Читать книгу Garden Of Scandal - Jennifer Blake - Страница 8

Laurel Bancroft was keeping an eye on him from the windows; Alec knew this because he had caught her at it.

He didn’t like it, didn’t appreciate being made to feel like a criminal she needed to stay away from at all costs. Or worse, that maybe he wasn’t good enough to associate with her. It had been going on for three days. He’d about had a bellyful of it.

He didn’t care if she was a widow, didn’t give a rat’s behind if she’d actually killed her husband and had good reason to shut herself away. It didn’t even matter that she didn’t see another soul beside Maisie. He wanted her out of that house. He wanted her to talk to him.

The anger that simmered inside him while he dug and chopped and ripped weeds from the ground was strange, in a way. What people thought and how they acted toward him had ceased to bother him years ago. But Laurel Bancroft had opened old wounds. She’d made him as self-conscious as a teenager again. She’d made him care, which was something else he held against her.

What it was about her, he didn’t know. It wasn’t just that she was an attractive woman, because there were jillions of those in California, and he had known his share. Nor was it, as his brother sometimes claimed, that he had a weakness for problem females. He might feel the need to lend a hand to those who seemed to be struggling, but that had nothing to do with the woman who owned Ivywild.

There she was again, behind the draperies that covered the window on the end of the house. She was standing well back and barely shifting the drape, but he had learned to watch for the shadowy movement.

That did it.

He dropped the shovel he was wielding, then stripped off his gloves and crammed them into his back pocket. He was not going to be spied on any longer. Either she was coming out or he was going in.

Maisie answered his knock. Her gray brows climbed toward her hairline as she saw the grim look on his face. Wiping her damp hands on her apron, she asked, “Something the matter?”

Alec gave a short nod. “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Bancroft a minute.”

“She’s busy,” the older woman answered, not budging an inch. “What do you need?”

“Answers,” he said. “Could you get her for me?”

Maisie considered him, her faded gaze holding a hint of acknowledgment of the human capacity for dealing misery. Finally, she nodded. “Wait here a minute.”

Alec put his hands on his hipbones as he watched the housekeeper move off into the house. Wait here, she’d said. Like a good boy. Or the hired help. His lips tightened.

After a few seconds, he heard the murmur of voices, then a silence followed by the returning shuffle of the house slippers Maisie wore. She spoke while still some distance down the hall.

“She says find out what you want.”

“I want,” he replied with stringent softness, “to talk to her.”

“Well, she don’t want to talk to you, so don’t push it.”

“What if I do? You going to stop me? Or will you just tell Grannie Callie on me?” He stepped forward into the long hallway.

“You’ll get yourself fired,” Maisie warned, even as she backed up a few steps.

“Fine. I’ll be fired.”

“I thought you wanted this job.”

“Where is she?” He strode deeper into the house while Maisie turned and trotted along behind him.

“In her bedroom,” the older woman answered a bit breathlessly. “You can’t go in there.”

“I think maybe I can,” he said, heading for the door Maisie had glanced at as she spoke.

“It’s on your own head, then.”

The warning in the housekeeper’s voice as she came to a halt was fretted with something that might have been grudging approval. He didn’t stay to analyze it, but turned the knob of the bedroom door and pushed inside.

The widow Bancroft was sitting on a chaise longue with pillows propped behind her back, her feet curled to one side and a book in her hands. Her gaze widened and a tint of soft rose crept into her face as she stared at him. Her lips parted as if she had drawn a quick breath and forgotten to release it.

The bedroom was like her, Alec thought—a medley of cream, blue and coral-pink; of substantial Victorian furniture and fragile, sensuous fabrics. It was a retreat and he had breached it. More than that, he had caught her unawares, before she could raise her defenses. She was barefoot and almost certainly braless under an oversize and much-washed T-shirt worn with a pair of white shorts. Her hair spilled over her left shoulder, shimmering with the beat of her heart, and she wore not the first smidgen of makeup to obscure her clear skin or the soft coral of her lips. She was the most enticing sight he had ever come across in his life.

