"You know when it's time to stand down," he went on quietly. "You don't think you'll know when you're so into the work that's all you can think about, but when the time comes, you know." He leaned his crossed ankles closer to her, touching her thighs with his toes. "As for emotional commitment to others—right now I'm committed to keeping you from doing something stupid."
"That's not emotional."
"Oh, but it is."
She scowled at him, but couldn't sustain it and smiled. "You have no sense of romance."
"Look who's talking, the hard-bitten Mainer."
"I'm not hard-bitten. I know how to knit."
"And you have a tattoo of a rose on your left hip."
She gasped in spite of herself. She could see he knew he'd get to her with that remark. He smiled, cocky, pleased with himself, and pushed aside a half-dozen pillows and crawled over the rug to her.
"Right about here," he said, slipping the waistband of her pants down over her hip. "A beach rose. Pink."
"It's my own design." Her voice seemed disembodied, her mouth suddenly gone parched. "I had it done a couple weeks ago. It hurt like hell. One hot little needle prick at a time."
"Did it take long to heal?"
"It's healed now. It itched, and I had to beat it with a rolled-up newspaper—"
"Zoe."
He skimmed his fingers over her tattoo. She inhaled. "What?"
"You don't have to say anything. Just relax." He kissed the edges of the rose, flicked his tongue over her skin, whispered, "Trust me," and eased her shirt up, trailing his mouth up her hot skin.
He reached her bra, and she fell back into the pillows, not protesting when he undid the front clasp and exposed her breasts, took first one nipple, then the other, between his lips. Finally, he found her mouth, kissing her deeply, saying more words of comfort, desire, assurance, words she absorbed but couldn't quite make out, aware only of her own overwhelming desire and urgency. He eased her shirt up over her head, her bra off her arms, and held her close as he drew her pants over her hips.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said.
But the feel of his hands against her bare skin had her head spinning, her body aching. She held him, his sweater soft, his chest warm and hard against her breasts. "Don't stop."
He dispensed with her pants, laid her back against the pillows and gazed down at her with a frankness that made her self-conscious. But she didn't pull away, didn't grab a pillow and cover herself. He positioned himself alongside her, stroking her gently, boldly, until she was unaware of anything else, just his touch, her response.
"I want…"
But she didn't finish, instead rolling onto her side so she could slip her hands under his sweater. She felt his hot skin, then probed lower, immediately seeing, feeling, that he wasn't immune to what was happening between them.
He pulled off his sweater first, then his pants, and he came to her, taking her hand and placing it on him, letting her stroke him, touch him. He was thick, hard, sleek, and when she lay back onto the soft rug, he came with her, onto her.
"I'm not asking for anything," she whispered. "Just this."
"It's enough." He entered her slowly, as if he knew she hadn't made love in a long time, like this, never. "It's more than enough for right now."
But his gentleness didn't last, his need matching hers, then overtaking it, forcing her to stop thinking, to lose herself in the feel of his thrusts, of one moment after another that she wanted to etch forever in her mind.
He came in a series of hard, fast, deep thrusts that completely undid her, had her crying out with her own release.
They held each other for a long time, and he laughed softly, stroking her left hip. "I only meant to check out your tattoo."
"Ha."
"Zoe…" He kissed her hair. "Ah, Zoe."
She touched two fingers to his lips. "Don't talk. We can talk another time."
And they made love again, just as wildly this time, without words, and when they finished, the harbor was dark except for the glitter of lights from some of the boats and the gleam of the moon on the water.
J.B. pulled a blanket over her, then managed to crawl into his pants. "Come downstairs whenever you're ready. I'll find something for dinner. It just won't involve flax seed."
Zoe smiled at him. "I have a feeling this sort of thing never happened when Aunt Olivia lived here."
"I don't know, Zoe. I've read dozens of your auntie's letters to my granny. She knew the score."
"She didn't—she didn't mention a lover, did she?"
He laughed. "That revived you, the idea of old Olivia having a lover in her youth. No, she didn't say she did or she didn't, but she comes to life in those letters. She knew what went on between my grandparents. She understood the physical attraction."
