gull’s Cottage sparkled beneath a clean coat of polish. But the superficial shine could not rid it of its hovering darkness. While she had settled into this house that had once been her home, she did not feel comfortable.
The dream that had haunted her in Atlanta was worse here on Prudence Island. It was more vivid, more alarming. It was as though it had somehow found a source of strength, a terrifying life of its own on this beautiful, peaceful island.
Restlessly Jessie picked up a spoon and stirred the simmering pot of clam chowder. It was an old recipe, one that her adoptive mother had made often. She’d never asked Samuel his preference for dinner. Being a fisherman, she’d assumed he would like seafood. Perhaps she’d been presumptuous. After all, a baker faced with pastries all day long was known to tire of the taste of sugar.
Rolling her eyes at her own insecurities, she dropped the spoon on the counter and stepped outside to put the finishing touches on the patio table. That afternoon in the storage shed, she’d found a set of white wicker table and chairs. After a vigorous scrubbing, they were more than presentable. With pink and green floral cushions on the seats and matching place mats on the table, she was confident of the dinner’s setting.
A gentle breeze stirred the warm night air. She took a box of matches from the pocket of her skirt. Cupping a hand to protect the flame, she lit the arrangement of candles beneath the hurricane glass. Light glimmered against the darkness, casting a soft glow upon the glass tabletop. She was glad that she’d decided to eat outdoors. No matter how much she wanted it to be different, she felt too uncomfortable inside the cottage.
The doorbell rang, shattering the quiet ambiance. Jessie’s heart leaped into her throat. She gripped the back of a wicker chair, steadying herself, desperately trying to calm her nerves. While she told herself that it was just a dinner, she knew it was so much more.
Instinctively she knew Samuel was the key to her future as well as her past. With his help she had a chance to finally find peace. A chance at a healthy and untroubled life.
Without him she didn’t know what might happen to her.
Pushing the disturbing thought from her mind, Jessie smoothed imaginary wrinkles from the skirt of her cream-colored sundress as she strode to the front door. She checked her makeup in the hall mirror and finger combed her hair into place. Then, frowning, she stared at her reflection. If Samuel meant nothing more to her than a helpmate of sorts, then why was she primping?
Not allowing herself to consider the answer, she reached for the brass knob and pulled open the door. Her breath caught at the transformation of the man standing before her. Until now she’d only seen Samuel in work gear: worn jeans and sweat-stained T-shirts. Tonight he wore a pale blue polo shirt that matched his eyes and emphasized the dark hue of his skin. The knit fabric clung to his wide shoulders, molding his strong muscles. His khaki pants were carefully ironed with knife-sharp creases. On his feet he wore a pair of casual loafers. His blond hair was still damp from a recent shower, the strands of gold glistening beneath the overhead light. His face looked smooth, his stubble newly shaved.
She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. She’d never realized just how devastatingly handsome he was beneath that gritty layer of hard work. As her adoptive mother would have said, Samuel cleaned up nicely.
“Am I too early?” he asked, frowning slightly.
“E-early?” she stammered.
“You did say seven, didn’t you?”
“Seven,” she repeated, feeling like a parrot. A parrot with a very limited vocabulary. Blinking hard, she forced herself out of her trance. “You’re just in time. Please, come in.”
She stepped back, allowing him to enter.
The air stirred as he moved into the foyer, stroking her bare skin like a lover’s caress. Jessie drew in a steadying breath and inhaled the heady combination of clean soap and spicy cologne. She felt dizzy with awareness. Oblivious to her battle for control, he glanced around the cottage, taking in the rich heart of pine woodwork, the floor-to-ceiling windows and the shimmering lights of the overhead chandelier.
Jessie closed the door, watching as he continued his inspection.
As though feeling the weight of her gaze, he turned to her, his expression unapologetic. “This is the first time I’ve ever been inside Gull’s Cottage,” he admitted. “Until now I’ve only been on the outside looking in.”
Sympathy surged inside her as she realized Samuel had probably just summed up his entire life in a nutshell. In her mind’s eye, she saw him standing alone on his shrimp boat, stoically bearing the stares of the nearby fishermen. And the way he’d suffered through the cool disdain of the town’s sheriff, as though he’d been through the ordeal often. Whether it was by choice or by force, Samuel lived his lif
e on the outside, always watching. Never being included. Never allowed to be a part of the community.
