"She can come in, can't she?" Jessie was already tugging on Ana's hand. "Can't she, Daddy?"
"Sure. Please." He shoved a box out of her way. "We haven't finished unpacking yet. It's taking longer than I thought it would."
Out of politeness, and curiosity, Ana stepped inside. There were no curtains on the window as yet, and a few packing boxes littered the stone colored floor tiles. But ranged along the royal blue countertop there was a glossy ceramic cookie jar in the shape of Alice's white rabbit, a teapot of the mad hatter, and a dormouse sugar bowl. Potholders, obviously hooked by a child's hand, hung on little brass hooks. The refrigerator's art gallery was crowded with Jessie's drawings, and the puppy was snoozing in the corner.
Unpacked and tidy, no, she thought. But this was already a home.
"It's a great house," she commented. "I wasn't surprised when it sold quickly."
"You want to see my room?" Jessie tugged on Ana's hand again. "I have a bed with a roof on it, and lots of stuffed animals."
"You can take Ana up later," Boone put in. "Now you should go wash your hands."
"Okay." She looked imploringly at Ana. "Don't go."
"How about a glass of wine?" Boone offered when his daughter raced off. "A good way to seal a truce."
"All right." Drawings rustled as he opened the fridge. "Jessie's quite an artist. It was awfully sweet of her to draw a picture for me."
"Careful, or you'll have to start papering the walls with them." He hesitated, the bottle in his hand, wondering where he'd put the wineglasses, or if he'd unpacked them at all. A quick search through cupboards made it clear that he hadn't. "Can you handle chardonnay in a Bugs Bunny glass?"
She laughed. "Absolutely." She waited for him to pour hers, and his-Elmer Fudd. "Welcome to Monterey," she said, raising Bugs in a toast.
"Thanks." When she lifted the glass to her lips and smiled at him over the rim, he lost his train of thought. "I- Have you lived here long?"
"All my life, on and off." The scent of simmering chicken and the cheerful disarray of the kitchen were so homey that she relaxed. "My parents had a home here, and one in Ireland. They're based in Ireland for the most part now, but my cousins and I settled here. Morgana was born in the house she lives in, on Seventeen Mile Drive. Sebastian and I were born in Ireland, in Castle Donovan."
"Castle Donovan."
She laughed a little. "It sounds pretentious. But it actually is a castle, quite old, quite lovely, and quite remote. It's been in the Donovan family for centuries."
"Born in an Irish castle," he mused. "Maybe that explains why the first time I saw you I thought, well, there's the faerie queen, right next door in the rosebushes." His smiled faded, and he spoke without thinking. "You took my breath away."
The glass stopped halfway to her lips. Those lips parted in surprised confusion. "I-" She drank to give herself a moment to think. "I suppose part of your gift would be imagining faeries under bushes, elves in the garden, wizards in the treetops."
"I suppose." She smelled as lovely as the breeze that brought traces of her garden and hints of the sea through his windows. He stepped closer, surprised and not entirely displeased to see the alarm in her eyes. "How's that scratch? Neighbor." Gently he cupped his hand around her arm, skimmed his thumb up until he felt the pulse inside her elbow skitter. Whatever was affecting him was damn well doing the same to her. His lips curved. "Hurt?"
"No." Her voice thickened, baffling her, arousing him. "No, of course it doesn't."
"You still smell of flowers."
"The salve-"
"No." The knuckles of his free hand skimmed just under her chin. "You always smell of flowers. Wildflowers and sea foam."
How had she come to be backed against the counter, his body brushing hers, his mouth so close, so temptingly close, that she could all but taste it?
And she wanted that taste, wanted it with a sudden staggering force that wiped every other thought out of her head. Slowly, her eyes on his, she brought her hand to his chest, spread it over his heart where the beat was strong. Strong and wild.
And so would the kiss be, she thought. Strong and wild, from the first instant.
