The place was little more than a log cabin, with a porch out front and a small shanty in the back, that could be nothing else but an outhouse. A curl of smoke died from the chimney. Otherwise, there was nothing to see but pine trees, a woodpile, and an upside down rowboat propped against one wall.
Under the wind-whipped trees, it was nearly dark, so Peggy stumbled up the stone steps to stay close to her guide. Her footsteps on the wooden porch caused an immediate uproar of barking from inside the cabin.
"Stay here,” Handsome ordered when they had reached the porch. “The wolves won't bite if you hold still."
He went inside the cabin. And, to make sure Peggy didn't budge, he allowed two creatures to come barreling out. Then her host disappeared inside. The guard dogs flung themselves at her, barking, panting, and slobbering. They were both enormous, part wolf and part something else.
"Nice beasties,” Peggy said in a small voice.
The animals looked ferocious, leaping around her on powerful, springlike legs. It took almost two full minutes before she realized they were wagging their tails and showing every sign of being delighted to have company. They weren't slavering mastiffs, either, just a couple of frisky part-wolf canines. Peggy risked her life by moving one foot, and then the other.
Neither of the dogs bit her. One of them shoved his wet snout into her hand, and she patted his head nervously. Then she bolted into the cabin and slammed the screen behind her. The rejected canines whined and scratched at the door.
The inside of the cabin was more interesting than the outside. The furniture was mostly old, comfortable-looking wooden pieces with some overstuffed pillows so faded they probably dated from a century before. Peggy noted a cheery fire crackling in the stone hearth.
An earthenware bowl full of fruit sat on the varnished trestle table, and there was an old woodstove with an antique icebox beside it. A selection of copper-bottomed pots and iron skillets hung from a rack on the ceiling. A large array of fishing rods lined the wall by the back door, and the unmistakable odor of fish wafted in the otherwise woodsy-smelling air.
And everywhere, all over the walls, under the windows, and tucked beneath the stairs, were bookshelves lined with volumes of every size and shape. The place was practically a public library. Peggy's gaze ran back to the center of the room, where a flight of rough-sawn wooden steps rose to the second floor—nothing more than a loft, really, complete with exposed rafters.
She could see a mound of quilts piled on a big wood-framed bed, and a couple of faded shirts were draped over the railing. No skylights, no potted plants around any hot tub. No upper class lifestyles of the rich and famous of the world.
Peggy nearly choked on her disappointment. First of all, the place was clearly the home of one male, not two. And it hardly looked like the kind of place a millionaire singing legend would call home—even if he had dropped out of society. There was no suggestion of luxury. No expensive paintings hung on the walls. There were books everywhere, not musical instruments. It looked more like the home of an absent-minded professor turned monk.
Peggy leaned over the nearest rocking chair and picked up the book that had been left on the cushion. Patanjali's Principles of Meditation in Yoga, written and printed in dialect. Peggy dropped it as though she'd been burned. She directed her attention to her host and studied him with a laser intensity.
Was this Jonny O'Dawg? If so, he'd changed his appearance significantly. Of course, Peggy hadn't expected to find him in his trademark black turtleneck and silver-buckled belt, drinking expensive wine and holding a topless large-breasted woman in each arm, but this was ridiculous! Yoga and old shirts? Meditation instead of narcotics?
He was digging through a drawer in the kitchen, his back turned to her. Without looking, he reached out a hand and flipped a switch on a large ham radio on the counter. He'd propped the shotgun against the stove near his leg. The animals whined louder at the screen door, causing her host to turn and see Peggy. He frowned.
"I thought I told you to stay outside."
"The dogs invited me in,” Peggy cracked, hoping she sounded tough. She made a hasty beeline for the fireplace and stood there, rubbing her hands together. “I was cold. Don't worry. I'm not skanky, and I'm not a thief."
He shot her a glare and began to tinker with the radiophone.
"Well, just stay where you are,” he ordered. “I don't want you wandering all over the place."
