by EC Sheedy
Before Kit followed Cornie, he gave Joe and April an unreadable look, then stated firmly, “Fifteen minutes or I go on triple-time.”
Joe strode the last few steps to the door at the end of the hall, opened it, and let April pass him into an expansive living room. The room, its drapes closed and with no other light, was cavernous and shadowed.
One step inside the room, and Joe had the door closed and April pinned against it. He took her face in his big hands and devoured her with a kiss so hot, so hungry, and so potent, she didn’t even try to breathe when he finally set her free.
“I’ve been waiting to do that all day.” He rested his forehead against hers. “And because I set a timeline for my bossy adolescent sister”—he smiled and brushed another kiss across her lips—“I’m going to stop now, because if I don’t, there won’t be any stopping until”—another brush of his mouth against hers, then a long harsh exhalation—“forever.”
“Joe, I—”
He kissed her again, addled her brain enough that whatever she was going to say floated away like petals in the wind.
“Tonight,” he murmured in her ear before taking her hand and leading her across the stadium-sized room to a set of French doors.
They stepped out into the brilliance of a late afternoon sun. Its searing intensity bore down hard on the west-facing patio; the luminosity obliterating the darker shades and casting the area in shimmering hues of ashen pastels.
April momentarily closed her eyes against the light and used the time to steady her breathing. Joe’s kiss—fast, hard, and promising—hadn’t only taken her breath away, it also took away her ability to think straight. One touch of his mouth, his lips against hers, and her brain had gone from cool and logical to crazed and frenzied.
In the best possible way . . . She looked down as if to shield her eyes from the sun’s glare, touched her mouth, and smiled.
“You okay?” Joe said, his tone thick with innocence.
“You,” she said, “are a very bad boy. And I owe you one.”
“I sure as hell hope so.” His grin was easy and seductive—and quick.
Beside the pristine pool, a man rose from a chair and made his way toward them. April had both her smile and hormones under control by the time he reached them. The man nodded at Joe, then looked at her. “You’re April,” he stated and offered his hand.
She took his hand, noting his grip was strong and his hand cool. “And you’re Julius, Guardian B . . . or A depending on who’s in the office,” she said, remembering the odd signage in their office.
“That’s me.”
With his back to the sun, his features were a blur of shadows. Her first sense was how tall he was, even taller than Joe. Standing between them made her feel like a shrub between two oak trees. When Julius released her hand, she lifted it again to shield her eyes, to see him more clearly.
Lean, darkly tanned, a hard face, maybe thirty-five. His smile was swift—little used, she thought—and showed even white teeth. Not handsome, not like Joe, but compelling in a dark, mysterious way. She could barely make out the color of his eyes, but put them somewhere between gray and green, with straight slashes of eyebrows above them. “Come out of the sun,” he said. He indicated the table and chairs he’d just left. Sitting beside the pool, they were shaded by a tan umbrella. The table held some books and papers.
Heading for the shade, Joe asked, “Where are the dogs?”
“Kenneled. I leave tomorrow. The client moved up their departure date.”
Joe grimaced, rubbed his forehead. “Shit. I’ll be at least a couple of days.”
“No sweat. I can handle it until you’re done.”
April looked at Joe. His mouth moved, as though in concern, then tightened in acceptance. “I owe you,” he said to Julius, echoing her words of a few minutes before. It seemed the ripple effect of Phylly’s mad dash to nowhere had no end, even interfering with Joe’s work.
“Yeah.” His partner’s answer was noncommittal.
They were barely seated at the table before Joe asked, “Did you get it?”
Julius nodded. “Address and phone number. Tofino’s a small place, some fifteen hundred people—a lot more during tourist season. Whale-watching, surfing, ocean kayaking, that kind of thing. Noah Bristol lives outside the town a few miles. He’s something of a naturalist. Writes books on wilderness gardening.” He shoved two books across the table toward Joe and April.
One of the books had Bristol’s picture on the back, a good-looking man, high forehead, with a warm smile. Maybe mid-forties, with quiet, thoughtful eyes. April glanced at the book titles: Wild Interior Gardens and Wilderness Landscapes. She noted all the initials that followed his name, three degrees at least.
This whole thing, Noah, Phylly, just didn’t compute, she thought. How had Phylly, all flash and brass, ever got involved with such a man? And why had she never once mentioned him?
Phylly was never tight-lipped when it came to man-talk, nor was she above the occasional boast. But this man she’d kept to herself, which made him the exception. And if Tommy’s hunch was right, he was also Cornie’s father. Not wanting even to think about that complication, April put one book neatly on top of the other and pulled her hands down to her lap, interlocking her fingers to stop their shaking. The chance that Noah Bristol was Cornie’s father both scared and excited her. She knew Cornie would welcome the truth, that she’d face it head-on. But considering Phylly had known all along where her father was and had told Cornie he’d “just run off,” the girl would have a few million words for her mother, none of them pretty.
All of which you’ll deserve, Phylly. And I’ll probably add a few myself. Even so, it was Phylly’s job to tell Cornie about Noah, not April’s, so until everything was sorted out, she wasn’t about to put her oar in that pool of unknown water—or take Cornie to Tofino.
