“Still”? Didn’t he live here? Shouldn’t he know? But maybe he traveled with the fair. Maybe he only came through every few years or so.
Maybe she was overanalyzing.
She tried to remember if she’d passed a service station earlier that evening. “I didn’t really pay attention,” she confessed.
She thought his hard face softened. One corner of his mouth quirked in a smile. “No, you wouldn’t,” he said. But maybe the amused, tender look was only a trick of the fire, because the next instant he added brusquely, “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
Janet stumbled on the walk back to the car. The shadows seemed darker, the footing more treacherous. The trees closed in around them, blocking the light of the sky, sending roots snaking across the path.
He wasn’t having any trouble, Janet noticed resentfully. Her escort moved silently and easily a pace or two ahead. But when they reached the low stone wall, he stopped as if he’d been shot. In the moonlight his face looked bleached.
Unwillingly concerned, Janet risked a touch on his arm. “Are you all right?”
He shook off her hand as if it burned. “Fine.”
He drew a deep breath and stepped over the wall.
Fine, thought Janet, hiding her hurt. And I hope you slide down the bank and break your neck.
But he didn’t. She jumped and slithered in his wake, grateful for the full moon that lit her footing.
The hood of her car was still raised. He leaned over the front bumper and then ordered, “Right. Take off your stockings.”
Janet hesitated, reminded again that she was on a deserted road with a man she did not know. “Are you sure that’s necessary?”
“Your fan belt is broken. Since you don’t carry a spare, I can rig a substitute by threading your pantyhose around the pulleys on the engine and water pump. But you need to strip.”
Her heart pounded. She stopped with her hands on her hips. “Could you turn around, please?”
His eyebrows raised. “You’re joking.”
She sniffed, a sound that echoed with more authority in her library than here by the side of a ditch. “I certainly am not.”
“It’s not like I haven’t seen it before, babe.”
Seen it. Seen . . . her? Her chest felt tight. Was it possible after all that—
“When?” she asked breathlessly.
“You really want me to tell you the last time I watched a woman take off her pantyhose?” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe she’d asked such a question.
Neither could she. Deflated, embarrassed, she reached for her hem.
“Never mind,” she mumbled.
He turned his back.
Janet appreciated his restraint. She did. Only as she fumbled her pantyhose past her hips, she thought miserably he probably wasn’t exercising much restraint at all. He was young and gorgeous, and she was . . . Well, she was clearly no temptation.
She slipped the nylons down her calves and stepped out of her sensible heels. The ground was cold. Little stones pricked the bottoms of her feet as she balanced first on one and then on the other.
Wordlessly, she held her stockings out to him. And he wasn’t peeking, either, because he didn’t turn around.
“Uh . . . here,” she said.
He pivoted. His face was set. Janet bit her lip. Had she offended him?
Not that he didn’t deserve it—It’s not like I haven’t seen it before, babe—but, after all, he was fixing her car. The least she could do was be polite.
He plucked the nylons from her hand, stretched them once or twice, and started to twist them into some kind of rope.
Janet watched, her indignation leaking through the cold soles of her feet.
He slammed the hood of the car. “That’s it,” he said. “You can go now. Don’t drive too fast.”
“No,” she said stiffly. “I won’t.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked very tall and alone standing in the moonlight. She made no move to get in the car.
“I—thank you,” she said.
His shoulders hunched. “No big deal.”
But she still felt there was something she should do or say.
“Can I pay you?” she asked impulsively.
He laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound. “No. Just get out of here.”
Well, that was clear. But the niggling feeling that he wanted something, was waiting for something, wouldn’t go away. Janet dug in her purse. “Here’s my card,” she said, thrusting it toward him. “In case you, uh, need to get in touch with me.”
He stared at it. The small white card trembled between them.
Janet almost groaned. What must he think of her, a thirty-six-year-old woman pressing her phone number on an obviously reluctant young man? But she didn’t pull it back.
Finally, he took it. “Thanks,” he said roughly.
Janet climbed into the driver’s seat. The engine started right away. With a little sigh—of relief? or disappointment?—she turned on her headlights, shifted into drive, and eased her car forward onto the road.
She only looked back once.
Her rescuer was still standing by the side of the ditch, watching her drive away.
SHE had changed. Aged.
The man who had been Ross MacLean didn’t have to remind himself it had been fourteen years for her. The evidence was on her face. There were laughter lines at the corners of her big brown eyes and a new softness to her body, a curve to her hips and a swell to her belly, that fascinated him.
Even though he’d never been able to convince her of it, she had always seemed beautiful to him. Now she looked warmer. Rounder. Comfortable.
Human.
The gold chain burned around his neck. He closed his hand tightly around the little white card in his hand until the edges stabbed his fingers.
She was gone. Safe.
And while he had learned a dozen years ago not to hope, not to thank the God he once had worshipped, he was glad. He watched her red taillights disappear toward safety while the shadows crept out and plucked at his boots and the legs of his pants.
He was still standing there when the sidhe came to take him away.
Chapter Two
JANET wasn’t holding her breath waiting for the phone to ring.
