Inconnu(e)

by Vicki Hinze

He leaned back and lifted his cup. “The possibilities are limited. Not many locales to choose from.” This was getting bad. Even he heard the frustration in his tone.

  She leaned over to get something out of the fridge and her jade slacks stretched tight over her bottom. His chest tightened along with them and deeper, a twinge of lust furled like a ribbon, reminding him just how long it’d been since he’d been with a woman. He sighed again. Deeper.

  “Just caught the weather report in the parlor. Can you believe it? Ice a couple days ago and today the high’s sixty.” She straightened up, holding a slice of cheese and a can of grape juice. “If you’re interested, the low’s forty-five.”

  “I’m not. Weather here changes fast and frequently. So long as it isn’t going to rain, who cares?”

  Unwrapping the cheese slice, she sat down across the table from him then popped back the flip tab on the juice. Air swooshed out of the can. “Sorry to slay your fantasy, dragon. It’s gonna rain tomorrow.”

  “Damn.” He took another sip of coffee and watched Maggie lick a drop of juice from her thumb.

  “What’s wrong with a little rain?” She tore a sliver off the cheese slice and nibbled at it.

  “Roofers can’t work in it.”

  She shrugged and propped her foot on his chair rung. “Don’t you like your room here?”

  “I like my privacy better.” Her slacks brushed against his jeans. His stomach lurched. The twinge of lust dove a notch deeper, and he frowned.

  She paused, holding the can midair. “I hate to be critical on such a gorgeous day, MacGregor, but in case you haven’t noticed, your attitude is rearing its nasty head.”

  It was. He needed to be thinking about their situation and on how to get this stubborn woman the hell out of here, and all he could think about was holding her in his arms on the bench outside and in the bathroom upstairs, of how good she’d smelled and felt and tasted, of how good she smelled right now. And of how much he wanted to take her upstairs to bed and smell and feel and taste all of her. He bet she even made love with sass.

  “Where’s Miss Hattie?” Maggie polished off the cheese and eyed the blueberry pie on the counter next to the fruit bowl.

  “Gone to the village. She always does her shopping on Tuesdays.”

  “I saw her leave the greenhouse earlier with a huge bunch of flowers.”

  He nodded. “She goes by the cemetery on her way to the store.”

  “Ah. Her husband?”

  “She never married. She was supposed to, but he died. They were both very young.”

  “How tragic.” Maggie lowered her gaze. “She must have loved him very much—to have never married.”

  “All her world.”

  Maggie smoothed a hand down her side. “Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to love someone that much? Or to know that someone loved you that much?”

  A twinge of the old betrayal burned in his stomach. He clenched his muscles and stared into the fire. “I thought I knew, but I didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry, I forgot about your fiancée.” Maggie’s cheeks flushed. “Leave it to me to put my foot, calf, and thigh in my mouth.”

  “You didn’t.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Things weren’t as I thought they were between my fiancée and me. I thought we wanted the same things. But we didn’t.” He gave Maggie a ghost of a smile. “Funny, but even now that’s hard to admit.”

  “Life has a way of doing that, doesn’t it? Turning the tables on us, I mean.” Maggie poured herself a glass of milk, splashing a drop onto the counter, then set the carton back into the fridge. “Every time I think I have my life about like I want it,” she grabbed a dish cloth and swiped at the spot, “something happens to screw things up.”

  Looking thoughtful, she carried the glass back to the table and sat down. “I’ve about concluded my destiny in life is to learn patience.” She grinned. “I guess it’s good that I never expected to find a love as strong as Miss Hattie’s was for her guy. So far, I’m flunking on a grand scale.”

  T.J. seriously doubted Maggie ever in her life had flunked at anything important. Still, what did he know? He couldn’t trust his judgment about others—or himself. Not after what had happened with Carolyn. “I think the kind of love Miss Hattie felt must be very... rare. The kind only the luckiest people find—and then only once.”

  He motioned toward the pie. “She said to tell you to help yourself, by the way. I warned her that you had an insatiable appetite and she’d likely come home to an empty plate.”

  “Terrific.” Ignoring his commentary, Maggie scooted back her chair. It scraped against the floor. “Want a slice?”

