by Night Moves
Beau would carry his son into the house and deposit him gently into his bed. Then he and Jeanette would tiptoe to their room across the hall, close the door, make love, and go to sleep in each other’s arms.
How content he was on those Sunday nights, weary yet relaxed after their weekend adventures. Jeanette always fell asleep first, and he would lie there, holding her, listening to her gentle breathing. All was right with the world.
Beau had known he was a lucky man. He knew there were people who didn’t recognize what they had until it was gone, but he wasn’t one of them. No, he had always appreciated what he had while he had it. He treasured his wife and son—even wondered, from time to time, what he would do without them. But he never really thought he would have to find out.
Well, now he knew.
Without them, he would go on living. But only because he had to. There was no alternative.
But it was a life without joy. A life without promise. A life without love.
That, he knew, was the only way he could continue. Once, he’d had everything, and lost it. Now he had nothing … And nothing to lose.
Jordan woke the next morning to sun streaming through the window—and the sound of a telephone ringing.
For a moment, she thought she was back home in her town house.
Then it all came back to her.
Spencer.
Beau.
The pirate.
The drive.
The beach house.
The smile that had been about to drift onto her lips evaporated abruptly as Jordan sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She looked around the bedroom, taking in the whitewashed wooden furniture, the bright teal comforter and draperies, the oversized windows covered in blinds that were only half-closed, the slats far enough apart to let the sun shine in.
Her hastily packed suitcase lay on the floor beside the bureau, still filled with clothes. She had been too exhausted last night to put them away. Too exhausted to do anything more than find her pajamas and toothbrush and collapse into bed.
Now she stood and stretched, wondering what time it was. There was no bedside alarm clock. Well, that wasn’t surprising. This was a vacation house. Most people came here to get away from everything, including clocks.
And some people came here to get away from things that were far more sinister.
As the weight of yesterday’s worries descended again, Jordan made her way across the room.
There were three closed doors in the alcove opposite the bed. She began opening them and found that one led to the closet, another to the bathroom, and a third into the hallway.
When she opened that one and peeked out, she could see that Spencer’s door, across from hers, was still closed.
She could also hear the rumble of Beau’s voice upstairs.
Who could he possibly be talking to?
Oh. She remembered the ringing telephone. Clearly, Beau had been up long enough to have given somebody the number.
Jordan frowned as she headed into the bathroom. Surely Beau wouldn’t have taken it upon himself to call the police about Spencer. They had agreed that they would figure out when and how to contact the authorities only after they reached this safe haven. But Jordan wasn’t yet ready to deal with that. She needed time to collect her thoughts, to brace herself—and Spencer—for whatever lay ahead.
She showered quickly, threw on a pair of white cutoff shorts and a navy T-shirt, and hurriedly tossed the contents of her bag into the empty bureau drawers. She hadn’t brought much. She hadn’t had time to think about it, and she’d had Spencer’s bag to pack, too.
Well, at least she had enough T-shirts, shorts, and undergarments to get through a few days out here—and a bathing suit, too. Beau had reminded her to pack one. Frolicking in the surf was the furthest thing from her mind, but she knew Spencer would want to go to the beach as soon as he realized it was right outside the door.
She stepped out into the hallway.
Now all was silent, and Spencer’s door was still closed. Jordan pushed it open a crack, just enough to satisfy herself that the child was still safely sound asleep in the big bed.
At least there were no pirate nightmares last night, she thought as she padded barefoot up to the top floor, sniffing fresh-brewed coffee.
She found Beau sitting at the breakfast bar with a steaming mug and a pile of paperwork. He wore a pair of blue shorts and a faded gray T-shirt. As she came up beside him, she could smell his clean, citrusy soap-and-shaving-gel scent.
“Coffee?” she asked, peering into his cup. “Where’d you get it?”
“I went down to Food Lion in Corolla to get groceries first thing,” he said, motioning at the plugged-in percolator on the counter.
“Isn’t this first thing?” she asked wryly, trying to catch a glimpse of the watch on his arm. She couldn’t see the hands, but she recognized the maker, and knew the watch cost a small fortune. Until now, she had almost forgotten Andrea MacDuff’s mention that Beau was from a wealthy Southern family. Now she wondered just how well-off he was—and why a millionaire bachelor like him hadn’t long since been snagged by a suitable debutante, or an enterprising gold digger, even.
“I’ve been up since five-thirty,” he said. “I had to call my partner at the office last night and leave the number for this place on the voice mail. He called me back as soon as he got the message this morning.”
“I heard the phone ring.”
Beau nodded. “There’s a little crisis at the office. One of our clients is getting a little testy. He’s used to accomplishing things on demand.”
“I know the type,” she said, finding a mug and pouring herself a cup of coffee. “Ever since Spencer was dropped into my life, it’s as though I’ve managed to forget about my business. I trust my partner to handle things for me, but I’m sure he’s been putting out fires since I left.”
“So you don’t miss it?”
She considered the question. “Actually, I do. But I needed some time away. I’ve been working nonstop ever since we got the business off the ground. My partner calls me a workaholic.”
“Mine, too. But I happen to love what I do.”
