by Nora Roberts
wistfulness, to most of her music. She understood, but understanding opened the door to dozens of questions.
Maggie ran a hand up her own body, astonished at the lingering sense of power and of wonder. How long had she been waiting for this night to come? Perhaps it was possible for passion to lie dormant, unexplored, until it was triggered by a certain person at a certain time.
Maggie thought of the film her music would score. It had been that way for the female character. She’d been content with life, almost smug, until one day a man had entered it, a man she’d shared little common ground with, a man who’d ignited a spark that had changed everything. It hadn’t mattered that the woman was intelligent, successful, independent. The man, merely by existing, had altered the scope and pattern of her life.
If the same thing was happening to her, there was still time to stop it before she, too, became so consumed by needs, so ruled by desire, that nothing would ever be the same again.
In the film, the relationship had spawned violence. Instinct told her that there was something between her and Cliff that could do the same. There was little moderation in either of them. It was extremes, she knew, that played havoc with human nature.
Maybe fate had brought her to this serene little plot of land with its undertones of violence. The same fate might have brought her to this taciturn, physical man who seemed connected with both the tranquility and the danger. The question now was whether she was strong enough to deal with the consequences of each.
What, Maggie asked herself while she stared into the darkness, would happen next?
Because nothing was as he’d expected it, Cliff was silent. He’d wanted passion, but he’d never imagined the scope of it. He’d wanted what her song had whispered of, but the reality had been much more dramatic than any words or any melody. He’d been certain that once the tension between them had been released, once the lure had been accepted, the needs would lessen.
It was true his body was sated with a pleasure more intense than anything he’d known, but his mind— Cliff closed his eyes, wishing his mind would rest as easy. But it was too full of her. So full that he knew even a touch would set his body raging again. That kind of need was a shade too close to dependence for comfort. They had nothing to offer each other, he reminded himself, nothing but outrageous mutual desire.
And suddenly he remembered a line from her song. “Desire is madness.”
If he could have stopped himself, he wouldn’t have touched her again. He was already reaching for her.
“You’re cold,” he murmured, automatically drawing her against him to warm her.
“A bit.” There was an awkwardness she didn’t know how to alleviate and a need she didn’t know how to explain.
“Here.” He tugged the tangled spread over her, then pulled her close again. “Better?”
“Yes.” Her body relaxed against his, even as her thoughts continued to race.
They lapsed into silence again, neither knowing quite how to deal with what had flared between them. Cliff listened to the rain beat against the window glass, adding to the sense of isolation. Even on a clear night, he knew, you would see no light from a neighboring house. “Are you having trouble staying out here alone?”
“Trouble?” Maggie hedged. She wanted to stay exactly as she was, wrapped close around him, warm and safe and untroubled. She didn’t want to think now of staying in the big house alone, of sleeping alone.
“This place is more isolated than most around here.” How soft she was, he thought. It brought him an odd sort of contentment to feel her hair lie against his shoulder. “A lot of people, even if they were raised here, would have trouble being this far back and alone, especially after everything that’s happened.”
No, she didn’t want to talk about it. Maggie closed her eyes, reminding herself that she’d come here determined to take care of herself, to deal with whatever came. She drew a deep breath, but when she started to shift away, Cliff held her still.
“You are having trouble.”
“No. No, not really.” Her biggest problem at the moment was to keep her mind and body from wanting more of him. Opening her eyes again, she stared at the rain-drenched window. “I’ll admit I’ve had a couple of restless nights since—well, since we started to dig the pond. It isn’t easy knowing what happened in that gully ten years ago, and I have a very active imagination.”
“Part of the job?” He turned toward her a bit more, so that her leg slid casually between his. Her skin was smooth as polished glass.
“I suppose.” She laughed, but he thought he detected nerves in it. “One night I was certain I heard someone in the house.”
He stopped stroking her hair, drawing her back far enough to see her eyes. “In the house?”
“Just my imagination,” she said with a shrug. “Boards creaking in the attic, stealthy footsteps on the stairs, doors opening and closing. I worked myself up into quite a state.”
He didn’t like the sound of it, even in her dismissive tone of voice. “Don’t you have a phone in this room?” Cliff demanded.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
Maggie sighed and wished she’d never mentioned anything about it. He sounded like a cranky older brother scolding his scatterbrained sister. “Because I’d left the kitchen extension off the hook. I’d been trying to work that afternoon, and—” The word scatterbrained flowed back into her head. Embarrassed, she trailed off. “Anyway, it’s better that I didn’t call. I felt like an idiot in the morning in any case.”
Imagination or not, Cliff reflected, she was still a woman alone, isolated, and everyone in a ten-mile radius knew it. “Are you locking your doors?”
“Cliff—”
“Maggie.” He rolled until she was on her back and he was looking down at her. “Are you locking your doors?”