She didn't move, but let her gaze roam freely. She spotted a group of photographs on one wall and wished she could stroll over for a closer took. Some were colored; others were simply black and white. They appeared to be family groups, some with fish as their focal points.
Then she looked at her host again. Handsome as anything beneath the rugged male appearance. In New York, he'd probably have women swooning at his feet. Females who were way too used to the wimpish males in their formal dress suits. Males who exercised in sparkling clean gyms, with fancy weight equipment, and who drank bottled water to try to stay healthy.
He was a little rough around the edges. His hair definitely needed to be cut, and his clothes looked as if they'd been hanging on pegs for a decade or so. But when he stripped off his shirt, Peggy saw that his body was splendid. Nice long legs, broad shoulders, and a nice tight butt that could make any grown straight female howl at the moon.
Moreover, his lithe way of moving was hard not to watch. He had muscles where most other males were very boring. If he was Jonny O'Dawg, he'd certainly buffed and shaped up.
Unaware of her attention, he fiddled with the ham radio and finally began to speak, trying to make contact with someone he called Charlie. No one responded to his hail until several minutes had passed, during which time her host became more and more annoyed. Then, a gruff male voice finally answered. Peggy could barely make out the conversation for all the static.
"That you, Barnard?” a voice called at last.
"Yeah, Charlie.” He glanced grimly at Peggy.
His pseudonym was now out in the open.
To his radio contact, he said, “I've got a problem."
"Go ahead, old comrade."
"An uninvited guest has dropped in. An attractive, young, New York chick who hired a boat from the village. But they left without her. You have anyone who can come and get her?"
The response Peggy heard was laughter.
Impatiently, her host snapped, “Come on, Charlie, I don't need this bullshit."
The laughter continued.
"You could use that kind of aggravation for a night or two, Brent. Just tuck her in and keep her warm. Then bring her over yourself when the weather clears. Or keep her ‘til spring, if she's willing. Your choice."
"Give me a break, Charlie. I can't have her here!"
"Nothing I can do, Brent. The storm looks bad. I'm not risking one of my boats to save you from some sex-starved and typically repressed, neurotic, American female. Just remain tough, old comrade."
The man by the name of Brent came close to punching the ham radio. But he restrained himself, and instead, slammed down the receiver and nearly tore the switch off when he shut down the equipment. He cursed his bad luck, and then cursed again. Then he transferred his glare to the intruder.
* * * *
She looked like the kind of urban female he'd only read about. She had a mop of curly brown hair sticking out from a weird-looking hat, a body like a slightly voluptuous elf, and a face like that of any goddess. She had a cute busybody's nose, a full, tilting mouth, and large brown eyes that sparkled with greedy curiosity.
Her clothes were just on the edge of outrageousness. She'd attempted to look outdoorsy with the waterproof jacket and pants, but he could see the gleam of gold jewelry in her earlobes and around her neck. In addition, a flashy scarf was tucked with an exotic dancer's panache around her neck.
She moved constantly, too. Her glittering gaze zipped from one spot to another, as if she wanted to memorize every detail of her surroundings, probably so she could make
a report at her next big city society cocktail party. Her hands reached to touch things: his books, the stones of the fireplace, and the pillows on the furniture.
She seemed to need to learn their textures, feel their weight, before moving on to the next item of interest. A seismograph could have registered the energy vibrating from inside her. She even tapped her boots on the floor. He wondered why. Did she expect to find a trapdoor beneath her feet?
He felt invaded, almost panicky. He knew he had to figure a way to get rid of her—quickly. She began to stroll, endeavoring to look innocent. Instead, she looked more and more suspicious with every step.
She said, “So, you're a Barnard! I have a friend who married a Barnard a couple of years ago. In New York. You have any relatives in Manhattan, by any chance?"
"No."
She smiled sweetly, taking no heed of his terse tone. “I guess you don't sound like a pro-Yankees type. Where are you from?"
