by Nora Roberts
frozen up. "No, you're nothing like Jonah. We never had a picnic with his sister's pasta salad."
"Dinner at Jean-Louis at the Watergate or whatever tony French place is currently in fashion. Openings at the Kennedy Center. Clever cocktail parties inside the Beltway, and the occasional Sunday afternoon brunch with copacetic friends." He waited a beat. "How'd I do?"
"Close enough." Dead on target. "You're way outside the Beltway now. His loss."
"He seems to be bearing up."
"Did you love him?"
She opened her mouth, then found herself answering with complete honesty. "I don't know anymore. I certainly believed I did or I'd never have planned to marry him. He was attractive, brilliant, had a deadly sarcasm that often posed for witty—and sometimes was. And, as it turned out, the fidelity of an alley cat. Better I found that out before we were married than after. But I learned something valuable about myself due to the experience. No one cheats on me without serious consequences."
"Bruised his balls, did you?"
"Oh, worse." She nibbled delicately on pate. "He left his cashmere coat, among other items, at my place. While I was coldly packing up his things, I took it back out of the packing box, cut off the sleeves, the collar, the buttons. And since that was so satisfying, I put, one by one, all his Melissa Etheridge CDs in the microwave. She's a wonderful artist, but I can't listen to her today without feeling destructive urges. Then I put his Ferragamo loafers in the washing machine. These acts were hard on my appliances, but good for my soul. Since I was on a roll, I started to flush my three-carat, square-cut Russian white diamond engagement ring down the toilet, but sanity prevailed."
"What did you do with it?"
"I put it in an envelope, wrote 'For His Sins' on the front, then dropped it into the collection box at a little church in Georgetown. Overdramatic, but again, satisfying."
This time Seth leaned over, touched his lips to hers. "Nice job, champ."
"Yes, I thought so." She brought her knees up, sipped her wine while she looked out over the water. "A number of my acquaintances think I left D.C. and moved here because of Jonah. They're wrong. I've loved it here since that first time we came with my grandfather. When I knew I had to make the break, start fresh, I tried to imagine myself living in different places, even different countries. But I always came back here in my head. It wasn't impulsive, though again, a lot of people think so. I planned it for years. That's how I do things, plan them out. Step by step."
She paused, rested her chin on her knees as she studied him. "Obviously, I've missed a step somewhere with you or I wouldn't be sitting here on the grass drinking wine on a Sunday afternoon and telling you things I had no intention of talking about."
She lifted her head again, sipped wine. "You listen. That's a gift. And a weapon."
"I'm not going to hurt you."
"Healthy people don't step toward a relationship with the intention of hurting each other. Still, they do. Maybe it'll be me who ends up hurting you."
"Let's see." He cupped a hand at the back of her neck, rubbing lightly as he bent down to lay his lips on hers. "No," he said after a moment. "No bruises yet."
Then shifting, he framed her face with his hands to lift it until their lips met again.
Very soft, suddenly deep and wrenchingly gentle, his mouth moved on hers. With silky glides he teased her tongue into a dance as his fingers trailed down the line of her throat, over the curve of her shoulders.
She tasted of the wine that spilled unnoticed when her hand went limp on the glass. He found the quick catch and release of her breath when she drew him closer as arousing as a moan.
He laid her back on the blanket, sliding down with her as her arms linked around his neck.
She wanted his weight. She wanted his hands. She wanted his mouth to go on and on taking from hers. She felt the brush of his fingers on her collarbone, and shivered. They skimmed over the thin material of her top, then slipped down to dance over her breast.
He murmured her name before he grazed his teeth over her jaw. And his hand, so beautifully formed, so rough from work, molded her.
Heat flashed through her, urging her to give and to take. Instead, she pressed a hand to his shoulder. "Wait. Seth."
His mouth came back to hers, hungrier now, and with the dangerous flavor of urgency. "Let me touch you. I have to touch you."
"Wait."
He bit off an oath, rested his forehead on hers while his blood raged. He could feel her body vibrating under his, and knew she was just as needy. "Okay. Okay," he managed. "Why?"
"I'm not ready."
