Tomorrow. She would wander outside in the morning light with her sketching pad. Rex and Bronty and Terry. A smile curved on her lips as she thought of a whole new series of dinosaur paintings. Impossibly nice that her silly prehistoric fantasies were selling so well in the gallery. Of course, she had to get the sketches done for the new book, that was her real bread and butter, and there was no way she could use a rural setting for the book illustrations. It was completely a city tale. But in her spare time-
Were there bears out in those trees? She had better get inside before dark. She wanted lights on when night came. What if the place didn’t have electricity? Molly scanned the cabin, looking for wires, evidence of electricity and telephone. Nothing.
The front door was locked. Of course it was locked. She hadn’t thought of keys at all.
She stepped back off the porch and walked around the cabin. She picked her way through a thick growth of leafy, dark green plants and around a barrel placed to catch rainwater from the eaves. What about running water? Molly peered into the barrel. Half full. A layer of dust over the water. Some kind of insect crawling across the surface.
There was a grove of cedar trees at the back of the cabin, the ground beneath carpeted with cedar needles gone a warm brown color. The back door was locked, but she wasn’t too disappointed. Saul was notoriously bad about security. She would find a window open somewhere. In Paris they’d had their apartment ransacked twice, everything gone, because Saul perpetually forgot to lock up.
Having signed the transfer with the lawyer and made the birthday phone call, he would have forgotten all about the house and the cat and every detail associated with them. He certainly would not waste time worrying about keys, but surely one of these windows would open?
The window beside the door didn’t budge when Molly tried to push upwards on the bottom pane. Almost a week since Saul had phoned. What if the cat had starved? Would she find its body out there in the trees? Could cats fend for themselves in the woods? Would there be mice for the cat to hunt? Birds? She could hear birds in the trees, had seen a little blue songster flitting from one branch to another. She hated to think the cat would attack a little bird like that, but if it was starving...
Molly circled the cabin again, looking for a dish filled with some kind of dry cat food. Surely Saul had filled the animal’s dish with food before he’d gone? Enough food to last a few days. How was she going to get inside? Break a window? Could she slip a credit card between the door and the jamb? Would that really work?
She went back to the van for her purse. She got her VISA card out, decided it might be mutilated by an encounter with the latch and substituted a gas company card. She could always use VISA at the Petro-Canada station, but she couldn’t use the gas card at Wal-Mart.
The card slid in, and then encountered something immovable. No matter how much she wiggled and twisted the piece of plastic, nothing happened. The person who built the house had not intended this door to be opened by a little rectangle of plastic. It-
The cat! She could hear it!
She swung around sharply.
The man from the ferry. He was standing at the foot of the porch steps. If anything, he was taller than she had guessed. And his hair was black, coal black and curly, just as dark as those eyes. She gulped and felt her jaw clench with the tension, but managed to demand, “What are you doing to that cat? Let it go!”
He shifted his grip on the scruff of the cat’s neck. The poor thing was probably in pain, being held like that. He took a firmer grip and demanded harshly, “What are you doing? Breaking in?” His voice had none of the husky invitation she had heard in it earlier.
The cat made a faint mewing sound. Molly took a step towards it, stopped abruptly when those black eyes pinned hers.
“It that Trouble?” Her voice sounded weak, as if it belonged to a Victorian maiden about to swoon. She gritted her teeth and repeated, “Have you got Trouble there?”
“I would say that you’re the one looking for trouble.” The cat struggled and he gave it a wary glance, then muttered, “Lady, you’d better stop trying to break in and go find some legal accommodations for yourself.”
She gasped. “Legal? I—”
“If you’re that hard up, couldn’t you sleep in your van?” A muscle jumped in his jaw and Molly shivered.
“We do have police on this island, an R.C.M.P. detachment on South Road.” The cat’s hind legs got a grip on his arm and dug into the sweater he was wearing. “And you just stay put!” he growled.