As if to assure her of that, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, tangling his fingers in it. It was warm, as he'd known it would be, warm as the sunlight it took its shade from. For a moment, his entire being was focused on the kiss to come, the reckless pleasure of it. His mouth was a breath from hers, and her sigh was already filling him, when he heard his daughter's feet clattering on the stairs.
Boone jolted back as if she'd burned him. Speechless, they stared at each other, both of them stunned by what had nearly happened and by the force behind it.
What was he doing? Boone asked himself. Grabbing a woman in his kitchen when there was chicken on the stove, potatoes going cold on the counter and his little girl about to skip into the room?
"I should go." Ana set down her glass before it could slip out of her trembling hand. "I really only meant to stay a minute."
"Ana." He shifted, blocking the way in case she sprinted for the door. "I have a feeling what just happened here was out of character for both of us. That's interesting, don't you think?"
She lifted those solemn gray eyes to his. "I don't know your character."
"Well, I don't make a habit of seducing women in the kitchen when my daughter's upstairs. And I certainly don't make a habit out of wanting the hell out of a woman the minute I lay eyes on her."
She wished she hadn't set the wine down. Her throat was bone dry. "I suppose you want me to say I'll take your word for it.
But I won't." Both anger and challenge sparkled in his eyes. "Then I'll have to prove it to you, won't I?"
"No, you-"
"My hands are clean, clean, clean." Blissfully unaware of the tension shimmering in the air, Jessie danced into the kitchen, palms held out for inspection. "How come they have to be clean when I don't eat with my fingers anyway?"
Effortfully, he pulled himself back and tweaked his daughter's nose. "Because germs like to sneak off little girls' hands and into their mashed potatoes."
"Yuck." She made a face, then grinned. "Daddy makes the best mashed potatoes in the whole wide world. Don't you want some? She can stay for dinner, can't she, Daddy?"
"Really, I-"
"Of course she can." Mirroring his daughter's grin-but with something a great deal more dangerous in his eyes-Boone studied Ana. "We'd love to have you. We have plenty. And I think it would be a good idea for us to get to know each other. Before."
She didn't have to ask before what. That was crystal-clear. But, no matter how she tried, she couldn't make her temper overtake the quick panicked excitement. "It's very nice of you to ask," she said with admirable calm. "I wish I could, but-" She smiled down at Jessie's sound of disappointment. "I have to drive out to my cousin's and take care of his horses."
"Will you take me with you sometime, so I can see them?"
"If your father says it's all right." She bent down and kissed Jessie's sulky lips. "Thank you for my picture, sunshine. It's beautiful." Taking a cautious step away, she looked at Boone. "And the book. I know I'll enjoy it. Good night."
Ana didn't run out of the house, though she freely admitted she wasn't leaving so much as escaping. Back home, she went through the motions, giving Quigley his promised tuna, then changing into jeans and a denim shirt for the drive to Sebastian's house.
She was going to have to do some thinking, she decided as she pulled on her boots. Some serious thinking. Weigh the pros and cons, consider the consequences. She had to laugh, thinking how Morgana would roll her eyes and accuse her of being impossibly Libran.
Perhaps her birth sign was partially responsible for the fact that Ana could always see and sympathize with both sides of an argument. It complicated matters as often as it solved them. But in this case she was quite certain that a clear head and calm deliberation was the order of the day.
Maybe she was unusually attracted to Boone. And t
he physical aspect of it was completely unprecedented. Certainly she'd felt desire for a man before, but never this quick, sharp edge of it. And a sharp edge usually meant a deep wound to follow.
That was certainly something to consider. Frowning, she grabbed a jean jacket and started downstairs.
Of course, she was an adult, unattached, unencumbered, and perfectly free to entertain the thought of a relationship with an equally free adult man.
Then again, she knew just how devastating relationships could be when people were unable to accept others for what they were.
Still debating, she swung out of the house. She certainly didn't owe Boone any explanations. She was under no obligation to try to make him understand her heritage, as she had tried to do years before with Robert. Even if they became involved, she wouldn't have to tell him.
Ana got into her car and backed out of the drive, her thoughts shifting back and forth.
