On the Edge

by Heather Graham, Carla Neggers

  “What?”

  She seemed to focus on him, then went pale and suddenly swooped in front of him and hit the power button, not bothering to shut the computer down properly. But this way, Hank thought, he couldn’t see what was on the screen. Which made him wonder what was on the screen. He doubted she’d have jumped like that if it’d been medical jibberish about some aspect of trauma medicine.

  “The article’s coming along, but it’s slow work.” She snatched up a spiral notebook, closing it before Hank could read her scribblings there, too. She shoved it into a backpack on the floor and smiled unconvincingly at him. “I think I brought my laptop more so I could play FreeCell than anything else. Nights here can be pretty lonely.”

  “Tonight won’t be.”

  Her cheeks turned a healthier pink, but even that didn’t last as she grabbed the laptop and it followed the notebook into her backpack. “The battery’s about run out.”

  “Antonia—Antonia, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Hank didn’t respond this time, hoping to let the silence work for him. He heard birds outside—common seagulls—and the rhythm of the ocean, the whoosh of the wind, and all at once his own life seemed very far away. The pace of the campaign, the constant questions and careful consideration of every word he said, the burning desire to commit himself to doing what he could as a legislator. It wasn’t that he could be himself here—he was himself on the campaign trail, too. He saw no point in pretending to be someone he wasn’t. But out here, with Antonia, the “doing” part of his life didn’t seem to matter so much. He remembered walking the long stretches of Cape Cod beaches as a kid, unaware of the hours ticking by.

  But Antonia was obviously caught up in his intrusion into her escape here, into making sure he didn’t stumble on whatever it was she was hiding from him. She zipped up her backpack and shoved it under the table, as if she’d marked her territory.

  She sat on a chair that looked as if it’d been smuggled out of a sixth-grade classroom from the 1940s and twisted her hands together. “You meant it, didn’t you? If I refuse to leave, you’d stay here with me.”

  “I make it a point to mean most things I say.” He shrugged, trying to take any pompous note out of his words. “It’s just easier that way. I never was any good at bluffing.”

  “It’s what you leave unsaid—never mind. I’m in a profession where I have to watch my tongue, too. Mean what you say, say what you mean. But you never know what the other person’s hearing, do you?”

  “Do you have a problem with someone, Antonia?”

  But she seemed preoccupied, staring at her hands as if he hadn’t spoken, then jumped to her feet and walked out onto the small front porch. Hank didn’t follow her. He remained standing in the middle of a thin rug and watched her through the window as she whipped her beach towel off the rail, tossed it over one shoulder and came back inside. “It’s raining. I wonder if it’s because of the hurricane.”

  Hank had seen enough fear in his military career to recognize it in someone else, especially someone as unaccustomed to experiencing fear as Antonia was. She was used to being the calm one in the room, the physician who had to concentrate on treating the patient in front of her—who saw fear in others but who couldn’t let it affect her. She had a job to do, and her patients counted on her to do it.

  Now she was the one who was frightened and fighting for control. He could feel it, see it in her stiff movements, in the way her dark auburn hair hung in her face and her eyes tried to avoid focusing on him for too long. But he’d had years of training and experience, too, that had taught him to push back his own fears and focus on the job at hand, to stay calm when it was necessary. Then later, when he was alone and safe and the job was done, he could fall apart.

  He wondered if that was why Antonia hadn’t told him about Shelter Island. She’d held herself together because she knew she had these days here coming up, and she could be alone and safe and let herself fall apart now that the job was done.

  Had she screwed up with a patient?

  No—she was afraid. It wasn’t regret he was sensing, or self-doubt, or second-guessing. It was fear.

  She nodded curtly at him, her tension palpable. “You’ll want to check yourself for ticks. You don’t want to get Lyme disease.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I’m from the Cape. I know about ticks and Lyme Disease.”

  “And mosquitoes. Did you get bit on the way over here? West Nile virus can be a nasty business.”

