Helen hadn’t seemed surprised in the least when Delaney had told her what had happened. That in itself spoke volumes. The age difference alone had given her grandmother concern about her marriage to Stanford, but she had kept her doubts to herself because Delaney had appeared happy. Then again, they both had a history of sweeping unpleasantness under the carpet.
Stanford’s infidelity hadn’t been the only problem with the marriage. It had been a symptom of his complete disregard for her as a person. The proof of that was he’d felt no remorse over betraying their intimacy. There must have been rumors about his wanderings. That helped explain why so few of her and Stanford’s circle had kept in touch with her after the accident. Jenna couldn’t have been the only one of Delaney’s so-called friends who had slept with her husband, which would have made it awkward to console his grieving and apparently oblivious widow.
God, she had been a fool. How relieved Jenna must have been to hear that she couldn’t remember the night of the accident.
Max never encouraged her to remember, did he? He maintained she should let the past stay buried. That was a contradiction, since being with him had the opposite effect.
Something twitched inside her mind. Warmth whispered across her hand as his presence drifted through her consciousness. He seemed so nearby, she glanced over her shoulder to see if he was there.
A group of people stood inside the entrance to the tent. They appeared to be in the midst of a spirited discussion as they peeled off rain ponchos and furled umbrellas. One waved to the woman at the table of glass ornaments as the others hurried over to the wood carvings.
Delaney gave herself a mental shake and kept walking. So far, Max came to her only when she was alone. She wasn’t going to imagine him here, of all places. That would really be nuts.
She found Helen beside a large quilt done in an interlocking log-cabin pattern. It was dominated by eye-popping shades of orange and red that were difficult to look at for more than a few seconds.
“What do you think?” Helen asked. “Would you want to sleep under this one?”
“Maybe the sight of it would help a person wake up in the morning.”
Helen laughed. “Exactly what I thought. Let me show you Ada’s,” she said, hooking her hand through Delaney’s elbow. She guided her to the next row of frames and stopped in front of another quilt. The colors were all earth tones, soft greens, creams, and browns. Fabrics that ranged from corduroy to chintz had been expertly pieced into a jagged starburst.
“That’s incredible,” Delaney said. “It looks like springtime.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s a work of art,” Helen said proudly. She pointed to the sign on one side of the frame. “Did you see the best part?”
A blue ribbon rosette had been fixed to the label that bore Ada Ross’s name. “First prize!” Delaney read. “That’s terrific.”
“She deserves it. I’d hang this on my wall before I put it on a bed.” She looked past Delaney and smiled. “Ada! There you are. Why didn’t you tell me you won?”
A tiny, white-haired wren of a woman hurried over to hug Helen. What Ada Ross lacked in height she made up for in energy. She grinned, practically dancing in place as if she couldn’t contain her excitement. “I just found out myself,” she said.
“Congratulations,” Delaney said. “That’s fabulous news.”
Ada nodded. “When I heard who the judges were, I thought I didn’t have a chance. Moira Nolan has had it in for me since Bruno dug up her hydrangea.”
“Bruno is Ada’s dog,” Helen explained with a laugh.
“Moira does understand quilting, though, I’ll give her that,” Ada continued. “She’s got the tiniest stitches; I’m sure she must work with a magnifying glass. But what would a real artist know about it? That’s what worried me. You know what he said? It was an easy decision. He says I have artistic vision. Me.” She fluttered her hands in front of her. “John Harrison thinks I’m talented. That’s worth more to me than the ribbon.”
Delaney stiffened. “John Harrison?”
Ada’s smile faded at her tone. “I don’t care what people say about him. You can’t argue with success. He’s a good artist.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is,” Delaney said quickly. “I was just, ah, surprised.”
“I told her John keeps to himself,” Helen put in.
