“Wrong again!” Meg leaned back and crossed her arms, mimicking him. “Let me tell you what I didn’t like about that so-called novel. Drew King has a way of piling people together in his book like a herd of sheep. There is no distinction between individuals--no emotions--no love. Now, think back over that story. He describes a terrible journey. We go through scene after scene of stupid actions to tell us in detail all the horrible things that these people go through.”
“Come on...”
“Seriously,” she pressed. “We read about disease, violence, death--but other than a simple name, do we know who the hell these people are? Do we get any sense of what they are feeling? How are we supposed to feel for these folks when they are faceless pawns in the author’s mind?” Meg pushed her own plate out of the way and leaned on her elbows facing him. “Here is another part of my review! Reading The Long Journey is like watching amateur bowling on a nine-inch black and white TV. Let’s line the pins up...sorry, I meant people. Okay, bring in a disaster. Oh, no...bad roll...only three out of ten went down. You’ll have a second chance. Better luck next chapter!”
“Are you telling me that you never felt any compassion for them? You never felt their hardship--their suffering--their hope?”
“No!” she said adamantly. “Drew King never showed us even a glimpse of their hearts. We were never inside them, at all. When I read, I want to get swept away by the people I meet on those pages. I want to know something of the lives they had to leave behind. I want to know what is driving them to risk so much. Even at the end--when some of them finally arrive on U.S. soil--I could shed no tears of joy for these people. After four hundred pages of text, I would have gotten more satisfaction watching the eleven o’clock news.”
His deep frown told her that he definitely didn’t agree. She pushed her chair back and sat up straight. “I know. I sound too harsh. Fine. I’ll admit that he is a good writer. A very good writer of words,” she quickly added. “But he is no longer a story teller. Somewhere along the line, I’d say, he’s lost his touch. There are no hearts beating in his books anymore.”
He leaned back against his own chair and stared at her. She realized he hadn’t touched his food.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your lunch.”
He said nothing. Nor did he look her in the eye as he raised his soda to his lips.
Nice job, Meg thought, watching him for another moment before turning her attention back to her food. She’d forgotten all the rules. All those years out of the dating game didn’t mean that things had really changed any. Men couldn't deal with opinionated women! Especially women whose opinions contradicted their own!
Somehow though, she thought as she ate, the lobster didn’t seem to taste quite the same.
CHAPTER 10
Evan stepped back into the room from the balcony and started for the fridge. Where the hell was she anyway, he thought shortly. It was half-past eight, and they should have kicked her out of Jada’s hospital room long before now.
Yanking the door of the fridge open, he surveyed the meager contents vacantly for a moment before pulling out a bottle of beer. He popped the top off before turning around and staring at his open laptop across the way.
Well, he’d held up his end of the bargain with Henry, anyway. He’d worked on that damn machine non-stop for the past four hours. But then, he’d be damned if he knew if any of what he’d written was good or not.
And it was all her fault. Sitting innocently across the table during lunch, she’d turned those big brown eyes of hers on him and had shred his very existence to pieces.
Still frustrated, he took a big swallow of beer.
“Shit,” he muttered, looking at the copy of The Long Journey lying on the kitchen table.
She didn’t know who he was--he was sure of that. Years ago, he’d demanded that his publishers stop putting his pictures on the back of the books. He didn’t want the hassles. He hated the notoriety.
Evan winced as he thought back over her words. Oh no, she definitely didn’t know his true identity or she wouldn’t have dared to talk about his writing like that. In all of his years in this business, nobody had ever--to his face, anyway--torn up his work the way she had. Not even his very first editor.
He didn’t know if he wanted to strangle her and use her body as an anchor for one of Phil’s boats, or just handcuff her to his belt hook for a good luck charm.
Because the truth of it was that she’d been right. Despite all those glowingly bogus reviews that he’d gotten on that novel, she’d been right. He’d been so wrapped up in relating the events in that book that he’d lost the human story. Those refugees were no more than cardboard cutouts--background for an empty story. He thought he cared about those people. Hell, he did care about those people! But he’d sold them out. There was no heart beating in the story.
“Shit,” he said again.
His two books after that had been no better. And he’d somewhere along the line decided that he was going to take out his frustrations on his editors. Hell, none of them had any guts. They were all too young or too afraid to put him in his place--to tell him that his stories sucked. But Meg sure as hell had spoken her mind!
He took the bottle with him outside and leaned against the balcony. Looking down at her window, he could still see no sign of her. He’d gotten the impression that she didn’t know anybody in town, so then where was she? Damn, he was becoming a bigger fool than ever. She was a single woman--that he’d found out earlier. A beautiful and sharp-witted widow who most likely had come to this resort town with some thought of partying in mind.
He placed his bottle on the planking and looked across the harbor at the lighted pleasure boats. And what kind of a good time had he offered her? As she saw it, he was a taxi cab driver. A temperamental, jerk of a taxi cab driver, he corrected, remembering the way she’d spoken to him. And why would she want to hang around someone like him?
