He had rolled over on to his back now and was raised up on his elbows and forearms, squinting out at the waves looking for her. He probably thinks I’ve drowned, Torey thought and began swimming towards the shore, not wanting him to come out to ‘rescue’ her again. She had more trouble than Jake had catching a wave, but at last caught a small one, enjoying the sensation of being rushed along until her knees scraped the sand.
Adjusting the top of her suit while she was still face down in the water, she recalled a time that previous summer when she’d lost it entirely. She had swum back out beyond the breakers, helpless and embarrassed, until Mick had taken pity on her and had brought her out a towel, draping it around her shoulders and fending off the teasing comments as he walked her back to her grandmother’s house. Mick had been kind, gentle, comfortable. Not at all, she thought, like Jake.
She walked back up the beach towards him, ignoring his stare until she reached the edge of her towel. He reached over and handed it to her wordlessly. She dried off, self-conscious, aware of his eyes following the towel as she dried her long, slim legs, flat stomach and pale arms. ‘I was wondering,’ she began, more to divert his attention from her body than because she wanted to know, ‘whatever became of Mick?’
Pain flickered across Jake’s face and his stomach muscles clenched. ‘Mick?’ he said hollowly. Then, ‘Mick’s dead.’ His eyes closed and, with a move as definite as shutting a door in her face, he rolled over on to his stomach and, cradling his head in his arms facing away from her, Jake lay perfectly still.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘What happened?’
She knew just by looking at him that he didn’t want to talk about it, but she couldn’t stop herself from asking. Mick? Dead? It didn’t seem possible. She could still see him as clearly as if he had only just walked down the beach with his surfboard balanced easily on top of his sunbleached blond head. She could remember well a young man with an engaging grin, one chipped tooth right in front, and a perennially sunburned nose centred below two startlingly blue eyes. She blinked and looked over at Jake again. He was getting up to his knees slowly, not looking at her.
‘He was surfing.’ Jake’s voice was toneless. He shut his eyes against the pain but his voice betrayed none of the emotion she saw momentarily on his face. ‘He drowned.’
Cold settled over Torey like a shroud. She felt chilled to the bone, numb, like she had when Paul died. ‘Oh Jake, I’m sorry. So sorry.’ She knew it was inadequate, but she wanted to reach out to him, offer him a crumb of comfort at the loss of his good friend. But Jake had closed up. There was no other way to describe it, she thought. His face had become an unreadable blank; he sat back on his heels, absolutely still, a waxen reproduction of his real self. Finally he drew a long, harsh breath.
‘Yes,’ he said roughly after a moment’s hesitation as though he didn’t wholly trust his voice. ‘I’m sorry, too.’ He got to his feet and swiped the towel across his sandy, hair-roughened legs. ‘I’m ready for that omelette now. How about you?’
Torey stared, confused, as he turned and walked back up the beach. She was still dealing with Mick’s death and he was talking about breakfast! ‘Jake! Wait!’ She scrambled to her feet and ran after him.
‘What?’ He looked back at her, eyes wary, feet still moving in the direction of the house.
‘I—I’m hungry too,’ she faltered. She had intended to ask, ‘When did it happen? How?’ but his face stopped her. She knew quite clearly that it wasn’t breakfast he was interested in; it was simply that he couldn’t talk any more about Mick. Maybe it had been too recent, or maybe he just hadn’t resolved it in his mind. For a long time she had broken down every single time she talked about Paul. But she knew that eventually, by talking about him and working her feelings through, that she’d be able to remember him with love and happiness and not only with tears. So she had talked, ad nauseum she sometimes thought, to her parents, siblings, Paul’s family, their friends, anyone who would listen for that matter. And slowly she had accepted Paul’s death, had accepted his place in her life. Now she longed to share some of that acceptance with Jake. He looked so tense, so awkward, like a hunted animal caught in the sight of a powerful gun. Gently, almost unthinkingly, she smiled at him and reached for his hand.