“I wasn’t,” she said, annoyed. “But after the sheriff came by, I—”
“Stan was here?”
A breath hissed out between her teeth. “Damn it, do you know how often you cut me off in the middle of a sentence?”
“Yes. When did Stan come by?”
“The day after the state police were here. He wanted to reassure me.” She wasn’t cold now, not with the way his body was pressed against hers. Desire began to stir again, not too quiet, not too slow. “He seems to know his job.”
“He’s been a good sheriff.”
“But?” Maggie prompted, sensing more.
“Just a personal thing,” Cliff murmured, shifting away again. Maggie felt the chill return immediately.
“Joyce,” she said flatly, and started to rise. Cliff’s arm came out to pin her down.
“You have a habit of saying little and implying a lot.” His voice was cool now, his hold firm. “It’s quite a talent.”
“It seems we have little to say to each other.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
She lay stiff and still. “I’m not asking you to.”
“The hell you aren’t.” Angry, he sat up, drawing her with him so that the cover dropped away. Her skin was pale, her hair like a flood of night over her shoulders. Despite a strong will and a keen sense of privacy, he felt compelled to clarify. “Joyce’s been like my sister. When she married Stan, I gave her away. I’m godfather to her oldest girl. It might be difficult for you to understand that kind of friendship.”
It wasn’t. It had been like that between herself and Jerry. The friendship had gradually deteriorated during marriage, because the marriage had been a mistake. “No, I understand it,” Maggie said quietly. “I don’t understand why you seem so concerned about her.”
“That’s my business.”
“It certainly is.”
He swore again. “Look, Joyce has been going through a difficult time. She never wanted to stay in Morganville. When she was a kid, she’d had ideas about going to the city and studying to be an actress.”
“She
wanted to act?”
“Pipe dreams, maybe.” Cliff moved his shoulders. “Maybe not. She let them go when she married Stan, but she’s never been happy staying in Morganville. One of the reasons she sold the house was so they’d have enough money to move. Stan won’t budge.”
“They could compromise.”
“Stan doesn’t understand how important it is to her to get away from here. She was eighteen when she married. Then she had three children over the next five years. She spent the first part of her life following her father’s rules, the second caring for her children and her mother. A woman like you wouldn’t understand that.”
“I’m sick of that!” Maggie exploded, jerking away from him. “I’m sick to death of you putting me in some category. Pampered celebrity with no conception of how real people feel or live.” Anger rocketed through her, so quick and powerful she never thought to repress it. “What kind of man are you, going to bed with a woman you haven’t an ounce of respect for?”
Stunned by the sudden, passionate outburst, he watched her spring from the bed. “Wait a minute.”
“No, I’ve made enough mistakes for one evening.” She began to search for her clothes among those scattered on the floor. “You had your dinner and your sex,” she said in a brittle tone. “Now get out.”
Fury rose so that he had to fight it back. She was right, Cliff told himself. He’d come to take her to bed; that was all. Intimacy didn’t always equal closeness. He wasn’t interested in being close to her or in becoming involved with anything more than her body. Even as he thought it, the emptiness of it washed over him. The contentment he’d felt so briefly vanished. He could hear her unsteady breathing as she pulled on her sweater. Reaching for his clothes, he tried to concentrate on the sound of the rain instead.
“We’re not finished, you and I,” he murmured.
“Aren’t we?” Enraged, aching, Maggie turned. She could feel the tears well in her eyes, but felt secure in the darkness. The sweater skimmed her thighs, leaving the length of her legs naked. She knew what he thought of her, and this time would give him the satisfaction of believing he was right. “We went to bed, and it was good for both of us,” she said easily. “Not all one-night stands are as successful. You get a high rating as a lover, Cliff, if that helps your ego.”
This time there was no controlling the temper that roared into him. Grabbing both her arms, he pulled her toward him. “Damn you, Maggie.”
“Why?” she tossed back. “Because I said it first? Go home and curl up with your double standard, Cliff. I don’t need it.”
Everything she said hit home, and hit hard. If he stayed, he wasn’t certain what he might do. Throttle her? It was tempting. Drag her back to bed and purge himself of the angry desire that pounded in him? More temptation. As he held her, he wasn’t sure if it was he who was shaking or her, but he knew if he stayed, something volatile, perhaps irrevocable, would burst.
Dropping his hands, he walked from the room. “Lock your doors,” he called out, and cursed her as he strode down the stairs.
Maggie wrapped her arms around herself and let the tears overflow. It was much too late for locks, she thought.
Chapter Eight
For the next few days, Maggie worked like a Trojan. Her kitchen floor was sealed, making it her first fully and successfully completed project. She added three fresh strips of wallpaper to her bedroom, found a rug for the music room and cleaned the trim in the downstairs hall.