"Oh, sugar. Any more ready, you'd be past me."
"Wanting you isn't the same as being ready." But she was afraid he was right. "I didn't intend for this to happen, not like this. I'm not going to make love with a man who appears to be involved with someone else."
"Involved with who? Jesus, Dru, I just got back home, and I haven't looked at another woman since the first time I saw you."
"You've been involved with this one long before you saw me." He looked so blank, so disheveled, so frustrated she wanted to giggle. But she stayed firm. "Aubrey."
"What about Aubrey?" It took him several jolting seconds to understand her meaning. "Aubrey? Me and… Christ on a crutch, are you kidding?" He'd have laughed if the idea hadn't left him so shocked. "Where do you get that?"
"I'm not blind." Irritated, she shoved at him. "Move, will you?"
"I'm not involved with…" He couldn't even say it, but he sat back. "It's not like that. Jesus, Dru, she's my sister."
"No, she isn't."
"Niece."
"Nor is she that. And maybe you are oblivious to what's between you—though you don't strike me as a dolt—but I doubt very much she is."
"I don't think about her that way."
"Maybe you haven't, on a conscious level."
"At all." The very idea had panic dancing in his throat. "None of the levels. Neither does she." Dru smoothed down her skirt. "Are you certain?"
"Yeah." But the seed had been planted. "Yes. And if you've got some insane notion that me being with you is somehow cheating on Aubrey, you can forget it."
"What I think," Dru said calmly, "is that I'm not going to have an affair with a man who I suspect is attracted to someone else. Maybe you should work this out with Aubrey before anything goes any further between us. But for now I think we'd better call it a day. Do you mind if I take a look at the painting?"
"Yes." He snapped it out. "I mind. You can see it when it's finished."
"All right." Well, well, she mused, artistic temperament rears its head. "I'll just pack up the food for you. I assume you want at least one more sitting," she said as she began to pack the cooler. "I should be able to give you some time next Sunday."
He stood, stared down at her. "You're a case. Some asshole cheats on you so that means we're all cheats?"
"No." She understood his temper, and since it seemed a reasonable conclusion for him to make, she didn't lose hers. "Not at all. In fact, I think you're as honest as they come. I couldn't consider being with you if I thought otherwise. But as I said, I'm not ready to take this step with you, and I have reservations over your feelings toward someone else—and hers toward you."
She looked up then. "I've been the clichéd victim of the other woman, Seth. I won't do that to anyone else."
"Sounds like instead of you asking me about scars, I should've asked you."
She rose now, nodded. "Yes, maybe you should have. Since you're going to sulk, I'll leave you to it."
He caught her arm before she could breeze by, whipped her around so fast she felt fear burst like a bomb in her throat. "You keep taking those steps one at a time, sugar. It might take you longer to fall on your face, but you'll fall just as hard."
"Let me go now."
He released her, turned his back on her to pack up his gear. More shaken than she wanted to admit, Dru made herself walk slowly into the house.
It was
, she admitted, still a retreat.
* * *
Chapter Nine
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WOMEN. Seth tossed the cooler into the trunk of the car, heaved the hamper in behind it. Just when you thought you understood them, they turned into aliens. And those aliens had the power to change a normal, reasonable man into a blithering idiot.
There was nothing a man could do to keep up with them.
He tossed in the blanket, kicked the tire, then yanked the blanket back out again. He stared over at her house and gave it a satisfactory snarl.
His mutters were a combination of curses, pithy remarks and considerable blithering as he stomped back for his folding table and watercolor paper.
And there she was, sleeping on the red blanket in the dappled sunlight. All long limbs and color, with the face of a sleeping faerie queen.
"I ought to know who I'm attracted to," he told her as he carefully lifted the painting-in-progress and carried it to the car. "One guy turns out to be a putz, and damns us all?" He laid the paper on the blanket, scowled at it. "Well, that's your problem, sister."
Sister, he thought and felt an uneasy jittering in his gut. Why the hell had she put that in his head about Aubrey? It was off, that's all. It was way, way off.
It had to be.
He loved Aubrey. Of course he did. But he'd never thought about… Had he?
