“Dinner,” he said succinctly.
She frowned, still clutching Valley. “What about it?”
He smiled again. “I’d like to take you to dinner. It’s the least I can do under the circumstances.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Don’t you have to get back to Oregon?”
“Not this evening. I’m staying at an inn here in town tonight.”
“Oh.”
He gave her a few seconds to absorb that and then pushed gently. “Do you have other plans?”
“No. Tomorrow is a workday. I have to get up early.”
Croft nodded. “I’ll have you home early. I give you my word.”
She looked at him with an odd curiosity, as though she were searching for something in him. It wasn’t the first time she’d studied him in such a manner. There had been those few moments back in her shop when he had told her she was safe with him.
She had had the same strange curiosity in her eyes then. It had been followed by a clear acceptance of his words. That expression of acceptance was in her eyes again now. She probably didn’t even realize the full implications, but Croft did. She trusted him on some basic, feminine level, whether she knew it or not.
He liked that. And he could use it.
“I was going to have dinner here this evening,” Mercy said finally, as if feeling her way through a mine field. “I bought some buckwheat pasta. I planned to open a bottle of zinfandel I’ve been saving. After all, it’s Friday.”
“Fine.” Croft nodded equably.
She blinked warily. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said that sounds fine. I like buckwheat pasta and I like zinfandel.”
Mercy stared at him. She looked as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or scream in outrage.
Croft smiled to himself. Mercy was quickly falling right into the palm of his hand.
Twenty minutes later Mercy still couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream. She ceased rinsing broccoli, picked up her wineglass and leaned back against the counter to take a sip. Her guest, whom she had decided fell into the uninvited category, was straddling one of the diamond-shaped, black wire mesh kitchen chairs, his arms resting easily along the back. He held his own wineglass lightly cradled in his hand. The rich, deep, near purple color of the zinfandel looked right clasped within those strong fingers. It was another example of darkness suiting him, Mercy decided.
Whatever else could be said about the man, he didn’t appear to have a drinking problem. He was savoring his wine, but he sipped with great restraint. Mercy had a hunch Croft Falconer did everything with restraint. She wondered if that applied to making love and decided it probably did. He might be very skillful at it, but he would also be very much in control. It was hard to envision this man surrendering to any kind of strong emotion.
She still wasn’t quite certain how she had come to let him stay for dinner, but she had the distinct impression there had been a certain inevitability about the situation from the start. She was too aware of him, too intrigued by him, too curious about him for her own good and she knew it. But he was there and she was the one who had let him stay.
“How long have you owned the schools of self-defense?” she made herself ask casually. Mercy had been doing her best for the past twenty minutes to keep all conversation light and superficial. She wanted the time to think about and evaluate him as well as her own unfamiliar reactions.
“I opened the first one nearly three years ago. The second one a year after that and the third six months ago.”
“Where did you pick up the expertise?”
“I’ve studied. And traveled.”
“Do you do a lot of traveling in your, uh, field?” she pressed.
“No, not anymore, except when I visit my schools to teach special courses or give demonstrations.”
“Who teaches the regular classes?”
“Friends. Former students. They handle the day-to-day management of the schools.”
“Leaving you free to sit by the shore and twiddle your thumbs in Oregon?” She smiled.
“You could say that.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” she declared with humorous envy “Beats my routine.”
His mouth lifted at the edge. “You said you were an ex-librarian. When did you go into business for yourself?”
“A couple of years ago.” She set down her glass and went back to work on the broccoli. She didn’t particularly want to encourage the discussion in that direction.
As if he sensed her desire not to talk about it, Croft deliberately focused on the one direction Mercy didn’t wish to go. “What made you decide to open a bookstore?”
“It’s only natural for a librarian to be interested in trying to sell the product she’d been loaning out for years, isn’t it? I see bookselling as the mercenary side of librarianship.”
“Are you from Washington?”
Mercy shook her head, beginning to worry that he wasn’t going to let the subject drop. “California.”
“Why didn’t you open your bookshop down there?”
“I looked around for several months before choosing a location. I like Washington, I like Ignatius Cove and I thought it could support the kind of store I wanted to run.” She was very busy with the broccoli now, cutting the florets, running them under cold water again and stacking them neatly in the perforated steamer pan.
There was a short silence. “Why did you leave California?” he asked.
Mercy stifled a groan. “I told you. I did a lot of looking and decided business odds were better up here.”
“I think there was more to it than just a business decision. For you to pull up stakes and move to another state there must have been some other reason involved. You’re not the kind of woman who would move easily. You forge ties and put down roots.”
She whirled around, startled by his cool deduction. “Why on earth do you say that?”
He took a sip from his glass and contemplated her flaring eyes. “Was it a man?”
