by Nora Roberts
“Sounds simple—and I will—but it’s not simple.”
The headache was gone, she realized, but the anger and frustration that had caused it remained lodged like splinters.
Small, sharp and nasty.
“When it happened, the prosecution and the cops kept me away from the press as much as possible. They didn’t want me giving interviews—and God knows, I didn’t want to give them. But a story like that? It’s got juice, right? They kept calling, or talking to people who knew me—people who knew people who knew me. Squeezing the juice.” She paused, glanced at him again. “I guess you’d understand that, from your relationship with Nina Abbott.”
“Relationship’s a pretty word for it.”
“And now you like quiet islands.”
“One doesn’t have much of a connection with the other. And this isn’t my brood.”
None of her business, she thought. Well, he had a point. “All right. After Greg, it started up again. Then the trial. I don’t want any part of what’s happening now. So I’m angry all over again, and that makes me feel sick inside. Because twelve before me, and Greg after me, died. And I didn’t. I barely had a scratch, but they say I’m a victim or they say I’m a heroine. Neither’s true.”
“No, neither’s true. You’re a survivor, and that’s harder.”
She stopped, stared at him. “Why do you get it? That’s the mystery.”
“It’s all over you. It’s in your eyes. So calm, so clear. Maybe because they’ve already seen so much. You’ve got wounds. You live with them. That shouldn’t be appealing to me.”
She might have smiled at the way he tossed her own words back at her, but they made her stomach flutter. “What have we got here, Simon?”
“Probably just some heat.”
“Probably. I haven’t had sex in almost ten months.”
“Okay, it’s getting hotter.”
Now she laughed. “God, you’ve actually made me feel better. But what I meant was I haven’t had sex in ten months, so waiting longer isn’t such a big deal. We both live on island—have a connection with Sylvia. I like your dog, and right now I’m part of his team. I think I need to figure out if sleeping with you would just be a nice release, or cause too many complications.”
“It wouldn’t be nice. Nice is cookies and milk.”
“Confident. I do like confidence. Since I’m not going to have sex with you in the woods, especially since we’ve only got about twenty minutes before the sun sets, I think we’re safe. So why don’t you give me a little preview of possible coming attractions?”
He reached behind her, wrapped her hair around his fist. “You like living on the edge?”
“No, I really don’t. I like stability and order, so this is unusual for me.”
He gave her hair a tug, enough to lift her face, to bring his mouth within a breath of hers. “You’re looking for nice.”
“I’m not really looking at all.”
“Me either,” he said, and closed the distance.
She’d asked for it, and thought herself prepared. She’d expected the fast strike, that immediate explosion of heat and lust and want that flashed through the brain and body.
Instead, he came in easy, disarming her with a slow kiss, the sort that shimmered through the system just before it fogged the brain. She sighed into it, lifting her arms to link them around his neck as he tempted her to offer more.
As she did, he pulled her deeper, gradually building that heat they both acknowledged, degree by degree, so when the strike came, she was defenseless.
The world snapped off—the woods, the sky, the deepening shadows. All that was left was the wonder of mouth against mouth, body against body, and the floodwall of need rising in her.
Even as he started to pull back, she dragged him back and dived again, dived deep.
She frayed his control. That combination of yielding and demand tore at his resolve to set both tone and pace. She reached inside him somehow, opening doors he’d determined to keep locked until he was no longer sure who led the way.
And when he intended to step back, regain some distance, she lured him back.
Soft lips, lithe body and a scent that was somehow both earthy and sweet. Like her taste—neither one thing nor the other, and utterly irresistible.
He lost more ground than he gained before the pup began to bark—wild joy—and scrabble at his legs in an attempt to nudge through and join the fun.
This time they stepped back together.
Fiona laid a hand on Jaws’s head. “Sit,” she ordered. “Good dog.”
Not so calm now, Simon thought as he looked at her eyes. Not so clear.