  He pointed at her and smiled, trying to break through her tension. “A good role model would be in long pants, not a little pair of shorts. At least you’re wearing a long-sleeved sweatshirt.”

  “I know the symptoms of Lyme disease. And West Nile.” She seemed to try to go lofty on him, just to tweak him, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “Most people who get bit by a mosquito don’t get West Nile, and most people who get West Nile don’t get its severest form—”

  “I’m not worried about getting bit while I’m here,” he said. “By a tick or a mosquito.”

  She gave him a halfhearted scowl. “Do you know how many times I hear something just like that every day? I didn’t think I’d get hit, bit, knifed, shot—”

  “And you didn’t think I’d come after you.” He stepped toward her, not in any kind of menacing way, just to be closer to her—to get into her space, maybe, and get her to relax with him. “Did you, Antonia?”

  Her eyes lifted to him. “Why did you?”

  “Because something’s wrong, and I want to help.”

  She nodded. “Fair enough. Thanks for coming.” All at once her tone was formal, even awkward, as if he were a fellow doctor on a consultation. She added, in a near mumble, “It really is good to see you.”

  Bullshit, he thought. But she seemed to sense he was about to pounce and shot over to the cottage’s ancient sink, tossing her beach towel over the back of a chair.

  Hank sat on the old couch, watching her, decided he’d give her a chance to dig a deeper hole for herself.

  Then he’d pounce.

  He wasn’t sure of much when it came to the lovely Dr. Winter, but he knew whatever was wrong, it wasn’t just him, it wasn’t just his friendship with the man who’d pulled the rug out from under her sister. They were a part of why she hadn’t confided in him, perhaps, but he doubted they were much more than that. Still, he knew he had to proceed cautiously. Antonia was a woman used to dealing with her problems on her own. He was aware of the baggage he carried. There had been days, many days, when he’d thought he’d break under the weight of it, but he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t.

  He’d been attracted to Antonia the minute he’d met her in Cold Ridge last fall, but Tyler’s subsequent behavior toward Carine had put a damper on their own budding romance. When they started seeing each other again a few months ago, he’d never meant to go beyond having a drink and raking Ty over the coals with her—he’d had a family once. A wife, a daughter. He’d loved them with all his soul and didn’t think he wanted to make that kind of commitment again. Have fun with Antonia. Enjoy her company. Keep his emotions on the surface. Don’t go deep, he’d told himself a thousand times.

  But here he was, with her because she was in trouble—because, he thought, he was already in deep with her.

  “You’ve left out a few details of this island vacation of yours, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “I’m working on a difficult article. I needed solitude.”

  “Medical journal articles make you jumpy and pale? It’s not me, is it?”

  She shook her head, rinsing off a plate. “No.”

  He knew it wasn’t but thought it was a way to get her talking. But she didn’t go any further, and after a moment, Hank gave up. “Carine thinks you’re more like Gus and Nate.” Their uncle was an outfitter and guide in the White Mountains, their brother a U.S. Marshal in New York. “You like the thrill of adventure.”

  “My life’s much more ordinary than Carine thinks it is.”
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  “Everyone’s life is more ordinary than Carine thinks.”

  Antonia wiped her hands on a ragged dish towel. “That’s because she only has a theoretical idea of what an ordinary life is, never having lived one herself. She’ll survive Tyler North—she is surviving him. She was so in love with him, though.”

  “She’ll never admit it. She thinks she was possessed by demons.”

  “Maybe she was.” Antonia walked over to the couch and, without warning, sat on his lap, draping her arms over his shoulders. “She doesn’t like you.”

  “She’ll get over it. And she used to like me just fine, before Ty drop-kicked her into oblivion. Gus likes me.”

  “That’s saying something. He doesn’t like many flatlanders.”

  Hank laughed. “I impressed him with my mountain-climbing skills last fall.”

  “It’s that you know how to fly a helicopter—he hates them as much as I do. But a rescue helicopter saved his life in Vietnam. He doesn’t talk about it. I think it was a marine helicopter.” She let her fingers ease up his neck, into his hair. “Which is the real Hank Callahan? The Pave Hawk pilot or the man who would be senator?”

