With her eyes drifting closed, the tall trees covering the surrounding hills became a blur of bright and dark greens. She imagined the sight a month from now. In late September the colors on the hill-sides would be very different, the green giving way to flaming hues of gold and orange and rust. She’d seen pictures of the famed New England fall foliage, but had never witnessed it firsthand.
Someday she would, she vowed. Someday she would love to shoot these hills in their full autumn regalia...and covered with snow in winter and dotted with spring wildflowers. There were a lot of things she wanted to see and places she wanted to visit, and photography was going to provide her with a way to do it. If she could just get so much as a toe on the first rung of the ladder, she thought hopefully.
It wasn’t always easy to keep her hopes up. Sometimes when she got very discouraged, she weakened and even considered asking Uncle Hank to help. Fortunately she’d always come to her senses before she actually acted on the insane impulse. She got more than enough help from that quarter without asking. No sense inviting more interference. No, this was all hers, her career, her future, her freedom, and it was going to stay that way no matter how long it took her to get to all the places where she wanted to go.
It was ironic, she thought, and not for the first time in her life. Most Army brats—which was more or less what she had been since she’d gone to live with her uncle when she was five—were routinely dragged along from one Army base to another, often living in seven or eight places throughout the world by the time they were grown and on their own. Such a life-style might not provide much in the way of stability and long-term friendships, but at least those kids got to see the world.
Uncle Hank had decided at the start, however, that all that uprooting was no good for a little girl who had already lost both her parents. And so while he had spent weeks and sometimes months at a time away, commanding the mysterious, top-secret missions upon which he thrived, she remained safely at home in California, looked after by a series of kind, well-referenced housekeepers who meant well but wouldn’t dare deviate from her uncle’s severe restrictions about where she went and with whom she associated.
His rules forbidding sleep overs and unsupervised play had resulted in her having few really close friends as a child. She learned early to entertain herself, to figure things out for herself, to rely on herself. As an adolescent, she had found the restrictions unbearable, however, and at sixteen had finally rebelled in a wild, weekend-long declaration of independence that brought Uncle Hank tearing back from the Middle East to drag her home from a crowded beach house in Venice Beach.
More closed-minded than actual ogre, he had eventually calmed down and listened to her complaints, recognized a few of his mistakes and loosened the strings a little. Still, a leopard can’t change his spots no matter how much he may want to, and when it was time for college, Cat’s selection of a school clear across the country had been motivated as much by thoughts of escape as academics.
She had come fully into her own at the University of Florida. That is, after a couple of wasted semesters catching up on all the partying she’d missed out on over the years. When she did settle down to her studies, she discovered that the self-reliance and self-knowledge she’d been forced to develop at an early age gave her a real advantage over most of her classmates. Impulsive and headstrong she might be, but after her very first course in photojournalism, she knew what she wanted to do with her life. No matter the odds, she believed with all her heart that sooner or later she would make it.
In part, she had Uncle Hank to thank for her stubborn determination. It made her love him more than ever, and by the time he announced he was retiring to Florida to be closer to her, she accepted the inevitable with only mild annoyance. Of course, Cat mused, turning to glance at the man seated beside her, this latest stunt of his could change that state of affairs considerably.
Hunter glanced at her.
“I thought you were asleep,” he said.
“No. Just thinking.”
Cat waited, expecting him to follow up the way most people would, by asking her what she was thinking about.
“You should sleep,” he said instead, taking her by surprise. “It’ll be a couple of hours anyway before we reach Wilmington, and then you have to go to work.”
“That’s true,” she said, appreciative of his concern and his unexpected lack of nosiness. “Maybe I will close my eyes for just a little while.”
Her eyes were barely closed when she felt herself drifting off to sleep, lulled by the warm sun on her face and the steady drone of the old engine. When she opened her eyes again they were on the Molly Stark Trail and, according to Hunter’s best guess, about ten miles from Wilmington.
“I can’t believe I conked out like that,” she exclaimed, running her hands through her hair, thankful for once for the stubborn natural wave that made it possible to simply shake it into some semblance of presentability. “You should have woken me to help with the driving.”
“There was no need,” he told her. “I’m fine.”
“At least you can look forward to a good night’s rest.”
“Right,” he said.
There was something enigmatic about the small smile that accompanied his reply. Not having his willpower when it came to not being nosy, Cat was about to ask about it when he continued.
“Did your poet friend happen to mention which side of town she lives on?” he asked.
“Let me see.” She pulled her leatherbound daily planner from her bag and, being careful not to spill any of the numerous cards and notes slipped between the pages, she found the directions Madelaine had given her over the telephone.
“It’s on Route 9 east, just before you reach Wilmington,” she told him.
“Then you better start looking,” he advised. “Do we have a number? Color? Anything?”
“It’s green with black shutters, and set back on the right-hand side of the road. There’s also a sign,” she added. “Craven House.”
“Craven House,” Hunter echoed less than a minute later. “Here we are.”
Cat strained to see through a thick curtain of maples and weeping willows as he turned into the narrow pebbled drive.