“That’s true. I heard we were lucky he could fit this into his schedule. It’s such a shame. He seems decent enough. If people saw more of him, maybe they would go easier on him.” She dug into the handbag that she held hooked on her arm. “Look what he gave me,” she said, holding out a white business card. “It’s the phone number of a gallery owner he knows who deals with fabric art.”
“Good for him,” Helen said. “I was just saying to Delaney that your quilt belongs on a wall.”
The name and number had been written across the back of the card in a bold, masculine scrawl. John Harrison had done that, Delaney thought. She had a mad urge to touch it the same way she touched his photograph. She could almost imagine the strength of his hand.
Ada tucked the card away. “I always viewed it as just a hobby, but he told me people regard it differently if they have to pay for it. It got me thinking.”
“A new career?” Helen asked.
“Why not? My youth isn’t going to last forever.”
This brought on a round of laughter from Ada and Helen. Delaney started to join in when the nape of her neck tingled. Her pulse lurched. Awareness stroked across her skin and spread through her mind.
She took a few deep breaths and turned.
A tall, broad-shouldered man was moving in her direction along the center aisle of the tent. He was dressed all in black, from his tailored pants to the silk shirt that stretched across his chest. A black raincoat was draped over one arm. His dark hair was damp and combed straight back from his face, revealing the features that Delaney knew by heart: the bold nose, the lean cheeks and sharp jaw, the grooves beside his mouth that deepened when he smiled.
But he was no figment of her imagination. An officious-looking woman in a beige business suit walked beside him, gesturing to the metal clipboard she held. He bent his head toward her as she spoke. A young couple detoured around both of them in order to reach the booth with the bead-and-feather jewelry. He wasn’t hazy around the edges. There was no hint of transparency to his image. He was indisputably there. His leather shoes connected solidly with the worn-down grass of the aisle with each step he took. Water beaded on his raincoat just as it had gleamed on his face when he’d knelt at Delaney’s feet and moved her thighs apart . . .
No! It wasn’t this man who had kissed her. He’d never touched her scars or shared her most personal secrets. That had been Max. Only Max. This man didn’t know her. She should stop staring at him.
He lifted his head slowly, as if he sensed her regard. Blue eyes met hers.
Logic be damned, she wanted to run to him, yank aside the beige woman and her clipboard, and fling herself into his arms, take him to the meadow of wildflowers or the cloud or her bed and taste his skin and his mouth and his love because dear God wouldn’t it be wonderful if her friend could be real.
He continued to regard her, his expression shuttered. He didn’t look like the kind of man who had ever been a child, let alone a boy who had made imaginary mud pies with her or slid down a banister or run along the drive with his arms stretched out like airplane wings. He didn’t look like a man who would share his thoughts, either. There was a self-contained stillness around him. A wariness.
She smiled and opened her mind, putting all the strength she had into a silent shout. Max!
There was no response. No teasing laugh rumbling along her bones. No phantom caress on her cheek or her breast. Not even a cranky order to stop bothering him. There was no trace of passion in his gaze, only caution and a hint of . . . puzzlement.
Her vision blurred. Good God, of course he would seem puzzled. He probably thought she was hitting on
him. She turned away before she could make a complete fool of herself. Mercifully, he would have no way of knowing what was going on in her head.
Get a grip, she ordered. He’s not Max.
Right. He was John Harrison. Famous painter. Infamous ex-con. Helen’s neighbor and apparently a judge of the arts and crafts displays at the Willowbank Waterfront Festival. A real man. A total stranger . . .
. . . who had just happened to appear naked in her fantasies.
Helen touched her arm. “Is something wrong?”
She jumped. “Sorry, I—”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ada said.
“You only picked at your lunch,” Helen said. “You really need to eat more, Deedee.”
“I’m fine, Grandma.” Delaney forced a smile. “I was just looking around. Your quilt is truly in a class by itself, Ada. How long did it take to complete?”
Ada exchanged a glance with Helen but accepted Delaney’s change of subject. It took little prodding to get her started on a description of her craft. Delaney admired her enthusiasm, and she tried to pay attention, yet it was difficult to focus on the conversation.