  “No, thanks.” The fire in the grate snapped and a shower of sparks went up the chimney. It kept the chill out of the room, but it also set up a potent, domestic scene. T.J. wished it didn’t. Maggie at the counter, slicing pie, the silver server clinking against the pie tin. Her sliding a sliver onto a plate with the tip of her finger, then licking crust crumbs off her fingertip. Him sitting at the table, watching her every move, noticing little things about her. The way her blouse hugged her breasts, how her nose turned slightly askew and, with her movements, the way her dainty gold bracelet slid up and down from her forearm to her wrist.

  He wanted to paint her. Laughing. Her head tossed back, her lips parted, her eyes sparkling. The way she’d looked when he had crossed the boundary and hadn’t passed out. He wanted to paint her.

  “This is soooo good.” Maggie glanced at him. “MacGregor, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  He didn’t. But, man, could he imagine.

  She closed her eyes, her expression enraptured. “Mmm, wonderful.”

  The twinge turned to yearning, dove deeper still, and his throat went thick. He wanted to paint her, but he also wanted her. All of her. Her sass, her temper, her revenge of using his razor and stealing all the hot water—even her appetite. And he wanted her kisses and hugs. He loved the way she held him. How she turned to him when she was afraid, and admitted so easily to him that she was scared. A person had to be very self-confident to admit fear.

  She lied. Do you want her lies, too?

  No, he didn’t want her lies. He hated her lies. In an offbeat way, he understood why Miss Hattie had to hold out on him. Strange events happening at the inn couldn’t do business any good, and the judge wouldn’t appreciate the negative notoriety. Miss Hattie could end up out of a job and out of a home. But Maggie lying to him, he couldn’t understand. Why would she?

  “You might not have exaggerated.” She turned and grinned at him.

  He followed her pointed finger to the pie tin. “I can’t believe you’ve stood there and eaten nearly half the thing.” He grunted. “You’re going to be sick.”

  “Naw. I’ve got a strong constitution.” She took another bite, raked it off the fork with her teeth. “But even if I do get sick, it’s worth it. This is the best blueberry pie I’ve had in my life.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back on his chair. “Yeah, and tomorrow you’ll be griping that your jeans are too tight.”

  She waved her fork at him. “There’s that attitude again.”

  She finished up and rinsed her plate at the sink, humming.

  The woman hummed? Hummed, as if she hadn’t a care in the world while he sat here worried sick and dying from lust?

  He got up and refilled his coffee cup. There was no justice in anything anymore. Not much sense, either.

  “Oh, geez.” She turned her back to the counter and leaned against the cabinet. “Now you’ve got the snarl.” She let her gaze drift to the ceiling. “The attitude and the snarl.” She clicked her tongue to the roof of her mouth. “Things are not looking good here.”

  He set down his mug and leaned his hip against the cabinet, facing her. “I want you to leave.”

  “No, you want me to be safe.” She let out a little sigh. “There’s a difference, MacGregor.”

  “Okay, you’re right. I want you to
be safe.”

  She stepped closer and lifted her hand to his waist. “It hasn’t occurred to you yet, has it?”

  He hated her tone. It was the same one she habitually used for dropping bombshells. He really didn’t need another bomb exploding right now.

  “This entity, whatever it is, is mystical.” She softened her voice as if to make that declaration easier for him to accept. “There’s nowhere to go.”

  The phone rang.

  Maggie answered it and smiled. “Hi, Miss Hattie.”

  She paused, listened, then wrapped the spiral cord around her finger. “Tyler told me. I loved it. Ate almost half.” She laughed. “Did you put cinnamon in it?”

  T.J. stared at her open-mouthed, doing his damnedest to refrain from snatching the phone out of her hand and slinging it across the room. How could the woman be standing there discussing pie ingredients not ten seconds after telling him there was no place to go where she’d be safe?

  He wanted to choke her. To shout some sense into her. He wanted to kiss her until she was dizzy, put her and her things into her car, and drive away with her. But he hadn’t thought about it. Even if they could leave, where could they go? When pursued by an entity with mystical powers, there was no place to hide...