"You see, you see?" He jabbed a finger at the painting. "That's what your kind does to us. You confuse everything until we start questioning our own brains. Well, it's not going to work with me." Because it was more comfortable, he switched back to temper as he finished loading his car. He had nearly made the turn for home when he swung the car around, punched the gas.
"We'll just settle this thing." He spoke aloud and nodded at the painting. "Once and for all. And we'll see who's the idiot."
He pulled up in the drive at Aubrey's house, leaped out of the car and strode to the door with his outrage and temper still leading the way. He didn't knock. No one would have expected him to.
The living room, like the rest of the house, was picture-pretty, cluttered just enough to be comfortable, and ruthlessly clean. Grace had a knack for such things.
Once she'd made her living as a single parent cleaning other people's homes. Now she ran her own business, a cleaning service with more than twenty employees who handled homes and businesses on the Shore.
Her own home was one of her best advertisements—and at the moment it was also entirely too quiet.
"Aubrey?" he shouted up the stairs. "Anyone home?"
"Seth?" Grace hurried in from the kitchen. In her bare feet and cropped pants, her hair pulled carelessly back from her face, she looked entirely too young to have a daughter some wrong-headed woman thought he was attracted to.
Jesus, he'd baby-sat for Aubrey.
"Come on back," she told him with a quick kiss. "Ethan and Deke are out back fixing the lawn mower. I was just making some lemonade."
"I just dropped by to see Aubrey about…" Oh no, he thought, he couldn't go there with Grace. "Is she around?"
"She plays softball Sunday afternoons."
"Right." Seth jammed his hands in his pockets and scowled. "Right."
"Honey, is something wrong? Did you and Aubrey have a fight?"
"No. No, I just need to… talk to her about something."
"She should be back in an hour or so. Emily, too. Em's off with her boyfriend. Why don't you go on out with Ethan and Deke, stay for dinner? We're cooking out later."
"Thanks, but… I've got some things…" It felt weird, too weird, looking at Grace's face, seeing Aubrey in it and thinking what he was thinking. "I gotta go."
"But—" She was talking to his back as he rushed out the door. Anna was right, Grace thought with a sigh. Something was troubling their boy.
IT WAS the bottom of the sixth, with two on, two out when Seth arrived at the park. Aubrey's team, the Blue Crabs, was down by a run to their longtime nemesis, the Rockfish.
Spectators munched on hot dogs, slurped cold drinks from paper cups and hurled the expected insults or encouragements at the players. June was coming on with her usual hot breath and moist hands, making spring a fond memory. Sun poured onto the field and drenched it in heat and humidity.
Steam from the concession stand pumped out as Seth passed it to clamber up the stands.
He spotted Junior Crawford, a billed cap shielding his bald head and wrinkled gnome face, with a boy of no more than three perched on his bony knee.
"Hey there, Seth." Junior scooted his skinny ass over an inch in invitation. "How come you ain't down there on the field?"
"Came back too late for the draft." He scanned the field first and noted Aubrey was on deck as the current batter took ball three. Then he winked at the little boy. "Who's this guy?"
"This here's Bart." Junior gave the boy a bounce. "My great-grandson."
"Great-grandson?"
"Yup, got us eight grands now, and this one." Junior's attention swung back to the field at the crack of the bat. "Gone foul," he muttered. "Straighten out that bat, Jed Wilson!" he shouted. "Chrissake."
"Jed Wilson? Is that Mrs. Wilson's grandson?"
"The same. Affable enough boy, right enough, but can't bat worth shit."
"Worth shit," Bart said happily.
"Now, boy." Chuckling, Junior wagged his finger at Bart. "You know you're gonna get me in the doghouse again if you go saying that in front of your mama."
"Worth shit! Pappy!" Bart bubbled out a laugh, then poked his mangled hot dog toward Seth. "Bite?"
"Sure." Grateful for the distraction, Seth leaned down and pretended to take a huge bite.
When ball four was called, the crowd erupted, and Junior let out a whoop. "Walked him. By God. You're in for it now, you stinking Rockfish."
"Stinking Rockfish," Bart echoed joyfully.
"We're gonna see some action now, goddamn it! Now we'll see what's what."