"Jesse Benjamin swept Posey off her feet, didn't he?" "He did."
"You're a chip off the old block, then. A bad-boy lawman, and you swept me right off my feet."
"You were already lying among your pillows. The rest was easy." He smiled down at her. "And I'm not your evil nemesis."
He left, and Zoe rolled onto her back and stared at the slanted ceiling, but without J.B.'s warm body there next to her, she soon realized it was cold up in the attic. She scrambled into her clothes, her body aching. She'd kayaked, she'd been shot at, she'd been cut and she'd been made love to not once but twice, all in one day.
She glanced around at her tousled pillows and her scrunched-up chenille rug, and she had her doubts if she'd ever be able to write up here again.
Twenty-Eight
Teddy knew he wouldn't make it two inches out of the salt marsh with his truck. Some cop'd spot him. He waited until three in the morning to make his move. He was frozen and uncomfortable and badly in need of a shower, and hungry—damn, he was hungry. But he summoned the energy to haul his weapons and ammo out of the back of his truck and set it all in the wet grass. Then he started carting it back to Bruce's cottage. That was work. Took three trips, although the third one was because he counted his grenades and two were missing. He went back and found them under the front seat.
He was pissed at everybody now. Luke, Zoe West, her prissy little sister, the FBI agent. That Kyle prick. Bruce was okay. He wasn't pissed at Bruce. He was sorry that if his plan didn't work out, Bruce would end up with the local cops, the state cops, the ATF and the FBI crawling over his property. Couldn't be helped. But the plan would work.
Not that Teddy had ever been much at planning. Usually he implemented other people's plans. Last time he planned, he ended up in federal prison. He'd had a much bigger arsenal in mind then. He'd had it all planned out. Then he got caught buying illegal weapons from illegal sellers, and next thing he knew, he was staring up at Judge Monroe in a fancy courtroom.
Teddy saw through Stick Monroe immediately. He was the kind of guy who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and tried to pretend he didn't look down his nose at other people but did. As far as Teddy was concerned, Monroe had rigged the damn trial. He denied Teddy's lawyer every motion and made him look like an idiot in front of the jury. Teddy just wanted a fair shake. That was all.
Stick hadn't wanted him in his courtroom. He wasn't a big-enough case. He wanted terrorists and mobsters and serial killers. Teddy wasn't even a good-enough criminal.
When he finished hauling his stuff, he was so hungry and tired he thought he'd pass out. He went into the cottage and found a box of crackers he'd left. He gobbled them up while he made his way over to the lobster pound. It had rained earlier, but now it was just drizzling. His fingers were numb from the cold.
An old rowboat was turned over in the grass and muck alongside the launch. He'd seen it the other night with Kyle. He kicked it over and decided it'd do—it wouldn't sink before he was finished. He dragged it to the water and floated the bow out, keeping the stern on the cement launch. There was only one oar. He'd have to manage.
He didn't think the boat could handle all his weapons and ammo, so
he'd left a bunch of it hidden in the brush and scrub pines by the cottage. None of it could be traced back to him, and nobody'd ever believe Bruce Young would be playing around with illegal weapons. Not that Teddy was worried. No way would anyone stumble on his stash before he could get back for it.
It was a good plan. He knew it was. He'd thought through his options. Of course, he always believed he thought through his options. He did okay when he had structure, routines, orders to follow. Mostly, anyway. Unless the orders were stupid. His mother used to say, "Teddy, you have to learn to make good decisions." His father would just slap him up the side of the head and say, "You stupid son of a bitch, what did you expect?"
A prison shrink had told him those were mixed messages.
He'd kept a half-dozen flash-bang grenades, a couple of fragmentation grenades, his 9 mm, his semiautomatic and enough ammo to make him feel secure. He dumped it all into the back of the rowboat, shoved off and climbed in.
He paddled with the one oar as if he was in a canoe.
He made almost no noise and stayed within a few yards of shore, half rowing, half paddling. He went right past Luke Castellane's yacht. It'd be alarmed and locked up tight. Teddy considered lobbing a flash-bang over the bow. That'd serve the bastard right for firing him. Scare the hell out of him.