No words passed between them as they made their way back to the house, Jake’s hand clasped loosely in hers. Torey felt the warm roughness of his hand in hers and marvelled at her daring in reaching out to him and felt inordinately pleased that, for once, he made no move to press for more. Rather he seemed willing to accept only what closeness she was willing to give. He matched his stride to hers, his shoulder brushing against hers as they walked with an easiness that was, she realised, a far cry from their tension filled walk along The Strand on their ill-fated date seven years ago. This was more like her fantasies. This Jake was more the man she’d dreamed of—a thoughtful man, caring, and even vulnerable.
Watch out, Torey Cooper, she told herself. Watch out.
‘Go get changed,’ Jake said as they entered the kitchen. ‘I’ll start the eggs.’ He had loosed his hand from hers to unlock the door, but she still felt a bond, a closeness that made her linger unwilling to relinquish this very real rapport she felt with him. She hovered in the hallway watching him remove a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and go back for the mushrooms, cheese and bacon. An urge to touch him again nearly overwhelmed her as her eyes traced the line of his shoulders, ran down the length of his spine from the damp, spiky hair on his neck to the low rise of his worn, faded swim trunks.
Jake turned to reach for an onion and caught her staring. Colour ran up into her cheeks and she shifted her gaze uncomfortably. ‘Trying to figure out what you ever saw in me?’ Jake grinned, and Torey couldn’t help smiling back.
‘It is a bit puzzling,’ she teased, then fled to the bedroom to change back into her jeans and blouse before she betrayed any more of the desire she felt.
‘I hope you figure it out,’ Jake called after her.
Torey didn’t know what she hoped. She shut the door to her bedroom quietly and padded over to the dresser, stripping off the wet suit as she went. Her picture of Paul leaning against the oak tree in their back yard smiled up at her. ‘Oh Paul,’ she whispered, ‘what am I doing?’ But her 5x7 Paul just grinned, amused and indulgent, not helpful at all. ‘He’s not like you, Paul,’ she told the picture as she dressed. With Paul there had been no surprises, no tensions, no question that their love had been the right thing. It was all so reasonable, so sensible. She had known him for years. They had been friends in school, had swam together, hiked together, milked cows together, gone to dances together. Their relationship had developed slowly—first as friends, then in college as a couple. If Paul had had any doubts, he never expressed them. And Torey’s had been confined to her eighteenth summer—the months she had spent in California when she thought the sun rose and set on J.B. Proof that it didn’t—that J.B. was no more the romantic, tender hero than any of the other here-today-gone-tomorrow types that populated much of the beachfront—was all Torey needed once she got home in the autumn to fall into the easy companionship and slowly blossoming passion that she felt with Paul Cooper. And things had worked out. They had had a good marriage by anyone’s standards. Lots of love, laughter and caring, passion and tenderness. She had had it all. Now, looking at Paul, she knew that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life without it.
She set the photo back on the dresser and began towelling her hair dry. Perhaps, she thought for the first time since Paul died, her mother might be right after all. Maybe she did need to meet men—calm, sensible, caring men like Paul. She couldn’t go through life as an empty shell, living on past memories, loving past loves. It left her hollow, barren—and far too susceptible to the likes of Jake Brosnan. He had only to look at her and frissons of awareness danced along her spine. It shouldn’t be that way.
And it wouldn’t be, she decided if she made an effort to let other men into her li
fe. This Adam, Peggy’s nephew, for instance. I almost hope he does call, she thought as she pulled a brush through the tangle of long dark hair still damp against her back. Maybe he’s just what I need. And what’s that? she asked herself severely. The answer was obvious—an antidote to Jake Brosnan.
‘Omelette’s done,’ he hollered, and she gave up trying to do anything constructive with her hair and simply pulled it back at the nape of her neck and knotted a bright yellow scarf around it.
Jake had set the table, and she found a fluffy cheese omelette with bacon and sautéed mushrooms at her place. He held her chair for her with the elegance of a white-coated waiter in a four-star restaurant, and then went around to sit across from her, still clad only in bathing trunks. Embarrassed by his gesture of politeness, Torey said,
‘I think you need a tie in this establishment.’ Jake grinned and wrapped the dish towel around his neck.
‘How’s this?’
