Misty pinched the sides of her dress and began twirling. "I saw this on TV," she signed when she'd stopped. "Daddy doesn't know the sign."
"Dancing." Rhianna spelled the word first, then showed Misty the sign. "I've got the perfect idea for your special name." She signed the letter 'M' rocking back and forth across her other open hand. "Misty the dancer."
The girl twirled and signed simultaneously. She grabbed Rhianna's hands and they spun in circles until they were dizzy.
Laughing, Misty flopped on her stomach across the bed. Rhianna followed suit. The girl's small hand caressed Rhianna's hair.
"Your hair is very pretty," Misty signed. "Your special name should be…" She signed an 'R' by crossing her index and middle finger and moved them in spirals from the top of her head to her shoulder.
Rhianna copied her, smiling. "I like it."
"How come my other teachers never taught me this?" Misty signed.
Rhianna rolled to one side and shook her head. "I don't know." She stared at the girl for a moment. "Why did your other teachers leave?"
"My first teacher made me memorize words all day. It was boring."
"What about your last teacher?"
"She always fell asleep at the table. She was a hundred years old."
Rhianna knew Misty was exaggerating, but it didn't change the facts. Jonathan had just assumed that these teachers would do their jobs. He'd also assumed that Misty was the difficult one, not the teachers.
"Did you tell your father about your teachers?"
"He didn't believe me. He thinks I'm stupid."
Rhianna blinked and unclenched her teeth. "Well, we'll just have to show him how smart you really are."
"Daddy has work to do," Misty signed, looking away.
"What kind of work?"
"Painting. Sometimes he lets me help him."
Ah, Rhianna thought. Maybe Jonathan was painting that cabin she'd seen, the one he'd warned her away from.
"How did you learn to lip read?"
Misty shrugged. "I don't know. I just know when someone is saying words I know. Can you teach me more? How to see more words?"
"I really don't know how to teach lip reading. Maybe your father can get you a special teacher for that."
Misty's eyes watered. "I don't want another teacher, Rhianna. I want you."
The girl's words hit hard. Misty would be heartbroken when Rhianna left the island.
But what about me? How will I feel?
She didn't want to think of that. Not now.
Stroking Misty's dark curls, she drew the girl close and hugged her. "Well, for now you're stuck with me, kiddo. I'm not a hundred years old and I won't fall asleep at the table. And if you promise to work hard on your lessons, I promise to make them as exciting as I can."
And I promise your father will know exactly what I think of him.
~ * ~
Rhianna didn't see Jonathan until nearly nine o'clock that evening. Mrs. Atkinson had already left for the night and Misty was tucked in bed and fast asleep. Earlier, Rhianna had read three stories, while they waited to see if Jonathan would put in an appearance.
Rhianna waited now, silently fuming.
Without acknowledging her presence, Jonathan entered the living room and poured a drink. He took a long swig, then his gaze caught hers.
"Misty says you think she's stupid," she blurted.
Jonathan lowered the glass. "Excuse me?"
"Her past teachers were the stupid ones," she said. "Your daughter is a very bright girl."
"I know that."
"Then maybe you should tell her once in a while." His calm demeanor infuriated her. "And maybe you should spend a little more time with her."
"I do spend time―"
"Not enough. Not for a child." Her nerves were on edge and prickly anger simmered on the surface. "Did you know Misty reads lips?"
"What?"
For the first time, Jonathan looked flustered.
"Your daughter can read lips. She's picked it up on her own. I'm not sure how good her comprehension is, but you can bet she understands more than what you've signed."
"So what do I do now?"
"Spend more time with her, talk to her."
"This is a bad time," he insisted. "I have to―"
"No, you don't." She pursed her lips. "You don't have to do anything. Whatever room you're painting can wait."
Jonathan's mouth twitched. "Can it?"
"Misty said you've been busy painting for the past few weeks. That you've hardly spent any time with her." Her eyes cut into him. "How can you be so selfish?"