“I can’t think of a single sensible thing to say,” she told him. She signaled for her dogs, then handed Simon the pup’s leash. “We should start back. Um, he’s doing better on the leash. This is new territory for him, and there are a lot of fun distractions, but he’s responding pretty well.”
Back in her safe zone, he thought, with dog talk. Curious how she’d handle it, he simply walked along in silence.
“I’d like to work with him a little on some other skills and behaviors. Maybe an extra half hour in ten- or fifteen-minute sessions a week. A couple of weeks, no charge. Then if you like the way it’s going, we can discuss a fee.”
“Like a preview of possible coming attractions?”
She slid a glance in Simon’s direction, then away again. “You could say that. He learns quickly, and has a good personality for . . . And this is silly. It’s cowardly. I wanted to kiss you again to see if the other day was just a fluke, which, obviously, it was not. There’s a strong physical attraction, which I haven’t felt for anyone in a long time.”
“Just under ten months?”
He watched her color come up, but then she smiled. Not sheepish but amused. “Longer actually. To spare us both the embarrassment of details, that particular incident was a failure on several levels. But it does serve as a baseline, and causes me to wonder if the just-under-ten-months factor is part of the reason for the attraction. It also makes me cautious. I’m not shy about sex, but I am wary of repeating what turned out to be a mistake.”
“You’d rather be stable and ordered.”
She pushed her hands back in her pockets. “I talk too much and you listen too well. That’s a dangerous mix.”
“For who?”
“For the talker. See, you give the impression you don’t pay all that much attention, just aren’t interested enough. But you do pay attention. Not big on the interacting, but you take in the details. It’s kind of sneaky, really. I like you. Or at least I think I do. I don’t know much about you because you don’t talk about yourself. I know you have a dog because your mother gave him to you, which tells me you love your mother or fear her wrath. It’s probably a combination of both.”
They walked in silence for a full thirty seconds.
“Confirm or deny,” she insisted. “It can’t be a deep, dark secret.”
“I love my mother and prefer, when possible, to avoid her wrath.”
“There, that wasn’t so hard. How about your father?”
“He loves my mother and prefers, when possible, to avoid her wrath.”
“You realize, of course, that the less you say the more curious people get about you.”
“Fine. That can be good for business.”
“So, it’s a business. Your work.”
“People pay you, the government takes a cut. That’s business.”
She thought she had a handle on him now, even if it was a slippery one. “But it’s not business first or you’d have sold me that cabinet.”
He paused while Jaws found a stick and pranced along like a drum major at halftime. “You’re not letting that one go.”
“It was either a display of artistic temperament or bullheadedness. I suspect, in this case, the former, though I also suspect you’re no stranger to the latter. I’d still like to buy it, by the way.”
“No. You could use a new rocker fo
r your porch. The one you have is ugly.”
“It’s not ugly. It’s serviceable. And it needs repainting.”
“The left arm is warped.”
She opened her mouth to deny it, then realized she wasn’t sure either way. “Maybe. But to turn this back on you, Mr. Mysteriosa, it only proves you notice detail.”
“I notice crappy workmanship and warped wood. I’ll trade you a rocker for the lessons, with the caveat you bust that ugly warped chair up for kindling.”
“Maybe it has sentimental value.”
“Does it?”
“No, I bought it at a yard sale a few years ago, for ten bucks.”
“Kindling. And you teach the dog something interesting.”
“That’s a deal.” As they came out of the woods, she looked up at the sky. “It’s cooling off. I could probably use the kindling. A nice fire, a glass of wine—of course I won’t be able to get the bottle out of a beautiful cabinet, but I’ll live. I won’t be inviting you in, either.”
“Do you think if I wanted to finish up what we started back there I’d wait for an invitation?”
“No,” she said after a moment. “I should find that arrogant and off-putting. I have no idea why I don’t. Why don’t you want to finish up what we started back there?”
He smiled at her. “You’ll be thinking about that, won’t you? I like your house.”