Something in his expression told Jordan there might be more to it than that. Maybe, she speculated, work was as much an escape for him as it was for her.
That thought took her by surprise. She had never before considered her catering business an escape. But now, having to face head-on the loss of Phoebe and the responsibility of Spencer, she found herself longing for some insulated haven … just as she had when Kevin left her at the altar.
Then, she had thrown herself into plans for her future. She had planned her move to Washington, put her business plan into motion with Jeremy, and pulled out all stops to launch J&J Catering. It was easy to let her work consume her in the years since. That way, there was little time for her to spend at home, contemplating her life—or lack of one.
But now that life had thrown her another curve, there was no buffer zone. There was no escape—except, she suddenly comprehended, into Beau’s arms.
Beau began stacking the paperwork. “If Ed can’t keep this client off my back, I might have to go back up there for a meeting,” he said grimly.
“Back to D.C.?” Jordan was alarmed. He was going to leave her and Spencer here alone?
“Believe me, it’s the last thing I want to do, Jordan. But I can’t risk alienating Landry. Making him happy is key to the firm’s future.” He tucked the papers into a briefcase and looked at her. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t leave you here if I didn’t think you’d be safe. And I wouldn’t be gone much more than twenty-four hours.”
“Could you fly there and back in the same day?”
Again she saw the shadowed expression cross his eyes. “No,” he said tersely.
“But—”
“I don’t fly, Jordan.” He rose and strode toward the master bedroom suite. “I’m going to change into my bathing suit and go out for a swim.”
She o
pened her mouth to say something. She wasn’t sure what; she only knew that the mood had changed in an instant. But he had already disappeared inside his room, closing the door firmly behind him.
On the other side of the door, Beau leaned against it, exhaling shakily, eyes closed.
Coward, he berated himself.
He was a damned coward.
Afraid to fly.
Afraid to confess the reason to the woman who was counting on him to be her hero.
Well, he thought bitterly, Jordan was a fool if she thought he could save her and Spencer. He couldn’t save anyone.
Hadn’t he learned that in the most heart-wrenching way imaginable?
So, then what are you doing here? What are they doing here? Why did you bring Jordan and Spencer to this remote spot? So that they could run away, just as you’ve been doing all these years?
What choice did he have? She had begged him to get her and Spencer out of Georgetown, away from her town house and the stranger who was lurking, asking too many questions. He had done what he thought was right What he knew was right.
There was no telling what the pirate wanted or who he was.
Now that they had Spencer in seclusion, they would have time to figure out their next move.
That made sense. It did. He couldn’t beat himself up for a decision that still seemed the wisest course.
With a heavy sigh, Beau moved swiftly to the dresser and pulled out a bathing suit. As he undressed and slipped into the faded navy swim trunks, he told himself that everything would be fine. He just needed to take a swim and clear his head. He needed to burn off the tension that had been building within him all morning, ever since he’d spoken to Ed and realized that he might have to go back to Washington.
Landry was demanding a meeting. He wasn’t satisfied with their progress so far. The CEO was flying home tonight from a business meeting in Zurich and expected to meet Beau and Ed at his convenience tomorrow.
According to Ed, they were perilously close to alienating the man and losing not just this project, but the promise of a contract to design Landry’s new corporate headquarters in the near future. The future of the firm was riding on this man’s satisfaction.
Beau should explain that to Jordan. He should explain a lot of things to Jordan, he realized. She deserved to understand where he was coming from.
He took a deep breath. He should tell her. He should go back out there and tell her what had happened. It was the only way he could expect her to grant him the emotional leeway he needed.
He grabbed a towel and stepped back out into the living area, steeling himself for the necessary confrontation.
But the stool where Jordan had been sitting was empty.
So was the third floor.
He walked slowly down the stairs, stopping at the second floor landing. From here, he could see that her bedroom door was closed. He could hear the faint sound of water running in her bathroom.
Okay.
He would leave her alone for now, he decided, continuing on down to the first floor. He could tell her about it later. There would be plenty of time for talking.
Stepping outside into the bright North Carolina sunshine, he encountered a blast of humid heat. He walked quickly toward the weathered gray boardwalk that led to the water.
The sun-heated wooden planks warmed Beau’s bare feet. On either side of the boardwalk, dunes of white, powdery sand were tufted with long, pale green grasses and clumps of blooming wildflowers. At the end of the boardwalk the dunes fell away and a wide beach came into view. A gull swooped low overhead against a periwinkle sky; beyond the impossibly clean width of sand, the cornflower-blue waters of the ocean beckoned.
Beau sighed.
How he had missed the sea. He had grown up not far from the Gulf Coast, where the beach provided lifelong therapy for whatever ailed him. When things went wrong, he found solace along the shore and let the warm, rhythmic salt waves wash away his worries.
Then disaster struck, and he was cast adrift on a sea of despair. It had been years since he’d allowed himself the pleasure of a day at the beach. He had only agreed to this getaway because Lisa had insisted, but in the months since their breakup, he had found himself looking forward to the solo vacation.
It might no longer be solo—or a vacation—but Beau felt a sense of healing begin to seep into him nonetheless.