Jonathan set his glass on the bar. "So I'm selfish now, am I?" He sauntered toward her. "Some people actually have to work for their money."
Rhianna blinked. "What's that supposed to mean? This is the first holiday I've―"
"I wasn't talking about your holiday," he snapped.
"Then what are you talking about?"
He glared at her. "I'm sure your employer―your patient―enjoys what you do for him, but some of us have real work to do."
"Real work? You call painting a room or furniture or whatever you're painting work? What are you really doing? Living off some rich trust fund your Daddy left you?"
"You don't know what you're talking about," he growled.
"Don't I?" She waved a hand. "Look around. You own a private island, yet don't go to work every day. So you either have a trust fund or no money at all."
"Or I made wise investments," he said dryly.
That he'd have money set aside hadn't even occurred to her.
"Look, Rhianna, I have until Roland comes back to finish what I'm working on. Then I'll be leaving for the mainland." He studied her for a minute. "You'll be leaving too. Until then, keep your thoughts about my relationship with Misty to yourself."
"Aye, aye, sir," she retorted, saluting him. "Is this why your wife left you? Because you're the big boss? Because you're always too busy?"
Something dark flickered in Jonathan's eyes and Rhianna knew she'd gone too far.
"It was the other way around," he said. "She was too busy for us."
Rhianna's heart sank at the pained expression in his eyes. When he turned on one heel and went upstairs, she stared after him.
Damn. What am I doing?
Chapter 14
Rhianna awoke with a start when something thumped deep within the house. She blinked at the clock on the bedside table. 4:38 AM.
What had awoken her?
As if in answer, a door squeaked downstairs. Someone was up, and they were moving in stealth mode.
Jonathan?
A soft crunching sound made Rhianna sit up. Flipping the sheet aside, she climbed out of bed and felt for her robe. Sliding into it, she tiptoed to the balcony.
She'd left the door open earlier, hoping the night air would cool the room. It hadn't. The night heat had brought with it a rise in humidity.
Rivulets of sweat tricked down the side of her face as she watched a shape move across the grass. It was Jonathan. A beam of light from a flashlight moved in front of him. Where was he going?
The cabin.
Curiosity made her do something foolish. Tying the sash of the robe tightly, she hurried downstairs, eased the door open and slipped outside. She'd follow him. Maybe then she'd see what he was up to.
Overhead, the sky was a midnight blue, hazy with clouds. The moon was nowhere in sight.
Led by the flashlight ahead, Rhianna passed through the trees. The path from the yard to the cabin was smooth, mostly flat rock and grass, which was a good thing since she'd forgotten to wear sandals.
She passed a long branch and it caught at her robe and snapped. She ducked out of sight as the sound echoed in the night. Peering from behind a coconut tree, she saw the light arcing toward her.
Crap!
She hid behind the tree, her heart stuttering a rapid beat. She'd have some explaining to do if he found her.
The light swept close, then disappeare
d.
She waited, fighting to keep her panting to a minimum.
What'll I do if he finds me?
She'd die of embarrassment, that's what.
Rhianna took another look. The light was gone.
Relieved, she continued down the path. Minutes later, a warm light appeared up ahead. It was coming from the cabin.
She moved around the side of the structure, away from the front door. She ducked under a window, then stood slowly and pressed her back against the cabin wall.
Okay, Rhianna. Take a quick look, then go home.
Grabbing the edge of the window frame, she pressed her nose against the cool glass. There was a drape across most of the window, but an opening in the middle revealed a small room, hidden mostly by shadows. Jonathan had set the flashlight on the table. The light pointed to something covered with a cloth. A piece of furniture, maybe.
Jonathan crossed in front of the window.
Rhianna jerked back.
Some time ticked by before she had the courage to look again. She blinked twice, wondering if what she was seeing was a dream.
What she saw made her heart race.