Baffled, she turned to study it as he was. “My house?”
“It’s small, a little fanciful and right for the spot. You should think about adding a solarium on the south face. It’d add some interest to the architecture, opening up your kitchen and bringing more light in. Anyway, do yourself a favor and don’t check your e-mail or messages. I’ll bring the dog and the chair back in a couple days.”
She frowned after him as he and the dog walked to the truck. Simon unclipped the leash, boosted Jaws inside, where he sat, proudly holding his stick.
HE HAD PLENTY to keep him busy—his work, his dog, a half-baked idea of planting a garden just to see if he could. Every couple of days, depending on the weather, he’d take a drive with Jaws around the twisting, up-and-down roads of the island.
The routine, or the lack of routine, was exactly what he’d been after without fully realizing he’d been looking.
He enjoyed having his shop only steps away from the house where he could work as early or as late or as long as he pleased. And though it surprised him, he enjoyed having the dog for company, at work, on walks, on drives.
It pleased him to paint a flat-armed rocker a bold blue. Fiona’s coloring might be soft, subtle, but her personality was bright and bold. She’d look good in the chair.
She looked good.
He thought he’d haul the chair, and the dog, over to her place that afternoon. Unless he got caught up in work.
Luckily, he thought as he drank his morning coffee on the porch, there was plenty of work to get caught up in. He had the custom breakfront for a Tacoma client, another set of rockers. There was the bed he intended to make for himself, and the cabinet he’d started for Fiona.
Maybe.
He had to get the stump—and should go ahead and deal with that today. He’d check and see if Gary—fellow obedience school client and local farmer—was still willing to help him out with the chain and the Bobcat.
Whistling for the dog—and ridiculously pleased when Jaws responded by racing happily to him—Simon went back inside. He’d have his second cup of coffee while he checked the stories online in U.S. Report, as he’d done the last two days.
He’d begun to think the reporter had given up on the article, stymied by Fiona’s lack of cooperation.
But he found it this time, with the bold headline:
ECHOES OF FEAR
Photos of the two women—hardly more than girls, really, he thought—featured prominently in the lead of the story. As far as he could tell the reporter had done her homework there, with details of their lives, the last hours before they vanished and the ensuing search and discovery of their bodies.
He found the photo of Perry chilling. So ordinary—the middle-aged man next door. The history teacher or insurance salesman, the guy who grew tomatoes in the backyard. Anyone.
But it was the photo of Fiona that stopped him cold.
Her face smiled out, as did those of a dozen others, the ones who hadn’t escaped. Young, fresh, pretty.
It contrasted sharply with the file shot of her being hustled into the courthouse through the gauntlet of reporters. Her head down, her eyes dull, her face shattered.
The article added the details of her escape, her fiancé’s murder, and added briefly that Bristow could not be reached for comment.
“Didn’t stop you,” he murmured.
Still, people did what they did, he thought. Reporters reported. The smartest thing Fiona could do would be to ignore it.
The urge to call her irked him, actually brought an itch between his shoulder blades. He ordered himself to leave it—and her—alone.
Instead he called Gary and arranged for the stump removal. He gave Jaws ten minutes of fetch—they were both starting to get the hang of it—then went to work.
He focused on the breakfront. He thought it best not to do any further work on the cabinet, not until he could block the image of Fiona, that sick mix of fear and grief on her face, out of his head.
He took a short break in the early afternoon for a walk on the beach, where Jaws managed to find a dead fish.
After the necessary shower—he really had to remember to buy the damn dog a bathtub—Simon decided to load up some of his smaller items for Sylvia. He boxed cutting boards, weed pots, vases, bowls, then loaded them, along with the dog, into the truck.
He’d meet Gary, deal with the stump, and with the stock already loaded, have an excuse not to linger too long with Fiona.
It surprised him, and caused Jaws untold sorrow, when she wasn’t there. Nor were the dogs. Maybe she’d taken off for some solitude and distraction.