In the evenings, she worked at her piano until she was too tired to see the keys or hear her own music. She kept her phone off the hook. All in all, she decided, the life of a recluse had its advantages. She was productive, and no one interfered with the flow of her days. It became almost possible to believe that was what she wanted and no more.
Perhaps she was pushing herself. She might admit that, but she wouldn’t admit she did so to prevent herself from thinking about her night with Cliff. That had been a mistake. It wasn’t wise to dwell on mistakes.
She saw no one, spoke to no one, and told herself she was content to go on that way indefinitely.
But of course complete solitude lasts only so long. Maggie was painting the window trim in the music room when she heard the sound of an approaching car. She debated whether she might just ignore the caller until he or she went away again. As a beginning recluse, it was certainly her right. Then she recognized the old Lincoln. Setting the paint bucket on the drop cloth at her feet, Maggie went to the front door to meet Louella Morgan.
She looked even more frail this time, Maggie mused. Her skin seemed almost translucent against the tidy white hair. It was an odd, somewhat eerie combination of youth and age. As Maggie watched, Louella looked over toward the gully. For a moment she seemed like a statue, unmoving, unblinking, unbreathing. When Maggie saw her take a step toward the fenced-off section, she walked outside.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morgan.”
Louella glanced up, her eyes focusing slowly. The hand she lifted to pat at her hair shook lightly. “I wanted to come.”
“Of course.” Maggie smiled and hoped she was doing the right thing. “Please come in. I was about to fix some coffee.”
Louella walked up the sagging steps Maggie had yet to contact Bog about. “You’ve made some changes.”
Unsure which route to take, she decided on light, cheerful chatter. “Yes, inside and out. The landscapes work faster than I do.” Killer stood in the doorway, snarling and backing up. Maggie hushed him as they went inside.
“This wallpaper was here when we moved in,” Louella murmured, looking around the hall. “I always meant to change it.”
“Did you?” Maggie led her gently toward the living room as she spoke. “Perhaps you could give me some suggestions. I haven’t quite made up my mind yet.”
“Something warm,” Louella said softly. “Something warm, with subtle color, so people would feel welcome. That’s what I wanted.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s just what it needs.” She wanted to put her arm around the woman and tell her she understood. Perhaps it was kinder not to.
“A house like this should smell of lemon oil and flowers.”
“It will,” Maggie told her, wishing she could change the scent of dust and paint.
“I always felt it should be filled with children.” She gazed around the room with the kind of misty concentration that made Maggie think she was seeing it as it had been more than twenty years before. “Children give a house its personality, you know, more than its decorating. They leave their mark on it.”
“You have grandchildren, don’t you?” Maggie steered her toward the sofa.
“Yes, Joyce’s children. The baby’s in school now. Time goes so quickly for the young. You’ve looked at the pictures?” Louella asked suddenly.
“The pictures?” Maggie’s brow creased, then cleared. “Oh, yes, I’ve really only had a chance to glance at them. I’ve been a bit tied up.” Remembering, she walked to the mantel and retrieved the envelope. “Your roses looked beautiful. I’m not sure I’d have that kind of talent.”
Louella took the envelope and stared down at it. “Roses need love and discipline. Like children.”
Maggie decided against another offer of coffee. Instead, she sat down beside Louella. “Perhaps if we looked at them together it would help.”
“Old pictures.” Louella opened the flap and drew them out. “There’s so much to see in old pictures if you know where to look. Early spring,” she murmured, looking down at the first snapshot. “You see, the hyacinths are blooming, and the daffodils.”
Maggie studied the square, pristine black and white, but it was the man and small girl who caught her attention rather than the flowers. He was tall, broad in the chest, with a sharp-boned, lantern-jawed face. The suit he wore was severe and proper. Beside him, the little girl wore a frilly dress, ribboned at the waist with black strap shoes and a flowered bonnet.
It must’ve been Easter, Maggie concluded. The little girl smiled deter
minedly at the camera. Joyce would’ve been around four then, Maggie calculated, and perhaps a bit uncomfortable in the organdy and flounces. William Morgan didn’t look cruel, she thought as she studied his set, unreadable face. He simply looked untouchable. She fought back a shudder and spoke lightly.
“I want to plant some bulbs myself. Things should be a little more settled by fall.”
Louella said nothing as she turned over the next picture. This time Maggie was looking at a young Louella. The style of hair and dress told her the picture was more than twenty years old. The lopsided angle of the shot made her suspect that Joyce had taken it as a child.
“The roses,” Louella murmured, running a finger over the picture where they grew in profusion. “Gone now, with no one to care for them.”
“Do you have a garden now?”
“Joyce does.” Louella set the picture aside and took up another. “I tend it now and then, but it isn’t the same as having your own.”
“No, it’s not, but Joyce must be grateful for your help.”
“She’s never been easy in town,” Louella said, half to herself.