Poor soul, she thought as she led the way inside. He was no reporter. He was exactly what he appeared to be. Besides, so far Hugh hadn’t sent her anyone who had caused her problems—the crusty old mechanic was a shrewd judge of character. How could she have felt threatened, even for a moment, by this awkward, soft, overweight tourist?
“Hey, nice place you have here,” he said, pausing in the doorway to glance around the main room.
She took off her hat and hung it on the hook beside the door while she imagined how her home would appear to a stranger. It wouldn’t tell him much about her. There were no photographs on display, no souvenirs of the trips she had once taken, no trace of the elegant furnishings that had graced the Long Island estate. Everything in this central, all-purpose room of her cabin was modest and functional, from the overstuffed blue corduroy sofa and armchair to the scratched, footstool-height coffee table. There was nothing here to steal, or to conceal, except what was locked inside the sturdy rolltop desk.
“You must be quite an avid reader.” His shoes scuffed across the wood floor as he ambled toward the bookshelves that lined the far wall. With his hands in his pockets, his baggy jacket dragged on his rounded shoulders, emphasizing his stooped posture. “Wow. You've got everything from Stephen King to Jane Austen. I love to read whenever I can find the time.”
“Oh? What interests you?”
“Anything, even the backs of cereal boxes.” He turned in a slow circle, taking in the rest of the room. “But I have to admit that I'm partial to a good whodunit.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” she said, waving toward the oak table in front of the window. “I'll be right with you.”
“Sure. Thanks again.”
She waited until he had settled into one of the ladder-back chairs before she crossed to the opposite side of the room and fitted her bow into the rack over the fireplace.
“What kind of bow is that? Sure doesn’t look like anything I've seen before. Were you hunting with it?”
“It’s a compound bow, and no, I wasn’t hunting today.” She unstrapped the quiver from around her waist and placed it on the mantel. “I was planning on using the sand pit down the road to do some target practice. I passed your van on the way there, but when you didn’t come back I thought I’d better investigate. Sometimes people get lost on these back roads.”
His laugh sounded uncomfortable. “I'm sure glad you didn’t decide to use me for a target. That thing looks deadly.”
“Sorry. I thought you might be somebody else.”
“I guess you have to be careful, being so isolated out here and all. Is there much of a criminal element in the Maine woods, Miss Cassidy?”
“Not that I know of.” She moved to a low shelf and selected several rolled maps. “And you might as well call me Emma. No one’s very formal around here.”
“Okay. Emma.”
“What kind of fish are you after, Bruce?”
He had smiled nervously often enough during the few minutes since they had met. This time, though, the smile that briefly crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes seemed genuine. “When I go on a trip like this, I'm always hoping to catch the big ones.”
For a moment she was distracted by the way the spark of amusement lent a trace of animation to his face. She had no more than a fleeting glimpse, though, before he lifted his hand to fidget with his baseball cap. She carried the maps to the table. “Everyone wants to catch the big ones.”
“I was hoping you’d lead me to them.”
“I'll see what I can do. Here, hold this corner for me,” she instructed as she placed the first map in front of him and began to unroll it.
His knuckles bumped the edge of the table as he shifted to follow her instructions. His fingers were long and tanned and looked surprisingly strong for someone who pushed a pencil for a living. “I really appreciate this, Miss...uh, Emma. I'm glad you weren’t already booked.”
“Hugh does his best to steer customers my way, but I don’t get all that much business.” She leaned over to point out the black square near the bottom of the map. “This is my place. There are several good lakes to the northwest of here,” she said, trailing her finger in a straight line.
“You can get pretty close to the border with that plane of yours. What’s the range on it?”
“Far enough for what you'll need. If you don’t have your own boat I can strap one of my canoes to a pontoon.”
“That would be great. Can it handle the extra weight?”
“There’s nothing to be nervous about, Bruce. I assure you, I'm a very good pilot.”
“Am I that obvious?” He tipped his head away from her. The brim of his cap shielded his eyes, but the light from the window clearly etched the hint of a solid jaw beneath his dark blond beard. “Sorry. No offense meant.”
“None taken.” She pulled back, focusing more carefully on what was visible of his face. Despite the pudgy cheeks, he had a strong, masculine jaw, all right. It was a shame he wanted to hide it with that scraggy beard. The hair that poked out from the back band of the baseball cap was a few shades lighter, but just as unkempt. “How many people are with you?”
“Huh?”
“You've got a fishing buddy, don’t you?”
“Uh, no. Just me. Like I said, it was a sort of spur of the moment decision.” His pudgy cheeks creased into a hopeful smile. “That’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, you'll be acting as my guide for the day, won’t you?”
“It'll cost you extra.”
“Sure. Of course. What time would you want to leave?” he asked eagerly. His chair scraped loudly as he pushed himself to his feet. The map he had been holding rolled shut with a snap. For a moment he appeared to tower over her, but then he took a shuffling step away and bumped into the corner of the desk. Although the desktop was closed, there was a handful of unopened mail that was stacked on the top ledge. “Oh, heck. I'm sorry,” he mumbled, squatting down to gather up the letters he’d knocked to the floor.