Jaws perked up when Gary arrived shortly with his chirpy border collie, Butch.
Gary, a cap over his grizzled hair, thick lenses over faded green eyes, watched the pups greet each other. “Coupla pips,” he said.
“At least. Fiona’s not home, but I told her I’d be by for the stump.”
“Got unit practice up in the park. They do a day of it once a month. Keep in tune, you know? Would’ve headed out at first light, most likely. Well, let’s get the Cat off the truck and go get you a stump. What the hell do you want it for?”
“You never know.”
“You sure don’t,” Gary agreed.
They lowered the ramp, and Gary backed the machine down. With the two dogs on board, they putted their way into the woods.
“I appreciate this, Gary.”
“Hell, it’s no big thing. Nice day to be out and about.”
It was, Simon thought. Warm enough, sunny, with little signs of encroaching spring showing themselves. The dogs panted in desperate joy, and Gary smelled—lightly—of fertilizer.
When they reached the stump, Gary hopped out, circled it, shoved his cap back to scratch his head. “This what you want?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we’ll get her. I knew a guy once made statues out of burl wood and a chain saw. This isn’t any stranger.”
They hauled out the chain, discussed strategies, baseball, dogs.
Simon tied the dogs to a tree to keep them out of harm’s way while Gary began maneuvering the machine.
It took an hour, and considerable sweat, re-angling, reversing, resetting the chain.
“Easy!” Simon called out, grinning widely. “You’ve got it now. She’s coming.”
“Cocksucker put up a fight.” Gary set the machine to idle when the stump rolled free. “You got yourself a stump.”
Simon ran his gloved hand over the body, along one of the thick roots. “Oh yeah.”
“Happiest I’ve seen you look since I met you. Let’s get her in the
bucket.”
Once they were rolling out of the woods, the bucket full of stump, Gary glanced over. “I want you to let me know what you do with that thing.”
“I’m thinking a sink.”
Gary snorted. “You’re going to make a sink out of a stump?”
“The base of it, yeah. Maybe. If it cleans up like I think it will. I’ve got this round of burl wood could work as the basin. Add high-end contemporary fixtures, half a million coats of poly. Yeah, maybe.”
“That beats a chain saw and burl wood for strange. How much would something like that go for?”
“Depends, but if this works like I see it? I can sell it for about eight.”
“Eight hundred dollars for a stump sink?”
“Thousand.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Upscale Seattle gallery? Might get ten.”
“Ten thousand dollars for a sink. Fuck me sideways.”
Simon had to grin. “One of a kind. Some people think of it as art.”
“Some people have shit for brains. No offense.”
“Some people do—no offense taken. I’ll let you know when it’s finished, whatever it turns out to be. You can take a look for yourself.”
“I’m doing that. Wait until I tell Sue,” he said, speaking of his wife. “She won’t believe it.”
NINE
By the time he and Gary hauled the stump home and unloaded it, Simon considered skipping the trip to town and just staying put to play with his new toy. He’d already drafted half a dozen design possibilities in his head.
But the stock sat in his truck, packed and ready. If he didn’t go now, he’d have to go later, so he gave Jaws the thrill of another ride with the window half down, the dog’s snout pressed through the opening, and his ears flapping in the breeze.
“Why do you do that?” Simon wondered. When Jaws banged his tail against the seat in answer, Simon stuck his head out his own window. “Huh. Feels pretty good, actually. Next time you drive and I’ll catch the breeze.”
He tapped his fingers on the wheel in time with the radio while he refined and discarded more designs on the sketch pad in his head. The physical labor combined with the creative possibilities, the dog’s sheer and simple pleasure combined in a near perfect mix that had him grinning his way into the village. He’d finish his errand, go home, study his material, measure, then take a walk on the beach to let the ideas stew. Top it off with some design work over a beer, maybe a pizza, and it was a damn good day.
