Her mouth twitched again. Another smirk? “Depends where I buy it.”
“Oh. I get it. No receipt, no income tax, right?”
She simply waited and fingered the arrow.
He made a show of fumbling in his pants pocket and withdrew a battered leather wallet. He knitted his brows in concentration as he thumbed through what he knew would appear to be a thick wad of bills. “I've only got another week before I have to be back in Chicago. How much would the fuel cost for one day?”
She remained silent, twirling the arrow in her fingers. For a long minute the only sounds were the whisper of the wind in the pines at the edge of the hill and the gentle, rhythmic lapping of waves against the lakeshore. Finally she exhaled on a gusty sigh and thrust the arrow back into the quiver. “Okay, Mr. Prendergast. You've got yourself a pilot.”
“Great! Thanks. Are you free tomorrow?”
“I suppose so.” She hesitated for another minute before she slung the bow onto her shoulder and used her thumb to tip up the concealing brim of her hat.
And for the first time, Bruce saw her face.
Dangerous, he thought. This woman is dangerous. Not because of the deadly weapon she carried so casually. No, he knew how to defend himself against physical threats. What he hadn’t been prepared for was the impact of her gaze.
My God,
he thought.
She’s beautiful.
Blue eyes as clear and deep and pure as a mountain lake sparkled up at him. He saw mischief, not malice. Vulnerability, not violence. Sunlight caressed cheeks that bore the pink kiss of the wind. Innocent freckles danced across the bridge of an impudent, upturned nose.
Everything he had carefully cataloged swept back on a wave of awareness. The long, slim legs, the athlete’s stride, the hunter’s nonchalant confidence and the aura of suppressed energy...the pale skin beneath the white shirt...the slender, competent fingers stroking the shaft of the arrow...the low, throaty voice, those lips that twitched with secret amusement...
The simmering anticipation he had been feeling, that low-level excitement of the chase changed to something more basic, reached beyond the circumstances and beyond the job to touch the part of him that was simply, essentially male.
“Come to the house,” she said. “We can go over my maps.” Turning her back, she walked away.
Sweat trickled between his hunched shoulder blades as he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. Ruthlessly he willed this dangerous awareness to stop. He reined it in, breathing deeply through his nose until he thought he had regained control. But he had already taken three strides before he realized that he’d forgotten to use Prendergast’s ambling shuffle. Instantly he dropped back into character, fumbling to draw a lens cap from the pocket on his thigh as he followed her toward the cabin.
She didn’t look back. Evidently she had finally bought his story along with the amiable harmlessness of his persona.
But there was nothing harmless about this situation. He was shaken by his temporary lapse from the cool professionalism that had been second nature to him in the past. How could he forget, even for a second, who he was. And who she was. So what if she was beautiful, if she stirred something inside him that he had thought long dead? In the end it didn’t make any difference. After all, he was here to do a job.
And part of his duties could include sending Emma Cassidy to prison.
* * *
Emma could feel his gaze on her, boring through the thin cotton of the shirt that was beginning to stick to her back. She clasped her hands in front of her, hoping he wouldn’t see the tremors that shook them.
God, what a complete fool she had made of herself. He was nothing but some innocent accountant on vacation, and he had been scared practically witless by the sight of her hunting bow. She shouldn’t have done it, but the moment she had seen that camera pointing in her direction, all the old memories had resurfaced and in her anger she hadn’t been thinking straight.
Of course, he was nothing but a tourist. What else could he be up here? This was Maine, not New York. There was no longer any need to check through her curtains to see whether she could elude the reporters that had staked out the house. There were no flashbulbs to blind her as she moved freely about her property. No one knew her here. To her neighbors she was simply that lady with the plane. Besides, she was old news. It had been over three years since she’d changed her name and escaped from the fishbowl her life had become.
She glanced over her shoulder. Bruce Prendergast smiled with that endearing nose crinkle and juggled his camera in front of him while he fumbled with the lens cap. A twinge of remorse traveled through her. He hadn’t done anything to deserve such a hostile welcome. He couldn’t possibly know how she felt about reporters. She loathed them for what they had done to her and her family. She hated them almost as much as she hated cops.
