Midnight Exposure

by Melinda Leigh

  Relax. If he had sinister intentions, he wouldn’t send you away. But her subconscious ignored reason, and a familiar ache sprung into her well-knitted jawbone. She forced a smile and hoped he attributed the slight trembling of her voice to the cold. “Thanks again.”

  He stepped back as she opened her door. “Big storm headed this way. Be careful.”

  “I will. You have a Merry Christmas.” Jayne glanced over her shoulder. Those clear green eyes dropped to the ground. Was that a blush? Had he been checking her out? A quick flush of warmth spread through her belly, a surprise and a sharp contrast to her icy hands and feet. She reached for the camera in her pocket. Could she snap a quick, unobtrusive picture of him? His gaze was level again, sharp and clear and not missing a thing. Probably not. He stepped back into a shadow, and her chance was gone.

  She cranked the heat to full blast before executing a tight U-turn. Jayne watched the gate close in her rearview mirror. Kimball stood behind the iron barrier, still as the forest around him. As he faded into the twilight, her fingertips traced the circular scar on her cheek.

  She jerked her hand down and gripped the steering wheel hard.

  Reed Kimball had nothing to do with the threat she’d left behind in Philadelphia. If she allowed herself to be afraid of every man she met, she was still a victim. Not acceptable. She didn’t drag her sorry butt to all those years of counseling for nothing. She was moving forward, becoming a productive member of society. Besides, her brothers had been there when she needed them. Now it was her turn to help her family. She had the opportunity to get them all out from under the debt Danny’s Iraq War injuries had rung up. Time to woman up and get the job done.

  But whispered lies repeated in her head as if caught in an endless loop. Her throat tightened. The imaginary forearm pressed against her windpipe felt real as it had that summer night.

  If you’re quiet, I won’t hurt you.

  Standing behind the closed gate, Reed unzipped his parka and watched the woman drive away. The bitter wind was a welcome snap-out-of-it slap.

  Now that was a woman. A warrior goddess. Tall and curvy, with legs up to her chin and curly red hair down to her butt. All she needed was a flowing emerald robe and a jeweled broadsword. Despite her urban fashionable clothing, he’d had the most ridiculous urge to kneel at her feet. The odd scar on her face didn’t detract from her beauty, but Reed couldn’t help speculating about its origin.

  With a shake of his head he drove to the house and parked. A strange woman’s scar was none of his business. Their Siberian husky mix, Sheba, raced across the front yard and circled his legs with a happy bark. He leaned down to greet the dog. His son was at the open front door, all long and lean and seventeen. Green Day, cranked to maximum volume, pulsed from the doorway. “Who was that?”

  “Just a lost motorist.” Reed stepped down to the frozen ground. The modern design of his house looked bare, just straight lines and glass. Normally he liked its minimalist design, but right now it looked colorless and, well, blah. He should’ve put some Christmas lights on the shrubs or something. “I could use some help with this wood.”

  “Sure.” Scott ducked back into the house and emerged a minute later in boots and a jacket. He closed the door behind him, but the bass-drum vibrations seeped through. “What was she doing up here?”

  “I didn’t ask.” Reed opened the rear of the Yukon. “I gave her directions and some gas, and she went on her way.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “She said Huntsville.” Reed grasped the long section of tree trunk and pulled it toward him.

  “Really?” Scott grabbed the other end as soon as it was within reach. “Why?”

  “I’ve no idea.” A dull ache gathered in Reed’s temple. He could’ve asked, but Miss Sullivan had had enough questions for both of them. Reed didn’t like personal conversations any more than he liked strangers.

  “Odd, though, don’t you think?” Scott asked.

  “No.” A little. “And none of our business.” Keeping to himself was a long-ingrained habit that kept Reed and his son firmly under anyone’s radar. Just where they needed to stay. He would never allow his son to suffer another media barrage.

  “Has to be visiting someone. You can count the number of cars that drive down this road a day on one hand.”

  “She just missed the turnoff for town, Scott. End of story.”