In the flicker of an eyelid, she recovered her outward aplomb. Setting her book aside, she uncurled from the chaise and got to her feet. As she spoke, her voice was edgy. “What is it? Do you have a problem?”

“You might say so. I want to know why you’re afraid of me.” He hadn’t meant it to come out just like that, but he let it stand anyway.

“I’m not,” she said in immediate denial.

“You could have fooled me. Unless you have some other reason for hiding in here?”

She stared at him an instant too long before she spoke. “Who said I was hiding? Just because I don’t feel the need to oversee everything you do—”

“You’re letting me make this garden on my own, and you know it. When I get through, it won’t be yours but mine.”

She shrugged briefly. “So I’ll make it mine when you’re gone.”

“There’s no need. I can make sure that it reflects what you want right now. You won’t have to lift a finger except to point. You can tell me what you want moved and what stays as is, what you want pruned to size and what you prefer to be left natural. I’ve gotten rid of the briers and vines and everything else that obviously doesn’t belong, but now it’s decision time.”

“You decide, then,” she said through compressed lips. “You seem to know more about it than I do, anyway.”

“I don’t know what you like or what you want.” The words were simple and he meant them, but the emphasis he put on them in his own mind turned his ears hot.

“Do whatever you like!”

He stared at her, then gave himself a mental shake. She was talking about flowers and shrubs, that was all. “Suppose I clear off everything,” he said, “take it down to the bare…ground.”

“You can’t!”

“I could,” he growled with absolute conviction. “Nothing easier.”

“But there are camellias out there over eighty years old, and one big sweet olive that—” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “But you know that.”

“I know what’s there,” he said. “I just don’t know what you care about.”

“I can tell you—”

“Show me.” He cut across what she had intended to say without compunction.

Her lips firmed. “I don’t think—”

“Unless it’s me,” he said softly. “Since you’re not afraid, then you must not like the company.”

Surprise and dismay flashed in the rich blue of her eyes. “That isn’t it at all.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Nothing!”

“I don’t think so.”

Her lashes flickered. “At least it’s nothing to do with you, nothing to you. I can’t imagine why you’re so concerned.”

“Call me perverse. I like to know where I stand.”

“Where you don’t belong, actually. In my bedroom.” She flashed him a look of irritation before she turned away again.

“Level with me and I’m gone,” he stated with precision.

Her lips tightened, and she crossed her arms over her chest as she sighed. “It’s not you, all right? If you must know, it’s me. I don’t deal well with people.”

“That right?” he said with a raised brow. “You don’t have to deal with me, just talk to me. I’m not complicated and I don’t bite, but I hate being ignored.”

“I’m not ignoring you!”

“Maybe you just have no use for me, then.”

“That isn’t it at all. I don’t know what to say!”

His smile was slow but sure as he turned to the door and stood holding it open, waiting for her. “Then there’s no excuse left, since I can talk for both of us, and I don’t mind your company.”

The look she gave him was fulminating yet resigned. He had her and she knew it. She was not the kind of woman who could be cruel just to protect herself, no matter the provocation. He had suspected it, even counted on it. Which didn’t say much for him as a person, but it said even less for all the other idiots stupid enough to think she could commit murder. He watched her closely as she pushed her feet into her sandals, which sat beside the chaise, then moved ahead of him down the dim hallway.

Yeah, he had her number. He had Laurel Bancroft out of her bedroom, out of her house again. Now where was he going from here?

It was a good question—one he pondered often during the next week. He might be guilty of arrogance, thinking he knew what was best for her, but he didn’t intend to let that stop him. He was nothing if not high-handed.

At least he’d managed to coax her into the garden every morning. It had taken a lot of thought and energy, not to mention dozens of asinine questions that he could have answered himself without half trying. But on the sixth day, just yesterday, he’d kept her outside long enough to get her straight little nose pink from the sun, and dirt under the nails of her long, aristocratic fingers. As his reward, she had come out of the house this morning with her gloves in her hands and a straw hat on her head.

Working beside her was both a pleasure and a royal pain. She wanted to save everything recognizable, which was going to make her garden one unholy jumble. Not that he cared. Or had any right to complain.