“So where the hell are you?” he muttered again, picking up the half empty bottle and walking back inside. Unable to hold back any longer, he reached for the phone and called the number at the hospital. It took an operator and a few rings before he was able to get Jada on the phone. Before he’d even asked her directly, the young mother offered the information that Evan was after. Meg had left about an hour ago, and she’d told Jada that she was going to walk around and wind her way back to the place where she was staying. After asking about the baby, and about Jada, and trying not to sound ridiculously impatient, Evan hung up.
Well, damn her to hell, he thought as he reached for the key to the new SLK that he kept in Phil’s driveway on the side. She wasn’t the only one who could spend a night on the town.
Hell yeah! He could have fun, too.
Maybe.
******
The flash of lamplight on the Mercedes convertible caught Meg’s eye as it sped around the corner onto Poplar Street. It was a pretty car, but it wasn’t the car that caught her eye. The gas lamps that lined the street hadn’t afforded her a good look, but the way the man had turned his head, the wavy brown hair, made her think for a moment that it had been Evan driving.
Dismissing the idea with a shake of her head, she continued past the Hunter House. The moon was sinking behind the hills across the Narragansett Bay, and Meg turned to watch it for a moment. There was no breeze just then, and the night was warm and still. The sounds of the water lapping at the pilings just a few yards away lulled her, and then the sound of geese passing low overhead--calling to one another in the darkness--drew her attention.
Meg let out a long, deep sigh and turned up the street again.
She was just passing a big, restored colonial when the front door opened. A group of young women--all with the same long, straight blond hair and short, tight dresses--spilled noisily out onto the street and breezed past her in the direction of the downtown.
Meg smiled as she thought back over the ever changing image of this town. When first she and Robert had started coming
here, Newport had been a place where they could unwind. From visiting elaborate mansions along Bellevue Avenue and Ocean Drive to walking the endless sandy stretch of Second Beach, the two of them would be rested, totally renewed, by the time they headed back to Boston. But after seeing the hustle and bustle of downtown tonight, for the first time in her life Meg felt that she might be getting old.
There were people everywhere--packing the shops, the restaurants, the sidewalks. It was the same everywhere she went. And these were not just normal people. The women all seemed to be young and pretty, all trying for the same look as the ones who had just passed her with their long hair swept to the side. And the men! She shook her head. She had to be getting old, considering the fact that they all looked too young. Way, way, way too young.
But then, the interesting thing was that she had been coming here for five years since Robert’s death, and she’d never been aware of any of this. She guessed that had to be mostly due to the fact that she’d continued to stay out at the Inn, so far removed from the activity downtown. And even when she’d ventured out, it had only been as far as the same places that she and Robert had gone every year.
The same places, she thought, slowing down and glancing to her left at the boats in the harbor. In all the years past, she’d never had a problem finding her way around, finding a way to relive the memories of their beautiful past. And Robert had always been with her. Every year. If only in spirit, he’d been here beside her. But this year, he was stubbornly staying away. No matter how lost and confused she felt--no matter how much she called him--he was not paying her any attention.
Meg squeezed her eyes shut and tried to hear his words. It’s time, he’d said. You’ve got a life to be living, and I’ve got to be moving on.
But why now? she thought. Why did it have to be at the very time when she felt so vulnerable, so affected by someone else? By someone like Evan Knight. He was too much of a male even for a woman in her right mind.
Meg arrived at the door of the house where she was staying and slid the key that Nan had given her into the lock. Quietly, she stepped in and pushed the door shut.
“Get down, bitch!”
The sharp voice of the man made Meg’s blood run cold.
“Drop the keys!”
Carefully, she laid the keys on the small table beside the door. The intruder’s voice was coming from the large parlor directly behind her, but she didn’t dare turn.
“Good girl.” His tone was hardly gentle. “Now, sit!”
Meg eyed the Windsor chair on the other side of the foyer, but she wasn’t sure if she should risk walking to it, or just sit on the floor.
“Don’t move. I said sit!”
She quickly sat cross-legged on the oriental rug covering the wooden floor.
“That’s better.” The man’s voice softened a bit. “Now lie down!”
She swallowed hard. She could just imagine the headlines. Tourist assaulted and murdered in historic bed and breakfast.
“Lie down!”
Meg cursed herself for not carrying the pepper spray she always had with her in Boston. But she’d still put up a fight. If the bastard tried to lay one finger on her, she’d kick and bite him--
“Down!”
The sharp voice shook the hall. She obediently unfolded her legs and lay rigidly on her back with her eyes focused on the ceiling.
“Oh, you are the dumbest...” There was frustration and resignation in the man’s voice that confused her.
Suddenly, as Meg stared upward, a huge, furry gray face appeared over her, its breath hot on her face.
And that Irish wolfhound just stood there, grinning down at her.
CHAPTER 11
Meg Murphy was nothing more than an inconsiderate snob, and she could go to hell as far as he was concerned.
Evan brought his car to a stop in the cobblestone driveway and turned off the headlights. For the past couple of hours, he’d driven every main and side street between here and the hospital looking for the damn woman. He’d even gone as far as parking his car downtown--something he hated to do--and poking his head into every bar and restaurant he knew. But she was nowhere.
