Beware of the Stranger

by Janet Dailey

  “If I said no, would you take me back?” Her eyes were bright. They had lost their accusing darkness as his explanations satisfied her without eliminating the trace of irritation she felt at being deceived.

  “At this hour? I’m afraid not.” His eyebrows slid upward. Chris Andrews knew she wasn’t seriously expecting him to agree and his response was in the same light vein as her question.

  “In that case, since you’ve succeeded in tricking me here, you might as well show me where I’m going to sleep tonight,” Samantha declared in a sighing agreement that was only partially reluctant.

  “This way.” Again Chris indicated the door, standing to the side for Samantha to lead the way.

  As she opened it and stepped into the night, the interior light from the boathouse revealed a path of dirt and bedrock worn smooth from frequent use. The light was switched off when Chris walked through the door.

  Samantha stopped. “The man who was on the boat is still in there,” She reminded him, knowing the boathouse would be pitch black without the one light.

  “Tom? No, he left within minutes after we docked. He’s at the house drinking coffee by now,” he assured her, tucking a hand beneath Samantha’s elbow to guide her over the path that was unfamiliar to her.

  A light gleamed distantly through the thick stand of trees lining the path.

  It appeared to be their destination as they wound along the trail through the trees. Samantha couldn’t help reflecting on the day’s events and the man whose hands so firmly guided her along. She was unaware of the soft laugh that escaped her curved lips until Chris Andrews asked in a tone of amused curiosity, “What’s so funny?”

  Samantha darted him a sideways glance, but little of the light from the stars and the sliver of the moon penetrated the dense tree limbs overhead. His craggy features were shadowed.

  “Beth, the girl at the newspaper office, read my horoscope today for the month of June.” Her smile deepened as she paused, considering her skeptical reaction to the forecast. It had been more like outright disbelief.

  “Are you a follower of astrology?” His voice echoed her own previously held opinion that it was a great deal of nonsense.

  “I haven’t been, but after today, I might reconsider,” Samantha conceded, the curve remaining on her mouth.

  “Why after today?”

  “Because my horoscope said to beware of strangers, that they wouldn’t be what they seemed,” she explained with a short laugh. “It certainly turned out to be prophetic in this case. I was just becoming accustomed to the fact that you were Owen Bradley, a man I’d long pictured as being pale, short and thin, wearing glasses. Now I learn that you’re really Chris Andrews and not Owen Bradley at all.”

  “I see what you mean.” But the inflection of his voice didn’t seem to find it as genuinely amusing as Samantha did, and she let the subject drop.

  The house of native stone and wood was a rambling, one-story structure nestled in the trees. The spacious interior was designed with traditional simplicity. Although all the furniture was finely crafted, the casual atmosphere gave the impression that feet could be put up anywhere.

  A tray of coffee and an assortment of cookies had been set near the sofa in front of the massive stone fireplace in the living room. A yawn rose in Samantha’s throat as she tried to take another drink of her coffee. She covered the action quickly with the back of her hand, but not before Chris Andrews noticed it and suggested she would prefer her bedroom to more coffee.

  “Maggie!” he called, and a tall blond woman appeared in the living room archway. “Would you show Miss Gentry her room?” he asked before introducing Samantha to Maggie Carlton, identified as Tom’s sister.

  The woman, in her mid-thirties, had inherited some of her brother’s looks. She was pleasantly attractive, although some of her features were forcefully strong, almost intimidatingly so. There was keen intelligence in the blue eyes that met Samantha’s smile with reserved friendliness.

  Yet there was something that didn’t seem quite right, and Samantha couldn’t decide what it was. Maybe it was the look that Maggie Carlton had given Chris Andrews before she had shown Samantha to her bedroom. It wasn’t exactly the type of look that would be exchanged between employer and employee. There was something more familiar in it that indicated a relationship more like the one Samantha had with Harry Lindsey, a friend of her father’s and known to her long before she went to work for him this summer.