Molly found her voice. “Let go of that poor cat!”
He gave a bark of laughter as his eyes swept over her. “You’re going to make me? I’d like to see you try. And this cat doesn’t need anybody’s sympathy. She’s probably the most dangerous creature on Gabriola.”
Earlier, sitting in his sports car, Molly had thought that he looked civilized and sexy. Here, with his clothing rumpled and that black hair tumbling down over his forehead, he looked more dangerous than the bears she had fantasized out there in the bushes.
She was damned if she would be intimidated by a man with dangerous black eyes. She growled, “If that’s Trouble, that’s my cat.”
He snorted. “She’s trouble all right.” He shook his head abruptly. “Lady, what the hell are you talking about?”
She jammed her hands into her jeans pockets. She knew it was ridiculous to try to look aggressive and dangerous when she was facing down six foot something of hard, lean muscle, but she was not about to give in.
She announced flatly, “You’re the one who’s trespassing. This isn’t your property.”
“No,” he agreed with dangerous quiet. “Nor yours. It belongs to Saul Natham. Since he’s not here, I’m protecting his property rights. The cat’s his, too, the bloody monster.”
“That’s Trouble? It’s alive? I was afraid—” How was she going to get Trouble away from him? He was holding it—her—as if he were considering strangulation. Molly moved two steps closer, to the edge of the porch. “It’s mine. Let go of it.”
Close up, he seemed even larger. Molly was tall herself, but it wasn’t just his height. The bulk under that sweater had to be pure muscle. Molly would swear there wasn’t an ounce of fat on that lean body. Even the hands holding the poor cat looked hard and strong enough–
“It’s my cat.” She did not want to think about those hands, about their harsh grip turning gentle and caressing. She repeated doggedly, “My cat. Let it go.”
She was close enough now to see that his thumb was stroking the cat’s chin, although he still held the scruff of its neck in a deathly grip. His eyes jerked from her to the van with its open door. Then back again. “No one in their right mind would want this cat. Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”
“The cat’s mine. Saul gave it to me.”
He looked stunned. “Saul—”
“Yes,” she snapped stiffly, not meeting his eyes. Those eyes were too dangerous, catching hers and making her wish his voice would turn warm and friendly again, as it had been the first time she heard it. She tensed her jaw, focused on the cat and repeated, “Yes. Mine. Saul gave it to me.”
Abruptly, he dropped the cat. It ran three steps, then turned and looked at the man, then at Molly, with wild eyes.
“Trouble,” she whispered. “Here, Trouble. Come here.”
The cat fled, disappearing into the trees with a rustle, then nothing. Silence.
“Trouble?” he echoed, staring after the cat. Why did she have the feeling that he was avoiding looking at her now? She pulled her hands out of her pockets, freeing her arms to hug herself. The sun was gone, the sky turned grey and cold.
“The cat’s name is Trouble.
“Trouble?” His laughter sounded almost bitter. “It would be. If it’s your cat, lady, you can pay for my damned screen window. “
“My name’s Molly. Not lady.”
“Molly—” He made it sound derisive. His gaze moved from her eyes to her lips, down
to her sweater, lingering there before it followed the sweater to the lean length of her long legs. “I assume you’re one of Saul’s...friends?”
She felt the heat crawl up her neck and into her face. She opened her lips to deny, but somehow the words would not come.
He took the three steps up to the porch in two easy strides. “Where’s Saul?” He was too close. She could feel his presence, an impact on her senses. A clean male smell, the sound of his breathing, the sensation of anger or frustration held in. He pulled her card out of the door and looked down at it. “Why the credit card stunt? Petro-Canada isn’t going to honor this card now, you know.”
She grabbed the mutilated card from him. “I suppose not. Do you know where he keeps his spare key?”
His eyes narrowed. “You want me to help you get inside?”
The light was going fast. She met his eyes. “Yes, please. You’re the next door neighbor, aren’t you? Mr. McNaughton?”