It wasn't deception to hold part of yourself back. It was self-preservation-as she'd learned through hard experience. And it was foolish even to be considering that angle when she hadn't decided if she wanted to be involved.
No, that wasn't quite true. She wanted. It was more a matter of deciding if she could afford to become involved.
He was, after all, her neighbor. A relationship gone sour would make it very uncomfortable when they lived in such close proximity.
And there was Jessie to consider. She was half in love with the girl already. She wouldn't want to risk that friendship and affection by indulging her own needs. Purely physical needs, Ana told herself as she followed the winding road along the coast.
True, Boone would be able to offer her some physical pleasure. She didn't doubt that for a moment. But the emotional cost would just be too steep for everyone involved.
It would be better, much better, for everyone involved if she remained Jessie's friend while maintaining a wise distance from Jessie's father.
Dinner was over, and the dishes were done. There had been a not-too-successful session with Daisy-though she would sit down if you pushed on her rump. Afterward, there'd been a lot of splashing in the tub, then some horseplay to indulge in with his freshly scrubbed daughter. There was a story to be told, that last glass of water to be fetched.
Once Jessie was asleep and the house was quiet, Boone indulged himself with a brandy out on the deck. There were piles of forms on his desk-a parent's homework-that had to be filled out for Jessie's school files.
He'd do them before he turned in, he decided. But this hour, this dark, quiet hour when the nearly full moon was rising, was his.
He could enjoy the clouds that were drifting overhead, promising rain, the hypnotic sound of the water lapping against rock, the chatter of insects in the grass that he would have to mow very soon, and the scent of night-blooming flowers.
No wonder he had snapped this house up at the very first glimpse. No place he'd ever been had relaxed him more, or given him more of a sense of rightness and peace. And it appealed to his imagination. The mystically shaped cypress, the magical ice plants that covered the banks, those empty and often eerie stretches of night beach.
The ethereally beautiful woman next door.
He smiled to himself. For someone who hadn't felt much more than an occasional twinge for a woman in too long to remember, he was certainly feeling a barrage of them now.
It had taken him a long time to get over Alice. Though he still didn't consider himself part of the dating pool, he hadn't been a monk over the past couple of years. His life wasn't empty, and he'd been able, after a great deal of pain, to accept the fact that he had to live it.
He was sipping his brandy, enjoying it and the simple pleasure of the night, when he heard Ana's car. Not that he'd been waiting for it, Boone assured himself even as he checked his watch. He couldn't quite smother the satisfaction at her being home early, too early to have gone out on a date.
Not that her social life was any of his business.
He couldn't see her driveway, but because the night was calm he heard her shut her car door. Then, a few moments later, he heard her open and close the door to her house.
Propping his bare feet on the rail of the deck, he tried to imagine her progress through the house. Into the kitchen. Yes, the light snapped on, and he could see her move past the window. Brewing tea, perhaps, or pouring herself a glass of wine.
Shortly, the light switched off again, and he let his mind follow her through the house. Up the stairs. More lights, but it looked to Boone like the glow of a candle against the dark glass, rather than a lamp. Moments later, he heard the faint drift of music. Harp strings. Haunting, romantic, and somehow sad.
Briefly, very briefly, she was silhouetted against a window. He could see quite clearly that slim feminine shadow as she stripped out of her shirt.
Hastily he swallowed brandy and looked away. However tempting it might be, he wouldn't lower himself to the level of a Peeping Tom. He did, however, find himself craving a cigarette, and with apologies to his disapproving daughter he pulled one out of his pocket.
Smoke stung the air, soothed his nerves. Boone contented himself with the sound of harpsong.
It was a very long time before he went back into the house and slept, with the sound of a gentle rain falling on the roof and the memory of harpsong drifting across the night breeze.
CHAPTER 4
Cannery Row was alive with sounds, the chattering of people as they strolled or rushed, the bright ringing of a bell from one of the tourist bikes, the ubiquitous calling of gulls searching for a handout. Ana enjoyed the crowds and the noise as much as she enjoyed the peace and solitude of her own backyard.