But that'd happen soon enough.
His boat leaked. The cold water oozed over his shoes, but he was sitting up on the seat. His ass wouldn't get wet. He kept rowing.
It was cold and dark, just the hint of dawn, a paler gray light far out on the horizon. A Maine sunrise was something to see, but with the rain, it wouldn't be much this morning. He'd be out of here by then, anyway.
The FBI agent's boat, the one Bruce'd rented him, was tied up down by Christina West's café. Teddy managed to steer his boat up to its bow, right at the end of the slip.
The leak was worse. Water was pouring into his rowboat.
He was glad he had his weapons and ammo wrapped in a waterproof tarp. He pulled them onto the seat next to him, then heaved them onto the dock without making a sound.
Kyle Castellane's BMW was parked next to the café. Teddy had a key. He'd swiped the spare when he'd gone over to the yacht last week to discuss keeping an eye on Agent McGrath with Luke. He'd had a feeling he might need a BMW before this job was over.
Christina West was up already, getting the coffee on and making muffins. That could be a complication. The lobstermen would be rolling in soon, too.
He carried his stuff up to the parking lot and set it down, fairly certain Christina couldn't see him at this angle. He put on earplugs and goggles and got out one of his flash-bang stun hand grenades. He was excited, nervous. This had to work.
He walked back down to the docks as calm as anything. His rowboat was sinking fast. At least it hadn't sunk with him in it.
Holding his breath, he pulled the pin in the grenade and lobbed it perfectly into the stern of the G-man's lobster boat.
Then he turned and ran like hell.
One second, and boom. A 175-decibel explosion and searing, blinding light. It was doing just what it was supposed to do. Make a lot of noise, disorient, distract, confuse and basically scare the hell out of people.
That'd wake up Gooseshit Harbor.
Teddy didn't linger to admire his handiwork. He climbed into the BMW, started it up and pulled out his earplugs as he backed out.
Twenty-Nine
"Get down here." Bruce Young's voice was intense but under control on the other end of the phone. "Someone just torched your boat. My boat."
J.B. had heard the explosion and was halfway out of bed. "Anyone hurt?"
"No. The marine patrol and local cops are already here. They think it was a flash-bang stun grenade. A lot of noise and light."
Zoe, wide awake, held the blanket up to her chin as she sat up, whether because she was cold or had just come to her senses and realized where she'd spent the night, J.B. didn't know. "Is that Bruce? What's he saying? What was that explosion?"
"McGrath? You there?" "I'm here. Flash-bangs are intended to cause confusion and disorientation, not damage—" "Yeah, so maybe that was the point."
J.B. rolled out of bed. He was stark naked and cold and had meant to spend a gray, drizzly morning in bed with a troubled hothead of a woman he didn't know if he'd ever get enough of.
He saw that her bandage hadn't come off her wrist during the night. There was no sign of fresh bleeding. She was watching him impatiently, as if she should be the one talking to Bruce. J.B. thought of last night. Lovemaking in the attic. Dinner. More lovemaking.
Life could be good. Definitely. "McGrath—" "I'm on my way." He hung up, and Zoe frowned at him. "Someone
tossed a flash-bang into your boat?" He nodded. "I'm meeting Bruce on the docks." "I'm coming with you." Still holding the covers in place, she kicked her legs
off the side of the bed and reached onto the floor for her clothes. After their lovemaking in the attic, she'd showered and put on fresh clothes. They hadn't lasted, J.B. remembered. He'd carried her up here and removed them piece by piece.
She found her bra and shirt. Her curls were tousled, her skin luminous, the blue flecks in her eyes standing out against the gray early dawn light.
J.B. had on his pants and boat shoes and headed forthe door, his shirt in one hand, his gun and holster in the other. "I'm not waiting. Meet me down at the docks."
He saw the flash of her rose tattoo as she threw back the covers and reached for her pants. His chest muscles seemed to clamp down on his lungs and heart, constricting his breathing, and it was as if every moment of
last night came at him as a whole.