~ * ~
Jonathan stripped down to a pair of boxers. The damned heat was just too intense. He'd come to the cabin partly to cool off and partly hoping he'd be inspired by the serene solitude.
Standing in front of the easel, he wiped an arm across his damp forehead. Then he flipped the cloth and stared at the blank canvas.
What should he paint? A nature scene? The island?
No, he'd done those already. He needed something original. Something delicate, beautiful and full of mystery.
Rhianna.
He swallowed hard, unable to deny that ever since the woman had been dumped on the island, Rhianna McLeod was constantly on his mind.
Like a bad meal, he thought, even though it was untrue.
When he gazed at the canvas, all he could see was Rhianna. The brilliance of her auburn hair and jade eyes, the soft curves in all the right places, the tilt of her chin when she was pissed at him―which was often―and the fiery temper.
Jonathan grinned.
Yeah, Rhianna was a definite distraction.
~ * ~
Rhianna couldn't take her eyes off Jonathan. She watched through the window as he moved with a wild, almost feline grace. It did strange things to her. As did seeing him nearly naked. The boxers left little to the imagination, and she was having a difficult time keeping her mind from curiously wandering to his nether regions.
When she caught sight of the easel and canvas, she stifled a laugh.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "That kind of painting."
Jonathan Tyler was an artist―obviously a good one and definitely a messy one. This was how he made a living.
How could she have been so dense?
She thought of all the paint-stained shirts she'd seen him wearing. Mrs. Atkinson must have her hands full trying to get those clean.
Inside the cabin, Jonathan leaned forward, the fabric of the boxers stretching across his buttocks.
Rhianna could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. She'd never seen a man so natural in his own skin. Or one in such a state of undress.
Except Peter.
She sucked in a pained breath. She didn't want to think of Peter, but he continued to invade her thoughts and nightmares, filling her with self-loathing and fear. For years her secret past had controlled her.
Not any more, she promised. I am going to exorcize you, Peter Waverley. One way or the other.
And she knew just how to do it.
She peered through the window and watched Jonathan. He laughed at something. Then he picked up a brush and a palette, his face twisting into a frown.
Stepping away from the cabin, Rhianna bumped into a garbage bag. Something inside clanged, metal on metal. With a determined breath, she propped the bag against the cabin, then made a beeline for the trees.
Minutes later, she reached her destination.
The natural pool and waterfall waited for her, luring her close and inviting her into the cool depths. The rush of water soothed her. The perfumed air made her smile.
She could do this. She would conduct her own kind of exorcism ritual and destroy any last hold Peter Waverley had on her. She had to do it.
She hung her robe on a branch and peeled off her nightshirt and panties before she could change her mind.
I'm naked.
Rhianna shivered, knowing she was completely exposed to the elements. She folded her hands across her breasts and inched into the water. Its satin warmth enveloped her, the temperature only a few degrees less than the air.
The secrets―the mind numbing shame―had been pushed to the furthest recess of her mind, and it had been years since she'd replayed, by choice, the events of her past.
Peter Waverley had nearly destroyed her.
But I'm stronger than that.
Rhianna took in a long, steady breath. Releasing it, she did the one thing she'd been resisting all these years.
She remembered…
It had started with her head being forced underwater. Violent hands shoved her under and held her there. She tried not to panic but scented bath water crept up her nose, burning a trail down her throat. Then she was hauled upward, her lungs desperate for oxygen.
"This'll teach you for reporting me," Peter had screamed. "Don't you ever do that again! You hear me?"
He forced her underwater, again and again, until darkness threatened to overcome her. His menacing laugh was muffled, but audible.
"This is what you deserve, you stupid little bitch!"
He released her.
Air! She gasped at it between fits of coughing.
"We'll continue our discussion after you've dried off," Peter sneered.
"I won't let you rape me again," she rasped.
Under she went again.
I'm going to die.