  There was nothing wrong with a suggestion of friendship between the two, except that the age difference of Chris Andrews and Maggie Carlton was not as vast as the one between Samantha and Harry. Samantha didn’t want to dwell on why that bothered her.

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  Chapter Three

  IT WAS NEARLY MIDDAY before Samantha wakened, a discovery that hurried her movements to dress. The bedroom closet was filled with sports clothes of every description, although the majority of them were decidedly casual and made for physical abuse.

  Wearing a pair of wheat-colored denim pants and a matching tan and brown plaid blouse, Samantha hurried from her room into the hallway. A complementing gold scarf had been in a dresser drawer. She had folded it and used it as a hairband, the shimmering tails of the scarf partially lost in the rich seal brown shade of her dark hair.

  Relying on her memory of the house’s layout from the previous night, she retraced her way to the living room, then let instinct guide her to where the dining room should be located. Voices were coming from the room she had chosen as her destination. Samantha paused in the doorway to listen without being conscious that she was virtually eavesdropping.

  Chris Andrews — she had readjusted her thinking to call him by his right name — was standing in front of a large picture window. Cream-colored slacks of a roughly corded material molded the muscular length of his legs. A windbreaker of navy blue covered most of a knit shirt in a lighter shade of blue.

  But it was the expression on the roughly chiseled features that claimed Samantha’s attention. It was hard and unrelenting as his gaze narrowed on the blond woman facing him.

  “There won’t be any discussion.” The tone of his ominously low-pitched voice was clipped with command. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but that’s the way it stays.”

  Samantha must have made some involuntary movement at the chilling sound of his voice, because as Maggie Carlton started to protest with a grim voice, “But …” his narrowed gaze swung to the dining-room entrance and Samantha. A bland mask immediately covered his tanned features.

  “Good morning. So you’ve finally decided to rejoin the living.” The fine thread of mockery in his greeting held amusement. If Samantha hadn’t witnessed the incident a second ago, she would never have guessed a controlled anger broiled beneath the easygoing surface Chris Andrews now displayed.

  She considered excusing herself, but that would have meant silently admitting that she had overheard what had been a private and personal exchange. She decided to pretend that nothing was amiss as far as she was concerned.

  “Good morning,” she returned cheerfully and advanced into the room. “I can’t remember the last time I slept so late. It must be the fresh air.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Chris Andrews agreed, darting a pointed glance at his so-called housekeeper.

  Maggie Carlton turned to face Samantha and smiled. There was a tightness in the movement that suggested the other girl wasn’t as adept at concealing her emotions as Chris Andrews was. “I’ll bring you some coffee, Miss Gentry. Do you have any preference for breakfast?”

  “No breakfast for me,” Samantha refused. “Coffee will be fine for now, since lunch is barely an hour away.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t something you would like? Toast? Or a sweet roll to tide you over to lunch?” he inquired with a lifted brow.

  “Quite sure,” Samantha said, nodding decisively.

  Slipping her fingers into the front pockets of her denims, she walked nonchalantly
to the large picture window, but her side vision caught the look exchanged between the two. It was more than a signal of dismissal for Maggie to leave. Somehow Samantha had the sensation that Chris Andrews was transmitting a message that everything was all right.

  As Maggie left the room, Samantha concentrated on the scenery outside the window. Considering the spectacular view offered, it wasn’t hard to do. Some time during her life she had probably seen pictures or brochures of the Thousand Islands area, but nothing had prepared her for the breathtaking beauty that unfolded beyond the window.

  The unending expanse of the majestic St. Lawrence River reflected the electric blue color of the sky. Its stunning breadth resembled a lake, rather than a river. The vivid green of tree-studded islands dotted its length. On the island closest to view, still some distance away, Samantha could see the white boards of a building shining through partially cleared trees.

  “It’s quite a view, isn’t it?” Chris was standing beside her, gazing out the window.

