by Gina Wilkins
Something in Bailey’s voice caught Ian’s attention. “You aren’t speaking from personal experience, are you?”
She turned away, but he could still see her profile in the soft lighting. He saw the slight spasm that crossed her face just before she answered. “In a way.”
His eyes narrowed. A wave of fury crashed through him. “You were involved with a man who used violence against you?”
He saw her swallow. “A few months ago, I dated a man who seemed nice enough. An art dealer who had a shop close to the antique store where I worked. He was really broken up about his recent divorce. I thought he needed a friend. We started dating, and things seemed to be going very well. He could be very charming—as long as things went his way.”
“And when things didn’t go his way?”
She grimaced. “At first, I was so eager to make him happy that everything was just great. And then, when I got involved with my own problems at work, I realized how one-sided the relationship really was. Larry didn’t care about my troubles. He only needed someone to constantly bolster his own ego. When I finally understood what he was really like and broke it off with him, he sort of went nuts.”
“Nuts?” Ian repeated, hearing the iciness of his own voice. Anna had once commented that the hotter his temper flared, the colder his voice became.
“You know, strange. He started stalking me. Demanding to know where I was all the time. Who I was seeing. Threatening me. It went on for a couple of months. It was too much for me to deal with on top of my unhappiness at work. One day, I just lost it. I told my boss what he could do with his attitude—and he canned me, of course. That evening, Larry showed up on my doorstep and I told him off, too. I started screaming at him and throwing things at him like a maniac.
“I told him if he ever came near me again, I would take his head off. I didn’t mean it, naturally, but I was so steamed I was saying anything that popped into my mind. He wasn’t used to anyone fighting back—apparently, his ex-wife was a doormat until she finally got the nerve to get away from him. Anyway, he left and I started packing, and the next day I was on a plane headed here.”
Ian hadn’t understood some of the terms she’d used, but the gist of her tale was clear. “If I ever see him, I’ll take care of him for you. Permanently,” he said quietly. He knew his threat was an empty one—there was little he could actually do to the man—but it felt good to say it.
Bailey jerked around to face him. “You would do no such thing! Honestly, Bran, you sound like a vigilante. You should know that violence is no solution to anything.”
“And you should know by now that it’s dangerous to get involved with other people’s problems.” His own, for that matter, he thought glumly.
“I told you, I’ve quit doing that. I learned my lesson.”
Ian glanced toward the inn through the blurring curtain of ram. “What about the housekeeper and Mark Winter? Aren’t you getting involved with them?”
“Well, maybe I offer a little advice, a sympathetic ear…” Her voice faded, and she grimaced self-consciously. “Okay, you’re right. I should stay out of it. It’s just that I hate to see people I like being unhappy.”
She looked at him, and he knew the conversation had suddenly turned more personal. “You, for example,” she murmured. “You seem so lonely. Why won’t you let me introduce you to Aunt Mae and the others? Why do you have to wait alone for Anna?”
“I haven’t been alone,” he reminded her. “Not all the time. I’ve been with you.” She couldn’t possibly know how grateful he was for these too-brief moments of companionship.
She swung her feet to the floor and scooted closer to him on the bench. “It’s getting colder,” she said softly.
He tensed, prepared to move quickly away. “You should go inside.”
“I will. In a minute. Despite the cold, it’s nice out here, isn’t it?”
He heard the rain on the roof of the little gazebo, and on the grounds surrounding them, muting other sounds from the inn and the almost-deserted parking lot. The tiny white lights glowed softly above them, creating a secluded island in the dark, wet night. He didn’t feel the cold, but he was very aware of Bailey, sitting so close.
“It is nice,” he agreed huskily. And painful, he could have added, but he wasn’t willing to explain how much it hurt to be so close to her without being able to touch her.
“Bran, may I ask you something?”
He eyed her warily. “What?”
“Have you been camping on Mr. Carmette’s property?”
“I haven’t been camping on anyone’s property,” he assured her flatly. “I don’t even know who Mr. Carmette is.”
“He lives on the other side of the woods. He reported a trespasser last night.”
“And you thought I was that trespasser?”
“It crossed my mind,” she said with a hint of apology.
“You were mistaken.”
“Casey—the housekeeper’s little girl—thought she saw someone looking in her window late Friday night, the first night you visited me in the cottage. I, er, don’t suppose—”
“I don’t peer into bedroom windows, either,” he said crossly. He still had his honor, for whatever it was worth now.
The memory flashed through his mind of standing beside Bailey’s bed, watching her sleep. No need to mention that. The point was, he hadn’t been lurking outside the inn, looking into windows.
“I didn’t think you would. I just had to ask.”
He nodded curtly.
Bailey laughed softly. “I’ve offended you. You’ve gotten all stiff and sulky again.”
His eyebrows drew downward. “I don’t sulk.”
“I suppose you consider brooding manly,” she said. “But it’s still sulking.”
He felt the corners of his mouth twitch in a reluctant smile. “Anna used to accuse me of the same thing.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Were you and Anna close, before she married my brother?”
“Yes,” he said, his smile fading. “We were very close.”
“You must have missed her this past year.”
