“Counted what?”
“Steps. You know, when I walk. One, two, three, but only up to thirty-eight. Not all the time, but when I’m anxious or my mind’s wandering or I’m thinking about that summer.” She flushed. “It used to drive Valerie crazy because I did it out loud, so I learned to keep quiet, and she thought I stopped. Now my best friends, Evie and Martine, are the only ones who know.”
“And me.” It touched him that she trusted him with the secret. Shouldn’t he trust her with his? At least he could explain the reason behind her fear of water, and maybe some prodding would help unleash other memories.
“Reece—”
She laid her fingers over his mouth. “No. That sounds like the start to more serious conversation, and I can’t do it anymore tonight. Make me laugh, Jones. Make me feel good. Make me forget everything else in the world but you and me.”
He pushed her fingers aside after pressing a kiss to them. “I don’t know—”
She did laugh, not wholeheartedly but a little chuckle of amusement. “Oh, you do know. Like you were doing—we were doing—in the truck before Mick interrupted. Make me forget, Jones. Just for tonight.”
He wanted to tell her no, this wasn’t the right time, certainly not the right reason, but she looked so vulnerable and her hand was under his shirt, spreading heat across his skin, and they’d already been headed this way before the latest interference. He’d already wanted her, and she’d already wanted him, and they could make it the right time and the right reason. They could laugh together, feel good together, forget together…
And, tomorrow or the next day or next week, they could remember together.
They could do damn near anything together.
Reece awakened sometime in the night with a sense of well-being she hadn’t experienced since the day she’d driven out of New Orleans. It wasn’t a nightmare that had roused her—a happy exception—but the simple need to change positions, to pull her covers a little tighter, then go back to sleep. Good rest came rarely. She would take advantage of it.
The instant she shifted her weight to roll over, something else in the room shifted, too. For just an instant there was complete silence, sound conspicuous due to its absence, then the noise she easily identified as Mick’s breathing started again, slow and easy.
For a moment she considered why Mick was in her room, but realized the opposite was true from the heat radiating behind her. Jones, his breathing as slow and easy as Mick’s. She turned carefully, trying not to disturb him, and settled onto the pillow again, watching him in the thin light. She couldn’t really make out anything—the suggestion of a nose, the darker slash of eyebrow, the rest too shadowy—but she didn’t need to see to picture him. Memories of him would stay with her forever. The way he’d run after her, the way he’d held her, the way he’d soothed her, the way he’d made love to her, the way he’d fallen asleep holding her, making her feel…
Good. She felt good. Because of him, she would survive this visit. She might return home without all the answers she’d been seeking, but she would be better for the things she’d learned.
Even if one of those things was that her grandfather was a murderer.
A chill passed through her, and at the foot of the bed, Mick lifted his head with a whine. He stood, stretched all over, then hopped off the bed and trotted to the door. There he looked back as if to make sure she was following, then went into the living room. A moment later, he nosed the front door.
Homesick for her own dogs, she slipped from the bed, located her clothes and set them on the night table, then pulled on Jones’s T-shirt and padded after Mick. She let him out into the cool night, hugging her arms to her chest, and watched as he sniffed around the truck, then lifted his leg at the corner of the porch.
The shed down the road drew her gaze. The light was off, the door closed. Jones had gone to lock it up after they’d made love the first time, and he’d returned looking puzzled. She’d known without asking that the shed had been shut up by the same whoever—whatever—had lit it up for them to find, and without the terrible screech of the overhead door.
Mist swirled, though the humidity was no higher tonight than usual, and she wondered if those ethereal shapes drifting about with purpose were spirits. A distant wail from the direction of the woods that sounded faintly like tears convinced her she didn’t want to know.
Mick’s nails clicked across the wooden porch, his fur brushing her legs as he eased inside. She was happy to close and lock the door behind him.
Dim light fell in a wedge from the kitchen into the living room. Reece paused midstep, certain she hadn’t turned on the bulb over the sink. She had assumed the cottage was haunt-free—she’d never heard of anything happening there. But Jones had told her—as Evie had, as Martine had—that ghosts attached to places or people. Was Grandfather’s ghost attaching to her, or was she mistaken in attributing all her otherworldly experiences to just one soul?
The light arrowed in on a small walnut table at the end of the sofa, just strong enough to give the gilt lettering of its title a bit of gleam. Southern Aristocracy.
She was more than certain she hadn’t brought the book to the cottage.
Restlessly she picked up the book, her nose wrinkling at the musty smell, and flipped through the pages. The first time she found nothing. The second time, the pages of the middle third opened to reveal a piece of thick ivory linen writing paper.
He isn’t what he seems.
After reading the single line a half-dozen times, she shifted her gaze to the bedroom door. Was Jones the he Grandfather meant? As if she would trust his opinion on anything. He’d terrorized her for half her life. Even dead, he was still trying to frighten her away, not only from Fair Winds but now from the only person who’d made any effort to help her. The only person she’d felt something…real with in years.
But what do you really know about him?
She couldn’t tell whether the voice echoing in her head was her own or Grandfather’s or, hell, even someone else’s, and she flushed hot with guilt. She knew enough.