She also had a reverence for living things that caused her to jump in and save every turtle, frog, lizard or even snake that came anywhere near the ax or shovel he might be wielding. This morning, she had spent an hour chasing a half-grown rabbit up and down the garden to be sure it found its way outside the fence.

As compensation for his tried patience, he could stand downwind from her while she worked and catch the incredible scent of roses and jasmine and warm female that drifted from her skin. He got to take his orders directly from her, which she always couched as courteous requests. He was permitted to admire the view when she bent over in close-fitting cutoff jeans to plait dying bulb foliage or to turn over a few shovelfuls of soil. He got to talk to her whenever he pleased. And sometimes, when he least expected it, he was rewarded for some quip or comment by her rare smile.

She was the kind of woman he might have laid down his life for in another place and time. As it was, he meant to drag her out of her self-imposed exile and see to it that she began to live again. He wasn’t quite sure why he was so bent on it except that he maybe needed something to distract himself, occupy his mind. Or maybe he just hated waste.

Yes, and maybe he was an idiot to think it was that simple. Denial had never been one of his problems before.

They were eating their lunch on the veranda. He was having trouble choking down Maisie’s homemade hamburger, although it was fine eating. His throat kept closing when he turned his head to look at Laurel sitting so naturally beside him. She was hot and tired, and her T-shirt was damp with perspiration so it clung in all the right places. Her hair was coming loose from the long braid down her back, and a piece of trash was caught on her gold-tipped lashes. He thought he had never seen anything so gorgeous in his life.

“Hold still,” he said, reaching out to touch her cheek, gently closing her eyelid with his thumb before sliding the offending bit of dried leaf from her lashes with two fingers.

She blinked experimentally as he took it away, then grinned at him. “Thanks.”

Incredible, how a single word could make him feel ten feet tall. Ready to leap tall buildings. Save the world. Or do lascivious-type things on the table between them that would get him booted off the property before he could turn around.

She was watching him, her gaze faintly inquiring. He suspected his face might be flushed, considering how cool the breeze felt that wandered down the long length of the veranda. Blowing the piece of trash from his fingers, he picked up his water glass and drank deeply.

“You don’t eat much, do you?” she said in tones of mild censure. “At least, not compared to how hard you work.”

“I eat enough.” The words were short. The last thing he wanted from her was motherly concern.

She frowned a little. “I only wondered if it was on purpose, some kind of California health-food thing.”

“I guess you could call it that,” he allowed finally. “The old man I used to work with thought overeating caused all sorts of problems. Fat rats die young, he used to say. He was Chinese, laughed at the American diet while he stirred up ungodly mixtures of rice and vegetables. But he was eighty-six and going strong last time I saw him.”

“You did yard work with him?”

Alec gave a quick nod, pleased that she had remembered something of what he’d told her that first night. “Mr. Wu was a gardener. He taught me what I know about plants, and a great deal more, besides.”

Her smile was whimsical. “The wisdom of the venerable ancients?”

“You’ve been watching too many old Charlie Chan movies,” he answered with a grin. “Mr. Wu was big on Zen meditation and martial arts, but I never heard him quote Confucius.”

“Martial arts? Did he teach you that, too?”

He shrugged. “Only as a form of exercise—something else Mr. Wu was big on.”

“I’d have thought gardening would give you more than enough of that.” The words were dry as she flexed her neck muscles.

“That was my idea, too,” he replied with a faint laugh of remembrance. His gaze skimmed the softness of her breasts that were lifted into prominence as she turned her head and arched her back to relieve strain. “Mr. Wu had a way of changing a person’s mind.”

“You miss California, I expect. I mean, it must seem so different here.”

“I did miss it,” he replied with a slow shake of his head as he watched her. “But not anymore.”

She avoided eye contact. Relaxing, she used a fingertip to pick up a sesame seed that had fallen from her hamburger bun. “You’ll be going back, though, I guess?”

Would he? He had certainly thought so, once. Now he wasn’t so sure. With his brain feeling tight in his skull as he watched her place the sesame seed on the pink surface of her tongue, he said, “Not anytime soon.”

“Because your brother isn’t well enough? Or is it that he just doesn’t want to go?”

