by BJ James
The hammer pounded. Kate remembered a sagging dock damaged by tides and time, and knew he was repairing it.
Devlin made promises and kept them. She had made none, and had none to keep. Tossing the book aside and catching up the sundress she often wore over bathing suits, Kate went in search of shoes. Then a little sunscreen on her nose, moisturizer for her lips, a band to hold back her hair, and she was ready for her first neighborly visit.
A thought and a detour to the kitchen delayed her journey. But days on the island were timeless, marked only by the rise of the sun and the setting of the moon. What did she have but time? Too much time to brood. From the look in his somber eyes, what did he?
The walk was a bit over a mile, if one counted the small jogs from the water’s edge to the dunes to investigate suspected treasures. The basket she carried grew heavy, but she didn’t mind. What better way to ease tired arms and a restive mind than browsing tidal pools, while the basket languished on the sand?
The deep thud of the hammer served as her beacon. The sound was rhythmic, with evenly timed breaks. Enough to fetch a board, or smooth a rough edge. Long enough, she supposed, for a hungry man to wolf down a sandwich or soft drink. Considering that the sun was approaching its zenith, a definite possibility.
Amazingly, Kate didn’t care. For too long she’d worried about every little detail of every little thing. The worry weighing her down like a burden. But today, with different worries lying like a wound on her heart, the small happenstances didn’t matter. If he’d eaten by the time she arrived, the meal could be put in the fridge. After a long day of laboring in the sun, a shrimp salad sandwich and a glass of white wine should go down smooth and easy with twilight.
The staccato beat of the hammer set the tempo as she climbed the steps leading to Devlin. The rambling structure of the oldest house on the island stood on pilings hidden by lattice. Through checkered openings she could see him, naked to the waist, a bandanna tied about his forehead, sweat gleaming on straining muscles.
He moved like a dancer, but without flourish or conspicuous display. He was simply a man doing a job, and doing it well.
In the shadows beneath the house, Kate stopped to watch, recognizing as never before that a man at work was a thing of beauty.
Amused by the poetic vision, she grasped the basket tighter, stepped past the house, skirted the pool, and crossed the back lawn to the dock. With each step she discovered that he was more than beautiful. Yet with a rough edge to his magnetism, an intensity bespeaking strength and virility. An intriguing brawny power in the leanness of his body and the startling width of his shoulders.
His jeans were aged and tattered, the faded color more white than blue. The denim, worn thin, embraced like fragile silk. When he planted his booted feet, hefting an oversize support in place then walking it upright, there was little doubt the brawn and virility applied to every inch of Devlin O’Hara.
Kate had never been a jock watcher. In college she hadn’t understood the groupie mentality of classmates who drooled over athletes, or swooned at a smile from the fraternity chaps. Devlin wasn’t a college athlete, she suspected he had been too much the maverick for fraternities, but at the ripe old age of thirty-three, she was beginning to understand those long-ago classmates.
A terminal case of delayed adolescence? Groaning, Kate shifted the basket and wondered if she’d lost her mind. Paul Bryce had been as handsome, as virile, yet he’d never intrigued her.
“Hello, Kate.”
“Devlin, good morning.” Kate was pleased with the casual greeting, except that it was afternoon now.
If he noticed the mispoken time he didn’t comment. His welcoming gesture was natural, as if she appeared on his doorstep every day with a basket clutched in her hands. A morning in the sun had laid another layer of tan on his face, and the flash of his smile was lightning reaching out to strike.
The new darkness of his features made his eyes bluer. If the stunning smile ever touched them, he would be devastating.
“Sorry for the ruckus.” Droplets of sweat gleaming, veins standing like ropes beneath bronzed skin, he made the apology sincerely. “This is something I felt I needed to do.”
As a favor to Hank McGregor, the owner? Kate wondered. Or because he needed to work? “Rain and a rough tide undermined the pilings again several weeks ago. I intended to call Mr. McGregor, but when Jericho was out on patrol, he said he would.”