Awareness continued to chase across her nerves. It was different from before, because there was nothing imaginary about the male presence she sensed. John Harrison was a physically compelling man. It was why she’d given his face to Max. He was tall, dark, and had the edgy, bad-boy aura that many women would find irresistible.
Not Delaney, though. She’d never been attracted to that type of man. Except for Max. And she’d made Max that way because he was Stanford’s opposite. He was pure, unvarnished emotion. He could get her excited with merely a look, a touch, a thought . . .
But she couldn’t analyze this now, not when the living embodiment of her sexual fantasies was less than thirty feet away. This was too embarrassing for words. How could she even think about sex? She was standing in front of her grandmother while her friend discussed the merits of polished cotton thread.
She couldn’t hear any footsteps on the ground that separated them, yet some instinct told her when he drew nearer. It wasn’t her mind that felt his proximity, it was her body. Her nerves hummed, her senses sharpened. Although Helen and Ada were still talking, she had no trouble picking out the conversation that was going on behind her.
“John, we need to make a decision on the handicrafts category.”
“I told you my choices, Moira.”
Delaney bit her lip. It was Max’s voice, yet not Max’s. It wasn’t as deep, and the tone was rougher. The differences were subtle, like hearing a recording of her own voice compared to how she sounded in her head.
“But you gave me three names. We need one.”
“I told you the category is too broad. It should be broken down.”
“All right. We’ll keep that in mind when we make the rules for next year’s festival.”
“You want a decision that’s fair, you change the rules now. Three winners. Bill me for the extra two ribbons.”
John Harrison’s voice might sound different from Max’s, but those words were exactly like something her friend would have said. He never failed to speak his mind.
Images jumbled through her head. Her bedroom, the pond, the oak that used to hold her swing. She closed her eyes. In spite of what she knew to be real, to be sane, she opened her mind to their connection one last time.
There was no response.
Because, of course, he wasn’t Max. She dropped her hand to her purse, cupping the bulge the paper-wrapped butterfly made against the leather. She did know the difference, she reminded herself. As she’d already realized, no real man could measure up to the fantasy she’d created.
The voices grew fainter. They must have changed direction. Only through a supreme effort of will did Delaney stop herself from turning to watch him go.
“Honey, are you sure you’re all right?”
Delaney blinked. “I’m fine, Grandma. Really.”
“It’s the dampness, if you ask me,” Ada said. “It sucks all the heat out of your body. Makes my joints ache, too.”
“Tell me about it.” Helen rubbed her hands over her arms. “Though with all the goodies my granddaughter’s been baking, you’d think I’d have enough padding for insulation.”
“I left an extra sweater in the car,” Delaney said. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Oh, don’t bother.”
She slid the strap of her umbrella from her wrist, fumbling it in her eagerness. “It would be my pleasure, Grandma. I could use some air.”
It was a flimsy excuse, but it got her out of the tent and away from John Harrison before she could do something completely ridiculous. Granted, she’d told herself she was going to face what bothered her, but there were limits, especially in public. Not every man would be as understanding as Max when it came to explaining the workings of her subconscious. That was because Max was her subconscious. God, could this get any more confusing?
The folk musicians who had been playing in the band shell when she and Helen had arrived were packing up their instruments as she passed by the stage. The audience that had gathered on the benches had mostly dispersed, some going toward the refreshment tents, some toward the parking area. Engines revved as headlights shone through the gloom.
Delaney held her umbrella close to her shoulders as the drizzle increased to rain. Although it was coming straight down, it struck the ground hard enough to splash. Her ankles and the hem of her skirt were soaked by the time she reached her car. The feel of the water didn’t bother her, though, any more than the sight of the lake did. Her wet skin didn’t remind her of her nightmare; it reminded her of the pleasure of kissing Max in the storm . . .