Though she was only a scrawny teenager, she had fought back, kicking and slapping at his hands. But Peter was too strong. She held her breath until her head felt like it would explode. The pain in her throat and sinuses was agonizing.
But not as agonizing as when he rapes you.
She couldn't imagine going back to that hell. Always wondering if tonight would be the night he'd sneak into her room. Or if he'd find some other depraved act to use to humble her.
I can't do this any more.
Rhianna opened her eyes underwater and numbness settled over her. If she died, the pain and humiliation would be over. She'd be finally free.
She released her breath and inhaled water. Her body fought back, struggling anxiously to breathe. She clawed at the sides of the tub, wondering what she'd find on the other side.
Something better than the past sixteen years?
Freedom.
It was just after midnight when Rhianna drowned.
~ * ~
As Jonathan touched the brush to the canvas, ready to make a tentative outline, he heard a muffled clang. He'd tossed a garbage bag outside earlier. It was filled with old paint thinner and aerosol paint sealer cans.
He strode to the window, wondering if a bird had gotten into the bag. He surveyed the yard. Nothing. He expanded his search, peering at the tree line.
A flash of white caught his eye.
What the hell―?
He looked at the clock on the wall. It was just after four in the morning. Everyone should be sleeping.
Maybe it was a ghost.
He laughed at the thought.
I've been sniffing paint fumes too long.
Jonathan turned away from the window.
Since the Atkinsons weren't night owls and Misty would never leave the house at night, that only left one person.
His eyes fastened on the blank canvas.
Had Rhianna been spying on him?
With a sigh, Jonathan rested the paintbrush on the easel, wrapped the palette in plastic wrap and tugged the sheet back over the canvas.
/> Inspiration would have to wait. If that had been Rhianna in the trees, then she was heading in the wrong direction.
Flashlight in hand, he let out an irritated growl. "Why am I always running after you, Rhianna?"
Chapter 15
Rhianna waded into the pool, tears streaming down her face. She'd died in the Waverleys' bathtub. Peter, with his leering grin and grasping hands had revived her. She'd woken up in a hospital bed, alone and terrified. She recalled that early morning when Gwen, the silent accomplice who lived in her own world, entered the room. The cold expression on her face had been as far from motherly as a starving coyote eyeing its wounded prey.
Gwen had spat accusations at Rhianna. "Peter had to give you mouth-to-mouth, you ungrateful wretch. How dare you try to kill yourself in our house!"
"I didn't," Rhianna had said, her throat scratchy and sore. "He pushed me―"
"Liar!" Gwen had bellowed. "Lying's all you do. We've done everything to look after you, give you a good home. And this is how you repay us? By lying to Children's Services? By telling them my husband, the man who provides for us, did such unspeakable things?"
The look Gwen had given Rhianna was one of pure contempt. Then she'd spun on one heel and headed for the door.
"You're very lucky Peter heard you, or else we wouldn't be having this little talk. They wanna keep you here for observation, but I expect you to be home tomorrow." She paused. "If they want you to stay longer, you tell 'em you're fine, that you wanna go home. You hear? You have chores to finish."
The door had crashed shut. The sound was like a cell door slamming shut. To Rhianna, there was no difference.
Now, as she swam toward the deeper side of the pool, Rhianna felt a surge of inner strength. She could do this. And once she did, she'd be the one holding power over her own life. Not Peter.
"I won't let you win," she called out into the night. "I'm taking my life back. Every single part of it."
She tried to touch the bottom with her toes.
There was no bottom.
For a brief second, the old fear, the one that told her she would drown, resurfaced. After a near-death experience at sixteen, Rhianna had fled the Waverley's home. She found a part-time job cleaning tables at a café, in exchange for food and a small room in the back. Life was livable―until a worker from Children's Services caught up with Rhianna and threatened to send her back to the Waverleys. That night, Rhianna had hitched a ride south, from Bangor to Portland, and with help from staff at a woman's shelter, she started over.
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