“He did.” One last push, and the brace was in place. Patting the rough wood, and swiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm, Devlin faced her. “I figure the least I can do in return for use of the house, is to make the repairs.”
“You know Mr. McGregor?”
Sliding the bandanna from his head, Devlin mopped his throat and chest with it. “Only through Jericho”—with a quirk of his lips, as he picked up a hammer—“I knew he was a character when I realized what he’d named the house.”
“You’ve deciphered the sign out front?”
“I think so.” Finished with putting his tools away, Devlin took the basket from her, hefting it in his hand. “Lunch?”
“If you like.”
Taking her arm, his fingers closing over the soft, bare flesh, he led her to a puddle of shade beneath a palmetto. “Give me a minute to clean up, darlin’, and I’ll show you how much I like.”
The memory of his touch tingling against her arm, Kate watched as he strolled to the house. Watched as the sun struck an iridescent sheen on his skin, and worn jeans clung as faithfully to his rear as his thighs. No bravado, no theater, the honest sweat and the favored clothing of a man at work, with no thought to entice.
Kate had no doubt he could be a master at the art of beguiling, but she found his uncontrived appeal far more disarming. She’d grown surprisingly comfortable with Devlin in a short time. A rare circumstance, one that would never have happened if he’d made a great show of his charm and gallantry.
Or was that part of his mystique? Did he tailor his manner to the woman? That there had been women was a forgone conclusion. How many were lovers? How many friends? Would he understand that a friend was what she needed? All she wanted?
“Deep thoughts?” He stood at her side, his hair damp and brushed back. In that little time, he’d slipped on a shirt, stuffed a fresh bandanna in a pocket, and changed into jeans a little less faded, a little less enamored of his masculinity.
Looking up, she met the unsmiling gaze. “Not so deep.”
His mouth moved in concern. “Important thoughts, then.”
“Sorry. Nothing deep. Nothing important.” Kate’s denial was reiterated by the barest shake of her head. A denial, and a lie that made no sense. Caught in a quagmire of grief and guilt, she’d lived the life of a recluse for months, resisting every offer of comfort and every friendly overture. Then Devlin came. Generous, wicked, teasing Devlin with his ready smile, and his sad eyes. And in him she saw a kindred soul, and a friend.
Dragging out a chair, he sat across from her, his hands folded on the table. Instead of pursuing her comment, he changed subjects smoothly. “I was hoping you would come by.”
“You were? Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you.” His fingers flexed and tightened over each other. “I wanted it to be your choice.”
“I’m here, Devlin.” Her tone was rueful. “I don’t understand why. But understanding, or not, the choice was mine.”
“Don’t try to understand, Kate. Just play this slow and easy, letting each day bring what it will.” Linking a finger through hers, he grinned. “I hope today brought good company and a feast for a famished man.”
“I suppose that makes this the first day we take as it comes…to see what it brings.” Kate didn’t react to his touch, nor did she take her hand away. “Shall we begin with the basket?”
“Darlin’.” He clasped her hand briefly in his. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Kate set out the simple meal, then sat back to watch. If she feared bringing the mea
l was a mistake, he set her mind at ease by the sheer pleasure with which he ate.
His appetite was good, but from the slenderness that left corded muscles almost too exquisitely defined, she doubted that was always the case. “More?” She offered her own sandwich as he finished his second. “Or there’s cheesecake from the freezer.”
“Can’t.” Leaning back, he flexed a shoulder and sighed. “I’d like to sit here awhile, just listening to you.”
“Listening to me?” Kate was startled by the comment. “Why on earth would you want that?”
“Because I like your voice. Clear and soothing, calm, even when you’re not.” He saw her tense, but gave no indication he had. “I swear, I believe you’re proof of the legend.”
His charisma might be uncalculated, but he wasn’t above pure blarney. “What legend would that be, Mr. O’Hara?”
“Charming birds out of trees, darlin’. With that low, sweet voice.” The teasing was gone from his tone, the contentment from his look. “Talk to me, Kate. Charm me, just for a little while.”