Damn, she had to try harder to focus. She angled the umbrella over the door as she opened it and reached into the backseat for her sweater.
A shiver went down her spine, as if someone was watching her. She held the sweater to her chest and straightened quickly.
A pickup truck went past, its windshield wipers beating against the rain. A couple was loading a group of children into a station wagon a few rows away. No one appeared to be paying any attention to her.
She closed the door and locked the car, then walked between the cars to the lawn.
The black sedan seemed to come out of nowhere. It fishtailed on the wet grass, spraying arcs of water behind it, then straightened and accelerated toward her. Disbelief kept her rooted to the spot for a critical instant.
“Watch out!”
The shout went through her head a split second before a large body collided with hers. Her umbrella flew out of her hand as she was knocked off her feet. There was a dull thud behind her. She hit the ground hard enough to jar the air from her lungs. Gasping, she rolled to her knees and lifted her head.
The car didn’t stop. It didn’t waver or slow down. Its brake lights didn’t shine once as it sped past a garbage bin and onto the road.
A woman screamed. Someone else was shouting to call 9-1-1. People ran toward her and to the large, dark figure that lay motionless on the ground.
Delaney shoved herself to her feet and stumbled across the tracks the car had torn through the grass. The man had pushed her out of the way. He must have been struck instead. He lay on his back, his black raincoat spread like wings beneath him. His black shirt was plastered tight to his chest. She couldn’t see whether or not he was breathing.
But she could see his face.
Her knees gave out. She sank to the ground beside his head. “Max,” she breathed.
Yet she knew his name wasn’t Max. It was John.
NINETEEN
THE BEEPING WOKE HIM. NEXT CAME THE PAIN. MAX gritted his teeth. His head was killing him. So was his arm. The rest of his body felt like one big bruise. He hadn’t felt this bad since the days when Virgil used to go after him with his belt.
That thought snapped him completely awake. He opened his eyes.
He was in a hospital room. An IV tube snaked into one a
rm. The other was immobilized against his chest. The beeping was coming from a monitor on one side of the bed. On the other side, a woman sat in a chair, her arms crossed on the metal bed rail, her head pillowed on her forearms. He couldn’t see her face, yet he recognized her short hair, her grass-stained blouse, the slope of her back, the curve of her shoulders . . .
The pain receded on a wave of joy. Deedee! She was here. He’d reached her in time. He lifted his hand, his palm hovering above her hair.
His movement rattled the IV tube against its metal stand. Before he could touch her, Delaney jerked her head up.
Her gaze was springtime. Life. Calm and sweet and impossible to capture on canvas. Real. Here.
He touched her sleeve. Nothing except cotton separated him from her skin. Her warmth seeped through the fabric to his fingertips. The impact crashed through his senses. The monitor accelerated along with his pulse.
Her chin trembled. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why?”
“You’re hurt because of me.”
“I’ve had worse.” And he had. The morning he’d met her—the only other time he’d actually touched her—the pain in his back had been worse than the bruises he felt now. She had helped him escape it. She had countered the effects of Virgil’s evil because she’d been everything bright and good. “Your hands. They’re okay?”
“They’re fine. I landed on my side.” Her eyes shone. “What you did was very courageous, Mr. Harrison. You probably saved my life. I don’t know how I can thank you.”
He’d saved her life twenty-eight years ago, too. Afterward, she hadn’t thanked him. Instead, she’d curled into his arms and slipped into the place he’d opened in his mind.
That was when it struck him. He was hearing her voice, not sensing it. She was talking aloud to him. She hadn’t called him Max.
He clamped his fingers around the bed rail and levered himself up on his elbow. “You know who I am.”
It was both a question and a challenge. It appeared to unsettle her. She pressed the controls at the side of the bed to raise the mattress beneath his head. She stopped when he was sitting at a forty-five-degree angle. “Is that better?”
Delaney's Shadow Page 19
