by Rebecca York
He’d learned to play by society’s rules, and he’d thought that was his ticket to the good life. Marriage and a family, and a house in the suburbs. Then Cindy had pulled the rug out from under him and he’d realized that his rosy vision of the adult world had no more substance than his adolescent fantasies.
He’d been tough and cynical in his youth. He was tough and cynical now. And as far as he was concerned, the woman in the car ahead of him was guilty of something until proven innocent.
She stayed in the business district for several more blocks, then turned right toward the southeast part of town, a hodgepodge of older houses mixed with newer ones. He discovered her destination was a white clapboard Cape Cod on Redbud.
When she disappeared inside, he drove down the street and pulled into a convenience-store parking lot. Around the side of the building, he climbed out of the SUV and opened the back, where he kept a number of props.
He took out a brown cap, pulled it over his face and shrugged into a matching brown jacket. Then he retrieved a box wrapped with brown kraft paper, which he used to block the lower part of his face. His body language completed the transformation as he ambled back to Sara’s street, his knees and shoulders slightly bent, like a guy with hardly enough energy to haul himself around. For effect, he tramped up several walkways, checking the names on the mailboxes, comparing them to the label on the package and shaking his head as if in exasperation. The mailbox on the front of Sara’s house said S. E. Delaney, 1224 Redbud. Her married name, or had she been Sara Delaney all those years ago?
He hadn’t seen a ring on her finger. But she could be divorced.
So now he had her full name and address and license number. With that amount of information, he could get a good deal more.
As he stowed the props again and drove away, he was thinking that he’d have to figure out a way to arrange a meeting with S. E. Delaney. A casual meeting that would give her no clue about his real purpose. But first he’d have to do some checking on her.
He detoured through the restored eighteenth-century commercial area of town, with its art galleries, real estate offices, restaurants and old-fashioned hardware store. According to Mrs. Chess, the woman who cleaned his house a couple times a week, the business district had once been a sleepy strip that served the local residents. Ever since Alex had known the place, it had catered to the tourists who flocked to the area like the migrating ducks and geese that stopped off on their way north and south. The boxy, redbrick municipal center stood out among the older buildings like a civic bad joke.
He thought about dropping by to see Police Chief Clark Hempstead, to report Lee as missing. But he knew it was too early for that, especially when Lee himself had said he was going on a trip and his calendar noted that fact. Besides, the idea of Alex Shane voluntarily paying a call on the St. Stephens police chief was pretty funny.
Eleven years ago, he’d been into more than sex and beer parties. He’d been in and out of the police station. On all kinds of juvenile charges. Stuff that was a little heavier than drinking beer—like stealing cameras from tourists’ cars.
Probably Hempstead would drop his teeth if he knew Alex Shane had become a cop. Well, an ex-cop now. But he was still in the business, still on the right side of the law—most of the time. Because he knew damn well that Randolph Security sometimes skated a fine line between legality and vigilante justice. When he’d first worked with them—on the Cal Rollins kidnapping—he’d been too up-tight to fully appreciate their methods. Then, the shock of seeing Cindy in bed with another man had given him a whole new perspective on life. He’d wanted to stop playing by the rules and working for Cam Randolph had given him the breathing space he needed.
His musings were interrupted by a flash of movement at the edge of his vision.
Blond, wavy hair. A blue business suit. Those erotic high heels. The briefcase.
It was her. Sara Delaney. Big as life and twice as plain. Right there on the sidewalk.
Had she seen him? Followed him downtown?
Even as he dismissed that possibility, he was frantically looking for a parking space. Luckily, it was still early in the morning, and the tourists who frequented the kitschy little shops weren’t yet out in force. He was able to pull in front of a real estate office. Real estate was one of the booming industries in St. Stephens, because people came over here from the other side of the bay looking for vacation or retirement property.
Climbing out of the 4Runner, he started back up the sidewalk, as if he was maybe going to stop at the new gourmet coffee shop.
Ms. Delaney shifted her briefcase under her arm as she stood on the sidewalk across from the Windsor Art Gallery. She glanced right, then left. The road was clear, so she started to cross.
Out of nowhere, he saw a pickup roar around the corner, heading directly for her.
Alex’s reaction was swift and primal—a runner’s sprint that brought him pounding along the pavement even as he shouted a warning. “Watch out!”
Sara had gone stock still in the middle of the street. The truck was still speeding straight toward her, and he realized with a sick feeling that the only thing he’d accomplished by shouting was to make sure she was no longer a moving target.
Putting on a burst of speed, he shot forward, grabbed her shoulders and yanked her backward toward the curb. She screamed as his hands closed around her, screamed again as the vehicle whizzed by, shaking them both in a backwash of wind and exhaust fumes.
Swaying, he managed to stay on his feet for another few seconds. But her body made him overbalance, and he fell to the pavement, taking her with him.
Any chance of catching the license number of the truck was gone. Or of taking in any details of the vehicle, for that matter. The truck and driver were simply a blur disappearing around the next corner.
