It didn’t take much to get him talking about the process of creation, from first idea through refinement, the consideration of practicalities, and eventually the delicate, detailed work of producing blueprints. Not many people loved what they did, but he was one of them. He liked dreaming, he liked drawing, he reveled in challenges and overcoming obstacles, he was happy out on a work site ankle-deep in mud, smelling the sharp scent of fresh-sawn wood, hearing the pounding of nails being driven in and seeing the bones of his conception before the flesh was added.
“Why on earth,” she asked, “do you waste half your time tangling with grumpy people about sewers or parks or zoning instead?”
He laughed. “Let’s not forget my personal favorite, which is the yearly budget debate.”
“Why?” she asked again, wishing she could see his face better in the dark car.
“I’m good at it.” His shoulders moved in an easy shrug. “And I made the decision to invest myself in this town. What I do isn’t that different from renovating a house. Taking from this space to make that one more functional, opening up the living area with vaulted ceilings and windows, planning so the cook takes fewer steps, the kids will be playing somewhere Mom can keep an eye on them, allowing for entertainment and privacy and personal quirks. When I build a house, there’s constant push and pull, too, you know. The couple who hired me, the contractor, agents for the county, sub-contractor. Grandma who stopped by this weekend and really thinks the kitchen should be bigger and that wall should be pushed out and why isn’t the laundry room here instead of there. I like people.”
“You’re very good at…soothing.” Sometimes that bothered her, when she felt as though he was manipulating her. Other times… Other times, he made her want to lean on him, burrow in, let his slow, calm voice work on her nerves like a warm bath.
“Am I?”
“You know you are.”
She felt prickly now, because they would be arriving at the farm in just a minute. His good-night kiss was unlikely to be gentle and undemanding, not now that he’d confessed to having seduction in mind. Charlotte wanted him to kiss her. She’d been thinking about it ever since he’d picked her up, wondering whether it would be slow and honeyed and subversive, or whether he’d used up those tactics and would move on now to open desire. She didn’t like the idea that he would stay in control, that this was a campaign. Would she be able to resist either way?
The turn signal went on. Click, click, click. He slowed, eased onto the hard-packed dirt, over the bumps. The sodium lamp near the barn let her see Gray in profile for a moment, although she fixated on his hands, held loosely around the steering wheel. Big, strong, gentle hands.
Nerves quivered in her belly.
It became darker again once the bulk of the barn was between them and the sodium lamp. The back porch light was on, but didn’t reach the car. The Prius’s headlights swept over the yard and an outlying shed, Faith’s Blazer, Dad’s pickup. Then Gray pulled in next to the Blazer, set the emergency brake and turned off the lights and the engine.
In the new silence, neither of them moved for a moment.
“I enjoyed myself tonight,” he said finally. “I hope you did, too.”
She was past lying to him. “I did. I never doubted I would.”
He shifted in his seat so he was facing her. “That’s why you said no, isn’t it?”
“Yes. If—when—I go home to San Francisco, I don’t want to have any regrets.”
“Too late,” he said, an edge in his voice. “Much too late, Charlotte.”
He was right. If not for Rory, she could have avoided Gray and saved herself from getting so damn attached to a man who wouldn’t settle for a casual relationship. But she hadn’t been able to avoid him, and now she felt too much.
He unclicked his seat belt, then hers. His right hand slid under her hair to cradle the back of her head, to hold her still when he bent to capture her mouth.
The kiss wasn’t tender, not this time. His mouth demanded that she part her lips, which she did. His tongue stroked hers, and she lost all power to think for perhaps the first time in her life.
A moan vibrated her throat and she reached out to grab him. He angled his head and deepened the kiss. It was hungry, primal…thrust and counterthrust. He tried to haul her against him, to hell with the gearshift, and she would have gone if she could. She had never felt like this, never wanted so much.
He broke the kiss to move his lips over her jaw, to nip her earlobe. He nuzzled her neck, sucked at a sensitive point at the juncture with her shoulder, licked the hollow at the base of her throat. Charlotte distantly heard herself whimper. His hand found her small breasts, shifted from one to the other, rubbing, squeezing her nipples, before he dove back into another long, deep kiss that made her feel boneless and brainless and needy.
She was shaking by the time he went still for what had to be ten seconds. His tongue swept her mouth one more time, slowly, as if to take her taste with him. His lips softened, brushing hers. The hand on her breast became gentle, although he seemed not to want to take it away.
Finally, he nipped her bottom lip sharply enough to make her jump, and lifted his head.
“Unless you want to come home with me…”
She did, of course. So badly that she ached. But panic was going off in her like Fourth of July sparklers. If one kiss could devastate her like this, what would be left of her resolve and independence if she made love with Gray? Would she be able to leave if she ultimately decided that’s what she ought to do?
She had to think. Weigh what she suspected he was offering against all the rest of her life.
“No,” she managed to say, a little shocked that she could still lie to Gray. “Much as I enjoyed that.”
“Enjoyed?” He straightened away from her. “I’d have put it stronger than that.”