She closed her teeth with a small snap and wondered how one got rid of a dinner guest before dinner. “That,” she informed him, “is none of your business, is it?”
“It was a man.” He inclined his head once, as if satisfied. Then he took another swallow of wine. “Were you running away from him?”
His casual invasion of her privacy infuriated Mercy. She slammed the lid on the steamer. “No, I was not running away from him. I was engaged to him. When the engagement ended, I decided I wanted a fresh start somewhere else.”
“Why did the engagement end? Did he cheat on you?”
Her fingers were trembling, Mercy realized as she ran water for the pasta into a kettle. She focused her attention on the small task. “I don’t know if he did, I wasn’t aware of it. That wasn’t the reason the engagement ended.”
“It would take a lot for you to walk out on a man.”
“That may not be saying much about my intelligence.”
“So what happened?”
“Are you always this rude?”
“It’s my nature. I like to understand what I’m dealing with.”
“The one thing you’re dealing with tonight is a free meal. That shouldn’t require much understanding.”
“The hell it doesn’t. You know as well as I do that there’s no such thing as a free lunch. There’s always a reckoning.”
She couldn’t decide if he was laughing at her or not. Mercy didn’t dare turn around to find out. “Feel free to walk out the door before you find yourself in too deep.”
“I’m already in too deep. But don’t worry, I think I’m willing to pay the price. What happened in California, Mercy?”
He was too much. But when she shot him a quick glance over her shoulder, she fou
nd her irritation evaporating. Instead of a mocking or prying inquisitiveness she instead saw in his eyes an intense, almost physical awareness. She experienced an overwhelming desire to explain everything to him. She had never talked about this particular part of her past with anyone, but now she wanted Croft to understand what had happened. “Remember what you said earlier about how difficult it was to choose a lover because one never knew for certain if one was choosing a friend or an enemy?”
“I remember.”
“Well, my fiancé turned out to be an enemy. He used me to try to defraud my aunt and uncle, who happen to be quite comfortably established due to some excellent investments they made several years ago in California real estate. I found out what was happening just in time, broke off the engagement and told my relatives what was going on. It was an extremely unpleasant situation. Unfortunately, there was no way to prove anything. When it was all over, I’m sure Aaron just cut his losses and went on to his next victim. The only satisfaction I got out of it was reporting the whole thing to the authorities. At least they can keep an eye on him now. Maybe if he tries another scheme they’ll catch him.”
“Not sufficient revenge for you, though, hmm?”
She could feel his gaze on her as she turned up the heat under the kettle of water. “No, frankly, it wasn’t. I would have liked to have done something a great deal more permanent to Aaron Sanders.”
“Because he tried to defraud your aunt and uncle?”
“No, because he used me to do it.” She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and collected her frazzled emotions. Damned if she would allow this man to spend the rest of the evening unnerving her. It had been a serious mistake to invite him to dinner.
But, then, she hadn’t exactly invited him, Mercy reminded herself wryly. Somehow she’d been quietly coerced into doing it.
Croft’s eyes met hers. His gaze was disconcertingly serious. “I understand how you feel. But I think in your case it’s better things ended where they did. Once you’d taken the next step in revenge, which would have been violence, there would have been no easy way to modify the end result. It might have consumed you as well as him. Once violence has been initiated, forces are set in motion that can’t always be controlled. A new Circle is formed and must be completed.”
She stared at him. “A Circle?”
He nodded. “A subset within the structure of universal reality that must be completed if it isn’t to shatter and cause problems in other areas.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded. “What is this Circle business?”
“A concept.”
“Your own?”
He shrugged. “In the same way that my style in the world of martial arts is my own. We’re all responsible for shaping the concepts we use to deal with the world.”
Mercy hesitated, trying to understand. “This concept of a Circle is your personal philosophy, then?”
“You could call it that.”
“Tell me about it,” she insisted. She had forgotten her previous irritation, uncomfortableness and even her sexual awareness of her guest. She had lost all self-consciousness and now just wanted to know everything she could about Croft Falconer.
He paused, as if searching for simple answers to a complex question. When he looked up again his eyes were gleaming. “It has to do with a way of knowing. A way of understanding. A way of living. You’re right. It’s my philosophy of life. I’ve learned that in order to maintain an equilibrium in my world it is first necessary to keep all the Circles of reality closed.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“It’s not necessary that you do. Maybe someday I’ll explain it further.”
“But not tonight?”
“No, not tonight. Just take my word for it. You were wise not to push your desire for revenge into the Circle of violence. You’re not trained to handle it.”
She caught her breath at the certainty in his voice. His gaze held a knowing quality that almost frightened her, an expression that said he understood all too well what he was talking about. He had more than a casual knowledge of the potential of physical violence; his was a deep, unequivocal understanding and acceptance of that harsh reality. He had said his field of interest was the philosophy of violence, and Mercy suddenly believed him.
