An oscillating fan blew in the direction of the shop’s proprietor, who sat at a table laden with books and was surrounded by even more stacks and shelves of tomes upon tomes. She was in her late fifties, and had a colorful silk wrap tied around what appeared to be a bald head. She wore cheaters of neon lavender that complemented her purple and lemon head covering and sunny yellow sundress.
She looked up, frowning slightly at Diana’s large paper cup, and said, “Hello—oh, you’re Jean’s niece, aren’t you? I’m Pam. We met briefly at the funeral. She used to come in here all the time.” Her wispy voice dropped a little, then she went on brusquely, “Let me know if I can help you find anything. The shelves go all the way into the back and up those stairs there. New books are up front here—including the latest T.J. Mack thriller and the professor’s book. Those are signed, of course.”
“Thank you.” Diana walked past her, careful not to jostle a particularly tall stack of books.
Unsure what she was looking for—it had been forever since she’d had time to read for pleasure, and T.J. Mack’s Sargent Blue thrillers had caught her eye more than once—she pressed on through a rabbit’s warren of stacks and shelves toward the back of the shop. On the way, she noted the faded, curling handwritten labels: Fiction, Mystery, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Romance, History, Business, Biography, Religion, and, finally, a more recent tag that read New Age.
Catching a glimpse of some of the books, which had titles like Find the Angels in Your Life, and Shamanic Journeying for Everyone, Diana smiled to herself. Aunt Jean and Iva both would have a field day in this section. Runes, read another one, Palmistry Made Easy, and The Tarot Explained were lined up along with them.
Before she thought too hard about it, Diana reached for the last title. Setting her covered to-go cup down on a half-empty shelf, she flipped through the yellowed pages of the book. They were brittle and stained with what looked like coffee, and several of the corners were torn off. She paused at a chapter entitled “The Major (or Greater) Arcana.”
She turned the fragile pages and read the list of card names, aware that her pulse rate had sped up.
Why did she feel so odd—a little expectant, a little light-headed, a little nervous? Even her palms felt damp.
The Fool, Number Zero.
The Magician, Number One.
The High Priestess, Number Two.
That one caught her eye, and she kept reading: The High Priestess is—
“I didn’t peg you for a New-Ager,” drawled a male voice from behind her.
Diana whirled and fumbled the book to the floor. “You startled me.”
“I can see that,” he replied with a lifted brow. “Sorry—I didn’t realize you were so engrossed.”
Despite her shock, Diana noted his height (tall), his amber-brown eyes (twinkling with humor), and his face (chiseled and objectively quite handsome). The moisture evaporated from her mouth and sprang to her palms.
Engrossed? She hadn’t really been…had she?
He bent to retrieve the book. “Hmm...The Tarot Explained.” He straightened and offered it back to her. “Your aunt would be astonished.”
Diana didn’t take the book. Instead, she stared at him. She didn’t remember meeting him, but he was acting as if they had. Maybe at the funeral…
But then all at once, his voice and easy smile connected sharply with her memory. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, finally recognizing Ethan Murphy. She couldn’t help that her tone came out less than warmly.
But what else would he expect, having walked into her house uninvited twice? And then him sneaking up on her…
She hadn’t immediately recognized the man because he was now clean-shaven and had cut his hair. Though the shearing added a couple years to her estimate of his age—he was definitely mid-thirties—it did wonders for his looks. It made his eyes look bigger and darker. His lips, which had settled into a sort of smirk, were no longer hidden by a thrush of facial hair. Nor was his square, chiseled jaw.
Suddenly, Diana felt awkward in the presence of this imposing, wildly attractive stranger—a man who’d been in her house twice. Somehow now, especially in this small, crowded space, he seemed more intimidating, with more presence and—and something. Irritated with herself for slipping back into the shy, tongue-tied ways of her youth, she picked up her coffee as a way to break the moment.
