Dream of Me (3 page)

Take that back.
Right about now, she’d love the hell out of a good fight.

‡

S
am Blalock watched
the slender woman who waited on the tarmac just outside the golden oval cast by a tall flood light. Her stiff posture and the way her gaze scanned the narrow airstrip gave away her uncertainty. Did she think she wouldn’t be met? That he’d leave her standing there without a clue of her destination?

After stepping from the shadow of the hangar, he strode toward her, all the while sizing her up. He skimmed his gaze over her trim frame, the lithe muscles, the lovely fall of curly, dark hair that reached the center of her shoulders. She’d worn blue jeans and a torso-hugging tee. He guessed she hadn’t bother changing after they’d talked. Not like he’d given her time. He’d been afraid she’d change her mind. “Aislin,” he said as he came within reach.

She turned slowly, her head tipping slightly upward to meet his glance. “You’re Marc’s friend?”

Her voice sounded less breathy than it had been hours earlier. He held out his hand and waited as she raised hers. She hesitated as though reluctant to touch, but her grip was firm when he shook her hand.

This close, she nearly stole his breath. She wasn’t the prettiest woman he’d ever met, but something about the way her doe eyes met his, something vulnerable and wary in their glossy depths, made him wish he could gather her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I’m Sam Blalock.”

“I thought a service would pick me up. Someone from the rental office…”

He smiled. “The accommodation’s not a rental. Sorry if I mislead you; it’s my place. Or rather a cottage near my place. I’d offered it several times over the years. This occasion was the first time Marc took me up on it.” He noted that when he said his friend’s name she winced. Her sorrow was still fresh, despite the nearly four months since his death. “Is that all you packed?” he asked, glancing at the bag she held.

“I…yes. I didn’t think I’d need anything special.”

“You don’t. But if you do want to shop, you can visit the town farther down the road from my place. I can take you.”

“You’ve already done enough.” Her smile was small and strained.

Like making small talk was depleting her energy. He held out his hand, and she passed him her bag. “I’ll get you settled. The cottage has been cleaned, with the beds made, and the refrigerator and pantry stocked.”

“Thank you.”

“No, it’s my pleasure. The least I can do.” And he meant it, but she likely wasn’t ready to hear that story. “Follow me.”

He led the way though a gate in a chain link fence toward his SUV parked in a very small row of parking spaces. The hangar belonged to his employer, Charter Group. Several of their operatives lived on the quiet island. Plus, a safe house was located amid the bungalows stretched along a pristine strip of beach where they all lived. Charter Group planes flew in and out often enough the company required a separate airstrip and hangar to ensure their privacy and safety from militant groups and drug cartels—people who might have a bone to chew with Charter.

Sam placed her bag behind her seat, and then held the door as she stepped up into the vehicle. Her gaze didn’t look left or right. She sat still, seeming to barely breathe.

When they were both strapped in, he pressed the ignition button, and they were away. He kept his gaze on the dark, narrow road that hugged the outer edge of the island. “You should have everything you need, but I’ll check on you tomorrow. Not too early,” he said with a small, one-sided smile as he glanced her way.

She was staring out the passenger window. “You shouldn’t put yourself out. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Sam couldn’t read her expression, but her tone was flat. Not a hint of emotion. The way Marc had talked about her, Sam knew this wasn’t Aislin Dupree. He was staring at a shadow of the woman she’d once been. “It’s quiet. You’re coming straight from NOLA and might need a bit to acclimate.”

“Fine. Drop by.”

Her tone remained flat. But he noted the way her shoulders stiffened just a little. She wasn’t as uncaring as she would have him believe. She was annoyed. Which made him smile. He could deal with anger. Sorrow, not so much. He owed it to Marc to keep a watch over Aislin. Maybe coax her out of her brittle shell. “Marc called you Ash.”

Her breath hitched, and she darted a narrowed glance his way. “My friends call me that.”

Had it been his mention of Marc? Or was she warning him they would never be friends? Still, he liked getting a reaction. The frown between her brows was far better than the closed expression she’d worn when he’d introduced himself. “We can’t be friends?” he drawled.

She blew out a breath between pursed lips and resumed staring out the window. Her already rather square jaw jutted forward.

Now, he grinned. Yeah, she’d need prodding to rejoin the living. After discovering she’d been on a rather lengthy leave following the shooting, he’d been concerned. Had to mean she couldn’t get past the psych eval. He’d bet anything she’d be livid if she knew he’d placed a few calls on her behalf. Her shift sergeant was a former Marine, and Sam hadn’t done much to get him to spill about his concerns regarding her fitness to return to duty.

Sergeant Patterson had sounded relieved someone was stepping in to help. Not that helping had been Sam’s intention, at first. He’d simply been repaying a debt. Offering his old buddy’s girlfriend a chance to recuperate.

However, the call she’d placed last night had sparked his curiosity. Something about the tone of her voice, that hint of desperation and aching sorrow, had tugged at him. After making her travel arrangements, he’d settled into a lounge chair on his deck and started making calls. One to a friend inside Charter’s operations center who could help with running down information regarding Marc’s murder and his girlfriend’s current status. Another to the office manager of the practice where Melanie Oats worked. With little effort and a small bribe, he obtained copies of the psychologist’s notes, which he’d emailed straight to Charter’s own resident profiler. He’d wanted to know how to approach Ash. What she needed…

A change of scenery
, for sure. She’d been holed up in the apartment she’d shared with Marc, sleeping on the sofa because she couldn’t face lying on the mattress where they’d both slept. And a breezy island was far removed from sweltering, muggy New Orleans. She’d stand a chance of losing the anchor that kept her tied to her past.

Solitude
. For her to think, and long enough to make her feel restless. Because then, maybe, she’d be ready to again get out into the world.