Tossing his towel wherever it dropped, he strode across the hot, shell-strewn sand to the cool, wet sand at the water’s edge. The first wave washed over his feet. He looked down at the foamy water as it trailed back out to sea, leaving the sand around his feet momentarily dotted with thousands of tiny black spots.
Leaning closer, Beau saw that they were miniature mollusks. As he watched, they burrowed back into the sand, hurrying to bury themselves before the next wave washed over them. The moment they vanished without a trace, another wave swooped in and left them vulnerable again.
Beau straightened, filling his lungs with the damp ocean breeze as he looked around.
This stretch of beach was private, meant only for the use of residents and renters of the adjacent cluster of houses. A little way down, a mother sat at the water’s edge watching over a toddler who was filling a bucket with water. A man lay snoozing in a sand chair beneath an umbrella. Two cyclists pedaled along a distant stretch of packed sand beside the water.
Other than that, there wasn’t another human in sight.
Beau waded into the surf, curling his toes into the wet sand. The water was cool, especially compared to the Gulf waters he had once known. But as he waded deeper, his body grew accustomed to the temperature and it actually began to feel warm.
When he was shoulder deep, beyond the line of breaking waves, he dove in.
He skimmed the chilly, murky bottom and found himself immersed in grim, graphic memories. He held his breath as long as he could, forcing himself to stay submerged, allowing the barrage of images to torment him.
Finally, when his lungs were bursting and his head felt as though it were about to explode, it was as if his body’s instinct for self-preservation overtook his need for self-punishment.
He surfaced.
After sputtering a bit and gulping air, he began swimming toward the horizon. His arms clawed the water with powerful strokes as his feet kicked and his head dipped back and forth, back and forth with the rhythmic breathing he’d learned as a little boy.
He swam with a purpose.
He swam as though he were being chased.
As though, were he to lift his head to look behind him, he would see a couple of demons doggedly following him.
Demons …
Or ghosts.
He kept swimming, slowing his pace only when he was nearly spent. Treading the deep water, seeing how far he’d come from shore, it occurred to him that he could keep going. He could keep swimming toward the horizon until he wore himself out and let the waves wash over him, carrying him down into oblivion.
Then, would he feel what they had felt?
No.
No, because he wouldn’t be fighting for his life.
For him, the cold oblivion would be welcome.
Beau tipped his face toward the warm sun, floating on his back as he contemplated his options.
He could keep swimming toward the horizon and a certain fate.
Or he could swim toward shore and uncertainty.
Shore, where Jordan and Spencer waited.
He floated a few moments longer.
Then, his mind made up, he lifted his head, plunged his face back into the water, and began stroking toward the distant sand.
Chapter Nine
“What do you want to do for dinner?” Beau asked as Jordan came up the stairs after her shower.
“What do you want to do?” she countered, conscious of Spencer’s presence. The little boy was sprawled on the floor beside the couch, where Beau was leafing through a coffee table book about Outer Banks shipwrecks.
“I want a Happy Meal,”
Spencer announced, looking up from a couple of miniature metal cars Beau had brought back from his earlier trip to the supermarket. Spencer had built a ramp for them using Beau’s beat-up loafers and a local telephone book.
“A Happy Meal?” Jordan echoed, wondering what the heck that was.
“I don’t think there’s a McDonald’s out here, fella,” Beau said, leaning over to ruffle Spencer’s hair.
Okay, so a Happy Meal was clearly some kind of fast-food kiddie fare that Spencer would have to do without.
Spencer gave the glass coffee table a disappointed kick.
“Careful!” Jordan said, reaching out to steady a sculpture of a seagull that sat in the middle of it.
“Don’t worry about him hurting that thing,” Beau said. “It’s solid and it weighs a ton. It’s not going anywhere.”
“When can we go back to the beach?” Spencer wanted to know.
“Tomorrow, if the weather’s nice,” Jordan promised.
“Can I play on my rock?”
She smiled. “Sure.”
Spencer’s “rock” was a jutting boulder just in front of the dunes. It seemed out of place there amid the mountains of soft sand. He had spotted it not long after they arrived on the beach today and seemed fascinated by it. He scaled it fairly easily and sat up there, looking out at the sea, wearing a pensive expression. Jordan had found herself wondering whether he was thinking about his mother. It was Beau who had broken the spell, coaxing Spencer down from the rock and into a spirited game of Frisbee.
Jordan handed Beau the bottle of aloe lotion he’d loaned her. “Here you go,” she said. “Thanks. It helped.”
“Did you get all the burned spots?” he asked, looking concerned.
“I think so.”
“What about your back? It looked pretty bad when we left the beach.”
“I couldn’t reach it,” she said. The moment she saw the look that crossed his face, she wanted to take the words back.
“I’ll do it for you. Come here.”
“It’s okay. It isn’t—”
“Come here,” he repeated, moving over and patting the couch cushion beside him.
She plunked herself down, her back to him. Her skin did feel tender and sore from the sand and the blistering sun. She’d worn sunscreen, but had foolishly applied a lower SPF to her skin than she had to Spencer’s.