Samuel was as much a loner as she.
Knowing her sympathy was the last thing he would want, Jessie averted her eyes. She noticed for the first time that he held a bottle of wine in his hands.
Awkwardly he held the wine out to her. “I wasn’t sure what you would be serving. I hope this will be all right.”
She reached for the gift, and their fingers linked on the neck of the bottle. Her skin sizzled at his touch. A jolt of electricity traveled up the length of her arm. For a long moment, neither of them moved. They stared at their joined hands, unable to break the connection.
Samuel was the first to pull away. Reluctantly he dropped his hand.
Shaken by the exchange, Jessie tightened her grip on the bottle, afraid that she might drop it. The glass felt cool against her skin, so different from Samuel’s warm touch. Her voice trembled as she said, “Chardonnay. It’s perfect.”
His fleeting smile set her heart racing.
She turned away, heading for the kitchen. Too nervous to look if he followed, she called over her shoulder, “I hope you like seafood. I’m making clam chowder.”
“Sounds great,” he said, his deep voice close.
She breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t changed his mind and left. Her stomach lurched, as it did every time she stepped into the kitchen. Ignoring the queasy sensation, she hurried to the island, pulling open drawers. “I’m sure there’s a corkscrew around here somewhere. Aha, here it is.” Leaving the bottle safely on the counter, she handed him the corkscrew. “I’ll let you open the wine while I finish the dinner.”
Glad for the distraction, she scrounged through the kitchen cupboards looking for the wineglasses. Finding them, she placed them on the counter. By the time she’d sliced a loaf of bread and had filled the tureen with the aromatic soup, Samuel had poured the wine into the glasses.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said needlessly, as she picked up the soup tureen.
Quietly he followed her out onto the porch, carrying the wine and both of their glasses.
The softly lit night, with the candles glimmering against the tabletop, seemed too obviously romantic. Jessie blushed, wondering what sort of impression she must be giving him. She resisted the urge to flip on the overhead porch light and chase away the intimate mood.
Instead, with shaking hands, she placed the tureen on the center of the table. Then she excused herself, using the bread as her reason to escape. She hurried into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, feeling breathless and confused.
She hadn’t realized how difficult being this close to him would be. Everything she did felt like a romantic overture. She was as obvious as a love-starved, infatuated schoolgirl. Jessie closed her eyes and gave a soft moan of frustration. How was she going to get through the night without making a bumbling fool of herself?
Blaming her inexperience with men, she admitted that she had underestimated the effect Samuel had upon her, the strength of the attraction she felt toward him. But she had invited him to her house. It was too late to ask him to leave. Too late to turn back now.
Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath and told herself to move. Purposefully she picked up the bread and returned to the porch.
He stood at the railing with his back to her, facing the view of the beach. As the heel of her shoe scraped against the wooden floor, he turned to look at her. She saw the uncertainty in his eyes.
She forced a smile. “Sorry it took so long. Won’t you sit down? The soup’s getting cold.”
He nodded, but waited until she’d taken her seat before joining her.
Jessie ladled the soup into the waiting bowls.
They ate in silence, listening to the surf pounding steadily against the beach. As the tension between them thickened, Jessie was barely able to taste the savory soup. Her mouth felt dry. She reached for her wineglass and nearly choked on a healthy swig. The liquid burned as it traveled down her throat, her muscles relaxing as the heat warmed her body.
“Tell me about yourself,” Samuel said, breaking the strained silence.
She glanced at him, surprised. “Wh-why?”
He met her gaze without wavering. “You want me to help you uncover your past. I know who you were, when you used to live on this island. I’d like to know who you are now, the person you’ve become.”
Jessie bit her lip, considering her answer. How much did she want to tell him? That she was haunted by dreams she couldn’t explain? That she’d never been able to make a relationship last because of some defect in her persona that would not allow her to trust anyone? That she’d come to the island in search of a past because she was desperate to save herself from a dismal future?
No, she couldn’t tell him the truth. No matter how much she might want to confide in him, she wasn’t ready to reveal that much about herself to anyone.
She placed her spoon on the plate, sat back in her chair and said, “I’m an artist.”
“Like your mother.”