He thought of the lonely grayness. “You couldn’t know how much.”
“I have a brother, too,” she reminded him. “I missed Dean terribly when he moved here. I do understand.”
He only nodded, knowing she couldn’t guess at what real loneliness felt like. What it was like to face an eternity of solitude. He hoped Bailey would never know that fate.
He wished he knew exactly what he had done to deserve it, himself.
“You make me crazy, Bran Cameron,” Bailey said after a moment. There was a hint of amusement in her voice, but it didn’t show in her eyes.
“Why?”
“I think you already know the answer to that”
He smiled faintly. “Yes. I suppose I do.”
“You’re not exactly an average sort of guy, you know.”
“Not exactly,” he agreed, his smile deepening.
“You’re secretive.”
“Yes.”
“And obstinate.”
“Very likely.”
“Deliberately enigmatic.”
“Perhaps.”
“Why do you keep coming around if you’re so reluctant for me to learn anything about you?” she asked bluntly.
“Maybe I’d like to help you, Bailey,” he suggested.
She looked surprised. “Help me? But I’m fine.”
“You’re unhappy.”
“Just temporarily bummed,” she said with a shrug.
He frowned. “Bummed?”
“Discouraged. I’ll get over it.”
“So there’s no need for me to keep coming around, as you put it?”
She bit her lip. “I hope you don’t stop.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Her hand fluttered, as though in search of an answer. “Because I want to be with you,” she answered finally.
Ian knew he was on dangerous ground,
but he couldn’t seem to back away. “Even though I make you crazy?”
“Maybe because you make me crazy,” she whispered, looking at him with eyes that glowed in the soft, intimate lighting.
“You make me crazy, too, Bailey Gates,” he murmured.
She leaned a little closer, as though to better hear his lowered voice. “Do I?”
He nodded, his gaze falling to her moistened, slightly parted lips. “You make me want—”
“What?” she whispered, her mouth only an inch from his now.
A groan pushed its way from somewhere inside him. “Things I can’t have,” he said roughly.
A moment later, he was on his feet, standing several feet away from where she sat blinking at his sudden movement. “Go inside, Bailey, and lock your doors. You’ll catch cold out here in the night air.”
“Bran—”
Just once, he thought, he’d like to hear his real name on her lips. “Good night, Bailey.”
“But—”
He turned and walked rapidly away, into the darkness, into the rain he couldn’t feel. He disappeared quickly into the shadows, before she could notice that his hair and clothing were still completely dry.
The weather had no effect on a ghost.
Bailey, on the other hand, was tearing him apart.
BAILEY SAT on her bed, her feet drawn up in front of her, and listened to the rain splashing against the bedroom window. Usually she enjoyed the peaceful sound of rain in the night. This particular night, it only seemed to emphasize how very much alone she was.
Maybe she should have taken a room in the inn. Aunt Mae would be close by, then, as well as the staff and guests. She would be surrounded by people.
But she would still be alone.
There was no one she could talk to about this, no one who would truly understand what a mess her life had become. No job, no home of her own except a small apartment in Chicago that held no pleasure for her now, no plans for her future. And now, to top everything off, she was falling hard for a man who seemed to have more secrets and more emotional barriers than anyone she’d ever made the mistake of getting involved with.
It was ridiculous for her to feel this way about Bran, she told herself, trying to be sensible and logical. She hardly knew him. She’d been with him—what? Three times? Four?
She wished he were with her now.
He was the most frustrating man she’d ever met. Though he somehow managed to get her to tell him things she didn’t tell anyone else, he steadfastly refused to tell her anything at all about himself. She knew something had come between him and Anna, but he wouldn’t discuss it. He was unemployed, and he’d made it clear that he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
You make me want things I can’t have, he’d said just before he’d moved away from her as though she’d explode in his face if he didn’t.
She’d wanted him to kiss her so badly she’d ached.
She buried her face in the crook of her arms and groaned. Oh, Bailey, you really are a fool, she thought in despair. Something told her Bran could hurt her worse than she’d ever been hurt before.
She was just as certain that the hurt was already inevitable.
THE WATCHER WAS WET. He was cold. And he was furious.
She was inside, warm and dry and surrounded by people who seemed to be going out of their way to make her happy. She didn’t deserve that after what she’d done to him.
He opened one of the little packages of white powder he had stored so carefully in his backpack. He needed something to warm him, to keep him going for another night. Something to help him think, help him plan.
He needed a plan if he was to have his revenge.
She hadn’t taken him seriously, and now she had to pay. Soon. If innocent bystanders happened to get in the way, they would pay with her.
Nothing mattered to him now. Nothing but the bittersweet vision of vengeance.
ON MONDAY EVENING, Bailey, Mae, Cara and Casey loaded into Dean’s car for the short ride to the Destiny Elementary School. The annual Fall Festival was to be held that night, and Casey was to sing with her fifthgrade class. She seemed delighted that Bailey and Mae wanted to attend. For the first time, Bailey saw the child so excited she was almost bouncing with energy.
“I hope I don’t mess up,” she fretted as Bailey pulled into the already-crowded parking lot of the school.