Make me forget.
He didn’t say the words, but she heard them as surely as if he had. He was tired, likely dehydrated, and a half bottle of wine hadn’t helped. She wanted to refuse, but couldn’t. Just as she couldn’t bristle at the casual endearment, as she would have once upon another time. Thinking to inject the safety of formality into the familiar, she began, “What would you like me to say, Mr….?”
“Don’t, Kate,” he interrupted quietly. “Don’t call me Mister. We’ve a long way to go, but we’ve come past that.”
“All right.” Clasping her hands in her lap, she began again. “What would you like me to say, Devlin?”
“Anything.”
“Anything,” she mused, casting about for a subject. Recalling a lone sign on the dune by the steps, she found the topic of what she intended to be a short monologue. “Turtles.”
Beneath the piercing gaze that never left her lips, she continued, “There’s a loggerhead nest beyond the Sea Watch. A late hatching nest. Which is one of the reasons I keep the lights low.”
Catching his gaze, she asked, “You do know the hatchlings follow bright lights, and could wander away from the sea?”
Devlin ducked his head, once, acknowledging that he knew, but reluctant to break the flow of her voice.
“The rest hatched, except one other by Scotch and Water.”
Drawn from rapt attention, he mused, “Scotch and Water?”
“This house.” Her gesture implied the space around them. “Your house. Every place on the island has a sign with its name. McGregor was more inventive, and twice as secretive. Hobie, the guard, says it’s fun to watch folks figure out the two signs. One McGregor plaid.”
“One solid blue,” he finished for her.
“Most who know McGregor by reputation or name only, assume it stands for a Scot by the sea. Those who know him more intimately, choose Scotch and Water.”
“McGregor’s drink of choice,” Devlin supplied, and the half smile was back. The man was plainly a character, exactly the sort who would think nothing of turning his summer home over to the friend of a friend. No questions asked. But that was the sort of friend who was drawn to Simon McKinzie. The sort of friend he trusted and treasured. Devlin’s smile became a chuckle. “So he sits back, sips his Scotch and water, and watches the fun.”
“That’s the way Hobie tells it.”
“I like how Hobie tells it.”
“So do I.” Her story done, Kate fell silent.
“Don’t stop.”
Laying her hands on the table, fingers splayed in mild exasperation, Kate was at a loss. “What else is there to say? I told you more than you ever wanted to know about the island and its creatures days ago. And now, its most interesting character.”
“There’s one you left out.” He took her hand again, lacing his fingers through hers, folding their palms together until he felt the softness of hers against the rough calluses of his. “The most intriguing of all, Kate Gallagher.”
For the second time, Kate hadn’t withdrawn from his touch.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Please.”
“You asked for it.” She’d meant to refuse, but once again she couldn’t. “I’m thirty-three, a spinster, and an only child with no place to call home. My father was a roving ambassador who took my mother and me everywhere. We moved so often, I was a lonely, gawky child who turned to her studies and music. When I was fifteen and the gawkiness went away, I lived in Spain and modeled professionally for a Spanish designer. At seventeen I left for college to study music, but turned to law. It was then my parents were killed in a two-day coup in a country that no longer exists.”
She’d begun like a schoolgirl delivering an assigned recitation in a bored chant. With the last, her voice broke. Drawing a shaky breath, she stopped. Devlin waited patiently, certain sympathy was the last thing she wanted or should have to face.
In time, with a lift of her chin, she began again. “After law school, I turned to mediation.” At a loss about how to explain away the secret years in The Black Watch, or the partnership with Paul Bryce, she evaded and simplified. “For years that’s what I did. Mediation in one form or another, in one place or another. Finally, I suppose I burned out.
“Now, I’m here, biding my time.” With the painful memory of Paul. She’d looked away from Devlin, now she turned back. “And that’s it, Devlin. The life of Kate Gallagher in a nutshell.”