Julius went on, “Bristol is an expert in his field and an avid environmentalist. Travels a lot. Does speaking tours, university lectures, that sort of thing.” He passed a single sheet of paper to Joe. “Here’s my notes, everything’s there. Everything but a concrete link between him and your mother.”
“Phyllis Worth,” Joe corrected without looking up from the paper.
Her stomach did that odd little pitch and roll it had taken to doing whenever Joe denied his mother. “I’d like the telephone number please.” April nodded at the paper in Joe’s hand.
“And your plan is?”
“To call Noah Bristol and ask if she’s there. And if she is, to speak to her.”
Joe cocked an eyebrow. “She’s liable to take off again.” April shook her head. “If she is at Noah Bristol’s place—which appears to be in the back-of-beyond somewhere, she’s already taken a room at her last resort. She has nowhere to go.”
He handed her the paper. “What do you plan to say?”
“That I’ll be there tomorrow, and if she takes off, there’ll be more than one person on her tail trying to kill her.”
“Funny,” Joe said, but he didn’t look amused.
“Sounds to me like Phyllis Worth has met her match.” Julius slid an amused glance Joe’s way. “You, too.” Then he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do. But when you’re done here, Joe, we should talk about that Miami connection.”
“You’ve got more?”
“Some. Still inconclusive, but you’ll be interested.”
The two men exchanged secret-service glances. Julius arched a brow. Any other day, April might have been curious—one of her major faults—but all she could think about right now was talking to Phylly.
“Give me ten,” Joe said to Julius.
Julius nodded, added. “Take whatever rooms you want,” he said. “There’re plenty of them.” With that he headed for the house.
April watched him go, her attention caught by the tall man walking away from them. “I don’t get it.”
“What?”
“Him”—she waved a hand to encompass the glis
tening pool, grounds, and grand house—“this. It’s hard to understand the Guardian B thing.”
“Family money. Buckets of it. More since Julius took over managing it. I didn’t find out about it until we’d turned in our boots. Started the business.” He shrugged. “The Guardian thing? All Julius ever said was he wanted to do something worthwhile. We both did. So we do.” He stood, looked down at her. His jaw worked, but no words came out.
“What?” she finally asked.
He rubbed his chin. “Has it occurred to you that we might not be the only ones to have found Worth’s little hidey-hole?”
“Yes, but it doesn’t change anything—other than we need to get there before they do.”
“You know what I think.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. That I’m the real target, because I’m the only one who can identify the man who bought me and—”
“Worth can’t.” His gaze, which was fixed on her, intensified. “So consider yourself in lockdown, because you’re not leaving my sight from the moment we leave this house. We clear on that?”
“Joe, you don’t—”
“Are we clear?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low.
“We don’t have time to argue, but—”
“Right, we don’t.”
“Is that how you run your business, ordering your clients around?”
“You’re not a client.” It looked as though he was going to say more, until he sealed his lips into a tight line, a slash of masculine determination.
“Then what am—” she stopped.
She’d had the insane urge to ask: If I’m not a client, Joe Worth, what am I? But it wasn’t the time, and her own feelings were too hot and fuzzy. If this thing with Joe had emotional signposts signaling the next stage, where you took the leap from great sex to something unexpected and unknowable, she hadn’t found them. What she’d found was confusion in having such terrifyingly strong feelings for a man determined to loathe his mother—and hers. So, she stood, shaded her eyes against the sun and said, “I can take care of myself,” she said. “And I’m not about to do anything stupid. I understand we’re in this together, and I’m good with that.” Grateful . . . as long as you don’t get hurt. “But I am going to call Phylly.”
He nodded, one quick dip of his chin. “When you call Phyllis, what are you going to say?”
“Exactly what I said I’d say, that we’re on our way, and if she moves one inch, she’s road kill.”
Joe put an arm around her shoulder and started toward the house. His expression was oddly flat. “You plan to tell her about me?”
She stopped, thought about it for a minute, and decided. “No. While my threats might hold her in place, her knowing you’re in the picture might—”
“Make her take off regardless?” His tone was dry.
April hesitated, not wanting to cause more hurt where there was enough already, but she couldn’t lie. “Yes, something like that.”
“Smart,” he said.
“Smart but”—she touched his arm—“are you okay with it?” It had to be emotionally painful, believing your mother will run in the opposite direction if she knows you’re coming. In Joe’s case it must be like scratching a wound that had never quite healed.
Before he could answer, Cornie and Kit showed up. “Ready or not, your fifteen minutes are up,” Cornie said. She walked up to Joe and tilted her head. “I saw Mister Magnificent going up the stairs. That mean you’re done with your business?”
“Will be after I check out one more thing with”—he grinned as though at a private joke—“Mister Magnificent.”
“Good.” Cornie’s head swiveled to take in the patio area. “Wow, this place is amazing.”
“Do you want to have a swim?” Kit asked.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Go for it,” April said, glancing at Joe. “I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make.” She hoped he’d get the hint to keep Cornie busy for the next while.
Cornie’s expression turned instantly curious. “Like who?”