She was avoiding the issue of what he himself wanted, which seemed to indicate that she understood him a little better than he had figured. Although that might be wishful thinking on his part. After a moment, he said, “Gregory’s happy here, or happy enough. I’m not sure he’ll ever…leave.”

“That’s good, then. There must be something about it he likes.”

He gave her a straight look. “Yes, but that’s not what I was getting at.”

“Oh.” Her head came up. “You don’t mean…”

He gave a slow nod as he turned his head to squint at a blue jay just landing on a fence picket. Voice low, he said, “He isn’t going to make it.”

In the sudden quiet, the sound of a jay’s call was loud. After a moment, she said softly, “He knows?”

Alec nodded, since he didn’t quite trust himself to speak.

“How old…”

“Thirty-five in October, four years older than I am.” He was laying the age thing on the line between them. The way she had hesitated over the question made him think it might be what she wanted.

“Does he—That is, is he…all right about it?”

“No,” Alec said deliberately, “I don’t think you can say that.” Far from it, in fact. Gregory wasn’t taking it well at all, and who could blame him?

“He’s lucky to have you with him.”

It was the last thing he expected her to say—so unexpected that he laughed. “I’m not sure he would agree.”

“Maisie says your grandmother told her that you’re up with him all hours of the night.”

“Somebody has to check on him, give him his medication. Grannie fusses over him during the day, but she needs her rest.” He was surprised Laurel had spoken to Maisie about him. His brow quirked into an arch as he wondered why.

She colored slightly under his regard. “I saw you taking a nap after lunch that first day. Maisie told me you probably needed it, and why. You haven’t done it again, so I just wanted to say that I don’t mind, if you…feel the need.”

The need he felt had little to do with sleeping, though a great deal to do with lying down. Or not. “I appreciate the thought,” he said carefully, “but I’ve been managing a catnap in the evening while Grannie Callie cooks supper. I’ll get by.”

“It’s up to you.” She lifted one shoulder.

“You suggesting I’m too out of shape to do without it?” he asked in a weak effort to lighten the mood, change the subject.

Her gaze skated over his chest where he had left his shirt unbuttoned for coolness. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Hardly.”

He held his lips clamped shut—it was the only way he could keep from grinning. He hadn’t been fishing for compliments, but he wasn’t immune to them, either.

He pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. His wandering attention was caught by the scaling paint along the edge of the porch, and he grasped at the subject like a lifeline.

“When was the last time this house was painted?”

She shrugged. “Six years, seven maybe. I know it needs it, but…”

“As I said before, it would be a shame to let it go too far. It’s such a grand old place.”

“I know,” she said unhappily. “It’s just that it’s such a hassle.”

“I also told you I could do it.”

“You’d be here forever.”

Exactly, he thought. Instead he said, “Not quite. It’s amazing how fast you can cover ground with a few cans of paint and an air compressor.”

“Spray it, you mean?”

He lifted a brow. “It’s not a new concept.”

“No, but Howard always did it the hard way, with a brush.”

“Your husband, right?”

She nodded, her gaze on her plate. She put what was left of her hamburger down as if she were no longer hungry. Alec thought she looked a little pale. Remembering what Maisie had told him, he couldn’t blame her too much. “It isn’t your fault he died,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“You don’t know anything about it.” Her eyes flashed blue fire as she looked at him.

“Nothing except what I’ve been told. But even I have sense enough to know a woman who won’t hurt a turtle would never kill a man.” There it was, out in the open. He waited for her to tell him to get lost.

She looked away, swallowed hard. “One thing doesn’t necessarily cancel out the other.”

“You saying you really did run him down?”

“I might have.” Her face was flushed and a groove appeared between her brows.

“Sure. Pull the other one.” He caught himself waiting for the blowup, the show of temper in defense of her innocence. Where was it?

“Maybe I saw him coming up behind me before I backed out of the garage. Maybe I could have slammed on the brakes—but I didn’t.”

She was dead serious. Incredible as it seemed, she really believed she might have killed her husband on purpose. “Right, and maybe you figured he was bright enough not to walk behind a moving vehicle. Hell, anybody would.”

“But not everybody.”