The Blue Crab fans began to croon "Aub-rey! Aub-rey!" as she swaggered to the plate.
"Knock one out, Aub! That girl can do it," Junior said with such wild enthusiasm Seth wondered he didn't have a stroke on the spot. "You watch!" He stabbed Seth with the razor point of his elbow. "You just watch her slam that bastard."
"Slam that bastard!" Bart shouted, waving his mushed hot dog and dripping mustard.
For both their sakes, Seth nipped the boy from Junior's knee and set him on his own.
She was a pleasure to watch, Seth thought. No question about it. That compact, athletic build. The undeniable femaleness of it despite—maybe because of—the mannish baseball jersey.
But that didn't mean he thought about her … that way.
She scuffed at the plate. There was a short exchange with the catcher Seth imagined was derisive on both sides. She took a couple of testing swings. Wiggled her butt. Jesus, why was he looking at her butt?
And took a hard cut at the first pitch.
The crowd surged to their feet on a roar. Aubrey shot toward first like a bullet banged from its gun.
Then the crowd deflated, and she jogged back to the plate as the ball curved foul.
The crowd began to chant her name again as she picked up the bat and went through the same routine. Two swings, wiggle the bat, wiggle the butt and set for the pitch.
She took it, checking her swing. And when the ump called strike two, she rounded on him. Seth could see her lips move, could hear the bite of her words in his head.
Strike, my ass. Any more outside, that pitch would have been in Virginia. Just how big a strike zone you want to give this guy?
Don't refer to the dubious sexual practices of his mother, Seth warned her mentally. Don't go there and get tossed.
Whether she'd learned some control in the last couple years or his warning got through, Aubrey skinned the ump with one baleful look, then stepped back in the batter's box.
The chant rose again, feet began to stomp on wood until the bleachers vibrated. In S
eth's lap, little Bart squeezed what was left of the dog and bun to pulp and shouted, "Slam the bastard." And she did.
Seth knew the minute the ball met her bat that it was gone. So, obviously, did Aubrey because she held her position—shoulders front, hips cocked, front leg poised like a dancer—as she watched the ball sail high and long.
The crowd was on its feet, an eruption of sound as she tossed her bat aside and jogged around the bases.
"Goddamn fricking grand slam." Junior sounded as if he was about to weep. "That girl is a fricking peach."
"Fricking peach," Bart agreed and leaned over from Seth's arms to plant a sloppy kiss on Junior's cheek.
THE ROCKFISH went scoreless in the seventh, shut down on a strikeout, and a spiffy double play started by Aubrey at short. Seth wandered down toward the dugout as the fans began to drift toward home. He saw Aubrey standing, glugging Gatorade straight from the jug.
"Nice game, Slugger."
"Hey." She tossed the jug to one of her teammates and sauntered over to Seth. "I didn't know you were here."
"Came in bottom of the sixth, just in time to see you kick Rockfish ass."
"Fast ball. Low and away. He should've known better. I thought you were painting the flower girl today."
"Yeah, well, we had a sitting."
She cocked a brow, then rubbed at her nose as Seth stared at her. "What? So, I've got dirt on my face."
"No, it's not that. Listen, I need to talk to you."
"Okay, talk."
"No, not here." He hunched his shoulders. They were surrounded, he thought. Players, spectators, kids. Dozens of familiar faces. People who knew both of them. My God, did other people think he and Aubrey…?
"It's, ah, you know. Private."
"Look, if something's wrong—"
"I didn't say anything was wrong."
She huffed out a breath. "Your face does. I rode in with Joe and Alice. Let me tell them I'm catching a lift home with you."
"Good. Great. I'll meet you at the car."
He shifted the blanket and painting to the backseat. Leaned on the hood. Paced around the car. When Aubrey walked toward him, a mitt in her hand, a bat over her shoulder, he tried to look at her the way he would if he'd never met her before.
But it just wouldn't work.
"You're starting to get me worried, Seth," she said.
"Don't. Here, let me put those in the trunk. I've got my stuff in the back."
She shrugged, passed off her ball gear, then peered into the backseat. "Wow."