The temperature seemed ten degrees cooler beneath the overhanging branches. Cat, the product of California and Florida sunshine and the long, low style of architecture that abounded in those states, stared in fascination at the gambrel-roofed carriage house with its narrow windows and glossy black shutters that actually closed on hinges.
“It’s so...rustic,” she said on a soft breath.
“That’s the word, all right,” Hunter responded, more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “Think there’s indoor plumbing?”
Cat turned to him and rolled her eyes. Opening her door to get out, she said, “I think that if there isn’t, it will make our stay even more of an adventure.”
“Swell,” Hunter muttered, joining her on the drive. “If there’s one thing I never get enough of, it’s adventure.”
The front door of the house opened and a petite women hurried toward them, smiling. She was wearing white slacks and a lacy black tunic, her shoulder-length silver-blond hair pulled into a knot at the back of her neck so that only a few wispy curls framed her heart-shaped face. Squarish wire-rimmed glasses were perched on her nose. In her late fifties, Madelaine Van der Court was still a very pretty woman, and Cat recognized her instantly from the photo on her book jacket.
“Hello, you must be Catrina,” she said, with only a hint of the French accent of her youth. Extending both hands to grasp Cat’s warmly, she went on, “How wonderful to finally meet you.”
“I’m the one who’s thrilled to meet you, Ms. Van der Court.”
“Please,” the other woman said with a laugh. “I told you when we spoke on the phone, you will make me feel too old if you call me anything besides Madelaine.”
“All right,” Cat agreed, “Madelaine it is. And I usually go by Cat.”
; Madelaine turned to Hunter with a smile. A good foot shorter than he was, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “And this must be your traveling companion, am I right?”
That covered it pretty well, Cat thought.
“Yes,” she replied. “This is Bolton Hunter. Hunter, Madelaine Van der Court.”
“You will please call me Madelaine, as well,” she said to him, smiling broadly as he removed his sunglasses before shaking her hand. “And Cat calls you Hunter?”
“Cat’s a little...stubborn about some things,” he replied, slanting an amused glance her way. “Most folks call me Bolt.”
“Bolt.” Madelaine said the name as if tasting it. “I like it. It fits you, strong and to the point.” She glanced at Cat. “I am right, aren’t I?”
“Strong and to the point,” she repeated. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”
“Fine, then,” Madelaine said, turning to take them both by the arm. “Enough keeping my guests standing outside. Come in, please. I’ve made lemonade. I thought you might want to take your pictures before the sun sets. Later we’ll have dinner. I should warn you that I have my nephew and his young friend staying with me at the moment as well,” she went on exuberantly. “I did tell you that I love having company.”
“Yes, you did. I’m grateful that you’re so generous with your beautiful home.”
“It is beautiful,” Madelaine agreed without a trace of false modestly. “Come, I’ll give you the grand tour, as I call it. Max, that’s my nephew, and his friend Andrew are sixteen and off somewhere with an old wreck of a car they are determined to fix up. Just wait until they see your car. It is very old, right?”
“Very old,” Cat agreed. “It’s a ‘57 Chevy and it’s not actually ours.”
“Of course,” she said. “You did tell me that was your reason for making the trip, to drive the car for a friend.”
“Right,” Cat confirmed, deciding that was more or less the situation.
They started their tour in the front hall, where a grand turning staircase with polished oak treads and the aged patina of the pale yellow walls set the tone for the rest of the house. Worn and comfortable, with a timeless elegance and an eclectic mix of furniture and treasures, the house reflected the many shifting moods that drew Cat so strongly to Madelaine’s poems. The artist was thrilled when Cat told her so.
She led them through the entire house, from the wicker and chintz filled living room to the comfortable upstairs bedrooms. When they passed the bath with its tempting claw-foot tub, Cat poked Bolt, as she had succumbed to calling him, in the ribs. He retaliated a few minutes later by nudging her into the sun room and quickly pulling the door shut while their hostess’s back was turned.
“Cat,” Madelaine called, her brow furrowed as she looked for her.
Cat emerged sheepishly from behind the curtained French door. “I guess I made a wrong turn,” she said.
“See why I can’t let you drive,” Bolt intoned, deadpan.
Cat smiled a silent promise to deal with him later.
“And now,” Madelaine was saying, “I have saved the very best for last.” She made a sweeping motion of her arm to urge them into a spacious room opposite the living room at the front of the house. “My library.”
Here the walls were painted a restful dark green, and brass floor lamps were positioned near two overstuffed chairs that begged you to curl up in them. A stone fireplace dominated one wall of the room, but it was the other three walls that commanded Cat’s attention. Books, thousands of them, lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Some of the bindings were of fragile leather with the gilt printing worn away in places; other books looked as if they had hardly been opened, as if they had been acquired for only a moment’s inspiration, or to glimpse a single illustration, or in the hope they would deliver something wonderful that might or might not have come to pass.
Cat was suddenly filled with dozens of questions for Madelaine, the same sorts of questions she hoped to inspire in readers when her article appeared in print.