‘It’ll do,’ she said, reaching across to straighten it. ‘But it would look nicer if you’d wear it so Gran’s embroidered cardinal wasn’t inside out.’ Her fingers brushed his chest and Jake dipped his head to look at them, and Torey thought that touching him hadn’t been a good idea at all. She snatched her hand back quickly and buttered a piece of bread with fierce concentration.
‘It’s good bread,’ she told him through a mouthful, hoping to find a neutral subject. ‘Is it from the bakery up the hill?’
‘Brosnan’s Bakery,’ Jake told her as he forked some omelette into his mouth.
‘You made it?’
He shrugged. ‘My creativity is not confined totally to pencil and paper.’
‘I didn’t imagine it was,’ she retorted, her thoughts skipping instantly to Scott. She could tell from the sardonic glance he gave her that his thoughts had followed, and fumbling, she went on, ‘What are you working on now? What book, I mean?’ Her cheeks went scarlet, but Jake chose to take the question as it had been intended.
‘Would you believe, dragons?’
‘Dragons?’ His earlier books, she recalled, had been mostly water-colour and pen-and-ink realistic or folk tales. Many were set at the seashore. The fierce, fire-breathing boldness of dragons didn’t seem to fit.
‘Yep. Not my usual job.’
‘What made you take it then?’
‘Scott, I guess. He liked the story. There’s this dragon who’s looking for a mother ...’ Jake’s mouth twisted wryly. ‘You can guess why he likes it.’ His head bent over his plate and Torey saw a new rigidity in his shoulders.
‘Does Scott miss his mother a lot?’
Jake grimaced. ‘Hardly. He hasn’t seen her for over two years. She’s not exactly a doting mother. It’s having a mother that he misses I think. Any mother.’ Jake rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. ‘He brings me home a lot of potential ones to interview, believe me! He’s a lot like your mother in that respect!’
Torey laughed, but her heart hurt for Scott. What kind of mother would just go off and leave her child? Or couldn’t she stand being married to Jake? Torey paused, forkful of omelette halfway to her mouth, and knew that she wouldn’t want to be married to a man whose eye roved as easily and continually as Jake’s did. Maybe his ex-wife hadn’t either. But it wasn’t the sort of thing she could ask. She was overwhelmingly glad when the ‘phone rang and she was saved from replying at all.
‘It’s probably Addie,’ Jake speculated, ‘wondering when we’re coming to get her.’
But it wasn’t. When she picked up the ‘phone Torey heard a masculine voice. ‘Is this Torey Cooper? It’s Gino Martinelli here,’ the voice said. ‘You remember? Francesca’s brother.’
‘Of course!’ Torey beamed. Francesca was the one close friend she had made that earlier summer, the only one she had let know she was coming back. Gino was her older brother, a muscular blond Viking with an unlikely Italian name. He would have been high on Torey’s list of eligible men if she hadn’t been besotted with J.B. ‘How are you, Gino?’
‘Great. But Francesca and family have moved to Berkeley. When she got your letter she suggested that I give you a call. How about dinner on Friday?’
Taken aback by the suddenness of it, Torey looked up and stared at Jake. He scowled at her. Perversely her heart speeded up, and she took a deep breath trying to calm it. ‘I’d love to, Gino,’ she said hastily. ‘See you then.’
Jake got to his feet and began thumping the breakfast dishes in the sink. Torey hung up and offered, ‘I’ll do those.’
Jake snorted. ‘Who’s Gino?’ he demanded, his back to her.
‘An old friend.’
‘Someone you knew seven years ago?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you didn’t hop into bed with every man you met,’ he growled. ‘Or did you make an exception just for me?’
‘Gino never expected me to hop into bed with him,’ she said flatly. ‘That was only a prerequisite for playing in your league. Remember?’
‘Don’t be smart. I didn’t go to bed with every girl I took out in those days.’
‘No, just every one but me.’
Jake’s teeth snapped together. ‘Regretting it now?’ he mocked.
‘Like hell! The only thing I regret is having run into you again at all. You haven’t changed a bit, have you?’