  “Different chapters in the same life.”

  “I like having you here with me. I feel safer with you here. But if you hadn’t figured out where I was, I’d have managed on my own. If I didn’t—if I capsized kayaking or fell off the porch—it wouldn’t be your fault.”

  He could feel his eyes darkening, but she kept hers on him and didn’t turn away. “Antonia—”

  “You’re not responsible for what happens to me.”

  “Guilt isn’t always rational.”

  She nodded. “For years, I thought I bore some responsibility for my parents’ deaths. If I’d been better, they might not have gone mountain climbing that day. If I’d asked them not to go—if I’d realized the weather was getting colder and they’d be caught up there—”

  “You were five years old.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not the same—”

  “No, it’s not the same. You were an air force pilot doing his duty overseas when your wife and daughter were killed. But there was nothing you could do to save them, and there was nothing I could do at five to save my parents.” He could see her swallow. “I’m sorry. I have no right—”

  “You have every right.”

  His mouth found hers, and she smiled into the kiss, pulling him down onto the lumpy, quilt-covered couch. He’d thought of this moment for hours. During the drive from Boston to the Cape, during the short boat ride from the mainland. He’d even imagined the pitterpat of raindrops on the roof. But her urgency took him by surprise. Not, he thought, that he was complaining. She slipped her hands under his shirt and smoothed her palms up his sides, even as their kiss deepened.

  “I hoped you’d come,” she whispered into his mouth. “Not consciously, but—” He eased his hand up her thigh, over her hip, and she inhaled. “Hank…”

  He smiled. “We can talk later.” Her skin was warm under his hands, but she had on one of those sports bra things that would take a war plan to get into. “Antonia…hell…”

  “Allow me.”

  She stretched out under him on the couch and lifted off her shirt and the armored sports bra in a couple of swift, efficient moves. Hank caught his breath at the sight of her. “You’re the most beautiful—”

  “What was it you just said? We can talk later.”

  A gust of wind rattled the windows and doors. The old cottage creaked and seemed almost to move with the wind, not fighting it. Hank felt the isolation of the place. It was as if he and Antonia were the only two people on the planet. He couldn’t even hear the birds over the sounds of the wind and ocean.

  He tasted salt on her skin, savored the taste of her, the small moans of pleasure she gave as he took her nipple into his mouth. He didn’t rush. It was late afternoon and raining, and they had no other distractions. He pulled her shorts down over her hips and heard her sharp intake of breath when her silky underpants came with them. In a moment, she was naked under him.

  She managed to clear her throat. “No—no fair.”

  But when she touched him, he pulled back, knowing that he’d lose all patience the second he felt her hand on him. “Let’s take our time.”

  She didn’t protest, just took a small breath when he slipped one hand between her legs. She was warm, moist, and he doubted either of them would last much longer. When he touched her, there was none of the tentativeness of the first time they’d made love. Her natural reserve fell away, which only emboldened him. He wanted to touch, lick, nibble on every inch of her—and she urged him on, until he couldn’t stand it anymore and finally ripped off his own clothes. He had to feel her hand on him. Her mouth. Her tongue. Feel himself inside her.

  When he entered her, she stopped breathing. He wondered if he’d hurt her, if he’d thrust too hard, too deep. “I’m okay,” she whispered, moving under him. “Don’t stop…don’t stop.”

  She matched his rhythm, lost herself in it. He could see it, feel it happen. They rolled onto the floor, where they had more room, and she tried to pause, tried to keep herself from coming first—but it didn’t work. He felt her quaking under him. She grabbed his hips and pulled him harder into her, again and again. There was nothing he could do. She filled up all his senses, and he exploded with her, crying out with his release.

  A long time later, he managed to pull a thick quilt onto the floor and lay with her on it. He kissed her forehead, realized she was still sweating from him. She looked at him, her blue eyes serious, but not, he thought, because of what they’d just done.

  Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

  “I think I have a stalker.”