Well, she could go screw herself, for all he cared. This type of distraction was something that he definitely didn’t need in his life. Not now. Not ever.
As he hoisted himself out of the car, the deep laughter of his friend Phil came from behind the privet hedges. The big goon must have just arrived back in town, Evan thought. He hadn’t seen Phil’s sailboat anchored in the harbor earlier. Well, having a visit with him was as good an entertainment as any right now, he decided, considering his night was already ruined.
Closing the car door, Evan hesitated a moment as the softer voice of a woman also came from behind the privet. The devil! Back in town not two hours, and he already had company. But then, this was no surprise. Most women seemed to drop onto their backs instinctively when faced with Phil’s dark looks and charming manners.
Again, there was the deep laughter of his friend, and Evan turned toward the brick walkway leading toward the house. His visit would have to wait until tomorrow.
But then the woman’s voice again wafted in on the breeze, stopping him dead in his tracks. He listened. She was saying something but laughing softly at whatever Phil had just said.
“What the hell?”
He rounded the corner and stood in the arched gate to the private brick courtyard. The cozy sight that greeted him hit him like a punch in the gut.
With the view of the harbor before them, the two sat close together, facing the water and rocking in their wrought-iron chairs. They appeared to be involved in an intimate discussion. Evan’s eyes riveted on Meg. With a drink in her hand and Phil’s dog Swift stretched out right before her feet, she looked happy. No, she looked like a women in absolute bliss, and very much charmed by the handsome devil sitting next to her.
The gentle sea breeze ruffled her hair, and Evan watched as she tucked a wayward curl behind an ear. She laughed softly again at something that Phil was whispering, and Evan frowned as his smooth talking ex-friend casually placed a hand on the back of her chair.
“If it isn’t Phil Campbell himself,” Evan called out. “There is no end to the crap that washes up here!” Then, without ceremony, he pushed open the gate and marched onto the brick patio and where the two sat. Their heads turned immediately. Evan focused on her face, ignoring Phil, who was rising from his chair. Even in the flickering light of the citronella candles around them, he could see the hint of a smile brightening those dark eyes.
Yeah, he thought, but was she glad to see him, or was this an amused response to his lack of manners in breaking in on their little tête-à-tête?
Well, there was only one way to find out, he thought. Hell, being a shocker was his stock in trade.
Without so much as a glance in Phil’s direction, Evan moved to the side of her chair and leaned down. Her eyes widened in surprise, but they never left his as he dug one hand into the silky mass of hair at the nape of her neck.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” he whispered. Their lips were separated only by a breath. “You didn’t mean to stand me up, did you?”
He heard the breath catch in her throat. But as he stared into the depth of her eyes, she never wavered in returning his gaze. Her eyes were dark, beautiful, and they shone with the brilliance of thousand stars. And then he lowered his gaze and saw her parted lips. There was no turning back.
*****
Meg’s pulse jumped, but she couldn’t move away even if her life depended on it. As she gazed up into his face, their surroundings--the tea roses still blooming along the walkway, the sound of the bay--all of it faded away into oblivion. Suddenly, nothing else existed. There was no one else in the world--there was only the two of them.
His lips parted and brushed over hers. At the same time, he dug his fingers deeper into her hair and brought her lips harder beneath his. And as his mouth firmly settled against hers, she experience
d a moment of wonder. His lips were warm and gentle. Such a contrast to the rest of him.
She further parted her own lips because the craving for a taste of him was about to drive her mad. He drew at her bottom lip and touched the tip of her tongue with his own. The sensation sent her spiraling, and she brought her free hand up, wrapping it around his neck.
He drew back slightly. “This is more like it,” he whispered before taking possession of her mouth once more.
His tongue plunged inside, touching the deepest recesses of her being. She ignited, feeling within herself a molten river of passion that threatened to burst forth, consuming them both. A sense of wickedness swept through her as she rhythmically rubbed her tongue against his and answered his delving search. His low, approving groan only made her bolder in her actions. She tightened her hand on his neck and pressed herself harder against his demanding lips.
“Ahem.” A man’s voice interrupted from somewhere in the world beyond. “Good to see you too, Evan! Can I get you a drink or something?”
Meg jumped like a guilty adolescent, quickly breaking off the kiss. But in her attempt to salvage some of her lost dignity, she fumbled with her glass and managed to spill wine on her blouse.
She leaped to her feet.
“Oh, look what you’ve done,” Evan noted in a teasing tone. “Can I be of assistance?”
She reached to accept a napkin from the outstretched hand of Phil, but then found herself fighting off Evan’s attempts at brushing off her blouse.
“I think...Stop that...I think I’ll be going,” she stuttered to her host a minute later, once she had Evan’s overly solicitous hands under control. “I had a lovely time. Thanks again.”
She didn’t dare try to stop and analyze the bewildered expression on Phil Campbell’s face. Then, with a gentle pat to the dog’s head--which had hardly bothered to lift her head in all the commotion--she mumbled another word of thanks and turned toward the porch doors leading into the house.
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