  Scott had a point, though. Just what was Jayne Sullivan doing in the middle of nowhere? Huntsville didn’t attract winter tourists. Together, he and Scott carried the hunk of white birch into his workshop, through the front room and into the specially designed space in the rear half of the building. Large skylights and adjustable track lighting allowed him to keep the blinds tightly closed. They heaved the wood onto the worktable. Sheba followed at their heels.

  Scott patted a dark bulge in the trunk. “Nice burl.”

  “Yeah.” Reed stroked the large knot that protruded from one side. This spot would have a unique grain, intricate swirls, once stripped of its flaking bark.

  “You need any more help?”

  “No. I’m good. Thanks.”

  “I’m going back to the house, then. Got some homework to finish up.” Scott headed for the doorway. “Oh, you got two calls. Mae needs something fixed, and Chief Bailey wants you to stop by the station tomorrow.”

  Reed’s headache spiked. “Christ, I’ve turned him down a hundred times—”

  Scott held out both hands in mock surrender. “He said to tell you it isn’t about the job. He just wants to pick your brain.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” What could the police chief want? Reed pressed two fingers to his temple. Had to be police business, or Hugh would’ve just stopped by.

  “Dad?”

  Reed looked up. Scott studied the floorboards.

  “You ever think about dating Brandon’s mom?”

  Shit. “Mrs. Griffin’s a nice lady, Scott, but there’s just no chemistry between us.” Scott’s best friend, Brandon, had a very attractive mother, but Reed had zero interest in Becca Griffin.

  Scott scuffed a toe on the cement. “You mean you don’t like her that way.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you ever like anybody that way?”

  Jayne Sullivan’s gorgeous turquoise eyes popped into Reed’s head before he could stop the vision, but he shook his head at Scott. He just couldn’t afford to let anyone get close. No sane woman would date him if she knew the whole truth anyway. “No. Not really.”

  “It’s been a long time.” Scott hesitated at the threshold, staring at his boots. Wet and frayed, the untied laces trailed on the floor. “It’d be OK if you found someone else.”

  “I know.” But they both knew he wouldn’t even try.

  “Whatever.”

  As soon as the door closed behind Scott and the dog, Reed pulled a piece of scrap paper from his pocket and scribbled Miss Sullivan’s Pennsylvania license plate number on it. He wondered if whatever favor the police chief was going to ask was worth the price of a background check. Either Reed was paranoid or she’d been overly friendly and nervous.

  Just wary of a stranger, or something else?

  Probably he was letting his son’s overactive imagination get to him. But he couldn’t be too careful. Not with his past.

  From the minifridge in the corner he grabbed a Diet Coke, then walked in a slow circle around the bench. Quiet settled over him, instant as winter nightfall.

  So like his mother, Scott liked blaring music, noise, and people. Reed craved solitude. In an attempt to purge his thoughts of his wife’s death and Chief Hugh Bailey, he perched on a stool and sipped his drink. He watched the wood, willing it to speak, but the trunk stared back at him in defiant silence. Usually he saw something in the raw material immediately. A shape, at least. Details could come later. But as he waited for the wood to tell him what it wanted to be, the only image that came to mind was a gorgeous redhead with eyes the color of the clear Caribbean Sea.

&nbs
p; How pathetic would it be if he drove into town to see what Mae, who happened to own the Black Bear Inn where a certain lost motorist was headed, needed him to fix?

  Too pathetic. Bordering on desperate. He’d wait until morning.

  Reed reached for a utility knife and began to score birch bark. Later he’d rough out the piece with a carving saw, but in the conception stage, he needed his hands on the wood to get the feel, the shape, the grain inside his head. Maybe he’d find what he was looking for when the log was stripped bare. His blade caught midstroke. Its razor-sharp edge slipped, slicing the pad of his finger painlessly. He moved to the sink and ran cold water over the wound. Blood swirled pink before eddying down the drain.