Jake grinned infuriatingly. ‘You’ll never find out if you don’t try, will you?’
Torey slammed her coffee cup on the table, sloshing the hot liquid all over the chequered cloth. ‘I’ll survive without knowing, thank-you very much. You told me once to go home and grow up before I tried your league again. Well, listen to me, Mr. Brosnan, I’ve been home and I’ve grown up, and surprisingly enough I learned something in the process: I don’t want to play ball in your league!’ Her voice rose, shaking with emotion. ‘It can’t compare to what I found with Paul! Not ever!’ Spinning around, she ran from the kitchen and slammed the door to her bedroom, flinging herself on her bed while dry sobs wracked her.
God, I am an idiot, she thought rolling over and studying the ceiling in despair. For two years I have lived a sane, mature, controlled, well-ordered existence on my own, and within 24 hours of meeting up again with Jake Brosnan, I am screaming like a banshee, sobbing like an adolescent, and aching like a sex-starved maniac. What am I going to do?
She heard the back door close quietly and lifted the curtain a fraction to see Jake crossing the backyard. He bent to pat Maynard before mounting the stairs to his apartment. Looking at him objectively—if that was indeed possible, she thought wryly—it was easy enough to figure out what she had once seen in him. He was a handsome man with all that black hair and those blue eyes, that well-muscled physique and the sexy grin. And besides the tangibles, she acknowledged ruefully, there was an intensity about him, a drive, a bottled-up energy that compelled her with the same force that the surging wave had swept her along that very morning. If she didn’t start learning to swim where Jake was concerned she was in danger of being swept away. And she didn’t want that—not at all. She watched as Jake turned and gazed back at Gran’s house for a moment, a rather bleak expression on his face. He didn’t much look like he was thrilled with her either.
Probably wonders what he’s got himself into, Torey thought, dropping the curtain slowly and stretching back out on the bed. There was no question that he was attracted to her physically now. But she doubted that he had any real intention of being served up as a marriage prospect by her grandmother. She smiled slightly. He’d be walking a tightrope where Addie-the-matchmaker was concerned! He’d probably be grateful if she did find an interest elsewhere. And once he discovered that she wasn’t just going to hang about like a ripe plum waiting to be plucked, she had no doubt that he would waste little time on her. Without question there were plenty of women around who would love to be a feast for him. But not Torey. No, very definitely not her.
Tell that to Gran, she thought ruefully a few hours later when, while Jake was trudging back out to the pick-u
p to bring in another load of Gran’s things, her grandmother had plumped herself up further on her pillows and asked, ‘What do you think of him?’
No question who him was. Torey hung her grandmother’s robe in the closet. ‘He’s, um, nice.’
Gran snorted. ‘Nice? Puppies are nice. Chicken soup is nice. Shawls are nice—’
‘You’re right,’ Torey said abruptly. ‘He’s not nice at all.’
Gran looked satisfied with that. ‘I told your mother ...’ she began, and Torey gnashed her teeth.
‘I can find my own men, Gran!’ she protested.
‘I’m sure you can, dear,’ Gran agreed complacently. ‘But your mother said you weren’t overly interested in Vince or Marlon ...’
‘Harlan.’
‘Whoever,’ Gran nodded, smoothing the bedcover. ‘So I just thought you ought to know who else is available.’
‘You make it sound like window shopping!’ Torey laughed.
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ her grandmother said. ‘It’s where I got your grandfather, out of a window. Dressing manikins he was, and I was looking for a new spring coat. Got him instead.’
Torey stared. ‘I never knew that.’
Gran lifted her shoulders. ‘Lots you don’t know,’ she said enigmatically. ‘But there’s nothing wrong with a bit of window shopping, Victoria. At least it means you’ve got your eyes open again.’
Too true, Torey thought. And at that moment they were filled with the sight of Jake, staggering into the bedroom under the load of two suitcases, a portable hairdryer and a birdcage.
‘My God, Addie,’ he gasped, letting the suitcases slip from his arms as Torey rescued the canary, ‘next time hire a moving company. I thought I was bringing home a little old lady, not taking a crash course in training for a job with North American Van Lines.’
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