“Oh, right. I forgot you haven’t seen me shorn.” Murphy’s hand smoothed over his clean jaw line, then dropped to sling loosely on his hip. He continued to lean against the shelf, holding the book, looking down at her as if he was trying to figure her out. That made Diana feel even more awkward. “I really didn’t mean to startle you,” he added.
“Forget it,” she told him coolly. “I was just—deep in thought.”
He glanced down at the book. “From everything your aunt has told me, I didn’t think you were all that interested in the Tarot.”
A hint of accusation in his voice caused her to bristle—and to wonder again just how well had he known Aunt Jean?
“Although I can’t imagine why my aunt would have discussed me with you, I admit you’re right. I certainly don’t believe in that sort of foolishness.”
“Okay,” he shrugged. “Would you like me to put this back, or were you going to buy it?”
“No,” she said sharply, too quickly. “No, thanks.” She softened her tone, ignoring the familiar migraine throb that was just beginning to tom-tom at the back of her temples.
Not again. Not here. Not in front of him—again.
“No,” she repeated. “I wasn’t going to buy it. As I told you, I haven’t any use for a book about Tarot.”
“I’ll just put it away, then.” Ethan turned, sliding the book onto the shelf in an approximation of where it had been. “Hmm. Palmistry. My sister might like this,” he mused, pulling out a book two slots away.
Not that Fiona needed a book to tell her how to read palms, Ethan thought with a grin. She was quite gifted in that regard, just like their mother.
He glanced at Diana Iverson and noticed her face had gone bone white and tight. She was obviously in some sort of pain.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asked, shoving the palmistry book back onto the shelf.
“Yes.” Her lie was so obvious he nearly scoffed.
“Are you sure?”
To his surprise, she looked up at him for the first time with truly honest eyes. Misery and pain had dulled their rich sapphire to a foggy gray-blue. Her face was like marble: dead white and cold. “No, actually, I’m not. I’ve been getting these debilitating migraines…and sometimes the onset is very sudden.”
“Sit down.” He took her arm and directed her into a well-worn armchair. It was shocking how quickly she’d gone from her cool, stand-offish self to appearing ready to collapse, or be violently ill. Or both. “What do you need?”
“A glass of water,” she said in a thready voice, eyes closed. “I have medication in my handbag.”
Ethan hurried to the front of the shop where Pam sat going through her books. “I need a glass of water for Jean’s niece—she’s got to take some medicine. She’s ill.” He slipped past her nod, into the private bathroom, and filled a small cup with water.
When he returned to Diana, she was reclining in a corner of the armchair, eyes closed. Her features were even more ashen and sharp. He pressed the water into her hand. She half sat up, palming the pills into her mouth then drinking greedily.
“Thanks. I’ll be better in a few minutes.” She sank back into the chair and closed her eyes again.
Feeling helpless as well as reluctantly intrigued, he stood next to her, looking down at her lidded eyes fringed with thick dark lashes. The tension began to melt from her face, and a bit of color returned. Her mouth relaxed, and the tightness around the bridge of her nose and jaw eased. As he looked at her elegant features framed by soft, dark curls, Ethan was surprised by a jolt of very real, unavoidable attraction.
After a few more minutes,
her eyelids fluttered and she opened them fully. “I’m sorry,” she said in a soft sort of groan, “that one came on shockingly fast. They’ve been doing that lately.” Now she looked both sleepy and bewildered, but as he offered her his hand, the glaze cleared from her eyes.
“I’ll drive you home,” he told her.
Ethan didn’t expect her to acquiesce, but she surprised him. “Would you? I don’t think I should drive right now.”
He assisted her to her feet, but when he tried to support her by holding her arm, she slid out of his grasp and walked toward the front of the bookstore.
As they stepped out into the beautiful June sunshine, Diana drew in a deep, cleansing breath. He couldn’t help but appreciate the way her breasts lifted as she did so, outlined by the blood red blouse she wore—of clinging silk and far too fancy for Wicks Hollow, but very eye-catching nonetheless.