She watched his clumsy movements, restraining the urge to offer her help and risk insulting him. “Can you get here half an hour before sunrise?”
“Sure. Great.” As he straightened up and replaced the mail, the strap of his camera slid from his shoulder. He juggled it awkwardly as he reached the door.
Poor soul, she thought again. He was so painfully nervous and clumsy. She had strong doubts whether he’d be able to catch anything at all. Well, she took advantage of any excuse to fly, and he would be paying for her fuel. He’d even be paying her to lounge around fishing all day, and she could use the time off. She held out her right hand as he stepped outside. “Until tomorrow, then.”
He wiped his palm on his pants and reached for her hand. “I'm really looking forward to this, Emma.”
“The weather should be...” Her words trailed off as his fingers closed gently around hers.
It was startling, that contact of flesh on flesh. Her skin tingled where he touched her, as if a connection were forming between them, as if some part of her was responding to...to what? What could she possibly be feeling for this awkward, painfully shy stranger? He wasn’t remotely her type, if she even had a type. He was soft, and sloppy, and...
He straightened, and her gaze locked with his. It was difficult to do at first. The brown of his eyes seemed flat and elusive, as if she weren’t really seeing him. Gradually she looked past the color to the long, thick lashes and the bold, straight eyebrows. She hadn’t noticed them before. Until now he’d kept his head tilted so that the brim of his baseball cap had shielded him. Was it an illusion, or were his eyes really as compelling as they seemed? Were those actually hints of masculine strength and determination in the depths? Was the fragment of vulnerability she glimpsed real, or was it a reflection of her own?
The odd moment of connection lasted less than a heartbeat. He dropped her hand as awkwardly as he had taken it and shoved his fists into the deep pockets of his jacket. Stumbling backward, he tripped on the rock step again before
he made it to the lawn. “Uh, I'll see you tomorrow morning.”
She curled her fingers into her palm as she watched him move across the hill to the driveway. His shoulders slouched beneath the baggy coat, his scuffed running shoes stirred puffs of dust from the dry gravel. He was as clumsy and unappealing as he’d been before. Yet even after he had disappeared into the shadows of the pines, his presence seemed to linger.
A frown tightened her brow. She must have imagined it. Determination? Strength? Vulnerability? Tingles? She barely knew him. How could she possibly have felt anything at his touch?
Rubbing the lines from her forehead, she turned to go back into the cabin. Only the wind heard her whispered question. “What kind of man are you, Bruce Prendergast?”
* * *
Bruce lifted the last print from the rectangular tin and let it drip into the bathtub for a moment before he clipped it to the string with the others. He stepped back and hit the switch on the wall, flooding the tiny motel bathroom with light. Stark black-and-white photographs hung in an orderly line, marking the progress of his first day in Bethel Corners. The shots of the property by the lake would be useful if he needed to coordinate a team assault. Several shots he got of the white plane were detailed enough to make future identification easy. But it was the last print that he had developed that caught and held his attention.
Against the background of dark, towering evergreens, Emma’s flowing white shirt and pale face made her look like a nymph that had just stepped out of the woods. The camera had captured the delicate features beneath the broad hat brim and Bruce found himself staring, entranced.
He had seen beautiful women before, had worked closely with a number of them. What was it about this one that made her so special? What had happened on her doorstep when they had parted? It had been nothing but a handshake, a polite, impersonal way to seal a business arrangement. It had held him rooted to the spot the instant her skin had touched his.
That was twice in one day. In the short time he had been with Emma, she had managed to get past his persona twice. What was the matter with him?
Maybe the strain of the continual undercover jobs was beginning to take its toll. Xavier Jones, his contact at the task force headquarters, had been trying to convince him for months now to take a vacation. Maybe Bruce Prentice wanted to be like Bruce Prendergast and have nothing to worry about other than lounging in a canoe all day with a fishing rod in his hand. If fatigue was responsible for those inexcusable slips he had made today, then perhaps after this operation was wrapped up he should think seriously about using some of that time off that he had coming to him.
He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned closer to the photograph of Emma. He’d taken out his contacts and stripped down to his shorts as soon as he’d locked the door behind him for the night. She didn’t know what color his eyes were, or what his true size and shape was, or what the contours of his face looked like. Yet she had flushed when he had held her hand. He’d seen her eyes widen, and felt the tremor in her fingers, and he’d known that she must have been experiencing at least a hint of the mindless pull that had raged through his body. It was crazy. It was unbelievable.
It was damned inconvenient and wouldn’t happen again.
The background check that he’d initiated this morning was far from complete, and the preliminary findings were too sparse to either condemn or exonerate. He had learned that her cabin and the ten acres that surrounded it were mortgage-free and her property tax was always paid on time. Her plane was her own, her license was a recreational one, as she had said, complete with the extra provision to allow her to fly a float plane. He’d had no more than a brief glance at the pile of envelopes that he’d deliberately knocked off her desk, but it had been enough to note the return addresses. Her sole visible means of support were the occasional fishing charters she flew, so what business would she have with the managers of seven banks from here to Connecticut?