He shrugged. “Your knowing my name hardly proves anything.”
She licked her lips. “I’m not trying to prove-
“I’m not about to help you break into a neighbor’s house.”
She supposed he was right to be suspicious of her. She could easily prove her right to be here, could show him the lawyer’s papers and identification in her van. Somehow, she felt unwilling to do either. “I- Look, Saul called me last week and demanded I drive out here and rescue his cat. Trouble. And- Well, he just forgot to tell me where the key was.”
He was staring at her. She shook her hair back, trying to escape that uncomfortable examination he was making of her. He looked disapproving, although his voice was neutral as he demanded quietly, “So you really are one of his women?”
“I’m Molly.” If she said she was Saul’s daughter, the scorn would leave his eyes. Somehow, that stirred her to an unusual anger. He had no right to judge her and she was damned if she had to explain herself to him. She muttered, “I’m not anybody’s woman,” giving the word the same derogatory tones he had. She could have sworn he looked uncomfortable and she pressed her advantage, adding, “Are you in the habit of sneering at your neighbor’s private life?”
The cleft in his chin deepened as his jaw jutted out. “No,” he said abruptly. He pushed back the curly tangle of hair from his forehead. “Sorry. I was out of line. Put it down to an ... an odd day.” He sounded uncomfortable, but not sorry.
Abruptly, the remaining light faded from the sky and left her neighbor as only a shadow on her horizon. She stared at the darkness and said hurriedly, “Look, I’m not a prowler. I’m here because Saul asked me to come, and—Well, you can go back to your place.”
“How are you going to get in?”
“That’s my problem, isn’t it? Not yours.” She smiled brightly and realized the fake smile was pointless in the dark.
The problem of getting inside Saul’s gift was one she hadn’t solved. She supposed she would have to break a window. But not until he was gone.
He didn’t move. She shrugged and turned away, feeling her back crawl with the awareness of his eyes on her. Damn the man! Maybe if she pretended he wasn’t there, he would eventually go away. There wasn’t enough light to see, but she ran her hands along the top of the doorjamb. She came away with dusty-feeling fingers, but no key. Next she tried the upper ledge of the window that looked out on the porch. Nothing there either.
She stepped back and gasped at the hard warmth of a man’s body against her buttocks. She gasped, “You—” and tried to turn, but his hands were on her shoulders, holding her. Not roughly, but implacably.
His voice was a rumble she could feel all through her body. “Surely if he invited you, he would have told you how to get in? Or was he going to meet you here?”
“No.” She couldn’t seem to move. She felt panic crawling along her veins, told herself it was fear making her breathing harsh and shallow. “I- No- Let me go!” She was free. She stumbled ahead, away from him, swung around with her hands flat behind her, against the log wall of the cabin.
He was only a shadow, a voice. “A man doesn’t invite a woman and leave her facing a locked door.”
This man wouldn’t. If he invited her- No, stop it! She told herself harshly. What was it about him that made her feel so vulnerable? And the images! Wild and seductive, impressions of touches and caresses, of holding and nestling close. Of feeling... feeling...
“You don’t know Saul,” she whispered desperately. “He’s capable of forgetting everything, not least my existence. Would you please get out of my way! Please, so I can look for that key.”
“Are you sure there’s a key?”
“No, of course I’m not sure. Not with Saul.” She moved to the right and he did nothing to stop her. She felt her lungs taking air again.
What was the man doing to her brain? Fantasies in her work were one thing, but wild emotional reactions weren’t normally in Molly’s dictionary. Was the wildness something that came on only with age? She was Saul’s child. It might be in her genes, waiting to spring on her. When had Saul started behaving like the charming weirdo he was now? At birth, she had always assumed.
She wondered what her neighbor’s first name was.
“I’ll check that for you,” his rumbling voice offered as she tried to reach the top of the windows at the side of the cabin.