  “I never dreamed it was like this,” she murmured in agreement. “It’s all so —” she searched for the words “ — so unspoiled. Are there really a thousand islands?” From the window’s view on this rocky knoll of their island she could see possibly five, varying in size from fairly large to very small.

  “There are over seventeen hundred islands in the St. Lawrence, most of them privately owned.” He pointed toward the north. “That far island is in Canadian waters.”

  “Over one thousand seven hundred.” Samantha was still caught by the number. “That’s unbelievable!”

  “The largest island has more than a hundred square miles and the smallest is a rock and two trees. By government definition, an island is land surrounded by water with at least one tree. Without trees, it’s considered a shoal.” A lazy smile was directed at her. “Do you think there’s a chance now that you’ll enjoy your stay here?”

  “I might even write up a travel article to put in the paper when I get back,” Samantha laughed. Her enthusiasm for the time she would spend here was growing. It was no longer based mainly on being with her father.

  “Do you swim?”

  “Yes, why?” Samantha glanced up at him, an impish light dancing in her brown eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that if I want to leave this island before my father comes, I’ll have to swim?”

  “I had something else in mind when I asked.” There was silent laughter in his expression. “But I’ll go along with that thought, too.”

  “Why did you ask, then?”

  “It’s supposed to be warm this afternoon. This island is crescent-shaped, forming a sheltered cove that’s perfect for swimming. I was going to suggest we make use of it this afternoon,” Chris replied.

  “Sounds wonderful,” she agreed as Maggie reentered the informal dining room with the coffee.

  IT WAS more than wonderful. It was perfect, Samantha concluded, as she rested a cheek on the back of her hand. The sunbaked boards of the raft anchored in the cove were warm beneath her. Her black swimsuit was backless, exposing her skin to the burning rays of the sun.

  A tiny sigh of regret slipped out. An hour of swimming and diving in the cove, plus another hour sunning on the raft — soon she would have to retreat to the shade or risk turning into a boiled lobster.

  Through the slit between her lashes, she could see Chris sitting on the other side of the raft, muscles bronzed and rippling in the sun. His gaze was slowly sweeping the river, betraying an alertness in his otherwise relaxed pose. Only a few boats had ventured anywhere near the island. Chris had explained that the pleasure craft mainly stayed near the ship channel unless they were operated by people who knew the river and shoals well.

  The ship channel could be seen from the island. Samantha had glimpsed several large freight ships gliding, silently it seemed from her distance, up the river toward their ports of call on the Great Lakes. It was an impressive sight to see them moving majestically in such a countrified setting along the international seaway.

  As if feeling her gaze, Chris turned. Samantha didn’t pretend she hadn’t been studying his decidedly masculine physique. Instead she let her lashes rise more and smiled leisurely.

  “Ready for another swim?” he asked.

  “No,” she sighed ruefully and levered herself onto her elbows, “but if I don’t get in the water or the shade pretty soon, I’ll be burned to a crisp.”

  Fluidly, he was on his feet, offering a hand as she started to rise. It was an impersonal grip that pulled her upright, firm and releasing her without lingering for any suggestive moments, although Samantha wished it had.

  At close quarters, the sight of him clad in brown swimming trunks with a gold stripe at the side was disturbing her senses. He was so vibrantly male that the primitive urges had awakened within her. If Samantha hadn’t already been aware of their existence, she would have been shocked. As it was, she tried to ignore the sensations.

  His attitude this afternoon had been friendly, but it hadn’t invited any gestures that might put their relationship on a more familiar level. Samantha wondered if it was because of Maggie Carlton or because he wasn’t interested in her as a woman. Regardless of his comment that she didn’t look like a sister, she hoped that wasn’t what he had in mind.

  With an over-the-shoulder, downward look, his glance told her to follow an instant before he dived cleanly into the water. Her shallow dive paralleled his course. She surfaced a few feet from him, treading water as she pushed the wet hair away from her face with one hand. The coolness of the water against her sun-warmed skin sent an uncontrollable shudder through her that clattered her teeth.