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll be happy to run it over. Be there—”

  She stopped midsentence and laughed out loud. The sound had him aching.

  “It’s the least I can do. Mmm? Yes, I love apples. Oooh, cobbler sounds great. Gee, I don’t think I’ve heard of anyone putting that in cobbler before. I definitely want to try it.”

  She’d weigh a ton by the time she reached forty. But, he let his gaze drift down her slim body, she was perfect now. Petite, but not boyishly slim. Slender, but softly curved and very feminine. He’d loved her hair down and loose, but he loved it in a French braid, too. Accessible neck. Pretty, accessible neck. Tempting, pretty, and accessible neck.

  “Miss Millie’s. All right. Yes, I saw it the other day. Near the post office, right?”

  Enough. Enough. Uncle! T.J. walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her stomach, then bent down and planted a kiss on her neck. It tasted sweet, and he laid a trail of kisses along it, from right behind her ear down to her shoulder. She smelled like spring. He loved spring. Sighing, he slid his hands from her ribs to the waist on her jade blouse. The silk felt soft, her body smooth, and its heat seeped through the fabric and warmed his palms.

  “I’ll, um, tell him.” Her face flushed. “See you.” Maggie hung up the phone.

  Finally. With a hand at her shoulder, T.J. urged her to turn toward him, anticipation burning deep in his belly.

  She looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary—and its cage.

  “I, um”—she cleared her throat—“have a message for you from Miss Hattie.”

  “Oh?” He didn’t like the sound of this—or Maggie’s smirk.

  “Uh-huh.” Again with the throat clearing. “She says Lydia Johnson at The Store says to tell you that she’s sending the razor blades you asked for on the phone this morning, but she can’t send the condoms because she promised the pastor she wouldn’t sell them to anyone who wasn’t married.”

  “What!”

  “She, meaning Lydia, also said that she called Jacky Landry over at Landry’s Landing cuz, being a pseudo-hippie, Jacky will sell anything to anyone except for bait—won’t cut in on Bill Butler’s turf—but Jacky doesn’t have the brand you wanted. Trojans, was it? Anyway, Lydia said not to worry. She’s added them to the shopping list on the bulletin board over at the Blue Moon Cafe and Jimmy Goodson will pick them up for you on his next trip over to Boothbay Harbor—which is on Friday—and she hopes that in light of AIDS and all those other dreadful diseases, you’ll refrain until he gets back.”

  “On the bulletin board?” T.J. shouted. “For—”

  “And, Lydia says she’s awfully sorry about this inconvenience, but the pastor’s already in a snit because Horace insists on putting a keg full of crushed ice and canned beer by the front door of The Store on weekends, and he’s not too happy about Jimmy’s X-rated girlie calendar—the skimpiest and most sinful excuse for swimwear Lydia’s ever seen—so she just couldn’t risk upsetting the pastor anymore. He’d be long-winded sure as certain come Sunday, and it absolutely mortifies her when Horace dozes off during services. The man’s a fine mayor, but his attention span on Sunday mornings runs a wee bit on the short side and he could wake the dead with his snores.”

  T.J.’s face had to be purple. The veins in his neck felt ready to explode.

  Maggie swallowed a belly laugh, but the damn thing danced in her eyes.

  “Is that it?” If she didn’t laugh soon the woman would blow a gasket.

  She clenched her teeth. “I’m to run into the village to bring a book to Miss Millie for their Historical Society meeting. Miss Hattie’s going to make me an apple cobbler tomorrow for the favor. And she doesn’t use cinnamon in her blueberry pie, but she does add a dash of nutmeg.” Maggie leaned back against the wall and tapped her lips. “I think that’s it.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “What?”

  “Laugh. Get it out before it chokes you to death.”

  She did. She laughed until tears streamed down her face. “Oh God, MacGregor, isn’t it a riot? Proves what they say about small towns. If it’s happening, everyone knows it.” She laughed some more.

  “Uh-huh.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Done yet?”

  “Yeah.” She swatted at her eyes with one hand, and held her side with the other, as if putting pressure on a stitch.

