by Vicki Hinze
“Honey, this is more important—”
“Damn it, man, would you just do it?”
He frowned at her for yelling at him, slapped his hand against hers so hard her palm stung, then stepped over the line.
Chapter 8
MacGregor didn’t black out.
He just stood there, his hand clasped with hers, blinking. Maggie waited. Counted in her head to ten, then twenty, then sixty.
Nothing happened.
He hadn’t flinched so much as a muscle. “You okay?”
“I think so,” he whispered.
“No temperature drop?” she whispered back. Why were they whispering?
“No.”
“No misty veil?” She hadn’t moved, either. She was afraid to move. Afraid anything sudden would make something happen. Awaken the slumbering beast.
“No.”
Her heart started throbbing, knocking against her chest wall. “No icy fingers?”
“No, nothing.” Tears shimmered in his eyes and he squeezed her hand hard. “Maggie, I’m free!”
He laughed straight from the heart, caught her up in his arms and covered her face with rapid, tiny kisses wherever his lips happened to touch.
“Tyler, I’m so pleased.” She cupped his face in her hands and gave him a firm peck on the lips, then settled in and did the job right.
The taste of his happiness had her giddy and, when she broke the kiss and he set her onto the ground, she slid her hand down his arm, captured his hand, then lifted it to her cheek, not yet ready to end the celebration. It hadn’t been a mistake. Thank God, it hadn’t been a mistake.
“How did you know?”
She smiled up at him. “Last night, when we were out here and we hugged, I looked down and I thought we were standing on Beaulah’s land. I couldn’t be sure, but I was nearly certain.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” He dropped his arm, freeing his hand.
“I didn’t want to give you false hope. I wasn’t sure—Tyler, what’s wrong with you?” He turned ashen. “Tyler?”
He bent, twisted, gasped, reaching for his shoulder, pain twisting his face.
Maggie grabbed his arm. “Tyler!”
Bent double, sweat beading on his forehead and trickling down his face from his temple, he held onto her arm as if it were a lifeline and sucked in great gulps of air.
Maggie gaped at him. He hadn’t passed out. He looked weaker than water, but he was conscious—and upright.
“Oh God, no.” He stared down at the dirt, then squeezed his eyes shut. “No!”
“Tyler, what in the world is it? What’s happening to you?”
His heavy breathing hiking and dropping his shoulders, he glared into her eyes, his own wide and round with shock. “I can cross, Maggie. But— But only while I’m touching you.”
T.J. sat at the kitchen table, about as confused as he’d ever been in his life—and more outraged than he’d been since realizing he again couldn’t paint.
The kicker was, where did he target that outrage? In whose—or what’s—direction? On whose head? And what was happening here now?
Things had been complicated enough before Maggie had come along. Now they were—he sighed, propped his elbows on the table, braced his chin on his hand and stared into his coffee mug—worse. Much worse.
She was a woman on a mission. One to help him. One that warned he could die. One that dragged her into the middle of this mystical mess and him into an even deeper panic.
The fire crackled and moisture hissed from the logs. He watched the flames curl around them. He didn’t love her. He’d never let himself love anyone again. But he did care about her, and he didn’t want her hurt. Was that so wrong?
She’d said he suffered from a good dose of lust and a little gratitude. Well, she was right. But he felt more for her, too, and he’d be a damn fool to deny it. He didn’t want the feelings. He sure didn’t need them. But they were there.
He sipped from the mug and watched steam rise and twine over the top of it. The hot coffee burned going down his throat. She should’ve left. She still should leave. And she should stop holding out info on him. He’d had it with her holding out on him. And she’d held out plenty. Like what the man’s voice had whispered. Like seeing T.J. standing on Beaulah’s land. Like her telling him she hadn’t been experiencing anything strange here...
The coffee smelled good, yet turned bitter on his tongue. He cared for her. But he damn sure couldn’t trust her. He set the mug back down on the table. The firm thunk set the salt and pepper shakers knocking together.
