by Nora Roberts
You’re going to love it, babe.
“His eyes were glazed—like glass. And he was inside me. It hurt so much I thought he would kill me. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until he’d finished. After a while—it seemed like such a long time—he rolled off me, and he laughed.”
Come on, Dee, you know you had fun. Ask around. Nobody makes the women happy like good old Jamie.
“Then he stopped laughing, and he got angry because I was crying. I couldn’t stop crying.”
Don’t pull that shit with me. We both wanted it. You say anything different and half the football team will say you made it with them, right here, Right on the fucking fifty-yard line.
“He yanked me up, stuck his face in mine. And he warned me that if I tried to pretend I hadn’t been willing, no one would believe me. Because he was Jamie Thomas. And everyone liked Jamie. So he left me there, and I didn’t do anything. Because I was ashamed.”
The grainy newspaper photo swam into Finn’s mind, and he struggled against the violence that rose in him. But he kept his tone even. “Didn’t you have anyone to go to?”
“I told Fran.” Her nails were biting into her palm and slowly, deliberately she relaxed her hand. “After a couple of weeks, I couldn’t hide it from her. She wanted to go to the dean, but I wouldn’t.” She stared down at her own hands and felt the hot shame wash over her again. “She finally bullied me into counseling. After a while, I got over the worst of it. I don’t want it to control my life, Finn.” She looked at him then, eyes swollen and full of grief. “I don’t want it to spoil what we may be able to have.”
He was afraid any words he tried might be the wrong ones. “Deanna, I can’t tell you it doesn’t matter, because it does.” When she dropped her gaze, he touched her cheek, urging her eyes back up to his. “Because I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt that way. And because you may not be able to trust me.”
“It isn’t that,” she said quickly. “It’s me.”
“Then let me do something for you.” Gently, he kissed her forehead. “Come to the cabin with me. Now. Today. Just a weekend alone where we can relax.”
“Finn, I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”
“I don’t care about what you can give me. I’m more interested in what we can give each other.”
Chapter Fifteen
She supposed he called the place a cabin because it was built of wood. Far from the primitive box she’d imagined, the trim, two-story structure had upper and lower covered decks joined by open stairs. Outside, the cedar shingles had silvered with weather and time and were accented by deep blue shutters. Tall, spreading yews tucked the house into its own private reserve.
Instead of a lawn, rocks, low evergreens, flowering bushes, herbs and hardy perennials covered the ground. A few brave crocuses were already peeking through.
“You garden. How did you learn?”
“I read a lot of books.” Finn hauled their suitcases from the trunk while Deanna stood at the head of the gravel drive and looked around. “I never know how long I’ll be away, so grass wasn’t practical. I didn’t like the idea of hiring a lawn service. It’s mine.” Faintly embarrassed by the statement, he shrugged. “So I spent a few weeks putting in stuff that wouldn’t need a lot of attention.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He’d wanted her to think so, he realized. “It’ll look better in another month or two. Let’s go inside. I’ll start a fire, then show you around.”
She followed him up to the porch, ran her hand along the arm of a rocking chair. “It’s hard to picture you sitting here, looking out over a rockery and doing nothing.”
“It’ll get easier,” he promised, and led her inside.
The cabin opened up into a large room, topped by a loft and a quartet of skylights. One wall was dominated by a fireplace fashioned of river rock; another was crowded with books on built-in shelves. The paneling was the color of honey, as was the flooring, over which he’d scattered rugs—Orientals, French, English, Indian. And, incredibly, the lush black sheen of a bear rug, complete with snarling head and claws.
Catching her eye, Finn grinned. “It was a gift—some of the guys from the station.”
“Is it real?”
“Afraid so.” He crossed to the hearth, where the bear spread like a wide black pool. “I call him Bruno. Since I’m not the one who shot him, we get along pretty well.”
“I guess he’s . . . good company.”
“And he doesn’t eat much.” He sensed her nerves, shivering along the chilled air. And he understood them. He’d rushed her out of Chicago before she’d been able to think things through. Now she was alone with him. “Colder in here than it is outside.”
“Yes.” She rubbed her hands as she wandered to one of the windows to study his view. There was no other house to disturb the panorama, only those lush yews and trees not yet greening. “It doesn’t seem that we could be only an hour or so out of the city.”
“I wanted somewhere I could get away.” He built a fire competently, quickly. “And where I could get back quickly if a story broke. There’s a TV, radio and fax machine in the other room.”
“Oh, I see. You can take the boy out of the newsroom . . . That’s nice,” she said, and walked over to where the wood was beginning to crackle and spark.
“There’s another fireplace upstairs.” He took her bag and gestured toward the steps that led to the loft.
The second floor held one large bedroom that echoed the simple furnishings of the main room. A sitting area in front of a window contained a love seat in deep hunter green, another rocker, a low pine table and a three-footed stool. The gleaming brass bed was covered with burgundy corduroy and faced a small stone fireplace. There was a pine dresser and a roomy armoire.
“Bath’s through there.” Finn indicated the door with a nod of his head as he crouched to set the fire.