  “Good.” He gave her a smile that even he felt was more akin to a snarl. “Two small points that might be of minor interest.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “One. Just who do you think everyone in the village—including Miss Hattie—figures will be my partner, regardless of whether or not I can refrain until Jimmy gets back from Boothbay Harbor with the goods?”

  The smile lurking at the corners of her mouth faded. “I—we—” She sputtered. “We haven’t even discussed that. Geez, it’s on the bulletin board, MacGregor! Everyone in the world around here goes to the Blue Moon!”

  Finally hit her. “And, two, I didn’t call Lydia Johnson at The Store this morning and place an order for razor blades, condoms, or anything else. The phone’s been out of order since last night. Remember? You tried calling your mother.”

  “I did!” She frowned. “But... Then, who—?”

  “Or what?” He frowned with her.

  Her eyes stretched wide. “Our mystical entity?” She shot him a look of total disbelief. “Don’t you think that’s stretching it—”

  “Who else?” He shrugged. “We know it can effect a man’s voice.”

  “Great.” Maggie grumbled and sighed. “Great. Just what I need. A man with an attitude and a mystical entity with a warped sense of humor.” She flung up her hand and walked toward the gallery. “God, I love it here.”

  When Maggie came back downstairs with Tall Ships tucked under her arm, MacGregor was sitting in the rocker beside the fire, his foot tapping the floor on every forward rock, his expression grimmer than her mother’s stories of the Reaper.

  “I’ll be back in a bit.” She zipped up her brown jacket. The stiffer suede patches rubbed at her elbows.

  He looked at her, almost accusingly.

  “Look, MacGregor, would you just spit it out and let’s get it over with?”

  “What?”

  “Whatever burr is under your saddle now.”

  He looked into the fire. “Go on. Miss Millie’s waiting.”

  “She’ll have to wait a few minutes longer then.” Maggie leaned forward, braced a hand on each of the rocker’s arms. “I have the feeling I know what’s eating at you, and I’m telling you that it isn’t my fault.”

  He glared at her, nearly nose to nose.

  “You’re ticked because you can only cross the boundary while we�
��re touching.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact. Just because it happened once—”

  “No, we don’t know it,” she interrupted. “But you do.”

  He clamped his jaw.

  “I know you made another attempt this morning,” she confessed. “I saw you and Miss Hattie down at the bench from upstairs.”

  He didn’t say a word. Wouldn’t look at her. Why was she beating herself to death over this? She hadn’t asked for any of this to happen. And if she had her rathers, none of it would be happening.

  It was the frustration. He was a proud man. After his family experiences, being vulnerable to anything made the blow to his ego that much stronger. He needed Maggie and that pegged the problem. MacGregor didn’t want to need anyone.

  She pecked a kiss to his temple. “I’m sorry, MacGregor. I really am. But it isn’t my fault and it isn’t fair for you to punish me for something that’s out of my control.”

  That he didn’t respond didn’t surprise her. It disappointed her, but it didn’t surprise her. Maggie left, closing the mud room door.

  All the way around the corner of the garage, she pouted a little herself. Hearing hammering, she waved to the two men putting new shingles on the Carriage House roof. They looked to be about half-done. If the weather held, it wouldn’t be long before MacGregor could move back into his suite there and have his privacy.

  A little ache settled over her heart, and she swore that she’d left her good sense back in New Orleans. Getting more and more deeply involved with him—heart and all—which after seeing what heart-to-heart relationships had done with her parents she’d sworn she’d never do. Sneaking around like a thief in the night, checking the Registration Book and finding Carolyn never had made it to Seascape, though she had reserved a Carriage House room—the same Carriage House room MacGregor had occupied for the last nine months. Finding no evidence proving the man in any way involved in Carolyn’s possible non-accident/accident, and half-suspecting him guilty as sin anyway—even though every bone in her body swore he could never hurt any woman—not after losing his mother and Carolyn as he had. Contending with the sorry sense of humor of some mystical entity without so much as a grunt of protest when she should be scared stiff. And loving MacGregor’s kisses. Geez, she hadn’t just left her sense at home. She’d left her sanity!