“I’m feeling better already,” she said, and he averted his eyes just as she smiled up at him.
“I’ll drive you home anyway.” He held out his hand for the key fob. “Where are you parked?”
He thought a flicker of relief flitted across her face. She jerked her head to the right. “In front of Trib’s. But what about you? How will you get back?”
He started across the street, forcing her to follow him. “I can walk home from your house and pick up my car later. We’re practically next door—only the Hornbergers between us, and they’re set ever further back from the lake than you are. I’ll show you my driveway.”
When they reached Jean’s large clapboard house, Diana was out of the car before he’d turned off the engine as if to ensure he wouldn’t attempt to open her door or help her out—reinforcing his initial impression of her as prickly and stiff.
She started up the porch steps—he noticed they could use a new coat of paint— then turned toward him. “I’ll need the keys, please.”
He dropped them into her palm and watched as she turned to fit one into the lock. She stopped, shook her head, and looked down at the keys, sifting through them one by one. “Oh…crap,” she said in a low voice.
“What’s wrong?”
She heaved a sigh then looked up at him, sheepishness poorly hidden in her features. “I forgot to take the house keys when I left. I haven’t added them to my car key ring yet. I guess I’m locked out.”
“I can fix that,” Ethan explained easily. “Genevieve always kept an extra beneath the bluebird house.” He started off the porch toward the detached garage.
“Dr. Murphy,” she called as he disappeared behind the building. “Uh…it won’t work.”
“What do you mean, it won’t work? It’s right here.” He came back around, holding a key for her to see.
“I—uh—” She looked embarrassed, her fair cheeks suddenly rosy.
Ethan came back on the porch and brushed in front of her to fit the key in the lock. Then he halted, noticing how shiny and new the doorknob and the deadbolt above it was. He didn’t even have to try the key to know it wouldn’t fit.
Understanding dawned and he stepped back as she said, “I changed the locks.”
“I see that.” He looked out off the porch, suddenly furious and mortified at the same time. “I’m sorry if I imposed on you in any way. If you like,” he flashed a stony glance at her, and was gratified to see an even darker flush rush over her face, “I’ll open a window and help you get back in. Then I’ll just be on my way.”
Diana felt miserably ashamed as Murphy stalked off the porch, striding purposefully around the corner of the house toward the kitchen. She followed slowly, wondering why she cared that she’d offended him, and wishing the heat in her cheeks would dissolve.
She’d never been confident or comfortable around men—especially ones as devastatingly handsome as this one. Though she’d worked hard to get past the insecurities, her mother’s sly, sharp criticisms always seemed to lodge in the back of her mind. Of course, when she argued trials or took depositions, that was different. Then, she was wholly prepared—she knew precisely what to say, and how and when. But around men in a casual situation…not so much.
That was why she’d been so swept off her feet by the handsome and successful Jonathan. He’d been the one to pursue her—and when she would have discouraged him, or allowed her cool reserve to keep him at arms’ length, he was persistent and charming, wooing her until she got caught up in the wonderful romance.
And now…well, what had she expected? That someone like Jonathan would be content with her?
The ugly thought made her feel nauseated again and she ruthlessly closed her mind to it as she hurried after Murphy.
As she came around the back of the house, she found him struggling with one of the basement windows. It’s painted shut,” he grunted, trying to lever it open with a stout stick. “I think I can get it open without breaking it.”
“Dr. Murphy, I’m really sorry—”
“Just call me Ethan,” he said over his shoulder, voice tinged with annoyance. “And don’t worry about it.”
Diana had just stepped closer when he succeeded in forcing the window open. He tossed the stick aside, kicking the windowpane so that it opened wider. “I’ll climb in, come around, and unlock the door.”
