Authors: Patricia; Potter
He sat down with a fluid ease and offered her a cold soda. Her brand. It was amazing what he'd learned about her in the past few days. He remembered every one of her likes and dislikes. It was ⦠disconcerting.
She took it, and it tasted good. Neither of them had had much to eat this morning, and she was beginning to feel the rumblings of hunger deep inside. Unfortunately, there were two kinds of hunger, especially when her gaze met his. She wanted to reach out and touch him. He was reality and substance in her new world of shadows.
But that was too easy. She would never know how much of what she felt was real, and how much was fear and gratitude and even the dependence she didn't want.
She stood. “You wanted to go over my grandfather's papers.”
He nodded and unwound his long legs, standing in one easy, graceful motion. Drat him. He did everything easily. She wondered whether he had any self-doubts. She didn't think so.
She reached down and picked up her purse. Two guns between them now. Her pacifist mother would be turning over in her grave.
Braced by a steak and beer, Irish attacked Amy's boxes. It didn't take him long to see a pattern.
The two of them went through them together for a while, Amy translating some of her grandfather's poor writing. Once he caught on, she moved away, saying that she wanted him to look at them without her input. Maybe he would see something she hadn't.
General David Mallory had evidently kept what he had for a reason, and that reason could be nothing but a book. He didn't keep odds and ends. He'd kept maps with notations on them, orders received from the supreme command and obviously private assessments on how they worked, recommendations for major decorations, casualty list totals, personal observations on division staff and on the enemy command. It was obvious that he often disagreed with Irish's grandfather, feeling that he was too cautious.
The papers were dated from June 6, 1944âthe Normandy invasionâand ran through April 30 of the next year. After that, the number of papers declined. There were terrain maps, orders from headquarters and from Irish's grandfather Sam Flaherty. There was, surprisingly, a list of casualties, not just the total number, but individuals. Nothing else. No more comments on staff. No more comments on orders.
A month later, as the American Army approached Berlin, the notes started again, but to a much lesser extent. Now they seemed more reminders to him, not events to be recorded.
A soft breathing distracted him. Amy had fallen asleep on the sofa. Long, dark lashes fringed her eyes, and she looked lovely to him. The tenseness had left her body, and she looked peaceful for the first time.
He felt the damndest urge to touch her. Nothing lustful, just to touch, to make contact, to soothe. He couldn't remember ever feeling that way before. Tender. As if a hole inside him was filling up, shoving aside an emptiness he'd been reluctant to acknowledge.
She had been unbelievably game these past few days. Courage, he knew, came from unsuspected places. And she had shown it that night at Jekyll Island when she'd demonstrated both grit and good sense, throwing off the assailant's aim at just the right time.
It had emerged again when he'd shown her how to shoot. She'd hated every moment of it. Her body language and eyes told him that. Yet she had listened carefully and learned quickly.
The simple fact was, he liked her. He liked the intimacy that had sprung up between them, no matter how hard they had both fought it. He realized it was rooted in the circumstances. Danger was always an aphrodisiac. He'd learned that long ago. But the way he felt now went deeper.
It scared the hell out of him.
He looked at his watch. Two in the morning.
He replaced the papers in the same order they had been in. He wasn't finished yet. But he wanted her input. She had gone over the same material. Had she seen the same pattern as he had or had his military background guided him in a different direction?
Irish stood and stretched. He thought about waking her but merely satisfied himself with finding a blanket in one of the two bedrooms and covering her with it. He didn't remember ever doing that before, either. His hands hesitated as he pulled it over her shoulders, his fingers lightly touching her hair. They lingered there a moment, then he straightened reluctantly. For a moment, he watched the blanket move slightly with her breathing, then checked the doors and windows.
Satisfied the cottage was locked tight, he turned out the lights and went into the bedroom he'd claimed as his. Damn, but it felt impersonal. Empty. Like his life.
You like it this way
.
He'd told himself that for years, but now the sentiment didn't have the same fierce pride and defiance it once had.
He hoped for quick sleep, but he knew it would not come. He longed to feel her next to him. He longed to see the warmth in her eyes that had been there the day after the attack. His body, he realized, was tense with need.
Still, he would try. He needed to keep his wits about him. They were one step ahead of a killer. He intended to keep them that way.
sixteen
M
ARYLAND
Dustin felt the familiar ache in his heart as he watched Sally comb her long, honey-colored hair as she readied herself to go out to dinner.
Watching from the door of her bedroom, he caught her glance in the mirror and smiled.
He still felt warm from her greeting an hour earlier. Her eyes had brightened when she'd opened the door.
It seemed natural to open his arms, and she'd stepped into them, enveloping him in a big hug. Her eyes sparkled, her smile was infectious, and it was all for him. He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, but she moved her face, and his lips touched hers, lingering a moment before moving away.
“I've been going crazy here by myself,” she said. “I've already gone through three books.”
“Anything good?”
“Romance novels.”
She grinned at his expression. “You ought to try them sometime. You might learn something.”
“Unfortunately, I'm usually stuck reading briefing papers,” he said.
She made her own face at that. “Which is why you aren't any fun.”
“Oh, is it?” he challenged with a smile. “I'll have to see about that.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I've brought you something,” he said. “It's in the car.”
She'd raised an eyebrow.
“First get ready for dinner,” he said. “We'll go to the best restaurant in town.”
She'd disappeared. He went down to the car and pulled out the art supplies he'd purchased at a store in Washington. A sketch pad. Charcoal pens. Water colors. Even acrylics. An easel.
He'd placed them in the corner, then approached her room, where she was combing her hair.
She whirled around, a question in her eyes.
“You look beautiful,” he said, and watched a glow spread over her face.
“Thank you.”