She breezed into the kitchen looking like a breath of spring and sunshine, and headed straight for the fridge. “Hi, MacGregor. I wondered where you were.”
He leaned back and lifted his cup. “The possibilities are limited. Not many locales to choose from.” This was getting bad. Even he heard the frustration in his tone.
She leaned over to get something out of the fridge and her jade slacks stretched tight over her bottom. His chest tightened along with them and deeper, a twinge of lust furled like a ribbon, reminding him just how long it’d been since he’d been with a woman. He sighed again. Deeper.
“Just caught the weather report in the parlor. Can you believe it? Ice a couple days ago and today the high’s sixty.” She straightened up, holding a slice of cheese and a can of grape juice. “If you’re interested, the low’s forty-five.”
“I’m not. Weather here changes fast and frequently. So long as it isn’t going to rain, who cares?”
Unwrapping the cheese slice, she sat down across the table from him then popped back the flip tab on the juice. Air swooshed out of the can. “Sorry to slay your fantasy, dragon. It’s gonna rain tomorrow.”
“Damn.” He took another sip of coffee and watched Maggie lick a drop of juice from her thumb.
“What’s wrong with a little rain?” She tore a sliver off the cheese slice and nibbled at it.
“Roofers can’t work in it.”
She shrugged and propped her foot on his chair rung. “Don’t you like your room here?”
“I like my privacy better.” Her slacks brushed against his jeans. His stomach lurched. The twinge of lust dove a notch deeper, and he frowned.
She paused, holding the can midair. “I hate to be critical on such a gorgeous day, MacGregor, but in case you haven’t noticed, your attitude is rearing its nasty head.”
It was. He needed to be thinking about their situation and on how to get this stubborn woman the hell out of here, and all he could think about was holding her in his arms on the bench outside and in the bathroom upstairs, of how good she’d smelled and felt and tasted, of how good she smelled right now. And of how much he wanted to take her upstairs to bed and smell and feel and taste all of her. He bet she even made love with sass.
“Where’s Miss Hattie?” Maggie polished off the cheese and eyed the blueberry pie on the counter next to the fruit bowl.
“Gone to the village. She always does her shopping on Tuesdays.”
“I saw her leave the greenhouse earlier with a huge bunch of flowers.”
He nodded. “She goes by the cemetery on her way to the store.”
“Ah. Her husband?”
“She never married. She was supposed to, but he died. They were both very young.”
“How tragic.” Maggie lowered her gaze. “She must have loved him very much—to have never married.”
“All her world.”
Maggie smoothed a hand down her side. “Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to love someone that much? Or to know that someone loved you that much?”
A twinge of the old betrayal burned in his stomach. He clenched his muscles and stared into the fire. “I thought I knew, but I didn’t.”
“I’m sor
ry, I forgot about your fiancée.” Maggie’s cheeks flushed. “Leave it to me to put my foot, calf, and thigh in my mouth.”
“You didn’t.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Things weren’t as I thought they were between my fiancée and me. I thought we wanted the same things. But we didn’t.” He gave Maggie a ghost of a smile. “Funny, but even now that’s hard to admit.”
“Life has a way of doing that, doesn’t it? Turning the tables on us, I mean.” Maggie poured herself a glass of milk, splashing a drop onto the counter, then set the carton back into the fridge. “Every time I think I have my life about like I want it,” she grabbed a dish cloth and swiped at the spot, “something happens to screw things up.”
Looking thoughtful, she carried the glass back to the table and sat down. “I’ve about concluded my destiny in life is to learn patience.” She grinned. “I guess it’s good that I never expected to find a love as strong as Miss Hattie’s was for her guy. So far, I’m flunking on a grand scale.”
T.J. seriously doubted Maggie ever in her life had flunked at anything important. Still, what did he know? He couldn’t trust his judgment about others—or himself. Not after what had happened with Carolyn. “I think the kind of love Miss Hattie felt must be very... rare. The kind only the luckiest people find—and then only once.”