  As the soap stung the wound, a twinge in his gut warned him something had changed. Something out of his control and unavoidable. He glanced back at the wood. Life was full of hidden knots that deflected the sure stroke of his blade. And left him bleeding.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jayne steered through the turn for Huntsville. Insistent memories flashed. She could feel the arm at her throat, the burning knifepoint slicing through her cheek, hot breath against her temple, smelling of expensive scotch. The mental movie clip had to be stopped. Work. She needed to work.

  The display on her phone showed three bars. She hooked her Bluetooth earpiece over her ear and punched in her editor’s number.

  “Jason Preston’s office.” Tanya, Jason’s administrative assistant, picked up his line.

  “It’s Jayne Sullivan. Can I talk to Jason?”

  “I’m sorry, honey. He’s not here.”

  “I need to ask him something. The information he gave me isn’t playing out.” Jayne didn’t mention details. Jason guarded his office like the gates of Hell, assuming Cerberus was a three-headed mini pinscher. If she wanted to keep working for the skinny little bastard, she couldn’t risk letting anything slip, even to the seemingly honest Tanya.

  “He’s never wrong.”

  “There’s a first time for everything.” Jayne wanted him to be wrong. She wanted the real R. S. Morgan to live in Taos or maybe even a foreign county. Peru would be good. She didn’t want sexy, Southern Reed Kimball to be involved.

  Tanya tsk-tsked. “Well, something’s going on. You know Jason can sniff out a scandal like nobody’s business.”

  Wasn’t that the understatement of the decade? Jayne’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I know.”

  “You better do some diggin’, girlfriend. He’s chomping at the bit to get whatever it is. He said to tell you the clock’s ticking.”

  “He’s evil.”

  “No kidding. But don’t worry, honey. The devil will come to collect his soul eventually.” The line clicked, signaling another call on Tayna’s end. “Gotta go. You take care.”

  Jayne tossed her cell onto the passenger seat and fished a roll of Tums out of her purse. Working with Jason made her feel like she’d made a deal at the crossroads. Whatever. As a bartender and accounting clerk for the family tavern, she didn’t have any other way of making the kind of money Jason paid her. Her efforts with legitimate photography were the professional equivalent of running on a giant hamster wheel.

  One thing was clear. She didn’t have time to wait for R. S. Morgan to find her.

  Five minutes later, the town appeared as Jayne rounded a gentle bend in the road. A rustic wooden sign announced Jayne was entering Huntsville, Maine, population 1,067.

  Hills rose on either side of the town, creating a small valley. Beyond the gentle knolls, jagged mountains loomed over the town. After driving by a smattering of homes, spaced closer and closer together as she encroached upon the main drag, Jayne sighted a combination gas station and convenience store. She pulled up to the pump and turned off the engine with a relieved sigh. Her arthritic Jeep complained with a cough, rattle, and shudder before shutting down. The car door bounced open with a hard shove and Jayne stepped out into the empty lot.

  Wind whipped across the pavement, nearly pulling the door from her grip. As she slammed it shut, the back of her neck began to tingle. Having been stalked once before, she knew that feeling, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to ignore her primitive alarm system this time.

  Someone was watching her.

  She scanned the surrounding area. Nothing. Through the glass of the Quickie Mart she could see an old man working the register, but he was concentrating on something behind the counter, not looking at her.

  She turned around. Behind the lot, a small snow-covered field separated her from a thick band of woods. Something moved in the trees, something tall and dark. Her camera was in her hand before she could think, sweeping across the forest’s edge, snapping a quick burst of shots. She didn’t have the telephoto lens attached, but with fourteen megapixels of resolution, she’d be able to zoom in on the dark shape later on her laptop.

  Had to be an animal. But why did she still feel like she was being watched? Maybe the animal was a predator. Bears hibernated, right?

  She shook it off. Paranoia was getting the best of her.

  Gas tank full, Jayne followed the directions she’d printed from the B and B’s website. A few minutes later, after a brief stop at a pizza joint for slices to go, she pulled up in front of the Black Bear Inn, a huge white clapboard house trimmed with glossy black shutters. A tiny electric candle glowed in the center of each windowsill, right above a red-bowed swag of greenery.