He went into the living room of the condominium, Sally by his side. She stopped when she saw the drawing materials. “I remembered how much you used to like to draw,” he said awkwardly. She had, in fact, loved art, and planned to study it in college until her artist mother abandoned Sally and Sally's father. As far as he knew, she hadn't touched a paintbrush since. Instead, she had flitted from one major to another, spending five years in college and finally graduating with a liberal arts degree that prepared her for exactly nothing. She went over to them, then looked up at him. Her face was tight, strained, as if a plastic mask had been stretched too tight, and he realized she wasn't ready. He had hoped she was. But perhaps she never would be.
He watched her struggle to regain her composure, the carefree attitude she so assiduously cultivated. “Does this mean I can't go home yet?”
Suddenly, he realized that she must have thought he was there to take her home. “I think it's better if you don't,” he said. “I told your boss there was a family emergency, and he said you could take unpaid leave as long as you wanted.”
She stiffened. “You shouldn't have done that. Not without asking me.”
“Sally, someone
else
has died. The woman I told you about, Dr. Mallory, was attacked again in Georgia.”
“She was killed?” Horror tinged her question.
“No. Someone heard her scream and came to her rescue. The attacker was killed.”
“Then ⦠why can't I go home?”
“There was a second assailant. He got away.”
“And you still think it might have something to do with ⦠Grandfather?”
“I'm becoming more and more convinced that it does.”
“My mother?” It was one of the few times he'd heard her mention her mother. She'd divorced Sally's father when Sally was fifteen.
He shrugged. “She's gone back to her maiden name and she'd been estranged from the family for so long that I doubt anyone would even think of her. She certainly wouldn't have anything of your father's or grandfather's.”
Uncertainty flitted over her face, and he wondered whether she was finally coming to terms about her mother. “Call her,” Sally urged.
“Why don't you?”
“I can't,” she said adamantly.
He reached out and touched her shoulder. “All right. But she'll start worrying about you.”
Sally didn't reply, but he saw the doubt on her face.
He wished he could wipe that doubt away. Sally had already believed that her mother had left her father for selfish reasons, that she'd never cared about her father, that, in fact, the divorce had led to her father's suicide. He knew it wasn't true, but she had never listened to him. Nor did he tell her that Chloe Matthews called him occasionally to inquire after her daughter, to make sure she was all right.
“I don't think that's right,” he said gently. “You never gave her a chance.”
“She killed my father,” Sally said flatly, “just as if she had pulled the trigger herself.”
But Sally still cared, or else she wouldn't have suggested that he call Chloe. Still, he didn't think it wise to pursue that at the moment.
“And you?” she said. “Have you asked Patsy to marry you yet?”
Ah, pain returned with pain. “No,” he said.
“How does she feel about you coming up here?”
“I don't know.”
“You haven't told her about this?”
“No,” he said. “I don't want her involved.” But he realized that if he really loved Patsy, he would have told her. Instead, he had been purposefully avoiding her these last few weeks. Excuses about work. About family. Except she knew that his only family was Sally, and he'd seen the questions in her eyes.
She picked up a paintbrush. Dustin saw how she held it. The way a lover held her mate's hand. With reverence. Then she quickly put it down. “I think you promised me dinner.”
“So I did,” he said.
“When are you going back?”
It was Tuesday. He'd canceled appointments for today and tomorrow. He couldn't stay away longer. “Tomorrow,” he said. “There's a party I have to attend.”
“In your penguin suit?”
“Afraid so.”
“Are you taking Patsy?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes clouded slightly. She turned around and laid the brush down, then started for the door. “I'm starving. Let's go.”
M
YRTLE
B
EACH
, S
OUTH
C
AROLINA
Amy woke to the smell of coffee. She stretched, then realized she was on the sofa as her feet hit something hard. Still feeling sleepy and more than a little stiff, she sat up. Other aromas drifted over to her. She brushed her eyes with her hand and ran fingers through her hair. She was still wearing the same slacks and knit shirt she'd worn all day yesterday, and they were wrinkled and grungy.
She
was grungy.
“Breakfast in ten minutes,” came a cheerful voice. “I've taken Bo outside.”
She wanted to kill him. She did not feel cheerful or chirpy.
Bo nudged her for attention, his tail wagging. She reached out and rubbed his ears, then barely suppressed a groan as she got to her feet. Her mouth tasted foul, she was sure her cheeks had the imprint of a throw pillow, and she'd slept so heavily that she felt drugged. She kicked off the blanket.
Blanket?
There hadn't been a blanket last night. She regarded it suspiciously. Almost like a snake. No one had taken care of her for a long time.
“You slept well.” The voice again. Sexy as well, damn it. It just wasn't right at this time of the morning.
She stumbled to her feet and made for the bathroom before he saw her. She took one look at herself. It was a lie that anyone looked good when they first woke up.
Amy did her best to repair the damage. Just brushing her teeth made her feel a great deal better. Then her hair. A splash of water on her face. Finally a touch of lipstick.
Her clothes were in the other room, but she was quickly running out of them. She had not brought many with her.
This is not a date. You are running for your life
.
That thought brought all the nightmares tumbling back. The last thing she remembered was Flaherty looking through the files. Had he found anything?
She straightened her shirt as well as she could. She would take a shower later.
Breakfast. The smells filtering into the bathroom were intriguing. All of a sudden she was hungry. Flaherty had cooked supper last night, and now breakfast. A man who could cook was a prize indeed.
Except he wasn't her prize.
She stepped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. He had already set two places at the imitation wood table. Steaming coffee and large glasses of orange juice already graced the table.
When she appeared, he scooped something out of the frying pan onto two plates and presented them with something like a flourish. Omelets. Hers looked and smelled terrific. “Where did you learn to cook?”