He motioned toward the pie. “She said to tell you to help yourself, by the way. I warned her that you had an insatiable appetite and she’d likely come home to an empty plate.”
“Terrific.” Ignoring his commentary, Maggie scooted back her chair. It scraped against the floor. “Want a slice?”
“No, thanks.” The fire in the grate snapped and a shower of sparks went up the chimney. It kept the chill out of the room, but it also set up a potent, domestic scene. T.J. wished it didn’t. Maggie at the counter, slicing pie, the silver server clinking against the pie tin. Her sliding a sliver onto a plate with the tip of her finger, then licking crust crumbs off her fingertip. Him sitting at the table, watching her every move, noticing little things about her. The way her blouse hugged her breasts, how her nose turned slightly askew and, with her movements, the way her dainty gold bracelet slid up and down from her forearm to her wrist.
He wanted to paint her. Laughing. Her head tossed back, her lips parted, her eyes sparkling. The way she’d looked when he had crossed the boundary and hadn’t passed out. He wanted to paint her.
“This is soooo good.” Maggie glanced at him. “MacGregor, you don’t know what you’re missing.”
He didn’t. But, man, could he imagine.
She closed her eyes, her expression enraptured. “Mmm, wonderful.”
The twinge turned to yearning, dove deeper still, and his throat went thick. He wanted to paint her, but he also wanted her. All of her. Her sass, her temper, her revenge of using his razor and stealing all the hot water—even her appetite. And he wanted her kisses and hugs. He loved the way she held him. How she turned to him when she was afraid, and admitted so easily to him that she was scared. A person had to be very self-confident to admit fear.
She lied. Do you want her lies, too?
No, he didn’t want her lies. He hated her lies. In an offbeat way, he understood why Miss Hattie had to hold out on him. Strange events happening at the inn couldn’t do business any good, and the judge wouldn’t appreciate the negative notoriety. Miss Hattie could end up out of a job and out of a home. But Maggie lying to him, he couldn’t understand. Why would she?
“You might not have exaggerated.” She turned and grinned at him.
He followed her pointed finger to the pie tin. “I can’t believe you’ve stood there and eaten nearly half the thing.” He grunted. “You’re going to be sick.”
“Naw. I’ve got a strong constitution.” She took another bite, raked it off the fork with her teeth. “But even if I do get sick, it’s worth it. This is the best blueberry pie I’ve had in my life.”
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back on his chair. “Yeah, and tomorrow you’ll be griping that your jeans are too tight.”
She waved her fork at him. “There’s that attitude again.”
She finished up and rinsed her plate at the sink, humming.
The woman hummed? Hummed, as if she hadn’t a care in the world while he sat here worried sick and dying from lust?
He got up and refilled his coffee cup. There was no justice in anything anymore. Not much sense, either.
“Oh, geez.” She turned her back to the counter and leaned against the cabinet. “Now you’ve got the snarl.” She let her gaze drift to the ceiling. “The attitude and the snarl.” She clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Things are not looking good here.”
He set down his mug and leaned his hip against the cabinet, facing her. “I want you to leave.”
“No, you want me to be safe.” She let out a little sigh. “There’s a difference, MacGregor.”
“Okay, you’re right. I want you to be safe.”
She stepped closer and lifted her hand to his waist. “It hasn’t occurred to you yet, has it?”
He hated her tone. It was the same one she habitually used for dropping bombshells. He really didn’t need another bomb exploding right now.
“This entity, whatever it is, is mystical.” She softened her voice as if to make that declaration easier for him to accept. “There’s nowhere to go.”
The phone rang.
Maggie answered it and smiled. “Hi, Miss Hattie.”
She paused, listened, then wrapped the spiral cord around her finger. “Tyler told me. I loved it. Ate almost half.” She laughed. “Did you put cinnamon in it?”
T.J. stared at her open-mouthed, doing his damnedest to refrain from snatching the phone out of her hand and slinging it across the room. How could the woman be standing there discussing pie ingredients not ten seconds after telling him there was no place to go where she’d be safe?