“Did you know,” Croft continued easily, as if she weren’t staring at him with an expression that suggested he was really from Mars, “that a strong sexual attraction has something in common with violence?” He got to his feet with a lazy grace and walked toward her. Mercy stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or look away from his gleaming gaze. He reached out and slowly, deliberately stroked her cheek. “Once certain initial steps are taken, it’s very difficult to control either force. Α new Circle is begun.”
With a shuddering effort of will, Mercy regained a measure of poise. “Well, then,” she announced as she turned back to the stove, “we shall just have to make certain the initial steps aren’t taken, won’t we?”
Chapter 3
By the time dinner was over, Mercy felt as if the leopard painted on the screen in the living room had come to life and padded silently into her kitchen. He was there, a visitor from another reality. There was danger, she realized, but her overwhelming feeling was simply of being enthralled by this new and fascinating creature.
The fact that he was aware of her fascination and willing to let her pursue it both troubled and excited her.
Croft Falconer was a man she would very much like to know better. Part of the attraction was physical. Mercy was too realistic to try and deny something so powerful. He had touched her senses in a variety of ways, stirring everything from the fine hair on the nape of her neck to the adrenaline in her blood.
Admittedly, she had not been physically involved with a man for a long time. There had been no one since the fiasco of her engagement. Aaron Sanders, her fiancé, had provided her first and only experience with sex. The few times she had been to bed with him had left her frankly wondering what all the fuss was about.
But the two years of being without a lover didn’t account for her intense feelings this evening. She had certainly met enough men on casual dates during the past few months. None of those dates had ended in bed, nor had Mercy wished they had.
Sex had never been an overwhelming force in her life, never been anything she couldn’t easily control. It was true she had had a rather old-fashioned upbringing, but that didn’t account entirely for her limited experience. The truth was, she had been quite comfortable for the past two years, just as she had been comfortable, if curious, during the years before she had met Aaron. There had been no sense of desperation or compulsive need to find a mate. In fact, Mercy had begun to wonder if perhaps she simply wasn’t endowed with all the hormones that seemed to drive other people in her age group.
For the first time she no longer doubted that she had received the full complement of female hormones and instincts.
The sensual attraction was thick in the atmosphere around the glass-topped dinner table. It was disconcerting and she was very much afraid Croft had been right when he claimed that this kind of thing might have something in common with violence. Both could prove uncontrollable. It was a revelation for Mercy.
Still, she was a strong-willed woman who had been through a lot since the day she had discovered the appalling manner in which Aaron Sanders had tried to use her. Mercy had enough self-confidence to know she could handle a strong physical attraction, even if it was something new and fascinating in her life. It should have been possible to view Croft as she would an exotic piece of art: compelling, tantalizing, intriguing, but definitely out of reach in terms of price. She could admire such art, even desire it, but she could walk away from it with a sigh and a shrug.
Unfortunately, her feelings for Croft Falconer were not merely a question of attraction. The very remoteness of the man d
rew her to him in a way she couldn’t explain. The self-contained quality about him spoke of a unique kind of aloneness. She wondered if that state of isolation ever slipped over the border into a state of genuine loneliness. Surely at the edges the line between those two states was very thin.
Or perhaps, like the leopard on the screen or a ghost from another dimension, Croft Falconer did not need or want to share his world with anyone else.
Mercy sensed the strength and pride and power that made up Croft’s nature and realized that a part of her responded with a sense of respect. This man was rock solid all the way through.
Mercy chatted easily during dinner, guiding the conversation into safe channels. She told her guest about her shop, about living in Ignatius Cove, and asked him questions about the business aspects of running his self-defense schools in two different states. He talked easily, politely, and with civilized grace, but he said very little that Mercy could grab hold of to analyze and examine in detail.
All the while she was silently looking for answers to questions she wasn’t yet sure how to put into words. She felt driven to learn as much as possible about Croft, and his reluctance to talk about himself only increased her need to learn his secrets.
She wondered about his past, about the kind of life he had led that had made him choose a career in the world of martial arts. She would have expected an American involved in such a physical business to come across as either a highly competitive, professional athlete or a super macho, thick-brained gorilla.
Croft clearly did not treat his career as a sport. He did not have the mentality of a jock. And although he was quietly, supremely sure of himself, she couldn’t write him off as a muscle-bound gorilla. There was too much thoughtful, analytical intelligence behind his golden gaze, too much evidence that he had done a great deal of critical self-evaluation. His self-assurance rose from the fact that he knew himself well and accepted that which he knew. She sensed instinctively that he had evolved an all-encompassing lifestyle. It had its own rules and scale of right and wrong, both of which probably operated somewhat independently of society’s norms. The important thing was that he would always abide by his own rules.
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