She’d done a good job of reducing thirty-three years to the bare essentials, Devlin mused. The uninformed would never guess of her service in The Black Watch, or believe a woman so lovely could survive and excel in the rigorous training required of its agents.
Only a fool wouldn’t see the hurt in her. But who could understand the danger that had been her life? Or the bond of trust and love between partners. A bond obliterated, not just by separation, but by assassination and sacrifice.
To say Kate was hurting was like saying a severed hand was a laceration. He’d watched the folk of Belle Terre give the woman and her grief a wide berth. Because they couldn’t know.
But Devlin knew and he understood, if only in part, that it was more than loyalty to the sworn secrecy of The Black Watch that kept her from speaking of the death of her partner. More than grief that ripped her apart.
Kate kept a painful secret hidden deeply within her grief. He knew that much, but only that. Until she trusted him enough to explain, he couldn’t comfort her. He didn’t know how. Instead he offered her the panacea of work.
“If you aren’t in a rush to get back to Sea Watch, would you mind lending a hand?” Drawing the bandanna from his pocket, he added persuasion to the request. “Setting and nailing the railings will go much faster with someone to steady them.”
“Give me a minute to pack the remnants of lunch away, and I’ll join you.” Opening the basket jogged her memory. Taking out a packet of coffee, she set it on the table. “A replacement.”
“This wasn’t necessary, Kate. I found a cache in the freezer. But I wouldn’t have died for the lack if I hadn’t.”
Nor would she, Kate knew, except that it kept the constant band of tension at her temples from progressing to the blurred distortions of migraines. When it happened, most were strange, and peculiarly painless. But there were others that were relentless agony, an ice pick of pain in the center of her brain. Rare, thank God. But not so rare she didn’t live in fear of them.
There were medicines for migraines. Some she couldn’t tolerate, with side effects worse than the ache. Others, inexplicably, were ineffective. Thus, caffeine had become her ally.
Simon’s battery of physicians and psychologists suggested strongly that the best cure would be coming to terms with Paul’s death. To accept his sacrifice for what it was, be grateful, and go on with her life as he would have wanted.
Kate had seen their unanimous decision as a diagnosis of weakness instead. Never one for mincing
words, in one of his famous five point—five fingers folding into a fist—lectures, Simon insisted her difficulty was exactly the opposite. Difficulty, he’d reiterated adamantly, not infirmity or disorder. One every agent of The Black Watch encountered eventually. The toll of living in constant danger. The horrendous cost of strength.
Simon’s theory made no sense then. It made none she wanted to face now. So, while headaches threatened she subsisted on coffee.
“You’ve been back to town, have you, Kate?”
As he disrupted her musing, he tied the bandanna across his forehead. Its brilliant red pattern, creating a marked contrast with his skin and hair, drew her gaze to his like a magnet. To eyes like the sky at twilight, deep, rich blue, glittering with the remnants of the light of day, but with the lurking shadows of darkness. Watching her intently, as if he sensed the restlessness and concern that had drawn her to him, he waited patiently.
For something to do, she tucked the last of the food away and closed the basket before answering. “I was there this morning.”
“How was Tessa?” In his mind, the child would be as much the drawing card as the supplies Kate needed. Noticing the start of a disappointed frown, he asked, “You did see her, didn’t you?”
There it was, the question she anticipated. The crux of which was none of her business, and none of her concern. Or so she’d told herself all morning.
“She wasn’t there,” Kate answered after a slight hesitation. “Neither was her grandmother. No one was selling flowers up front.”
“Where do you suppose they were? When will they be back?”
“I spoke with the manager, thinking it might be because of the early hour. But he explained that the woman always came early, that she might miss one day, even two or three, but certainly never a week during this season.”
He’d finished with the bandanna and stood attentively, one hand by his side, the other hooked at the waist of his jeans. A casual stance, belying the stirrings of disquiet. “Now she has?”
“She hasn’t been back since Tessa gave me the flowers.” Kate recalled the day, the flowers, the angelic child. “Granted, the manager said the old woman’s days at the store were dependent on the weather and her flowers.”