“Forget them. Get on with your life.”

“That’s easy to say, but I can’t—” She stopped, took a deep breath as she lifted both hands to her face, wiping them down it as if she were smoothing away the remnants of horror. “Never mind. I don’t know how we got onto this, anyway. I—We were talking about painting. If you really want to fool with it, you can get what you need at the hardware store in town and charge it to me.”

“I could, or we might run into town now and you can pick out the paint colors.” The words were deliberate. He waited for the answer with more than casual interest.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. White will do.”

“With green shutters, I guess.” His tone was sarcastic, a measure of his disappointment.

“What’s wrong with that? It’s traditional, the way it’s always been.”

“It’s boring.”

“I guess you would like to fancy it up like some San Francisco Painted Lady?”

Her annoyance was more like it—it made her sound feisty and full of life. She was right about his taste, too. In self-defense, he said, “The Victorians liked things colorful.”

“Not around here, they didn’t. Whitewash was all anybody could afford after the Civil War, you know. Later on, everyone figured that if it was good enough for their grandparents, it was good enough for them. And it’s also good enough for me.”

“Well, heaven forbid we should go against tradition. Do you want antique white or bright white?”

“Antique.”

“I should have known.”

She was silent for a moment, staring at him. Then she got to her feet. “Fine. If that’s settled, I think it’s time we got back to work.”

It served him right.

The afternoon went quickly, at least for Laurel. One moment the sun was high; the next time she looked up it was spreading long blue shadows along the ground. She was fighting with a honeysuckle vine that had snaked its way through a baby’s-breath spirea. She had decided the only way to get rid of it was to cut both plants down to the ground when she heard a faint noise directly behind her. She swung with the hedge clippers wide open in her hands.

Alec sidestepped, lashed out with one hand. The next instant, the clippers were on the ground and her wrists were numb inside her gloves. She caught her left hand in her right, holding it as she stared at him.

He cursed softly as he stepped closer to take her wrists, then stripped off her gloves, which he dropped to the ground. Turning her hands with the palms up, he moved the bones, watching her face for signs of pain. Some of the tightness went out of his features as he saw no evidence of injury. Voice low, he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was just a reflex action.”

“I know,” she replied, controlling a shiver at the feel of his warm, suntanned hands on hers. “You didn’t hurt me. I was only surprised.”

He flicked her a quick, assessing look. “Yeah, well, so was I. I didn’t know you were armed and dangerous.”

She could make something out of that, or leave it alone. She chose to bypass it. “You wanted something?”

His grasp on her arms tightened before he let her go with an abrupt, openhanded gesture. “As a matter of fact, yes. I was going to ask if you’ll show me where the headwaters of your creek are located. I’d like to know what kind of floodplain drains into it from north of here.”

“You have a reason, I suppose?” Realizing she was still rubbing her wrist where the feeling was returning, she made an effort to stop.

His eyes were jet-black and his smile a little forced as he inclined his head. “I was thinking of diverting water from the creek for your fountain.”

“But why?” She gave him a quick frown. “They have those kits that recirculate the water. Wouldn’t that work?”

“You have to keep adding more water, plus the fountain goes stagnant after a while.” He summoned a grin. “Besides, I have a passion for water projects, and what’s the point in being an engineer if you’re going to take the easy way out?”

“I don’t think you want to go tromping through the woods to follow the creek. It’s nothing but a thicket back in there, and the snakes are already crawling.”

“You mean you don’t want to do it, I think,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. You point me down the right roads, and I can get enough of an idea from the back of my bike.”

“If you mean you want me to lead you in my car—”

The quick shake of his head cut her off. “What I had in mind was you riding with me.”

“I don’t think so!” She hovered between amazement, doubt and anger, and was uncertain which was uppermost in her mind.

“Why? Afraid I’ll overturn you?”

“No, but—”

“There’re no buts about it. Either you trust me or you don’t. What’s the big deal?”

“You don’t understand,” she said a little desperately.

He didn’t budge an inch. “So make me.”

“I don’t like motorcycles.” She glanced away, past his shoulder, as she spoke.

“You don’t have to like them. Just ride on one.”