Handling the damp print carefully, Bruce unclipped it from the string and carried it to the bed in the other room. The springs creaked as he lithely settled himself cross-legged in the center of the mattress, propped his elbows on his knees, steepled his fingers and studied Emma’s image.
Even in this cheap motel room, with the yellow glare from the overhead fixture and the stale traces of a previous occupant’s cigarette smoke, Bruce merely had to look at her face and he felt as if he were back on that hillside with the pine-scented breeze. And even though the image in front of him was black and white, he could feel the impact of her clear blue gaze.
He leaned closer, pleased to see that his trusty old camera had captured the smattering of freckles and the delicate indentation in the center of her chin. No more than a few stray wisps of hair were visible against her cheeks. A hint of a smile softened his mouth as he remembered how the deep brown strands shone with auburn highlights, and how the locks she had tucked behind her ears had swung loose when she had leaned over the table to show him the map, and how that loose white blouse had gaped....
His smile dissolved before it could develop. He was a professional; he never let himself get personally involved when he was working on a case. But he couldn’t remember experiencing such an overwhelming sense of connection with anyone before. His instinct, his gut and the odd tingling from his subconscious that had never led him wrong in the past all shouted at him that she couldn’t be guilty. He would need to be more cautious than ever. The stakes in this game, and the penalty for an error, were too high to let his feelings color his judgment.
He moved his hand to the photograph, holding his fingertips a breath away from her lips. Innocent bystander, or clever criminal? “What kind of woman are you, Emma Cassidy?”
Chapter 2
The morning started too early, with the shrill of the telephone and another argument with Simon. Emma raked stiff fingers through her hair and hooked the phone with her other hand, pacing as far as the side window as she tried to hold on to her patience. “No, Simon. The last time I let you borrow it, you left the tanks empty.”
“I said I was sorry. Please, Emma. Plee—eease?”
It was the same drawn out whine that he’d perfected during his childhood when he wanted to wheedle something out of his big sister. Despite her firm intentions, she felt herself soften. “You know how important the log is. Even if you didn’t want to take the trouble to record it in the book, you could have at least left a note on the window. That’s what I keep that grease pencil in the cockpit for.”
“I won’t forget again, I promise. Scout’s honor. Hope to die. But I really, really need to get to that lake. The assay results on my last samples were encouraging. This might be the break I was looking for.”
“Not today, Simon. I have a customer.”
“Another fisherman?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t understand why you persist in that penny-ante stuff. I know you started out flying those charters so the locals wouldn’t wonder where your money was coming from, but you've been there three years, so your cover is solid enough. You don’t have to continue the farce about needing the work.”
“I like to fly. I like to fish. I consider it a vacation.”
“Listen, Emma, I was counting on you. If I wait until tomorrow, another prospector might have already staked the claim.”
“If it’s that important, why don’t you find another plane? There are plenty of pilots for hire in Bangor. Surely you've still got enough money left from last quarter’s dividends to allow you—”
“I don’t want anyone else to know where I'm going. Not until I've got this sewn up.”
“I can understand that, but—”
“You're not going to change your mind, are you?” His voice had switched from wheedling to sulky. “I thought you wanted to help me. You said I could count on you.”
“Not today, Simon.”
There was a pause. “Tomorrow? I promise I'll top off the fuel and fill in the log like a good boy.”
She had to fight against the urge to give him what he wanted. He was a twenty-three-year-old man, not the bewildered child that she’d protected and coddled ten years ago.
“Emma? You still there?”
She rubbed her face briskly. “I've got to go.”
“Wait! This is really important.”
His sporadic efforts at prospecting were really important. That’s what he’d said about the candy factory, the hat store and the mail-order perfume business. She clenched her jaw, hating the weakness that had her on the verge of giving in to her brother. “Call me tonight after I get back. We can talk about it then.”
“You're a peach, Emma. Thanks.”
“Right,” she said, but the dial tone was already humming in her ear. Sighing, she replaced the receiver and carried the phone back to the desk.
How could she simply turn off ten years of mothering? Simon was old enough to take charge of his own life and support himself—God knows, she had done all that and more when she had been younger than he was now—but she still felt responsible for him. Oh, he knew perfectly well how to pull her strings. For his own good, she had been trying to wean him away from her support to force him to grow up and stand on his own feet. Was she being too harsh? The nightmare of their youth had affected Simon far deeper than her, perhaps because she’d been too busy trying to hold the family together. She hadn’t had the chance to indulge in helplessness or self-pity or dependence.
No, she wouldn’t let herself criticize her brother. He had his faults, but basically he was a loving, warm person. Once he gained some self-confidence and learned to take responsibility for his actions, things would be different. Maybe his new interest in prospecting would put him on the right track. Perhaps she shouldn’t have refused him outright. She might have worked out a way to help...
“Oh, just stop it,” she muttered to herself. She strode to the corner that served as her kitchen and snatched the coffeepot off the stove. Pouring herself another cup, she tried to focus her energy on the day ahead.
True Lies Page 2