  “It feels like an ice cube now,” she said with a shiver.

  “Want to call it a day?” he asked, raking fingers through the wet thickness of his own hair.

  Samantha’s answer was to strike out for the cove’s shoreline. Within a few strokes, he was pacing beside her, powerful arms slicing effortlessly to draw him through the water. Samantha didn’t attempt to race him; she knew she would soon be outdistanced. Even though she was a good swimmer, she was no match for him.

  The physical exertion helped to ease the chill of the water, but the shivers returned the minute her feet touched bottom to wade ashore. The beach towels were lying on a large boulder near the shore. Chris was closer and he reached them first.

  “I think you need this,” he smiled indulgently, and unfolded a towel to wrap it around her shoulders.

  The sun had warmed the thick terry-cloth material. As it encircled her shoulders, Samantha closed her eyes in silent enjoyment of the warmth. She clutched the front of the towel around her, as Chris began rubbing the material against her shoulders and upper arms.

  Opening her eyes, she murmured in appreciation, “Mmm, thanks … that feels good!”

  Without realizing it, she swayed toward him, partially the result of the massaging pressure of his large hands. Her head was tipped back to gaze at him, water glistening on her lips. His hands stopped their motion, but they didn’t release her.

  A magnetic current flowed between them, stopping time. There was an imperceptible tightening of the strong fingers on her shoulders as his head made a slight downward movement toward her lips, and Samantha’s heart thudded in anticipation of his kiss.

  A motorboat swept close to the island, throttling down to a low drone as it passed the cove. The charcoal gaze flickered to the sound, wavering for tantalizing seconds, then focused on the boat. He lifted his head, his hands resting impersonally on her shoulders again. The withdrawal was complete. When his gaze returned to her, there was nothing in it to suggest that for a few seconds he had intended to kiss her.

  “Let’s go up to the house so you can change into some dry clothes,” he suggested.

  One hand fell away as he stepped to the side. The other slid between her shoulder blades to direct her toward the well-worn path. Disappointment was bitter on Samantha’s tongue. She wasn’t about to pretend that he hadn’t been about to kiss he
r — not this time.

  “You were going to kiss me, then stopped. Why?” she demanded, her innate candor demanding the same from him.

  The pressure of his hand propelled her forward despite her stiff resistance. She thought he was going to ignore her question and would have repeated it if his gaze hadn’t slid to her. The mocking light in the dark gray depths didn’t completely mask the hard glint.

  “Maybe I didn’t like the idea of being observed.” His gaze swerved pointedly to the boathouse.

  Samantha followed it, spying the burly figure of Tom Carlton messing around with the canvas from a sail. He had been in the vicinity of the boathouse all the while they were swimming. But she didn’t believe for a minute that his presence had anything to do with Chris’s changing his mind and said so.

  “Don’t give me that line!” Her temper was igniting. “It was the motorboat going by that distracted you. And I don’t believe you would care whether Tom or a bunch of strangers saw us. It was something else that made you change your mind. You’re using them as an excuse.”

  They had reached a section of the path that wound through a thick stand of trees, concealing them from the view of anyone from the house or the cove. His hand stopped pushing her forward as he stopped. Samantha did, too, bristling with wounded pride. His fingers slid through the tangle of wet hair to the back of her neck.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” The smile he gave her was lazy and warm.

  The magic of it momentarily held her captive. Samantha remained motionless as his head dipped toward her. The touch of his mouth on her lips was light and cool and broke the spell. She didn’t want gentleness. Violently she twisted away, her eyes flashing fire.

  “And don’t you be patronizing!” she snapped, spinning to storm up the path toward the house.

  “Wait a minute.”

  His hand grabbed her arm to force her to obey, his fingers digging through the towel into the tender flesh of her arms. She stopped, not trying to wrench free. She slid a freezing look of distaste to his hand, despising his touch with force equalling the one that had a moment ago desired his kiss.