Deciding a half truth was a thousand times better than telling her she was going to call their mother, she said, “Like Tommy for one. I promised him I’d call.” And that was true. Plus she really did want to know if he’d dug up anything on Henry Castor. “Have a swim, Cornie, I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“I don’t have a suit,” Cornie said, looking at the crystal water in the pool, this time longingly. “I wasn’t, like, planning a vacation or anything.”
“Julius has plenty of suits,” Joe said, then added for April, “and use the study—just off where we came in—for your calls. Kit can show Cornie where the suits are while I talk to Julius.” He turned to Kit. “Grab me one, too. I won’t be long.”
April gave him a silent thank you and headed to the house. She would call Tommy first, then get her thoughts in order before calling Noah Bristol.
The page with his telephone number on it firmly in hand, she went into the house.
Chapter 22
Noah handed Phylly a glass of red wine. The only light, a half-dozen candles in the table’s center, lit the wine briefly as the glass changed hands, catching the deep ruby color in a soft, quick glow.
“Can I get you anything else?” Noah asked.
“No, thanks, I’m fine.”
“That you are.” Noah settled back in his chair, raised his glass toward her and drank, not taking his eyes off her.
Phylly didn’t drink. She cupped the base of the long-stemmed glass and held on, afraid that if she lifted it to her mouth her hand would quake. “Dinner was great. Thanks for that, too. I don’t remember you being such a good cook.”
“As I remember food was low on our agenda back then.”
Oh, no, I’m not going there. She smiled at him, said nothing, and—coward that she was—looked away from him to the view outside.
Noah had told her how abruptly the weather could change here, going from serene to wild, clear to torrential rains, on the whim of the air and currents coming in off the northern Pacific. He was right.
Where last night had been late August warm and still, tonight was windy, the air thick with rain. Noah had set the table just inside the window. The only thing between them and the roiling ocean was clear glass. Noah’s house was a crystal box, she thought, set into nature like a diamond set in a gold band. At first Phylly hadn’t been sure she liked it, had felt more exposed than she ever had strutting topless across a Vegas stage. But this morning, waking up to a pair of eagles sitting on top of a tree off the guest room deck—peering in at her like a couple of stage-door Johnnys—she’d felt safer than she had in days.
Outside it was gray, the clouds tumultuous, and below, the ocean tore at the shore, roaring and crashing like a mad thing. It was crazy, she thought, for it to continually beat its watery fist against eternal stone.
Phylly shifted in her chair, as ridiculously nervous as she’d been last night when Noah had shown her to the guest room. As she had been today when he’d taken her for a walk in the woods—wearing a pair of his sneakers—with him and Chance. As she’d been every single time they’d come within sensing distance of each other. Dear God, the scent of him, all forest, moss, and musk, made her crazy. And it made her mad, at him for being the same irresistible man he was fifteen years ago, and at herself, for being as attracted to him now as she was then. God, she was a nitwit when it came to men, despite the last few years and her feeble attempt at getting her act together.
She sipped her wine to hide her nerves. She hadn’t come here to think about Noah that way, and she sure hadn’t come here to screw up his life. Ugly, bald fact that it was, she’d come here to save her own skin.
Between her scattered thoughts and the awkward silences straining the air between her and Noah, she was strung taut. Too taut. But she’d asked him not to ask questions, and he hadn’t. That meant silences. The trouble was she was full of answers, damn it. They were bunched up inside her like a bad lunch, and t
hey were dying to get out.
You can’t do that to Noah, you selfish bitch. He’s got a good life going here. Don’t mess it up because you can’t keep your big trap shut. Messing up his life won’t make yours better. Won’t make Castor and whoever else might be after that awful journal go away. So shut the fuck up. Hear?
The first splash of rain hit the glass and some horns blew a crescendo on the CD—some classical thing—that Noah had put on for dinner music. Then, other than the sound of rain on the windows, the house fell to silence.
“You’re going to have to talk about it sooner or later, you know,” Noah said. Although he’d sat back in his chair, it was as if he’d moved forward, entered her space.
The candles sputtered in a sudden draft, and a whiff of their light vanilla scent wafted to her nose. She was glad of it. Glad that for a brief moment her senses were caught by something other than the man across the table from her. She tried to lighten the mood in the room, so rife with her tension and Noah’s curiosity. “And give up my woman-of-mystery gig, not a chance.”
“Phylly. Please. Tell me what’s going on?”
She lifted her glass, shook her head, and tried to smile. If the feeling that it was paste on her lips was any indication, she failed miserably. “You promised. No questions.”
“So I did. But I was coerced.”
She tilted her head in question.
“A beautiful woman arrives on my doorstep—out of nowhere—and doesn’t want to talk. What man in his right mind is going to argue with her?” He paused. “She could have aced the deal, if she’d come to his bed last night.”
“You didn’t ask.”
His expression turned serious. “Would you have come if I had?”
“No.” But I’d have wanted to . . .
He smiled—a bit of a grim smile. “I didn’t think so.”
“It’s not about you, Noah. It’s about me, and us sleeping together? It would only complicate things.”
“As complications go, I’ll take it.”
She tried to smile back, but didn’t pull it off.