His own family wants nothing to do with him.
“Oh, please.” Slamming the book shut, she set it back on the table. “Like that makes him the bad guy? My father wanted nothing to do with you, and that was your fault. I wanted nothing to do with you, and that was your fault, too.”
Silence met her whisper, and after a moment of it, she was sure she was alone again. She went into the bedroom, where Mick was already snoozing again on a blanket folded under the window and Jones was sprawled across most of the bed, covers down to his waist.
He isn’t what he seems, the note echoed.
She thought of him, of the way they’d connected, of the way he’d cared for her. Taken care of and with her. No one had done that in so very long.
Why shouldn’t she trust him? He had nothing to gain from a relationship with her, and she had nothing to risk besides her heart. Sometimes that was a risk worth taking.
Slipping out of the shirt, she climbed into bed. As she snuggled close, Jones wrapped his arm around her waist, left a sleepy kiss on her neck and settled her in with a soft, contented, “Umm.”
Definitely worth a risk.
She dozed a few more hours, and when she awakened again, the quality of the darkness had changed. It was dawn, everything quiet outside, everything mostly quiet in, but she wasn’t the only one awake. Opening her eyes, she found Jones lying on his side, watching her, his expression deep and intense.
“If you don’t want Miss Willa to know you spent the night here, you’d better go now.” His voice was a rumble in the shadows, husky, comforting.
“I don’t care if she knows, though it may be easier for you if I go now.”
“I don’t care if she knows, either.” After a moment, he raised one hand to stroke her hair back. “Are you okay?”
“You mean, have I adjusted to the fact that my grandfather was probably a murderer?” She tried to smile, but it came ou
t more of a grimace. “Before I even understood what evil was, I sensed he was bad. Valerie said I let Daddy prejudice me against him. Well, yeah. My father loved everybody, but he could hardly bear to look at my grandfather. He only brought us here when the pressure from Valerie and Grandmother got too much for him, and he always kept our visits short.”
She paused, a detail becoming clear that she’d long forgotten. “He never left me alone when we were here. Whatever I did—fish, explore, read—he did it with me. Always. Do you think he knew that his father had killed someone and did nothing about it besides keep us far away?”
“No.” Jones didn’t hesitate. “You said he was a good guy. He probably just suspected there was something off about your grandfather. If he’d known the truth, he would have gone to the authorities, even if they were family, even if he wanted to protect his mother. That’s what good guys do.”
Nodding, she relaxed against the pillow again. Daddy had been good. He was the one everyone turned to for help, the one who couldn’t drive past a car broken down on the side of the road without offering assistance, the one who mentored troubled kids and mowed yards for neighbors who couldn’t do it themselves and volunteered at the soup kitchen. It wasn’t in him to sit back and do nothing.
“The man I was talking to at dinner last night, the one with the kid, he’s a detective in Copper Lake. I’d like to show him the tarp—see if there’s a chance of proving the stain is blood, maybe proving whose it is.”
She swallowed hard. She didn’t know whether they could legally turn it over to the authorities, but Grandfather was dead; he couldn’t be taken to trial. And if it was blood, if the victim could be identified, didn’t his family deserve to know?
“All right,” she murmured. “But maybe I should call your detective friend. Maybe you should stay out of it. It’s no big deal if Grandmother throws me out.”
His grin was faint. “It’s no big deal if she fires me, either. In fact, if she did, there are some damn fine gardens in New Orleans that I’ve been meaning to visit.”
The tightness in her chest eased a bit. He wanted to see her after they left here. She wasn’t just an on-site diversion.
“I’ll call Maricci,” he said.
“If he needs to come out here and you want me to keep Grandmother occupied, just let me know.” Pushing back the sheet, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and shimmied into her panties. Her shirt came next—had she not worn a bra or just hadn’t found it?—then her jeans. She was zipping up when tires crunched on the gravel outside. She glanced out the window though the driveway wasn’t visible. The faint “Goodbye” drifting on the still air identified the arrival as the housekeeper, calling to her driver before closing the door.
Reece reached the bedroom door before turning back. “You’d go all the way to New Orleans just to see some gardens?”
“Maybe. But I’d definitely go to see you.”
She grinned, waved and hustled across the living room, grabbing the book from the end table on her way. As she clenched it in one arm, she swore she could actually feel the warning note inside, drumming. He isn’t what he seems, he isn’t what he seems.
He is, she firmly argued. She believed that. She trusted him. Trusted, she who always had issues with trust.
She returned to the house, changed clothes and had breakfast—coffee, toast and an orange—on the front porch. Grandmother had stuck her head out when she finished her own meal for a stern hello, then retreated back inside to do whatever it was that filled her days.
When Reece’s cell phone rang, it startled her. She carried it with her from habit, but this was the first call she’d gotten since leaving New Orleans. Evie’s voice sounded cheery and energetic.
“No frantic calls saying, ‘I need you!’ so I’m guessing everything’s going…well, if not great, then tolerably. How is your grandmother?”
“She’s fine.”
“And the ghosts?”
“They’re in fine form, too.”
Evie’s tone grew more serious. “And you?”