Jessie smiled. “Yes, but I didn’t realize that until just a few days ago. In fact, the earliest memory I can recall is in Atlanta with my parents, Louise and Malcom Pierce. Of course, at the time I didn’t know they were really my aunt and uncle, or that I’d been adopted. They were such loving people.” She hesitated, letting the pain of remembrance pass. Then, gulping in a breath to gain confidence, she continued, “I was five or six at the time, and we’d spent the day at the art museum. I remember being fascinated by the beautiful pictures I’d seen, though I doubt if my parents knew just how much so. I’d always been a quiet child. It used to drive my adoptive mother crazy. She worried when I bottled up my feelings.”
Jessie frowned at the memory. “Anyway, I came home and immediately went in search of a pencil and paper. My parents found me later in my bedroom sprawled out on the bed, filling up page after page of a notebook with drawings. They were quite good, actually.” She reached for her glass, sipping the wine. “It was then my parents realized that I was gifted in art. From that moment on, it became the center of my life. When I wasn’t in school, I was drawing or taking art lessons. I graduated from college with a degree in fine arts. Now I work as an illustrator, mostly for children’s books. My parents were my biggest supporters…until now.” Her voice caught. She shrugged off the emotion, trying to make light of the devastating event that had change her life. “Malcom died a year ago, Louise last month. Now I’m alone.”
Samuel studied her, his eyes never leaving her face. Even in the dim light of the candles, she could see his thoughtful expression. This was the first time she’d ever shared memories of her past, good or bad, with anyone. For some reason she felt closer to him than she had to any other man.
“Your turn,” she said, feeling uncomfortable with the personal bent of the conversation. She gave an encouraging smile. “It seems only fair that if we’re going to be working together, that I should know more about you, too.”
For a moment he didn’t answer.
Jessie shivered as the silence lengthened. Goose bumps prickled her skin. She blamed her reaction on the cooling ocean breeze, refusing to attribute it to apprehension. While his face betrayed none of his emotions, she saw a storm brewing behind those expressive eyes of his.
“It can’t be all that bad,” she said, with a nervous laugh.
Slowly Samuel placed his napkin on the table next to his plate. His blue eyes shimmering in the candlelight, he said, “It’s nothing but bad.”
Her breath caught. She stared at him, a part of her wanting him to continue, a part wanting him to stop. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to hear what he had to say, if she was strong enough to bear the burden of someone else’s shattered life.
“I was ten when they arrested my father,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless, as though he were speaking by rote. “Eleven by the time they convicted him to a life in prison. Less than a month after his sentencing, my mother
committed suicide. She couldn’t live with the shame the scandal had brought our family. My father died five years later. The official explanation was congestive heart failure brought on by viral pneumonia. But the truth is, he blamed himself for my mother’s death, and he simply lost the will to live. He wanted to die.”
“Samuel, I—I’m so sorry,” she said, the words catching in her throat. She reached across the table, placing her hand on his arm.
He glanced down at her hand. Slowly his gaze traveled upward to her face. Hesitating, he shifted his arm, forcing her to drop her hand. The wicker chair scraped loudly against the wooden floor as he surged to his feet. He stumbled to the railing, leaning heavily against the wooden bar.
Not letting herself reconsider, she rose to her feet. She stood nearby, but did not touch him.
“I tried to stop all of it from happening, but no one would listen to me,” he said, the words echoing hollowly. “They said my father was having an affair with your mother. That he was obsessed with her. And when she tried to break it off, he’d killed her in a fit of jealousy.”
“But you don’t think that’s what happened,” she said softly, encouraging him to continue. She needed to hear this, as much as he needed to tell her.
“No, none of it was true,” he said harshly. His tone so adamant she wondered who he was trying to convince—her or himself. “My father might have been infatuated with Eve. She was beautiful and exotic, different from any other woman on Prudence Island. But he was a deeply moral man. He wouldn’t have broken his marriage vows.”
“Then why would the prosecutors believe he was to blame?”
“Because he was a convenient target,” Samuel said, still not facing her, his bitterness clear. “My father did odd jobs for your mother, repairs on the house. Sometimes he’d bring her fresh shrimp from the morning’s catch. It was a business relationship, never anything more.”
Safe in His Arms Page 7