Relax, she ordered herself as she pushed open the front door of the cabin and waited for Bruce to catch up. He stumbled on the slab of rock that served as a step, then tugged on the brim of his baseball cap and grinned sheepishly.
Poor soul, she thought as she led the way inside. He was no reporter. He was exactly what he appeared to be. Besides, so far Hugh hadn’t sent her anyone who had caused her problems—the crusty old mechanic was a shrewd judge of character. How could she have felt threatened, even for a moment, by this awkward, soft, overweight tourist?
“Hey, nice place you have here,” he said, pausing in the doorway to glance around the main room.
She took off her hat and hung it on the hook beside the door while she imagined how her home would appear to a stranger. It wouldn’t tell him much about her. There were no photographs on display, no souvenirs of the trips she had once taken, no trace of the elegant furnishings that had graced the Long Island estate. Everything in this central, all-purpose room of her cabin was modest and functional, from the overstuffed blue corduroy sofa and armchair to the scratched, footstool-height coffee table. There was nothing here to steal, or to conceal, except what was locked inside the sturdy rolltop desk.
“You must be quite an avid reader.” His shoes scuffed across the wood floor as he ambled toward the bookshelves that lined the far wall. With his hands in his pockets, his baggy jacket dragged on his rounded shoulders, emphasizing his stooped posture. “Wow. You've got everything from Stephen King to Jane Austen. I love to read whenever I can find the time.”
“Oh? What interests you?”
“Anything, even the backs of cereal boxes.” He turned in a slow circle, taking in the rest of the room. “But I have to admit that I'm partial to a good whodunit.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” she said, waving toward the oak table in front of the window. “I'll be right with you.”
“Sure. Thanks again.”
She waited until he had settled into one of the ladder-back chairs before she crossed to the opposite side of the room and fitted her bow into the rack over the fireplace.
“What kind of bow is that? Sure doesn’t look like anything I've seen before. Were you hunting with it?”
“It’s a compound bow, and no, I wasn’t hunting today.” She unstrapped the quiver from around her waist and placed it on the mantel. “I was planning on using the sand pit down the road to do some target practice. I passed your van on the way there, but when you didn’t come back I thought I’d better investigate. Sometimes people get lost on these back roads.”
His laugh sounded uncomfortable. “I'm sure glad you didn’t decide to use me for a target. That thing looks deadly.”
“Sorry. I thought you might be somebody else.”
“I guess you have to be careful, being so isolated out here and all. Is there much of a criminal element in the Maine woods, Miss Cassidy?”
“Not that I know of.” She moved to a low shelf and selected several rolled maps. “And you might as well call me Emma. No one’s very formal around here.”
“Okay. Emma.”
“What kind of fish are you after, Bruce?”
He had smiled nervously often enough during the few minutes since they had met. This time, though, the smile that briefly crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes seemed genuine. “When I go on a trip like this, I'm always hoping to catch the big ones.”
For a moment she was distracted by the way the spark of amusement lent a trace of animation to his face. She had no more than a fleeting glimpse, though, before he lifted his hand to fidget with his baseball cap. She carried the maps to the table. “Everyone wants to catch the big ones.”
“I was hoping you’d lead me to them.”
“I'll see what I can do. Here, hold this corner for me,” she instructed as she placed the first map in front of him and began to unroll it.
His knuckles bumped the edge of the table as he shifted to follow her instructions. His fingers were long and tanned and looked surprisingly strong for someone who pushed a pencil for a living. “I really appreciate this, Miss...uh, Emma. I'm glad you weren’t already booked.”
“Hugh does his best to steer customers my way, but I don’t get all that much business.” She leaned over to point out the black square near the bottom of the map. “This is my place. There are several good lakes to the northwest of here,” she said, trailing her finger in a straight line.
“You can get pretty close to the border with that plane of yours. What’s the range on it?”
“Far enough for what you'll need. If you don’t have your own boat I can strap one of my canoes to a pontoon.”
“That would be great. Can it handle the extra weight?”
“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Bruce. I assure you, I'm a very good pilot.”