Charlotte felt way too vulnerable to admit that she felt the same. Without saying anything, she opened the car door and got out. She wasn’t surprised when she heard his opening, too, or when he met her near the front bumper.
Once again he took her hand, and she realized how damn erotic it could be to lock fingers with someone.
“I can’t see any stars,” she said.
“Don’t you feel how much cooler it’s gotten? A cloud cover has moved in. We might have rain tomorrow.”
“I think I’ll come out and stand in it.”
His chuckle felt like another caress. They’d reached the foot of the back steps. Charlotte took out her key. “Thank you for a nice night, Gray.”
“You’re very welcome.” His voice was low and husky. He bent his head and kissed her again, lightly, with the tenderness that had been missing before.
She felt a spurt of fear, or anger, or something. Was that part of his campaign, calculated to weaken her?
Or—God—was he in love with her?
Somehow she made herself turn away, open the screen and unlock the back door. She said good-night, and closed him outside.
As quietly as she’d entered, Dad called, “That you, Charlotte?” from the living room.
“It’s me, Dad. I’ve locked up.” She heard the slam of the car door outside, looked out the window to see the headlights come on.
“Faith made a lemon-meringue pie tonight, if you’re hungry.”
“I’ve already had pecan pie.”
He laughed, a comfortable sound in the dark house that reminded her a little of Gray’s laugh. Her father, before Mom died, had always been at ease with himself, too. No apologies, no sense that he felt he should have made more of his life or regretted roads not taken.
They said their good-nights, and she went upstairs bemused by the realization that her father embodied qualities that drew her to another man.
Gray. What would it have been like to go home with Gray tonight?
THE MORNING AFTER CHAR’S DATE with Gray, Faith was at the range. She hadn’t yet put on the earmuffs when she felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stir. She
turned and was curiously unsurprised to find Ben Wheeler standing behind her. He wore jeans today and a T-shirt, both faded and comfortable, molded to his powerful body. His badge was clipped to his belt and he wore his gun in a holster at his hip.
He looked at her with those dark, unreadable eyes. “Leonard tells me you’re a hell of a shot.”
Leonard was the gunshop and range owner. This was Faith’s third visit. She was determined to practice as much as she could before Labor Day and the start of school.
“He’s been very helpful.”
“I’d have helped if you asked.”
“I didn’t see any need to bother you,” she said coolly. “As you can see, I took your advice, and I’m doing fine.”
His expression didn’t change much, but she could tell he was irritated. He held out a hand. “Let’s see what you got there.”
She let him take the .38. He examined it briefly, slid out the magazine, popped it back in, then returned the gun to her.
“Good choice.”
“I’m glad you approve. Now if you don’t mind…” She nodded toward the target.
A flicker of frustration showed in his eyes, but all he did was nod. “Let’s see what you can do.”
Her heart was pounding. She hated whatever game he was playing, treating her one minute as if she was precious to him, then walking away the next. She could protect herself and her family. She didn’t need Ben Wheeler to give her his approval, or anything else.
But, damn it, her hands were shaking just because he was standing not two feet behind her.
She closed her eyes, breathed slow and deep, and thought, He doesn’t want me. Get over it. This is what counts.
She lifted the Colt, steadied her grip and began firing. By the time she lowered the handgun, the torso of the paper target had been shredded, and a cold stillness had crept over her. Her heartbeat had slowed, and she never turned to look at Ben.
Nor did he say a word.
She knew when he walked away and took up a stance several slots away from hers. He lifted his much larger gun and started firing. Bang, bang, bang.
Faith reeled in her target, replaced it with a fresh one and reeled it back out again, farther this time.
That chill still gripped her when she pulled the trigger again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DISCREET GOLD LETTERING ON THE glass panel of the door said Van Dusen & Cullen, Architects. The name was also gilded on the sign outside the brick building, shared with a CPA and an attorney.
Gray had asked Charlotte on an afternoon outing. He was going to give her a tour of some of the houses and buildings he had designed, culminating in a picnic at the river.
“But your partner designed the office? Not you?” Charlotte asked, as he ushered her inside.
“Right,” he agreed. “Moira is better at something like this.”
“What do you mean, ‘something like this’?”
“Elegant, straight-forward, possibly stark. Emphasis on function,” he explained.
By the time the door was half-open, Moira had spun on her tall stool in front of a slanted drawing table. Like him, she often stood to draw, but this time she was perched, one foot on the floor, the other hooked on the rung of the stool.
“Put-downs,” she sighed, clearly having heard him. “Nothing but put-downs.” She grinned at Charlotte. “He has no respect for me at all.”
Charlotte laughed. “Do you have any for him?”
“Not a bit.”
They smiled at each other, and Gray took a moment just to look at them, two women he loved, if in different ways.
Moira Cullen was around Charlotte’s height, but voluptuous rather than slender. She was constantly battling with the pounds that her body would have loved to pack on. He’d never quite convinced her that most men preferred generous curves. Moira had brown eyes, copper-red hair and freckles that she detested. Gray and she had flirted the first couple of weeks of their freshman year in college. The next thing they knew, they were friends, both dating other people. Their friendship had endured long after any of the college romances.