It had been good, but insane.
He slipped out into the hall. Just as well he had a grenade explosion to deal with.
No one could ever say Olivia West was haunting the place. If she were, she'd have flung him onto the cliffs or struck him with a bolt of lightning before the night was over.
Maybe that was what the boat was. Maybe her aim was just off.
By the time he reached his Jeep, he was normal again. Making love to Zoe had been natural, perfect, what they both wanted. No need to feel guilty or worry about ghosts or any of it. His mind was focused, and he concentrated on the task at hand. Get to the docks. Talk to Bruce. Talk to law enforcement. Most likely he'd be explaining himself to the Boston FBI field office before the day was out. They covered Maine. They wouldn't like grenade explosions of any kind.
The dampness penetrated his shirt and jacket. He could taste salt on the drizzle. It was cold out, the air still and very quiet.
A marine patrol boat was down by the docks. Police and fire truck lights penetrated the gloom. It was a low ceiling, not that foggy—which wouldn't last. There was more fog and rain coming.
As he climbed into his Jeep, Zoe ran out of the house barefoot, carrying her shoes, and jumped in next to him. "Luckily all my clothes were right where you threw them."
"So were mine."
As he drove, she pulled on socks over her painted toes, then tucked her feet into her sneakers and tied them. Just over a week ago, he'd had to refer to a map to get here, and when he'd driven down Main Street, he'd thought…how quaint. He'd found the perfect place to do nothing for a couple of weeks. Boat, walk, look at gravestones, eat lobster and blueberry pie and let his demons depart out of sheer boredom, out of disgust with the cloying charm and beauty of Goose Harbor, Maine.
One murder in thirty years. J.B. couldn't pretend it wasn't part of what had drawn him here.
"A grenade explosion will bring on the feds," Zoe said. "Bruce must have told the police by now that you rented the boat. They'll love that. I worked with marine patrol on a boat explosion once. A guy tried to off his wife by blowing up his boat with her in it. Wanted to make it look like an accident."
"She survived?"
"Yes. Not a happy woman."
J.B. parked next to Christina's café. State and local police cars and a couple of fire engines
had pulled in as close to the docks and his boat as they could get without going into the water themselves. If it'd been a destructive grenade of any kind, the entire area could have caught fire—the boats, the docks, the buildings. Bruce Young was standing by himself a few yards from a group of cops, his big arms crossed on his chest as he grimly surveyed the scene.
Zoe got out slowly, her Maine cop eyes taking in who all was down at the waterfront. She'd know people, names. J.B. didn't. He met her in front of his Jeep. Bruce spotted them and waved, and they walked down to the dock. He was still in the parking lot—the police weren't letting anyone on the docks.
"How do you like this?" he asked. "I was in my truck on my way here when—boom! Jesus, it scared the hell out of me."
Zoe shoved her hands into the pockets of her fleece vest. "You called it in?"
He shook his head. "Your sister did."
"Christina? She's here?"
"Making muffins for us rise-at-dawn types." But Bruce obviously didn't like it, either. "The cops are in with her now."
Zoe absorbed his words with a small, tense nod. "She's okay? Did she see anything?"
"She's fine, Zoe. I don't know what she saw. I haven't talked to her." He glanced at the cluster of law enforcement officers, the stretch of yellow police tape, and sighed heavily. "You don't think these guys are telling me anything, do you?"
J.B. noticed Donna Jacobs and what he guessed was a state detective exiting the café. "What about Kyle Castellane?" he asked Bruce. "Was he in his apartment?"
Bruce shook his head. "No idea."
Jacobs joined them, quickly explaining that she had no information on who'd tossed the flasher in the boat or why. "We're still looking for Teddy Shelton. Maybe he can help us." She glanced at J.B. "FBI and ATF are
on their way. I told them I've got a fed here."
"I'm on vacation."
"Yeah. That's what I told them." She turned to Zoe, and J.B. thought her expression softened slightly—but not much. "Talk to your sister. She can fill you in on some things. I just don't have the time."
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