"Here."
She smiled some more. He supposed it was meant to be a winsome smile, but it just looked calculating to him.
"Oh, of course,” she said. “How silly of me."
She picked up the book he'd been reading, and put it down again, before cruising toward the shelves.
"You must have a lot of spare time up here in this fisherman's paradise."
He didn't answer.
"For reading, I mean.” She went on. “Are these all your books? It's quite a collection."
She began to pull one volume after another off the shelves, leafing through them idly, chattering the whole time.
"Your tastes are pretty mixed, too. Comparative Religions. That's never been my favorite. Look at this: biology, chemistry, physics. What are you, some kind of scientist? And poetry, too. Hey, this one's inscribed. See? ‘For my Jeff.’ Who is he? ‘Happy Name Day, Love, Mother.’ Gee, that's sweet."
She turned and smiled, a moppet with a hard gleam in her eye. He crossed the room in four strides and snatched the book from her hands. She dropped the fake innocence.
"Hey!"
"Look, Miss, I don't know what you're up to—"
"I'm just being friendly."
"Don't lie to me! You didn't come sneaking in here just to chat about books."
She didn't flinch, and suddenly, he realized she'd baited him into coming closer. He felt the warmth of her body, the heat of her curiosity. She stood still and squinted at him, taking a long look at his face.
Abruptly, she asked, “Have you had plastic surgery?"
"What?"
"Do you wear contact lenses?"
He stared at her. “Are you crazy?"
"Are you Jonny O'Dawg?"
"What?!"
"Answer the question. Are you or are you not Jonny O'Dawg?"
The suggestion was so bizarre that he figured he'd heard wrong. But he replayed the words in his head, and they came out the same.
He stepped back. “I hope you brought your own straightjacket. You're a lunatic!"
"Come on, you can tell me the truth."
She followed him around the furniture until he reached the kitchen and quickly put the counter between them. He had to get away from her, but she put her hands flat on the counter and leaned toward him.
"I'm a professional,” she coaxed. “You can trust me. Together, we could wow the whole world!"
"You can wow the world all by yourself,” he retorted. “You don't need me!"
"Of course I do! The Jonny O'Dawg story will be the biggest news to hit the media since the new administration's takeover! I need details. I know all the right connections, and we can network it perfectly, but you have to—"
"Hold it,” he commanded. “You came here because you think I'm some kind of singer? You think I'm—wait a minute. I thought he was dead."
"But you're not, are you? You faked a suicide and you've been living here in isolation for—Those are contact lenses, aren't they? He had blue eyes. And you seem taller."
She frowned.
"Are you wearing lifts or something? Come on, tell me everything!"
She pulled a notepad out of her pocket. Brent reached across the counter and grabbed her wrist. The notepad flew out of her hand.
"I want some answers, too!"
She resisted, and when she saw the look on his face, she pulled back instinctively, panic wrinkling her brow. He gripped her wrist harder and felt her pulse jump. Her eyes were brown, the color of chestnuts, and her skin soft and undeniably female.
Her perfume, a strong scent in the cabin, revived memories he thought he'd repressed for years. He tried to keep them down once more and concentrate on the trouble at hand.
"Where did you hear about me?” he asked.
She thrust out her jaw.
"I've got my sources. I'm a journalist."
He snorted.
"Journalist! Anyone who can string a few sentences together thinks they've found an easy way to make a dollar. Tell me the truth. How did you know I was here?"
"Ouch! You're hurting me!"
"I could do worse,” he said from between clenched teeth.
"I don't have to reveal a source. The First Amendment of the Constitution—"
"The First Amendment says you're allowed to scream before I strangle you, too. Except no one out here is going to hear a single squeak. Tell me, damn you!"
"From a local.” She gasped. “A man who lives in Copper Harbor."
He grabbed the shoulder of her jacket with his other hand, adrenaline racing through his veins.
"What man? Who was it?"