“No, thanks. If I can’t reach it, Saul wouldn’t have put it there. He’s only an inch taller than I am.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Forever,” she answered with a wry humor. It was amusing, really, that he thought she was one of Saul’s loves. Obviously, Saul had been living here long enough to allow the neighbors to see a few women coming and going.
She turned around, saw only darkness and knew from some sixth sense that he was gone. She shivered, abruptly aware of how alone she was up here in the darkness of night. Too dark. Too alone now that he had abruptly abandoned her. She would have to go back to that Bed and Breakfast and see if she could stay the night. Tomorrow, in the light of day, she would come and find a way inside.
Then she heard his voice, close and low. She jerked and stumbled in the low bushes beside the house. “I- I thought you’d gone. Where are you? What did you say?”
His footsteps, more an impression of movement on the night than a sound. The dark breadth of his body, shadow on shadow. When his hand closed over her arm, she jumped. His fingers slid down to link with hers.
“Come on. I’ve got the back door open for you.”
He drew her gently towards him and she followed, muttering, “Have you got cat eyes? Can you actually see?”
“Some.” He let her hand go, dropped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him, warning, “Careful, the ground’s uneven here.”
She felt herself melting against his body, soaking in his warmth and strength. She stiffened and fought the sensation of belonging, of wanting. He had a frightening magnetism.
“How- how did you get the door open?”
“Penknife. It’s not much of a lock. Here, watch that step. The back porch here.”
She stumbled and he caught her closer. For just an instant, she felt the heat of his body close against hers, and then she pulled away. “Do you think there’s any electric—”
Suddenly, light flooded everywhere.
Too bright, at first she could only blink, then she saw him and it felt like the first time again, that odd sensation of recognition. Nervously, she told herself it was the porch light, and the man was... just a man. “I- I didn’t think there was power. No wires. I couldn’t see any wires.”
The door was standing open. She walked past him, could feel his presence behind her. She saw a switch on a wall and threw it on. More light, anything to dispel the dark feeling of intimacy. “Thank you. I- Thanks for helping me get in. I’ll be fine now.”
Somehow, she had known he would not leave that easily. Did he feel it, too?
The light was soft inside, absorbed by the dar
kness of the log walls. Beyond the kitchen area, illumination crawled softly into a spacious living room area, with shadows cast by the flight of stairs going up. She whispered, “I knew there’d be a loft. I knew it.” She could not resist the stairs, climbed up slowly, picturing the trees outside although it was too dark to see through the windows.
She stood at the very top, staring into the shadowy loft. There was a sofa on the far side that would make down into a bed. Saul’s studio easel, near the rail where the light from the windows would flood onto his canvas. Why had he left his easel behind? No matter. He would be back for it. Meanwhile, she would use it instead of unpacking hers from the van.
A walkway led across the open area above the living room, terminating at a door that must open onto a balcony. Molly moved along it, her hand sliding on the rail. She wanted to stand outside in the darkness, to soak in the feel of her new home.
She gasped at the voice close behind her, spun and he was too close. Inside her walls.
Awareness tingled along her flesh.
“Why?” he demanded. “What do you see in him?”
Silence, but it felt like words. Fire clashing between them. She felt her own heartbeat, hard and heavy at the core of her, but could not make herself look away from him. She demanded shakily, “Why are you still here?” Her words were only a whisper and he ignored them.
“You don’t strike me as Natham's usual type.”
Molly thought of the procession of Saul’s blondes and redheads over the years. She would tell him she was Saul’s daughter.
Tomorrow, in daylight. Not tonight, not with trembling in her veins.
“You look fresh and young and,” his voice dropped to a suggestive murmur, “too damned innocent for Saul Natham.”
She wrapped her arms around herself, found her voice brittle as she said, “Older men have their appeal.”
“Do they?” His face turned harsh and dangerous in the reflected light. “But I would think that you—I don’t think I have to worry too much about ethics in this situation.”
With Strings Attached (Gabriola Island) Page 3