Her lips tightened. “This is ridiculous. I don’t have to give you a reason. I’m just not going.”

“You’re chicken,” he said softly.

She snapped her gaze back to his. “You have no right to say such a thing. You don’t know what it’s like when I leave here. You just don’t know!”

“What makes you so sure? You’re not the only one with problems,” he said with a swift gesture of one hand. “At least I know one thing, which is that you have some kind of phobia about your Ivywild. If you don’t get out of it, you’re going to wind up locked inside with no way to leave. Ever.”

She bit the side of her lip. In a voice almost too low to hear, she asked, “Would that be so bad?”

“It would be criminal,” he answered without hesitation. “You have too much living left in you. Will you let it all slip away? Will you let fear dictate what you can and can’t do?”

It was a novel thought. She wasn’t sure she had any life—or courage—left, not that it made any difference. “Look,” she began.

“No, you look,” he countered, setting his fists on his hipbones. “It’s just a little bike ride. All you have to do is hold on. I won’t go fast, I won’t overturn you, and you can choose the route. What more do you want?”

“To be left alone?” she said sweetly.

“Not a chance,” he replied with a grim smile. “Not if you want that fountain.”

She stared at him, wondering if she had imagined the threat behind his words. Could he really mean that he wouldn’t tackle the fountain project if she didn’t help him with this part of it? It was just possible he could be that stubborn, that determined to have his way.

She didn’t want to put it to the test, and that was both irritating and depressing. “Oh, all right,” she told him, bending to snatch up her gloves he had dropped. “When do you want to go?”

“Now?” he said promptly.

He obviously thought she would back out if they waited. It was possible he was right, although the last thing she would do was admit it. “Let me tell Maisie, then.”

“I already told her,” he said and had the nerve to grin. Turning, he walked away toward where his Harley stood in the driveway.

She watched him go; watched the easy, confident swing of his long legs, the way his jeans clung to the tight, lean lines of his backside, the natural way he moved his arms as if he were comfortable with his body, comfortable in it. He expected her to follow, was supremely certain she would.

Of all the conceited, know-it-all, macho schemers she had ever seen, he took the prize. She would be damned if she would trot along behind him like some blushing Indian maiden, all hot and bothered because he wanted her company.

He turned, his smile warm, almost caressing, a little challenging as he held out his hand. “Coming?”

She went. She didn’t know why, but she did. It was better than being called chicken.

Alec didn’t give Laurel a chance to balk, but led her straight to the bike. He swung his leg over it, then held it steady with his feet on the ground either side while he helped her climb on behind. As she settled in place, he put her hand at his waist as a suggestion. She took it away the minute he released it, and he had to duck his head to hide his disappointment.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

“You’ve never done this before?” he asked, grinning a little to himself at the private double entendre.

“Never.”

“First time for everything. Ready to get it on—the road?”

“Just do it and stop talking about it,” she said through her teeth.

He flung her a quick glance over his shoulder, wondering if she could possibly tell what was going on in his head. But no, her face was tight and she certainly wasn’t laughing. He turned the key, let the bike roar, then put it in gear.

She was holding on to the seat, but it wasn’t enough to keep her steady for his fast takeoff. With a small yelp, she grabbed for his waist, wrapping her arms around him and meshing her fingers over his solar plexus. He could feel her breasts pressed to his backbone—a lovely, warm softness. Her cheek fit between his shoulder blades. Perfect, he thought, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Just perfect.

He settled back a little and decreased his speed. His passenger would like it better, no doubt. Besides, it would make for a longer ride. After a moment, he turned his head to yell, “Am I going too fast for you?”

“No, it’s fine,” she replied above the engine noise, but she didn’t sound too sure.

Still, he was good, the soul of restraint. He spun along the blacktop roads, took the turn onto the dirt-and-gravel track she indicated without a murmur or hesitation. He didn’t show off, held the bike dead straight. The only time he stopped was to look at the creek where it passed through culverts or under bridges in its winding passage toward Ivywild.