She gulped, truly scared by his intense staring. “He owns a newspaper there, just a smaller one. He called the paper in New York a couple of days ago with the story. They don't send their major reporters on stuff like this. So they sent me, because of my credentials. They also pay my expenses, and I get the rights to a book—"
"I don't give a damn about you,” he snapped. “Who else knows I'm here?"
"How should I know? I just—"
"The New York Times! The editors?"
"What's your problem?"
"Talk, damn you!"
She did, crying out when he twisted her arm.
"The editors thought you might be Jonny O'Dawg, that's all. There's no real proof. The ferryboat guy told me about a recluse named Brent Barnard, so I came. Please, will you let me go?"
"Shut up! Are you going to bring boatloads of sightseeing fools up here?"
"You're a big story!"
"Damn you!"
"But you're only my big story for the moment,” she added swiftly. “I've made sure I have an exclusive on this."
"What does that mean?"
"There won't be any sightseers. Not for a while. Not yet, at least. You can trust me, Jon."
He released her jacket. Shaking his head, he tried to calm himself, to get a grip on his composure. She stared up at him, and he felt his gut tighten at the sight of her excitement, her desire.
Gruffly, he said, “I'm not Jonny O'Dawg."
Her face changed, showing profound dismay. She believed him. For a second, she looked like a child who didn't get the toy doll for Christmas. It was almost comical.
But it didn't last long. She sucked in a hissing breath and didn't move. As she looked up at him, narrowing her eyes, something else crept into Peggy's expression. Curiosity dawned. Whatever story she had planned was replaced by a new idea.
Softly, she said, “Then who are you?"
He gave her a shove and stood back.
"I'm no one,” he said, suddenly appalled by his own behavior.
Manhandling women was just one more thing he could add to his list of new pastimes. He'd let the frustration get out of hand. The first woman who'd entered his domain in four years of exile. He had chased caution out of his head completely. A wave of self-disgust rose within him.
He turned away from her. “Take my advice, lady. Go back home to New York and forget that you ever heard about me."
She rubbed her wrist and watched him.
"Why?"
He answered, too softly for her to hear, he was sure.
"Because I don't exist anymore."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter 2
One good journalistic quality Peggy knew she had going for herself was her adaptability. If a story didn't feel like it was going to pan out, she dropped it and moved on. Her gut feeling was that Brent—if that was his real name—was not the legendary singer she'd been searching for. She massaged her wrist where he'd gripped her and knew he'd done so with a strength born of desperation. Peggy knew desperation when she saw it, and this Brent had a lot of it.
If he wasn't Jonny O'Dawg, then who was he? She felt like a bloodhound with a nose filled with a powerful scent, a shark tasting fresh meat, a fine racehorse boxed in at the starting gate. A dangerous but attractive recluse hiding under an assumed name was a tantalizing idea, always a winner with publishers. And this one had secrets he was very worried about revealing.
Plus, he looked like a photographer's dream—all that wild hair, the lanky balanced body, and those burning brown eyes. Had she stumbled onto an even better story?
"Well, look,” she said cheerily, determined not to scare him off before she learned more, “I'm sorry about the mix-up. If you're not Jonny O'Dawg, I guess I'll just apologize for the intrusion and clear out of here. I'm just sorry I can't leave before morning."
He looked at her suspiciously, clearly not sure whether he should trust this change in tactics. Without responding, he picked up the shotgun, crossed the room to a gun rack over the fireplace mantel, and put the weapon away.
"You're pretty quick with that shotgun, aren't you?” Peggy grinned. “What were you expecting? Some kind of invasion?"
"Some delinquents broke into this place last spring,” he said shortly. “I was gone at the time, and they did some damage. I don't want them thinking this is their party hang-out."
"I see. Well, that's logical. You can't have people interrupting you all the time. You must have work to do."
When he didn't respond, she smiled and blinked innocently.
"What kind of work do you do up here all alone?"
Isle of Intrigue Page 2