“You won’t mess up,” Cara assured her daughter patiently. “You’ve been practicing for weeks. You know these songs, honey.”
“What if I have to sneeze or something right in the middle?”
Mae chuckled and patted the girl’s cheek. “Then you just go right ahead and sneeze, sweetie. And do it with panache.”
“What’s pan—pan—”
“Panache,” Mae repeated. “Flair. Style. Cool, as you kids would say.”
“How can a sneeze be cool?” Casey asked, baffled.
Mae grinned. “Darling, cool is definitely in the eye of the beholder.”
“You’re confusing her, Aunt Mae,” Bailey said, turning off the engine. “You’ll do fine, Casey. I have full faith in you.”
“Thanks, Bailey.”
Cara looked even more nervous than her daughter as she gave her a final inspection before sending her backstage. Bailey thought the little girl looked adorable in her frilly pink dress, a matching pink bow restraining her white-blond curls. That now-familiar wistfulness gripped her as she watched Cara lean over to kiss her daughter’s cheek for luck.
Bailey wanted very much to believe that someday she’d be attending a school program with her own child.
They were just taking their seats in the noisy auditorium, when Mark appeared beside them. “Mind if I join you?” he asked cheerfully..
Bailey and Mae promptly moved down, leaving an empty seat next to Cara. Mark took immediate advantage of the opening. Cara gave Mae and Bailey a look of reproach, but accepted Mark’s presence with resignation.
Bailey hid a smile, noting Mark’s smug expression as he settled more comfortably into the hard wooden seat. She noticed that he “accidentally” brushed Cara’s arm a few times. Cara must have noticed, too, judging from the blush that stained her cheeks.
Looking more closely than she should have, Bailey decided that Cara didn’t appear to be repulsed by Mark’s touch. She believed Cara had deeper feelings for Mark than she allowed herself to show. If not, surely Cara would have been more resolute about putting an end to his tenacious pursuit.
Bailey was highly amused by the school program. It was hardly a flawless production, but it was sweet and sincere. The children were adorable—even the ones who squirmed and scratched during their performances. She had a much better time than she’d expected. And she only thought about Bran once every ten minutes or so during the evening.
Knowing how nervous Casey had been, Bailey held her breath all the way through the child’s two songs, particularly when Casey stepped forward for her brief solo. She noticed that Cara, Mark and Mae also tensed, all of them wanting Casey to feel good about her performance later. They needn’t have worried. Casey came through like a pro, singing with a confidence Bailey wasn’t sure she could have managed had she been the one up there facing an enthusiastic audience.
Bailey and Mae applauded loudly at the end of the number. Cara slackened in relief, murmuring, “Thank heaven she didn’t sneeze.”
Mark grabbed the excuse to give Cara an exuberant, one-armed hug—strictly out of congratulations on her talented daughter, he assured her when Cara gulped a remonstration.
Bailey studied Mark out of the corner of her eye, wondering if he’d taken her advice seriously. Maybe he’d decided it was time to be a bit bolder with Cara. To make it just a little harder for her to politely elude him.
Casey’s face lit up when she saw him waiting with the others after the program. “Hi, Mark!” she said. “Are you going to put my picture in your newspaper?”
“You bet,” he assured her. “Maybe on the front page.�
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“No!” Cara protested quickly, a quick flare of panic in her eyes.
She made a visible attempt to collect herself. “I mean,” she said more quietly, “this really isn’t front-page news, sweetheart. Maybe just a little photo somewhere inside the paper would be better.”
Mark looked searchingly at Cara, but he only nodded and squeezed Casey’s little hand reassuringly. “It will be in there somewhere,” he promised. “And now, how about we all go out for ice cream to celebrate your success? My treat.”
Mae smiled, after giving Cara a quick, questioning look. “Thank you, Mark, but Elva made Casey’s favorite banana-spht cake for us to eat at our own private postperformance party. Elva worked hard on the dessert. She would be disappointed if we didn’t eat it.”
Cara surprised everyone by turning to Mark and saying, “Why don’t you join us?”
He looked momentarily stunned, but recovered quickly. “Uh, yeah, sure. That would be great.”
“I’m sure Casey wants you there,” Cara added quickly.
Cara was distancing herself from the invitation, Bailey thought. But at least this time she had taken a step toward Mark instead of two steps away. That seemed a good sign.
Bailey gave him a quick thumbs-up when no one else was looking. He grinned and made a surreptitious gesture of wiping his forehead.
Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way, Bailey driving Mae, Cara and Casey m Dean’s car, Mark following in his own.
“This is going to be fun,” Casey said enthusiastically. “Our own private party with banana-split cake and soda. Thanks for asking Mark, Mommy. He’ll like Elva’s cake.”
“Mark likes anything Elva cooks,” Cara replied. “I just didn’t want to be rude by not inviting him after he’d asked us out for ice cream.”
“Well, I’m still glad he’s coming,” Casey said, “I like Mark. I think you should go out with him, Mommy.”
Cara looked quickly at Mae and Bailey, who sat quietly in the front seat, not even pretending they weren’t listening to every word. “Casey,” she protested. “What makes you say that?”