“You really don’t have to—”
Her voice trailed off as he ignored her and somehow maneuvered his tall, lanky body through the small space. His shirt rode up a little as he did so, exposing a toned, golden torso that looked as warm and smooth as whiskey. She heard a dull thud (that didn’t sound good) as Ethan landed on the floor inside, and, biting her lip in consternation, Diana turned to go meet him at the kitchen door.
When he came out, brushing the dust off his jeans, Ethan was brusque but polite. “Well, there you go. Now, don’t forget to add the new key to your keychain.” With a smile barely touching his lips, he started to walk off the back porch.
“Ethan, wait.” She didn’t know what to say, and why she felt she needed to repair the awkwardness between them. Perhaps out of respect for her aunt’s memory she should at least properly thank the man who obviously knew her well enough to know where the house key was hidden.
Suspicions as to why an attractive young man would befriend an old, odd lady like Aunt Jean suddenly blossomed in her mind and her thoughts turned considering. Just what had he gained from the friendship?
Or expected to gain?
Aunt Jean was, after all, very wealthy.
Ethan paused and turned back. His eyes were unreadable, shadowed, as he stood half in sun, and half in shade.
“Why don’t you come in for a minute?” She needed to find out more about him. “I’d like to make this…up to you. Without your help, I’d still be trying to find a way in.”
“What about your headache?”
“I’m fine now. The medicine kicked in on the drive home. Come on in, won’t you?”
He hesitated for a moment, then, giving a more genuine, but still restrained smile, he acquiesced.
In the big, bright kitchen, Diana bustled about, realizing she was trying to keep busy while she decided how to eliminate the awkwardness between them. She should have just let him leave. It wasn’t as if she was going to see him more than once or twice ever again. But, yet, the awkward situation with the key bothered her, and she felt she needed to make it up somehow.
“I’m going to have a bite to eat—will you let me make you some lunch? Please?”
Ethan leaned against the counter near the old-fashioned black phone, propping a hip against it and folding tanned arms over his chest. Very nice, muscular arms, tanned more darkly than his torso, she couldn’t help but notice.
And she swallowed hard.
The lines in his face relaxed a little more. “I could eat. Hell, I can always eat. Thanks.” He smiled at her as though to indicate all was forgiven.
A little sizzle zipped through her belly. He was damned attractive with all that dark hair and that charming smile. And those muscular arms and tight square shoulders, out
lined by the soft gray tee he wore.
He was probably used to easily getting his way around women. She wondered what he had charmed—or tried to charm—from Aunt Jean.
Guilt washed over her. She of all people should not cast stones. She hadn’t made the time to visit Wicks Hollow for over ten years. Somehow the months had just slipped away, and she hadn’t even returned Aunt Jean’s phone calls in a timely manner. And now…
She pushed the uncomfortable thoughts away. “Iced tea?”
“Yes. Thanks.”
Diana poured two tall glasses of iced tea and garnished them with lemon wedges, then started to put something together to eat. Just as she was pulling cheese and grapes from the refrigerator, the land line phone rang. She turned from her task, arms laden with food, in time to see Ethan reach for the black phone next to him. He stopped suddenly, snatching his hand back as if burned.
“That’s okay, go ahead,” she said, and unloaded the food onto the counter, her cheeks warming again.
He caught it on the next ring. “Genevieve Fickler’s,” he said in a smooth voice that felt like velvet over her skin. Then, after a pause, he said, “She’s right here.”
She took the proffered phone. “Diana Iverson,” she said, expecting Aunt Jean’s lawyer or some local business or even a telemarketer.
She was startled to hear Jonathan’s voice—irritated and rushed. “Who was that?”
Taken by surprise, Diana hesitated, then replied coolly, “A friend of Aunt Jean’s. Are you still getting in tonight?”
“I tried your cell, but you didn’t pick up.” His voice was still tight and fast. “Diana, who is that man? Is that why you aren’t answering your cell?”
Diana felt a spark of annoyance, followed by a shameful bit of thrill that Jonathan might be worried about her fidelity, about whether he could trust her.
Sinister Summer Page 6