The woman in his arms struggled to sit up, and he realized that the two of them were lying in the middle of Main Street. A very dangerous place to be, particularly if the guy made another pass at Sara.
She looked dazed as he dragged her to her feet, then took several steps back, out of the roadway. His own legs were shaky, and he propped his hips against the fender of a car, cradling her slender body protectively against his.
Past and present blended in a confusing swirl. Years ago he and Sara were in the back seat of a car, aroused, touching, kissing. And now Sara was in his arms again.
Her head drifted to his shoulder. Her hand opened and closed around his upper arm. She was trembling, and he still wasn’t all that steady on his own feet. It wasn’t just from the near-death experience. It was from holding this woman close.
The smart thing would be to turn her loose. But it wasn’t something he was prepared to do—yet.
It was the most natural thing in the world to stroke his hand over the shiny waves of gold that crowned her head. In his arms, her body felt fine-boned and vulnerable.
“It’s okay,” he murmured knowing the reassurance was as much for himself as for her. When he’d seen that truck speeding toward her, his whole body had gone cold as ice. “Everything’s okay.”
His heart was pounding as he waited for her to draw away, but she stayed where she was, in his arms. And his hand seemed to have a will of its own as it stroked over her shoulder, down her back.
The few people on the street had no more substance than shadows. He and Sara might as well have been alone.
Long ago, with her, he’d teetered on the edge of doing something stupid. He might have done that now, might have turned his head and stroked his lips against the tender line where her hair met her cheek. But her voice intruded into the fog that had wrapped itself around his brain.
“The truck,” she gasped out, craning her head in the direction of where the vehicle had disappeared.
He made an effort to remember why she was standing there in his arms. Clearing his throat, he asked, “You saw it?”
“At the last minute. But it was too late. I couldn’t move. If you hadn’t pulled me
out of the way…” She drew back and stared as though finally focusing on him.
He looked into her eyes. They were blue—blue as… He was too numb to come up with anything poetic. Just startlingly clear blue. In the darkness that night so long ago, he hadn’t known their color, and in Lee’s office, he hadn’t gotten a close enough look.
Her mouth opened, then closed again. Slowly, very slowly she pulled away from him, her eyes wary now.
“Are you all right?” he asked, hearing the thickness in his own voice.
“Yes.” She gave no sign of knowing him. Probably the teenage incident had made less of an impression on her than it had on him. Probably she wasn’t used to drinking and the beer she’d consumed had wiped his face from her memory.
“My briefcase,” she said, turning.
The thought of her stepping back into the street sent a wave of reaction zinging through him. “Stay here. I’ll get it.”
RELIEVED BEYOND MEASURE that his dark eyes were no longer on her, Sara sagged against the car fender, feeling as though the ground had dropped away from beneath her feet.
Lord, it was Alex Shane, the guy who had—
With a grimace, she cut off the thought, unwilling to put a name to what had happened one night eleven years ago—because she couldn’t let herself think about it now, couldn’t let him figure out that the scene with him in the back seat of that car was blazed into her memory like a flaming brand.
He had retrieved the briefcase and was coming back with it. Being careful not to touch his hand, she reached out and collected her property.
She hadn’t seen Alex Shane in years, although she had taken the trouble to find out that he’d left town. She’d also thought about him far too often. What was he doing back here in St. Stephens? Some perverse little demon inside her urged her to find out.
He looked different. More mature, more battered by life, and he wasn’t exactly dressed for Main Street. Long ago he’d cultivated a studied casualness in his appearance, now he looked as if he’d slept in his clothing.
He said something that she didn’t catch because she was concentrating on her thoughts.
“What?”
“Did I hurt you when I knocked you down?”
She took a quick inventory, feeling a twinge in her shin and shoulder. “I guess I’m probably bruised somewhere.”
His voice was deeper now, but still the voice she remembered. She bent to smooth her skirt, which was now smeared with grit.
Put your girlish feelings away, she ordered herself. Put them into a compartment until later. With her head bent, she took a few seconds to tamp down her emotions. When she felt composed once more, she raised her face toward his. “Thank you.”
Still, he must have seen something lingering in her eyes, because he ran a hand through his dark hair. “I guess I look like I spent the night down on the docks. But I’m not a beach bum, honest. I was out for an early-morning run. I thought I wasn’t going to, uh, bump into anyone.” With a disarming grin, he held out his hand. “Alex Shane.”
She didn’t want to touch him again. But it was going to look strange if she ignored the polite gesture. “Sara Delaney.” She clasped his hand briefly, feeling her skin burn, before pulling her arm back. “You come downtown to run?” she asked.
“Only early in the morning. It’s safer than the shoulder of the road.” He turned his hands palm up. “What are you doing down here so early?”
She gestured toward the art gallery. “I was delivering some papers to Al Windsor. And some damn fool wasn’t watching where he was going.”
He cleared his throat. “You should sit down and relax. The coffee shop on the corner is open early. Want to have a cup?”
No. No, not with you. Not with Alex Shane.