It was a decent-size stream, fed along its route by a number of springs, which kept the water fresh and clean. Several dry washes fed into it, which, he guessed, must run fairly high during spring and winter rains. It also carried the runoff from a series of low ridges that twisted and turned for quite a few miles. Dams had been built along its course for a pond or two, but they hadn’t slowed it down a great deal.

The creek would be fine for his purpose; he saw that much in short order. Tapping it for a fountain should not cause a problem with either landowners or environmentalists. And it certainly wasn’t as if Louisiana had any shortage of water. If the state could only find some way to pump it out west, it would be rich.

“I’ve seen enough,” he said as they idled beside a rusting iron culvert. “What shall we do now?”

“Go home,” she replied, the words definite.

He gave a slow nod. “Right. But first, I’d like to see where this road comes out.”

She said something in protest, he thought, but just then he gunned the bike into motion so he didn’t quite catch it.

It was a dirt road, a hard-beaten, sandy track that meandered through the woods. There were a few big old trees standing on nearly every rise, as if it had once been lined with houses. All this land had been farms back before the turn of the century, with pastures and fields stretching over the rolling hills as far as the eye could see. That was according to Grannie Callie, anyway. She could still remember a lot of the family names, could tell him who gave up and moved to town to work in the mill, who took off to Texas, who went away to the big war, World War II, and never came back. It was strange to think about all those people living and working, having children and dying here, and leaving nothing behind except the trees that had sheltered their lives.

“Turn around!” Laurel yelled into his ear. “We’ve got to go back!”

He nodded his understanding, but didn’t do it. Zipping around the tight curves of the unimproved road, passing from bright sun to dark tree shadow and into the sun again, he felt free and happy and lucky to be alive. He wouldn’t mind riding on forever. He couldn’t think when was the last time he had enjoyed anything so much as roaring along this back road with Laurel Bancroft clinging to him, bouncing against him as they hit the ruts, tethered together now and then by a long strand of her hair that wrapped around his arm like a fine, silken rope.

“Stop!” she shouted, shaking him so hard with her locked arms that the bike swerved. “This road cuts through to the main highway. We’re getting too close to town!”

She was right. There was an intersection ahead of them as they rounded the bend—one with a red octagonal stop sign. He could hit the brake right here and throw them into a skidding stop, or he could coast to a halt within spitting distance of the road where cars whizzed past. It wasn’t much of a choice with Laurel behind him. He coasted.

She was trembling; he could feel the tremors running through her and into his own body as he pulled up beside the stop sign. This fear of hers must have been coming on since they’d left her house. It was not a reasonable thing—not something she could control at will—or she would be doing just that instead of letting him know it. He grimaced, mouthing a soundless curse for his misjudgment.

“Which shall it be?” he asked over his shoulder in quiet concern. “A fast trip back to the house on the main road, or a slower one the way we came?”

There were cars passing in both directions in front of them. The occupants turned their heads to stare as they sat there. Laurel hid her face against his back. “The way we came,” she answered, her voice uneven. “Please. Right now.”

“You got it.” Swinging in a wide circle, he headed back.

She was okay by the time they pulled up in front of the house. At least she had stopped shaking. Regardless, she didn’t say a word, only jumped off the bike and stalked away. Cutting through the garden, she ran up the steps. The door slammed behind her.

Alec cursed softly as he struck the handlebar of his bike with a knotted fist. He was such an idiot. Why couldn’t he have paid attention? Why did he have to keep on when she’d said turn back? Things had been going so well.

He hadn’t realized. Even when he’d accused her of having a phobia, he hadn’t really believed it ran that deep. He had drawn her outside easily enough; somehow he had thought getting her to go the rest of the way would be the same.

But he recognized, as he sat staring at the garden in front of Ivywild, that the yard was fenced in, a small enclosed space almost like an extension of the house. She could only take that much, or so it seemed.

Seen in that light, the fact that she had gone with him on his bike at all was a near miracle. She’d trusted him more than he knew, had depended on him to take care of her, keep her hidden, secure.

He had let her down.

After today, he would be lucky if he ever got her out of that house again. Hell, he would be lucky if he still had a job.

Dear God, but he couldn’t stand it. He had been so close. Now he would have to start all over.

But he would do it. He would. His heart and mind left him no other choice.