Physical activity
. To improve the chemistry of her brain. Happiness was as much a matter of physiology as it was psychology, or so their profiler believed. He’d also suggested an intense affair, feeling that being sexually active might trigger the release of pent-up sorrow. Once she traveled past her grief, she would come to realize her life wasn’t over.

Sam had taken care of the first and second things she needed. He’d prod her to join him for a swim or a walk to help with the third. The last…

He’d cursed when Dane Renfrow mentioned it with his dry tone. “And how the hell am I supposed to make that happen?”

But then, he hadn’t believed he’d be attracted. Her photo in her work file had shown a woman with dark hair and rather stern features. But a flat, two-dimensional picture couldn’t convey her appeal.

Her slim frame held a wiry strength. A watchful wariness in her dark eyes spoke of her hurt, but also of energy. She was depressed, grieving, yes, but she was also—angry. An emotion he understood. That anger and the intelligence burning in her eyes were oddly appealing. So maybe, if he could figure out how to prod her along, he could help with the final Rx for her recovery. What didn’t hurt was how her trim curves were as appealing as the haunted, edgy anger in her eyes.

You are one sick jerk.
Fuck Dane for putting that thought in his head. He pulled his attention back to the road. “You’re not from New Orleans…”

“I’m from Jefferson Parrish, in bayou country.”

“But you don’t have a Cajun accent.”

She shrugged. “My mom was from up north. She insisted I speak like her. And after my dad’s death, she sent me to boarding school, until she got sick.” She angled her face toward him. “I tried to call you back. When the car showed up.”

He noted the frown from the corner of his eye and didn’t even try to hide his one-sided smile. “I know. I didn’t answer. I figured you were calling to tell me you’d changed your mind. Marc said you were a hard case.”

Her mouth pouted, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’d rather not talk about him.”

“I get that. So, we won’t. Not unless you want to.”

She took a deep breath and looked out the side window again, effectively cutting him off.

They were nearing the turnoff that led down the even-narrower lane connecting all the cottages dotting the gentle, inward curve of shoreline.

He shot a glance her way and noted she now stared through the windshield. He turned left at the T-intersection, passed two houses, and then pointed at a gate in a walled-in property. The red-tiled roof of his two-story house was just visible above the concrete, stuccoed wall. “That’s my place. There’s a side access. I’ll show it to you in case you need me for anything.”

She nodded vaguely, but her gaze was already skipping to the iron fence surrounding the property beside his.

The grounds around the cottage were untended, left to grow wild with palms and brush. He hit the remote to open the gate then drove down the driveway paved in seashell and tiny gravel. The closer they drew to the house, the more vibrant were the plantings. Lemon trees and red hibiscus surrounded the sides of the house; long vines of fuchsia-colored bougainvillea followed the porch rails upward to trail along the length of the small veranda. The headlights caught all that then shone on the long strip of beach ahead.

The cottage was much smaller than his place, but more intimate and lush. Here, she’d be comfortable and safe. That should be his only concern, but the way her gaze sparked on the flowers then roamed to the white-sand beach, longing in her eyes, shot to hell his good intentions.

“Why not change into your swimsuit?” he asked, before thinking through the situation. “Moon’s up. We’ll swim. You can work out the kinks from sitting so long on that plane.”

Her head turned toward him, another frown already digging a line between her brows. “I really could use some sleep.”

“You’ll rest better if you get a bit of fresh air. The ocean’s warm. No undertows.”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “We won’t see the sharks.”

Her deadpan delivery made his mouth twitch. “They’re rare in these waters, but it’s better you don’t swim alone, just in case.”

Her narrowed gaze went back to the water, and she released a quiet sigh.

“Let’s get you inside. You can unpack. I’ll be on the beach if you care to join me. There’s nothing like a swim in the moonlight. I swear, you’ll feel like you’re the only person on the planet.”

She made a soft chuffing sound, but otherwise held silent.

He parked the SUV beside the wooden steps at the side of the porch and let himself out of the truck. But she was already standing on the ground when he rounded the vehicle, her duffel slung over her shoulder and a mulish look daring him to offer to relieve her of it.

Instead, he smiled and waved a hand toward the steps. “After you.”

Which she didn’t like either. Was it because she didn’t like turning her back on a stranger, or because he’d be looking at her ass as she climbed the stairs?

A light shone through the window. Before he’d left for the airstrip, he’d turned down the air conditioning and left on a light. He thrust a key into the lock and opened the door, and then handed her the key ring. “The island’s pretty quiet. Most residents don’t even bother locking their doors, but better safe than sorry.”

She took the ring and gripped her bag, her large, dark eyes locking with his for just a second before her gaze swept the room.

He cleared his throat and strode toward a small hallway. “Bedrooms are this way. This one’s the most comfortable,” he said, twisting the knob and pushing the door open.

She squeezed past him without looking his way, and then stopped in the center of the room. “It’s lovely.”

He noted the familiar green-and-blue wallpaper, the large four-poster bed, and cream-upholstered, low-backed sofa and chairs that formed a small sitting area nearer the French doors that opened onto the porch. “I’m heading to my place.” He walked to the paneled glass doors and pushed them open. “The side gate’s there.” He pointed to a sturdy wooden door in the wall separating the properties. “I’ll leave it unlocked.” He turned to again glance her way. Her expression was set, but her eyes were liquid brown. “I’ll be on the beach in five if you care to join me.” Then, not leaving her a chance to turn down his invitation, he left.

Ash stared after
his disappearing figure. Sam Blalock seemed nice enough, on the surface. And he’d been a friend of Marc’s. She knew she should trust him. But something about the way he’d studied her with his short glances throughout the drive irritated. She’d noted them from the corner of her eye while she’d pretended not to notice.