Curious, Deanna nudged the door open. Staring, she stood on the threshold unsure whether to laugh or applaud. Although the rest of the cabin might have reflected rustic elegance, in the bathroom, Finn had gone for dramatic.
The ebony, oversized tub was fitted with jets and surrounded by a ledge that snugged against a wide window. The separate shower was constructed of glass block and white tile. The wall over the sink was mirrored and hugged by a long counter of black-and-white tiles, as neat as a chessboard. A portable television sat on it, facing the tub.
“Some bathroom.”
“If you’re going to relax,” Finn commented as he rose, “you might as well relax.”
“No TV in the bedroom?”
Finn opened one door of the armoire. There, atop a trio of drawers, was the blank eye of a television screen. “There’s a shortwave in the drawer of the nightstand.” When she laughed, he held out a hand. “Come down and keep me company while I cook dinner.”
“You, ah, didn’t bring your bags up,” she said as they started down.
“There’s another bedroom downstairs.”
“Oh.” She felt the tension dissolve, even as she was pricked by regret.
He stopped at the base of the steps, turned, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly. “Okay?”
She rested her brow against his a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Okay.”
And it was, sitting at the breakfast bar putting a salad together while Finn sliced potatoes into thin strips for frying, listening to the high March wind blow through the evergreens and tap at the windows. It was easy, relaxing in the country kitchen while potatoes fried and chicken grilled and laughing at his stories of adventures in the marketplaces in Casablanca.
All the while the kitchen TV murmured, keeping the world in the background, and somehow making the atmosphere they shared more intimate.
The room was warm and cozy, with dark curtaining the windows and candles flickering on the kitchen table. “It’s wonderful,” she told him after another bite of chicken. “You’re as good as Bobby Marks.”
“And I’m cuter.�
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“Well, you’ve got more hair. I suppose I should offer to cook tomorrow.”
“That depends.” He curled his fingers around hers, grazed his teeth over her knuckles. “How are you at broiling fresh fish?”
“Is that what’s on the menu?”
“If our luck holds. We should be able to pull a couple out of the lake in the morning.”
“In the morning?” She blinked. “We’re going fishing in the morning?”
“Sure. What do you think I brought you up here for?” When she laughed he shook his head. “Kansas, you don’t understand the master plan. After we’ve dropped line together for a couple of hours, pulled in trout together, cleaned them—”
“Cleaned them?”
“Sure. After all that, you won’t be able to resist me. The excitement, the passion, the elemental sexuality of fishing will have overwhelmed you.”
“Or will have bored me senseless.”
“Have a little faith. There’s nothing like man—or woman—against nature to stir up the juices.”
“That’s quite a plan.” She tipped back in her chair, amazingly relaxed. “Have you had much success with it?”
He only grinned and topped off their wine. “Want to look at my lures?”
“I don’t think so. You can surprise me tomorrow.”
“I’ll wake you up at five.”
The glass froze an inch from her lips. “At five? A.M. ?”
“Dress warm,” he warned her.
Deanna had been certain she’d be restless, had been sure her nerves would resurface the moment the house was quiet around her. But the instant she’d snuggled under the blankets, she’d dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep. A sleep that was rudely disturbed by a hand shaking her shoulder.
She opened her eyes, blinked into the dark and closed them again.
“Come on, Kansas, rise and shine.”
“Is there a war?” she mumbled into the pillow.
“There’s a fish with your name on it,” Finn told her. “Coffee’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
She sat up, blinked again and was able to make out his silhouette beside the bed. And she could smell him—soap and damp skin. “How come you have to catch fish at dawn?”
“Some traditions are sacred.” He leaned down, unerringly finding her warm, sleepy mouth with his. Her sigh of response had his muscles tightening, and his mind skidding toward an entirely different morning activity. “You’ll want that long underwear I told you to pack.” He cleared his throat, forced himself to step back before he gave up and crawled under the blankets with her. “It’ll be cold out on the lake.”
He left her huddled in bed. He hadn’t slept well. Big surprise, Finn thought wryly. She needed time, he reminded himself. And care. And patience. What she didn’t need was for him to unstrap the desire that was clawing inside of him. It would frighten her, he was sure, if she understood just how much he wanted.
It very nearly frightened him.
* * *
There was fog on the lake. Light fingers of it tore like cotton in the breeze and muffled the sound of the boat’s motor. In the east the sky was struggling to light, and the silver sun glanced off the mist, hinting at rainbows. She could smell water and pine, and the soap from Finn’s shower. Deanna sat at the bow of the small boat, her hands resting on her knees, the collar of her jacket turned up against the chill.
“It’s beautiful.” Her breath puffed out in smoke. “Like we’re the only ones around for miles.”
“The Senachwine gets plenty of campers and hikers.” He cut the engine and let the boat drift on water as calm as glass. “We’ve probably got company on the lake already.”
“It’s so quiet.” But she did hear, in the distance, the putt of another engine, the call of a bird and the faint lap of water against the hull.
“That’s the best thing about fishing.” After dropping anchor, he handed her a rod. “You can’t rush it. You can’t crowd it. All you have to do is sit in one spot and let your mind rest.”
“Let your mind rest,” she repeated.