Patiently she chugged along with the stream of weekend traffic. On her first pass by Morgana's shop, Ana resigned herself to the fact that the perfect day had brought tourists and locals out in droves. Parking was going to be at a premium. Rather than frustrate herself searching for a spot on the street, she pulled into a lot three blocks from Wicca.
As she climbed out to open her trunk, she heard the whine of a cranky toddler and the frustrated muttering of weary parents.
"If you don't stop that right this minute, you won't get anything at all. I mean it, Timothy. We've had just about enough. Now get moving."
The child's response to that command was to go limp, sliding in a boneless heap onto the parking lot as his mother tugged uselessly at his watery arms. Ana bit her lip as it curved, but it was obvious the young parents didn't see the humor of it. Their arms were full of packages, and their faces were thunderous.
Timothy, Ana thought, was about to get a tanning-though it was unlikely to make him more cooperative. Daddy shoved his bags at Mommy and, mouth grim, bent down.
It was a small thing, Ana thought. And they all looked so tired and unhappy. She made the link first with the father, felt the love, the anger, and the dark embarrassment. Then with the child-confusion, fatigue, and a deep unhappiness over a big stuffed elephant he'd seen in a shop window and been denied.
Ana closed her eyes. The father's hand swung back as he prepared to administer a sharp slap to the boy's diaper-padded rump. The boy sucked in his breath, ready to emit a piercing wail at the indignity of it.
Suddenly the father sighed, and his hand fell back to his side. Timothy peeked up, his face hot and pink and tear-streaked.
The father crouched down, holding out his arms. "We're tired, aren't we?"
On a hiccuping sob, Timothy bundled into them and rested his heavy head on his daddy's shoulder. "Thirsty."
"Okay, champ." The father's hand went to the child's bottom, but with a soothing pat. He gave his teary-eyed wife an encouraging smile. "Why don't we go have a nice, cold drink? He just needs a n-a-p."
They moved off, tired but relieved.
Smiling to herself, Ana unlocked her trunk. Family vacations, she thought, weren't all fun and frolic. The next time they were ready to snarl at each other, she wouldn't be around to help. She imagined they'd muddle through wi
thout her.
After swinging her purse behind her back, she began to unload the boxes she was delivering to Morgana. There were a half dozen of them, filled with sacks of potpourri, bottles of oils and creams, beribboned sachets, satiny sleep pillows and a month's supply of special orders that ran from tonics to personalized perfumes.
Ana considered making two trips, gauged the distance and decided that if she balanced the load carefully she could make it in one.
She stacked, juggled and adjusted, then just managed to shut her trunk with an elbow. She made it across the parking lot and down half a block before she began berating herself.
Why did she always do this? she asked herself. Two comfortable trips were better than one difficult one. It wasn't that the boxes were so heavy-though they were. It was simply that they were awkward and the sidewalk was jammed. And her hair was blowing in her eyes. With a quick, agile dance, she managed, barely, to avoid a collision with a couple of teenage tourists in a surrey.
"Want some help?"
Annoyed with herself and irresponsible drivers, she turned around. There was Boone, looking particularly wonderful in baggy cotton slacks and shirt. Riding atop his shoulders, Jessie was laughing and clapping her hands.
"We had a ride on the carousel and had ice cream and we saw you."
"Looks like you're still overloading," Boone commented.
"They're not heavy."
He patted Jessie's leg and, following the signal, she began to slide down his back. "We'll give you a hand."
"That's all right." She knew it was foolish to reject help when she needed it, but she had managed quite successfully to avoid Boone for the better part of a week. And had managed-almost as successfully-to avoid thinking about him. Wondering about him. "I don't want to take you out of your way."
"We're not going any way in particular, are we, Jessie?"
"Uh-uh. We're just wandering today. It's our day off."
Ana couldn't prevent the smile, any more than she could prevent the wariness from creeping into her eyes when she looked back at Boone. He was certainly looking at her, she realized, in that disconcertingly thorough way of his. The smile creeping around his mouth had less to do with humor than it did with challenge.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 276