“Am I that obvious?” He tipped his head away from her. The brim of his cap shielded his eyes, but the light from the window clearly etched the hint of a solid jaw beneath his dark blond beard. “Sorry. No offense meant.”
“None taken.” She pulled back, focusing more carefully on what was visible of his face. Despite the pudgy cheeks, he had a strong, masculine jaw, all right. It was a shame he wanted to hide it with that scraggy beard. The hair that poked out from the back band of the baseball cap was a few shades lighter, but just as unkempt. “How many people are with you?”
“Huh?”
“You've got a fishing buddy, don’t you?”
“Uh, no. Just me. Like I said, it was a sort of spur of the moment decision.” His pudgy cheeks creased into a hopeful smile. “That’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, you'll be acting as my guide for the day, won’t you?”
“It'll cost you extra.”
“Sure. Of course. What time would you want to leave?” he asked eagerly. His chair scraped loudly as he pushed himself to his feet. The map he had been holding rolled shut with a snap. For a moment he appeared to tower over her, but then he took a shuffling step away and bumped into the corner of the desk. Although the desktop was closed, there was a handful of unopened mail that was stacked on the top ledge. “Oh, heck. I'm sorry,” he mumbled, squatting down to gather up the letters he’d knocked to the floor.
She watched his clumsy movements, restraining the urge to offer her help and risk insulting him. “Can you get here half an hour before sunrise?”
“Sure. Great.” As he straightened up and replaced the mail, the strap of his camera slid from his shoulder. He juggled it awkwardly as he reached the door.
Poor soul, she thought again. He was so painfully nervous and clumsy. She had strong doubts whether he’d be able to catch anything at all. Well, she took advantage of any excuse to fly, and he would be paying for her fuel. He’d even be paying her to lounge around fishing all day, and she could use the time off. She held out her right hand as he stepped outside. “Until tomorrow, then.”
He wiped his palm on his pants and reached for her hand. “I'm really looking forward to this, Emma.”
“The weather should be...” Her words trailed off as his fingers closed gently around hers.
It was startling, that contact of flesh on flesh. Her skin tingled where he touched her, as if a connection were forming between them, as if some part of her was responding to...to what? What could she possibly be feeling for this awkward, painfully shy stranger? He wasn’t remotely her type, if she even had a type. He was soft, and sloppy, and...
He straightened, and her gaze locked with his. It was difficult to do at first. The brown of his eyes seemed flat and elusive, as if she weren’t really seeing him. Gradually she looked past the color to the long, thick lashes and the bold, straight eyebrows. She hadn’t noticed them before. Until now he’d kept his head tilted so that the brim of his baseball cap had shielded him. Was it an illusion, or were his eyes really as compelling as they seemed? Were those actually hints of masculine strength and determination in the depths? Was the fragment of vulnerability she glimpsed real, or was it a reflection of her own?
The odd moment of connection lasted less than a heartbeat. He dropped her hand as awkwardly as he had taken it and shoved his fists into the deep pockets of his jacket. Stumbling backward, he tripped on the rock step again before he made it to the lawn. “Uh, I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
She curled her fingers into her palm as she watched him move across the hill to the driveway. His shoulders slouched beneath the baggy coat, his scuffed running shoes stirred puffs of dust from the dry gravel. He was as clumsy and unappealing as he’d been before. Yet even after he had disappeared into the shadows of the pines, his presence seemed to linger.
A frown tightened her brow. She must have imagined it. Determination? Strength? Vulnerability?
Tingles?
She barely knew him. How could she possibly have felt anything at his touch?
Rubbing the lines from her forehead, she turned to go back into the cabin. Only the wind heard her whispered question. “What kind of man are you, Bruce Prendergast?”
* * *
Bruce lifted the last print from the rectangular tin and let it drip into the bathtub for a moment before he clipped it to the string with the others. He stepped back and hit the switch on the wall, flooding the tiny motel bathroom with light. Stark black-and-white photographs hung in an orderly line, marking the progress of his first day in Bethel Corners. The shots of the property by the lake would be useful if he needed to coordinate a team assault. Several shots he got of the white plane were detailed enough to make future identification easy. But it was the last print that he had developed that caught and held his attention.