“What we’re doing here is float fishing,” he began. “It takes more finesse than bait fishing.”
“Right.”
“No sarcasm, please. It’s an art.”
“Art? Really.”
“The art,” Finn continued, “is to lay the float gently on the surface so that it entices the fish as you skillfully reel it back.”
Deanna glanced up from her study of the pretty lures and looked out over the water. “I don’t see any fish.”
“You will. Trust me. Now you’re going to cast the line out. It’s all in the wrist.”
“That’s what my father always says about horseshoes.”
“This is every bit as serious.” He moved surefootedly to her end of the boat.
“Horseshoes are serious?”
“Christ, Deanna, don’t you know anything? When a man needs to relax, to unwind, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want competition.”
She grinned when he shifted her hands on the rod. “My father would like you.”
“Sounds like a sensible man. Now keep your hands firm, wrists supple.” He steadied her, casting the line out so that it landed with a quiet plop in the still waters. Ripples ringed magically around the lure, spreading, delighting her.
“I did it!” Beaming, she looked over her shoulder at Finn. “Okay, you did it, but I helped.”
“Not bad. You have potential.” He took up his own rod, chose a lure. He cast off soundlessly, with barely a ripple on the lake. Through Deanna’s pleasure came the hot spirit of competition.
“I want to do it again.”
“You’re supposed to do it again. But you have to reel it in first.”
Her brow arched. “I knew that.”
“Slow,” he said, with a hint of a smile as he demonstrated. “Smooth. Patience is as much an art as casting.”
“So we just sit here, and keep tossing the line out and bringing it back in?”
“That’s the idea. I get to sit here and look at you. Which is a pretty good way to spend the morning. Now if you were a man, we’d liven things up by telling lies—about fish and women.”
Her brow was knitted in concentration as she cast off again. Her lure did not land soundlessly, but she enjoyed its celebratory plop. “In that order, I imagine.”
“Generally, you mix it up. Barlow James and I once spent six hours out here. I don’t think we told each other a single truth.”
“I can lie.”
“Nope. Not with those eyes. I’ll make it easy for you; tell me about your family.”
“I’ve got three brothers.” She stared at the lure, looking for action. “Two older and one younger. The older two are married, and the youngest is still in college. Should I, like, move this around or anything?”
“No, just relax. Are they all still in Kansas?”
“Yeah. My father owns a hardware business, and my oldest brother went in with him. My mother keeps the books. What are you doing?”
“Playing this one out,” he said calmly as he reeled in. “He’s hooked.”
“You’ve got one.” She leaned forward in the boat, jerking her line. “Already?”
“Did you grow up in the city or the suburbs?”
“The ’burbs,” she said impatiently. “How come you’ve got one already? Oh, look!” She stared, fascinated, as he drew the fish out of the lake. It wriggled, the strengthening sun flashing off its fins. The fascination remained as he netted it and plopped it onto the bottom of the boat. “You must have used a better lure than mine,” she said as Finn removed it and laid the fish on ice.
“Want to trade?”
The stubborn line creased her brow. “No.” She studied him as he cast off again. Determined, she reeled in, shifted positions, then cast off the opposite side of the boat with more enthusiasm than style.
When Finn only grinned at her, she put her nose in the air. “What about your family?”
; “I don’t have any to speak of. My parents divorced when I was fifteen. I was the only child. They’re both lawyers.” He braced his rod so that he could uncap the thermos of coffee and pour for both of them. “They buried each other under a very civilized mountain of papers, and agreed to split everything fifty-fifty. Including me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?” It wasn’t a bitter question, but a simple one. “Family ties don’t run strong in the Rileys. We each have our own life, and prefer it that way.”
“I don’t mean to criticize, but that sounds awfully cold.”
“It is cold.” He sipped coffee and absorbed the quiet pleasure of the chilly morning with the sun breaking over the water. “It’s also practical. We don’t have anything in common but blood. Why pretend otherwise?”
She didn’t know how to respond. She was far away from her family, but the connection was there, always there. “They must be proud of you.”
“I’m sure they’re pleased that the money they spent on my education wasn’t wasted. Don’t look like that.” He reached out and patted her ankle. “I wasn’t traumatized or scarred. The fact is, it’s been a plus careerwise. If you don’t have roots, you don’t have to keep ripping them out every time you get an assignment.”
Perhaps there was no need to feel sympathy for the man, but she couldn’t prevent it spreading in her for the boy he’d been. “Roots don’t have to hold you back,” she said quietly. “Not if you know how to transplant them.”
“Kansas?”
“Yes?”
“You’ve got a bite.”
“I’ve got—oh!” Her line tugged again. If Finn hadn’t reached out and held her still, she would have leaped up and capsized them. “What do I do? I forgot. Wait, wait,” she said, before he could reply. “I want to do it myself.”
Brow puckered in concentration, she turned the reel, feeling the resistance as the fish fought back. There was a moment when she felt an urge to release it. Then the line went taut, and the spirit of competition overwhelmed everything else.
When she finally dropped the catch awkwardly in the bottom of the boat, she shouted with laughter. “He’s bigger than yours.”