Reece gazed across the lawn toward the river. Back when the gardens were magnificent, the grounds between fence and river had been maintained, too, so it was visible from the porch. Now scrub blocked all but the briefest views. “I’m okay. I’ve remembered a few things, got an answer or two. My cousin, Mark, lives in town, and he doesn’t have horns and a pitchfork after all. Grandmother’s as warm and fuzzy as ever. And…”
“And…?”
Reece drew her feet into the cushioned seat and said softly, “There’s a guy here. His name is Jones, and he’s doing a project for Grandmother.” Though, as far as she knew, no contract had been signed yet.
“I take it he’s gorgeous and wickedly sexy.”
“He is.”
“Do you remember him?”
“No. He lives in Kentucky. He’s just here working.”
“Oh, of course. Tell Sister Evie more. Was last night incredible?”
Reece grinned. Sometimes there were disadvantages to having a psychic for a best friend. It was hard to keep secrets. But considering that half her life had been about secrets, maybe that was a good thing. “It was.”
“Tell me the best thing about him.”
Evie had made the request before, regarding other relationships Reece had gotten into—and, always, out of. Usually her answers were glib or average: He’s funny. He has great taste. He has great abs. He’s gone.
This time she answered earnestly. “I trust him.”
After a moment of utter silence, Evie murmured, “Wow.”
That was another thing about having a psychic for a best friend: it was hard to surprise her. But Reece had managed.
“Wow,” Evie repeated. “I knew you should, but I didn’t think you would know you should. Not yet. He’s a good guy, Reece. In spite of everything else, trust that. Believe that.”
Reece’s fingers tightened. “I do,” she answered automatically, then just as quickly asked, “In spite of what else?”
In the background came a shriek so shrill that Reece tilted the cell a few inches from her ear. “Mama! Isabella broke my car!” Jackson shouted over the wail.
“Isabella! Jackson! I’ll have to talk to you later, Reece, okay? If you need me—” The decibels surrounding her spiked, making her sigh almost indistinguishable. “Really, think about needing me, will you? Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Reece disconnected, torn by the conversation. She was glad to hear Evie’s endorsement of Jones, and always glad to have her friend agree with her assessment of someone. But what had she meant by in spite of everything? Being estranged from his family? Probably having to do some tough things to get by when he was just fifteen and on his own?
“‘Love you, too,’ hmm? I hope that was Valerie or Evie or Martine.” Jones didn’t bother with the center steps but climbed onto the porch at the end, his calf muscles flexing. His khaki shorts and T-shirt were both well-worn, as were the running shoes that looked as if they could walk on their own. He’d shaved the stubble from his chin, but had combed his hair with his fingers.
He looked incredible.
“Valerie and I aren’t exactly the endearment type. That was Evie. She said you’re a good guy.”
His brows arched as he crouched in front of her, a post at his back. “How would she know— Oh, yeah, she’s the one with the gift.” The surprise settled into a grin that warmed her from the inside out. “She’s right. I am a good guy.”
“Do you want me to stroke your ego by agreeing?”
“I’d rather you stroke…” He broke off, and a dull tinge flushed his cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
She laughed. Laughter was such a rare thing around Fair Winds that she was half surprised the spirits hadn’t come flying to see what was going on.
“I talked to Maricci. He’s on his way out. If you don’t mind distracting Miss Willa… I somehow don’t think she’s going to give him permission to poke aroun
d, especially if she has any clue what Arthur did.”
That was another thought that had niggled at Reece since last night. She’d believed Jones’s assurances that her father would have taken action if he’d known, but what about Grandmother? She’d been married to the man for more than fifty years. Could she really not have known what he was capable of? Or could he have been that good at fooling people?
Grandmother only acknowledged what she wanted to know, and Grandfather had only shown what he wanted to show. She had to live—and he’d had to die—with the choices they’d made. Their actions, or inactions, were their responsibilities.
“I can always ask her questions about family history. Better yet, we can have the conversation we haven’t quite managed yet.” She uncurled her legs, and Jones stood, offering her a hand up. His fingers gripped hers a minute longer than necessary, sending heat and assurance and strength her way. A good guy. She had a weakness for truly good guys.
When he released her hand, she gathered her dishes and went inside, taking one last look at him for encouragement.
A hum came from the door to Grandfather’s study, reminding her of angry bees. Traveling the length of the hall, she passed through a couple of cold spots and steadfastly ignored creaking and rustling from the rooms she passed. Grandmother was in her study, a thick sheaf of papers on the desk in front of her. Reece waited to be acknowledged, which she got with a brief, dry look.
“I would like to talk to you if you have time.”
Grandmother made an impatient gesture. “Seat yourself.”
“Not here. In the salon.” The driveway ran twenty feet from the study windows. There was no way Grandmother would miss a stranger’s arrival there.
“Why the salon?”
“Because it’s a lovely room that’s rarely been used in the last century.” In her limited experience, it seemed everyone had had their favorite places: Grandmother and Grandfather their studies, Valerie her bedroom, Mark wherever Grandfather was, Dad wherever Reece was and Reece outside. The only place they’d gathered as a family was at the dinner table.
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