He wanted to choke her. To shout some sense into her. He wanted to kiss her until she was dizzy, put her and her things into her car, and drive away with her. But he hadn’t thought about it. Even if they could leave, where could they go? When pursued by an entity with mystical powers, there was no place to hide...
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll be happy to run it over. Be there—”
She stopped midsentence and laughed out loud. The sound had him aching.
“It’s the least I can do. Mmm? Yes, I love apples. Oooh, cobbler sounds great. Gee, I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone putting that in cobbler before. I definitely want to try it.”
She’d weigh a ton by the time she reached forty. But, he let his gaze drift down her slim body, she was perfect now. Petite, but not boyishly slim. Slender, but softly curved and very feminine. He’d loved her hair down and loose, but he loved it in a French braid, too. Accessible neck. Pretty, accessible neck. Tempting, pretty, and accessible neck.
“Miss Millie’s. All right. Yes, I saw it the other day. Near the post office, right?”
Enough. Enough. Uncle! T.J. walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her stomach, then bent down and planted a kiss on her neck. It tasted sweet, and he laid a trail of kisses along it, from right behind her ear down to her shoulder. She smelled like spring. He loved spring. Sighing, he slid his hands from her ribs to the waist on her jade blouse. The silk felt soft, her body smooth, and its heat seeped through the fabric and warmed his palms.
“I’ll, um, tell him.” Her face flushed. “See you.” Maggie hung up the phone.
Finally. With a hand at her shoulder, T.J. urged her to turn toward him, anticipation burning deep in his belly.
She looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary—and its cage.
“I, um”—she cleared her throat—“have a message for you from Miss Hattie.”
“Oh?” He didn’t like the
sound of this—or Maggie’s smirk.
“Uh-huh.” Again with the throat clearing. “She says Lydia Johnson at The Store says to tell you that she’s sending the razor blades you asked for on the phone this morning, but she can’t send the condoms because she promised the pastor she wouldn’t sell them to anyone who wasn’t married.”
“What!”
“She, meaning Lydia, also said that she called Jacky Landry over at Landry’s Landing cuz, being a pseudo-hippie, Jacky will sell anything to anyone except for bait—won’t cut in on Bill Butler’s turf—but Jacky doesn’t have the brand you wanted. Trojans, was it? Anyway, Lydia said not to worry. She’s added them to the shopping list on the bulletin board over at the Blue Moon Cafe and Jimmy Goodson will pick them up for you on his next trip over to Boothbay Harbor—which is on Friday—and she hopes that in light of AIDS and all those other dreadful diseases, you’ll refrain until he gets back.”
“On the bulletin board?” T.J. shouted. “For—”
“And, Lydia says she’s awfully sorry about this inconvenience, but the pastor’s already in a snit because Horace insists on putting a keg full of crushed ice and canned beer by the front door of The Store on weekends, and he’s not too happy about Jimmy’s X-rated girlie calendar—the skimpiest and most sinful excuse for swimwear Lydia’s ever seen—so she just couldn’t risk upsetting the pastor anymore. He’d be long-winded sure as certain come Sunday, and it absolutely mortifies her when Horace dozes off during services. The man’s a fine mayor, but his attention span on Sunday mornings runs a wee bit on the short side and he could wake the dead with his snores.”
T.J.’s face had to be purple. The veins in his neck felt ready to explode.
Maggie swallowed a belly laugh, but the damn thing danced in her eyes.
“Is that it?” If she didn’t laugh soon the woman would blow a gasket.
She clenched her teeth. “I’m to run into the village to bring a book to Miss Millie for their Historical Society meeting. Miss Hattie’s going to make me an apple cobbler tomorrow for the favor. And she doesn’t use cinnamon in her blueberry pie, but she does add a dash of nutmeg.” Maggie leaned back against the wall and tapped her lips. “I think that’s it.”