  “Can I help you?” The middle-aged innkeeper was short and stout, with auburn hair that hovered somewhere between mahogany and magenta. Tinsel and holly dripped from the antique furniture, and Bing Crosby crooned “Silent Night” softly in the background. “I’m Mae Brown, the owner.”

  “Jayne Sullivan. I have a reservation.” Jayne slid her credit card across the old-fashioned registration desk.

  Mae consulted her laptop. “I have you down for three nights. You know there’s a storm coming right in the middle of your stay?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “OK, then. What brings you to our town, Miss Sullivan?”

  “Jayne, please. I’m a photographer.”

  “Oh. That’s nice. Lots of pretty things to take pictures of around here.” Mae handed Jayne a room key—a real metal key, not one of those plastic cards. Mae shouted over her shoulder. “Bill, come out and help this lady with her bag.”

  A large man shuffled in, head bent, shoulders stooped. In his late twenties, he looked like his bones were too big for his body. He gave Jayne’s feet a quick sideways glance. His pale blue eyes were vague, his expression lost and timid as a child’s on the first day of kindergarten.

  Jayne tried a smile. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”

  Under a shock of sandy hair, his ruddy complexion flushed deeper. He whirled around and disappeared through a swinging door.

  “I’m sorry.” Mae sighed. “My son is a little shy.”

  “No problem. I only have the one bag.” Following directions, Jayne grabbed her duffel and trooped up the steps.

  The room was larger than she’d anticipated. The double bed, armoire, and writing desk were stained a warm cherry; the comforter looked thick and inviting. After changing into sweats, Jayne settled at the desk with her pizza and laptop. At Jason’s insistence, her departure had been immediate, with no time for any research on her subject other than grabbing the Arts & Leisure section of The New York Times from the recycling bin. Inside, along with the review of Morgan’s latest work, a columnist had speculated that the artist’s mysterious identity was just a new fresh way to generate media buzz. The picture of his carving that ran alongside the column was too small to see every detail, but what she could see was intriguing. She plugged in her AirCard and crossed her fingers.

  Yes! The Internet connection was slow, but it was there. It was also free, a nice boon to her tight budget. She hated to dip into her secret stashes of emergency cash.

  A Google search on Reed Kimball yielded a list of names from across the country, but none seemed applicable to the
man she’d met that afternoon. The man with the green eyes she couldn’t get out of her head. The search on R. S. Morgan was a different story. The man was a mystery, but photos and reviews of his sculptures were numerous. His style was unique, the lines modern with an abstract bent. All his subjects were female and nude, but not sexual. Unlike some other critically acclaimed human sculptures Jayne had seen, these had no giant boobs, no explicitly detailed or grossly enlarged sexual organs. The figures were waiflike, more elegant than erotic. If anything, the subjects’ sexuality was downplayed. The bodies were thin and delicate, the expressions sad, lonely, tortured. The blend of primitive and modern made the statues compelling. The more she looked at them, the more raw despair welled from them.

  Jayne stared at the pictures as she chewed hot cheese and tangy sauce. The sculptor’s work was complex and fascinating, but more than a little disturbing. She was no art critic. But R. S. Morgan, whoever he was, had some serious issues.

  He focused on the third window, for the rest were dark. Her shadow moved across the opening. The sheer curtains weren’t quite closed, and he caught a quick glimpse of her bright red curls as she passed by.

  As he’d already noted, she was lovely. Long limbs. Strong back. Skin creamy as fresh milk. Hair like a fiery halo. The kind of woman who could keep home and hearth, as well as wield a sword on the battlefield. Celtic blood ran thick in her veins, of that he had no doubt.

  But she’d taken his picture. Not acceptable. Not for a man with secrets such as his.

  Someone might find out what he’d been doing. He wasn’t prepared for that yet. He needed time to prepare, to gather his power, to collect the necessary implements for the upcoming ceremony. A true Druid ritual required preparation and study.

  There was so much work still to be done, and he had no one to share his burden. The others weren’t ready to accept their fate. They weren’t ready for the sacrifices that had to be made. His gloved fingers pulled at the hem of his coat.