Bolt helped her carry her equipment from the car and set up the lights. Then he moved out of the way while she went about taking the shots she’d been planning in her mind for months. Long views and close-ups, experiments with angles and lights, she quickly used up several rolls of film. At first she was surprised that Bolt seemed to sense when she was ready to change lenses or needed a fresh roll of film and would magically appear by her side to help. He returned cameras to their cases and labeled film canisters according to her instructions. After a while, she ceased being surprised and they simply worked together almost as easily as if they’d been at it for years. In a way, she thought very briefly, too involved with her work to think much about anything else, the easiness between them was another surprise.
Afterward, they sat and had the lemonade Madelaine had offered and Cat got a chance to ask her all the questions bubbling inside her. Madelaine was a delight to interview, witty and forthcoming, and by the time Cat excused herself to go upstairs to change for dinner, she was feeling elated with the success of her first official shoot.
“Do you think this is an omen?” she asked Bolt when he trailed her to the bottom of the stairs even though he had expressed no interest in changing his own clothes.
“I’m the wrong man to ask about omens,” he replied.
Cat frowned worriedly. “Why? Do you sense something? You think maybe this is a bad omen? Oh, I knew it was too good to be true. What do you sense?”
“Hysteria setting in,” he said in a dry tone. “Will you calm down?” He caught her hands in his, probably to stop her from waving them around frantically. “I said I’m the wrong man to ask because I don’t believe in omens.”
“Don’t believe in omens?” She eyed him incredulously. As far as she was concerned, that was like saying he didn’t believe in four-leaf clovers or lucky numbers. “What else don’t you believe in?”
“The Easter bunny,” he shot back, his smile droll. “Now get upstairs and change before Madelaine finishes whatever she’s doing in the kitchen and calls us for dinner.”
“But you did think it went well, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I thought it went great.”
“I mean, that room should photograph beautifully, all that contrast between the dark walls and white woodwork. And the light from those amber lamps...”
“Beautiful,” he agreed, laughing. “Perfect. You’re a genius, Tiger. Now get out of here.”
He squeezed her hands and let her go and all the way up the stairs Cat felt his gaze on her. It made her spine tingle in the same alarming way his gentle squeeze had left her fingers tingling. Why should that be? she asked herself, recognizing sexual awareness when she felt it. At the top of the stairs she turned, knowing he would still be watching her and knowing why, and not knowing at all what to do about it.
She showered quickly and dressed in a black cotton knit dress that was actually little more than an elongated tank top, and black sandals. The dress laced up the back, ruling out even the skimpiest bra, and always made her feel sexy. Something that common sense warned she should have no interest in feeling around Bolt Hunter.
He might be a more decent guy than she had been willing to concede twelve hours ago, but he was still as far from being her type as a man could be and still be classified a Homo sapiens. They were going to be traveling together in close proximity, she reminded herself, and there was no sense in tempting fate or starting something that had absolutely no future as far as she was concerned. Which was why she wasn’t wearing the dress for him, she decided, smiling with satisfaction at her reflection in Madelaine’s pedestal mirror. She was wearing it for herself.
Dinner was deliciously New England, with baked stuffed lobster fresh from the neighboring state of Maine and grilled vegetables from a farm just down the street. Dessert was strawberry shortcake made with berries the size of plums, which Madelaine had sent Bolt to pick in her patch out back. Her nephew had phoned earlier and said that he
and his friend wouldn’t make it home for dinner. Cat, who was looking forward to meeting the young man and perhaps gaining another perspective on his poetess aunt for her piece, hoped he would return early enough for them to talk for a while.
After dinner, she insisted on helping Madelaine with the dishes, and Bolt offered to bring in logs to build a small fire in the fireplace in the library. She was hoping to take a few additional shots of Madelaine in her favorite chair, a glowing fire in the background.
Cat was in the process of carefully drying a Majolica platter, which Madelaine told her had been in her family for years, when what sounded like a gunshot shattered the early evening quiet.
“My goodness,” Cat exclaimed.
“Relax,” the other woman urged with an indulgent smile. “That’s simply Max and that old bomber of his. Believe me, I’ve gotten quite familiar with the sound of a car backfiring over the past two summers.”
The sudden tightening of Cat’s shoulders had just begun to ease when she heard someone shout.
“Help,” cried a male voice from somewhere outside. “Somebody help.”
“Get down,” snarled another man. “Down.”
She turned to Madelaine, whose eyes were wide and fearful.
“That sounded like Bolt,” Cat said.
Together they ran for the door, Cat shoving the platter onto the counter, Madelaine’s hands dripping soapy water. They followed the direction of the shouting to the oversize barn that was now used as a garage. A black electric lantern hanging from a wooden rafter provided the only light, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the shadows. When they did, she saw Bolt standing over two men—no, two boys—who were lying facedown on the dirt floor. He was leaning with his hand on the neck of one, his foot planted squarely on the back of the other.
Cat knew without asking that the boys were Madelaine’s nephew and his friend. A dented and rust-spotted car with its hood up told her that they had been in there working on it. She couldn’t in her wildest dreams imagine what Bolt was doing.
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