  7

  Before she explained, Antonia felt the need to get dressed. She slipped behind the curtain that separated the sleeping alcove from the rest of the cottage and pulled on fresh clothes. Lightweight sweatpants, sweatshirt, athletic socks and sneakers. It was cool in the cottage now that the sun had gone down. She’d never gotten spooked out here by herself—until she’d heard Hank whistling his Disney tune.

  She sat on the bed and tried to collect her wits, staring at the pillows and blankets. She’d never spent an entire night with Hank. But he wasn’t going anywhere tonight, especially now that she’d told him she might have a stalker.

  He’d want to know everything.

  Well, she thought, there wasn’t all that much to tell.

  She rejoined him in the outer room. He was fully dressed and making tea, pouring boiling water from a dented pan into two mismatched mugs. The wind and rain had died down, and Antonia wondered if they were a leading edge of the hurricane or an entirely separate weather system. Hank had the National Weather Service radio on. A static-filled report indicated that Hope had picked up speed but lost a bit of its strength as it hit colder northern waters. It probably would be downgraded to a Category 2 storm by morning, but was still a powerful, dangerous hurricane. A tropical storm watch was up for the Cape and the islands—it would undoubtedly be upgraded to a hurricane watch before morning.

  So much for her island refuge, Antonia thought as she sank onto a rickety chair at the table. Hank glanced at her expectantly, and she took in a breath and began. “I’ve tried hard not to jump to conclusions.”

  And she told him, as if she were reciting a patient’s vital signs to a colleague, about the instant messages, the whispers in the garage, the billowing curtains. Hank didn’t interrupt. He just went on making tea.

  Finally, she sat back in her chair and sighed. “It’s probably just a series of unrelated coincidences.”

  Hank glanced at her. “Have you ever had strange instant messages?”

  “No. I normally don’t have instant messages at all. I don’t even know how I ended up with that feature on my computer.”

  He brought her a mug of tea, the tea bag still dangling over the rim. “Have you ever had someone whisper your name in a parking
garage?”

  She shook her head. “But I could have imagined it—”

  “Did whoever it was whisper Antonia or Dr. Winter?”

  “Antonia…Antonia Winter…Dr. Winter. At least, that’s what I heard.” She winced, touching the end of the tea bag with one finger—it was one of her tea bags, not one of the ones left in the cottage. “Or think I heard.”

  “And the curtains—you don’t have a cleaning service?”

  “No.”

  He smiled. “Gus’s influence. You Winters are all too damned cheap.”

  “Frugal,” she corrected, “not cheap.”

  “Hair-splitting.”

  She laughed in spite of her tension and lifted the tea bag out of the mug, setting it on the folded up paper towel Hank had also brought. “I’m not home often enough to make a big mess. And I don’t mind cleaning. It makes me feel as if I’ve accomplished something.”

  “Unlike sewing an accident victim back together?”

  “It’s different.”

  He sat at the end of the table with his own mug of tea. “Did you clean that morning?”

  “No.”

  “The window didn’t open itself, Antonia.”

  “Carine has a key. She might have done it.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “No.” She sipped some of the tea. It was stronger than she normally would make it. “She’d have worried.”

  “She worried, anyway.”

  Antonia felt a pang of guilt. “I know. I wish I’d never involved her.”

  “But you haven’t mentioned any of these events to anyone?” Before she could answer, he added seriously, “Not that I’m your stalker, Antonia, and trying to see if you’ve said anything—”

  “Hank! Of course I know you’re not this guy, if there even is a guy. Anyone. It never occurred to me you could be the one—” She groaned in amazement at the thought of Hank Callahan hiding in a parking garage, whispering her name. “I didn’t tell you what was going on because I thought you were responsible, but because—”

  “You didn’t want to worry me. You were trying to protect me.” He leaned toward her, his eyes piercing even in the dimming light. “I don’t need protecting, not that kind. I don’t care if I’m in a tight campaign race for the senate. I don’t care if I become a senator. If something’s going on with you, I want to know about it. Period.”