Next to her, Charlotte was boyishly slim with small breasts and narrow hips. He could hardly wait to hear Moira grumble about him falling for a woman with the kind of body she envied.
As she chatted with his partner, Charlotte prowled the office, studying the framed architectural drawings hung on white walls. She’d regained all of her intensity since that night in the hospital, he realized. In contrast, Moira was tranquil.
But then, Gray thought with amusement, compared to Charlotte, most people were models of serenity. He almost laughed, thinking of the jolt he felt every time he touched Charlotte. Who would have guessed that his idea of a good time would turn out to be the equivalent of sticking his finger in an electric socket?
Still lounging in the doorway, Gray tuned back in to hear Moira telling Charlotte about how they’d become friends, staying in touch when they took jobs at different architectural firms after college.
“I went home to Missoula,” she said. “But we’d always talked about setting up shop together someday, and when Gray told me he’d found the perfect town, I came and checked it out.”
“The perfect town,” Charlotte repeated, sounding…odd.
“It’s beautiful here! Great climate, except in August.” She grimaced. With her redhead’s skin that was incapable of tanning, Moira hated the relentless sun of August. “Friendly people, easy drive to Seattle for concerts or to see indie films or eat Ethiopian food. What’s not to like?”
Charlotte gave her head a shake, as if to clear it. “I grew up here. It looks different to me.”
“In what way?” Moira sounded genuinely curious.
Gray waited for Charlotte’s answer with even more curiosity. He knew she rarely came home for more than a week a year. Why did she hate West Fork so much?
She glanced at him, but her gaze immediately skittered away. “When I was in high school, I would have told you West Fork was redneck and incredibly boring. Hardly a business in town stayed open past five o’clock, and the restaurants closed at nine.” Her prowling had became restless, Gray noticed; she ran her fingers over the glossy chestnut window frame, touched the detailed model of a Frank Lloyd Wright house that sat on his desk, stroked the rim of a cherry wood inbox on Moira’s desk. “When the farmers sprayed manure on their fields, it stunk for miles around. The single screen movie theater got pictures weeks after their release dates. The big excitement for teenagers was jumping off the railroad bridge into the river or getting drunk. Every weekend there were keggers. It seemed like nothing around here ever changed.” She came to a stop in front of a drawing Gray had done of his own house, low and sprawling with multi-layered decks to take advantage of the river bluff setting.
Even Moira remained silent, watching Charlotte as though trying to puzzle her out. Gray stayed where he was, tension infusing his entire body. Did her resistance to him come down to this, her dislike of small town living? If so, what was he going to do about it?
But she said, on a sigh, “Of course, I was wrong. West Fork has changed. Who’d have thunk?”
“The restaurants don’t shut their doors until ten now,” Moira agreed.
Charlotte laughed, the sound brittle, but a laugh was a laugh. “No more stench of manure, either. This isn’t a farming town anymore. I’m amazed to find that makes me feel sad. I keep thinking about my parents’ friends, and realizing how many of them have sold out. The few left are dinosaurs.”
Gray stirred. “Kids still jump off that damn railroad bridge, despite our best efforts to stop them.”
“I noticed the chain-link along the sides.” She shot him a look of mischief. “That’s been tried before, you know.”
“So I’m told. It deters some.”
“It didn’t deter me.”
He groaned. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Faith would never jump off the bridge,” she mused. “I thought she was a wimp.”
“It’s dangerous.” His voice roughened. “A sixteen-year-old broke his back last summer when he hit a rock. He’s paralyzed.”
Her eyes widened, the blue so intense he couldn’t look away. “Really? I didn’t hear. That’s awful.”
“Preventable.”
She blinked. “I can’t go back in time and not jump.”
“Yeah, I know.” Gray moved his shoulders. Damn it, what was wrong with him? “The thing that maddens me is that the teenagers are back this summer. They’ve already forgotten.”
“Teenagers do that.”
She was right, but he couldn’t understand the foolishness. Or maybe it was the callousness than bothered him.
He’d tried to tell himself it was different when you lost a brother rather than a friend. Someone you loved, not just a familiar face from school. Maybe to the local kids, Jason Southard’s disappearance from their lives wasn’t any different than if he and his family had moved away. Not many of them had been there the day Jason was pulled from the river. Not many of them had visited him in the hospital.
Charlotte was watching him, and he knew that now he’d made her curious. He would tell her about Gerrit, but not yet. A part of him was glad he hadn’t. He wanted to understand better what lay between her and Faith first.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked toward Charlotte. “That’s my house you were looking at.”
“Really?” She turned back and studied it. “It’s not the typical Northwest look.”
“No, I wanted a lower profile. I liked the idea that you could stand on the riverbank, look up and not even notice the house on the bluff because it belongs there. We’re too fond of wanting to dominate nature.”
Charlotte was back to looking at him, her mouth curving. “How funny,” she said. “When we were driving to Everett, I was thinking that you drive like someone who doesn’t have any need to assert himself. You’re not very competitive, are you?”
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