She tried to look at him as though she’d never seen him before. He’d been a heartbreaker as a teenager. Maturity had only added to his rough good looks. His features were lean, his jaw strong, and his lips hinted at remembered sensuality.
She’d known he was a guy heading for big trouble, and more than once she’d wondered if he’d ended up in prison. Apparently he was a free man. But he seemed as dark and dangerous as ever. His hair was barely combed, and his two days’ growth of beard made him look like the beach bum he’d claimed not to be. His sweatpants and his Crab Claw T-shirt were faded but clean.
When she didn’t answer his question, he said, “The coffee’s on me.”
A cup of coffee. She could handle that, it might satisfy her curiosity. Because she was curious.
“I’d better leave the papers for Al first,” she heard herself saying.
“Right.”
She shifted the briefcase in her hands and felt a stab of pain.
Alex must have heard her indrawn breath. “What?”
Turning her palm up, she stared at the skin and was surprised to find that the heel of her right hand was scraped raw.
“You need to clean that up.”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t want it to get infected. I’ve got a first-aid kit in my truck.”
He was taking charge of the situation very quickly, just as he’d acted quickly when he’d snatched her out of the path of the speeding vehicle. And on that long-ago night when he’d swept her into a world of sensuality she hadn’t known existed.
She took a step back. “You don’t need to go to any bother.”
“Stop protesting.” He took her arm firmly.
There was a moment when she might have resisted. Instead, she let him lead her down the block to a Toyota 4Runner. It was only a few years old and very well maintained. The black exterior was clean and polished, and when he opened the passenger door, she saw that the leather seats were spotless.
It wasn’t what she’d expected, although she couldn’t have said precisely what she’d been picturing.
After a moment’s hesitation, she climbed onto the seat but left the door open as he slid behind the wheel.
“I’m not going to abduct you.”
“I didn’t think you were,” she answered quickly, then pulled the door shut. Immediately she felt closed in. Too aware of Alex Shane. Too full of memories of the last time they’d been in a car together.
She watched as he twisted in his seat and fumbled on the floor in the back, coming up with an unopened bottle of water. Then he reached across her to the glove compartment, where he retrieved a first-aid kit. After getting out several sterile pads, he unscrewed the top on the water bottle and moistened them.
“Let’s see that hand,” he said, reaching for it, cradling it in one large palm while he gently washed her reddened flesh.
Earlier he’d held her in his arms, and this shouldn’t feel anywhere near as intimate. But right after he’d snatched her from the jaws of death, she hadn’t known who he was. Now she was vividly aware of his flesh against hers, of his very masculine body inches away.
She focused on holding perfectly still and on not making a sound as he cleaned the scrape but when he dabbed on antiseptic, she winced.
His fingers pressed hers. “Sorry.”
“It’s the stuff, not you,” she answered, keeping her head down, aware that she wasn’t precisely speaking the truth.
But she felt his eyes on her and found she had to look up.
When their gazes collided, he drew his hand away.
They sat in silence for several moments before she opened the door, picked up her briefcase and stepped quickly down to the sidewalk again. Alex followed, locking the vehicle behind himself, then hurrying to catch up with her.
She reached the spot across from the Windsor Art Gallery and started to step off the curb, and suddenly felt as though she was standing in the crosshairs of somebody’s rifle scope. Stopping, she clenched her teeth, trying to fight off the shiver that traveled over her skin. Back in the car she’d been too preoccupied with the man beside her to focus on the way her hand had gotten hurt. Now she relived the seconds of terror when she’d looked up and seen the truck bear
ing down on her.
The reaction was ridiculous, she told herself. Yet she couldn’t halt the sudden dread.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked.
“Yes!” she answered, the syllable coming out high and sharp. Closing her eyes for a moment, she took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m a little…off balance.”
“I can understand why.”
“Let me get rid of the papers so we can have our coffee,” she answered briskly.
“Right.”
Still she made no move to step into the street. It was almost a relief when he took her arm and guided her quickly across the traffic lanes. Stopping in front of the art gallery, she pulled a large manila envelope from her briefcase, then bent to slip it under the door.
As Alex fell in stride beside her again, she slid him a sideways glance. On the surface, he looked relaxed, yet she still sensed his tension. Did he remember her, after all, and not want to embarrass her by saying anything?
Her steps faltered, then she picked up the rhythm of her stride again, deliberately gazing at the duck decoys, swim-wear, seascapes and T-shirts in the shop windows as she passed.
Located on the eastern seaboard of Maryland, St. Stephens had been settled early by colonists from Britain. Many of the buildings in the downtown area dated back to the colonial period. Others were Victorian. They gave the streets an antique charm. For much of its history, the town’s commercial life had centered around the seafood and fishing industry, until a bridge had been built across the Chesapeake Bay, connecting the Eastern Shore to the mainland. Then tourists had discovered the area’s appeal.
For every business catering to locals, there were three others aimed at visitors. The coffee shop was one of the new additions. Later in the day it would be crowded. This early in the morning there were only a few other customers.