Which was a good thing, because almost two months had passed since her odd, moonlit encounter with the young Ross look-alike. If she had been holding her breath, she’d be dead by now.
Janet paused by the children’s corner to scoop a crumpled tissue from the floor, rescue a book flat on its face, and brush crushed Cheerios from the carpet. She never minded the mess the children left behind. It was careless adults who disappointed you and broke your heart.
She’d listened for the phone fourteen years ago. She’d waited, first with anger and then with disbelief and then, as the days passed without a word or sign from Ross, with sick worry.
Not this time. Janet sat on the floor in her long, full skirt and began to shelve the picture books alphabetically by author. She had no real expectations this time. Hot young traveling carnies didn’t hit on middle-aged small-town librarians.
“Janet?” The woman’s voice grated slightly, like the very finest sandpaper. “Where are you?”
Janet lurched to her feet. “Back here!”
A trim blonde rounded the low stacks. Monica Randolph could still pass for forty, if the lighting was right and she had her makeup on. Which she always did.
She took one look at Janet and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, my dear. Is that your Sound of Music look?”
Janet winced and brushed at her skirt. “We had story hour today. This outfit is good for getting on the floor with the kids.”
“How very practical,” Monica approved. “And I suppose it doesn’t matter that the skirt makes you look the weensiest bit wide.”
Janet adjusted the book display on top of the shelves, reminding herself that Monica gave generously to the library. Although Mo
nica chose her charities the same way she selected her accessories: to make her look good.
“I don’t think my Toddler Timers really care how I look,” Janet said.
And neither do I, she wanted to add, but the truth was she did. She did.
“A man would,” said Monica.
“I don’t need a man.”
Well, not often, anyway.
Monica sniffed. “You could have used one the other night when your car broke down. I told you you should have brought a date. Men are useful for things like that. And sex. Honestly, it’s about all they are good for. But I suppose you handle things yourself.”
Which things? Janet wanted to ask, with a spurt of rebellious amusement. Car repairs? Or sex?
But she didn’t have the courage to ask.
One of the library aides appeared at the end of the aisle. “Call for you, Janet.”
Janet propped a crowned frog beside a book of fairy tales. “Who is it?”
Her assistant twinkled. “He didn’t say. Line two.”
But there was no reason for that sparkling look, Janet thought. She excused herself and headed for the circulation desk. Her mysterious caller was probably only a parent demanding a copy of the sixth-grade reading list or a patron requesting authorization to keep her overdue books another week or . . .
“Janet Porter,” she said crisply into the receiver.
“We’ll be back this weekend.” The voice was deep and male and had haunted her dreams. “I want to see you again.”
Janet’s heart tripped. She tightened her grip on the phone. “Who is this, please?”
The man on the other end of the line laughed. Not meanly, but as if he were genuinely delighted. “You know who it is,” he said. “There’s a full moon Saturday night. Will you come?”
Her palms were sweating. She should say no, Janet thought. She didn’t know anything about this man except that he’d fixed her car and bore an aching resemblance to her long-lost lover.
She cleared her throat. “What time?”
There was a pause, long enough for her to panic. Had she sounded too eager? Didn’t he want her to accept after all?
“Let’s say nine o’clock your time,” he said at last, slowly. “Carter Farm. Will you remember?”
She wasn’t likely to forget. She wouldn’t be able to think about anything else for the next four days.
“Nine o’clock, Saturday, Carter Farm. Yes, I probably can remember that much.”
He laughed again softly. “Good. I’ll be waiting.”
“Where?”
But only a click and a hum answered her.
Janet’s breath escaped like the air from a leaking balloon. He’d hung up.
Her assistant gave up pretending to scan returns and regarded Janet with bright, encouraging eyes. “Well, that sounded promising. Who was it?”
Janet opened her mouth to tell her.
And then realized she still didn’t even know his name.
JANET wasn’t abandoning her car by a ditch and scrambling up the bank this time. A farm had to have an access road. A carnival needed parking. She was sure she could find both.
Of course, her task would have been easier if she had dared ask for directions. But just the thought of approaching Sheriff Harris or Ed Grumbly at Grumbly’s Gas and Eats made her hot with embarrassment. She really didn’t want to explain why on earth the town librarian was traipsing around the countryside late at night after a bunch of fair folks.
Instead she dug through the library’s collection of old county plat maps until she found one that showed a Carter Farm ten miles outside of Miles Cross. She was feeling fairly confident as she exited the highway and bumped down a rutted, moonlit road seeking the fair and adventure.
Her headlights caught a square white sign jutting from a tangle of trees. Wasn’t that . . .? Yes, Carter Farm, and the gate stood open, white against a dark hedge. Encouraged, Janet turned onto the gravel drive. Her car lurched as the tires left the pavement.
The jolt woke all her doubts. What was she doing, driving to a rendezvous with tall, dark, and mysterious? At her age, too.
But she kept going. Anyway, there was probably room to turn the car around ahead. Trees pressed close on either side, but at the end of the long, leafy tunnel, she could see lights twinkling and the red glow of a fire.
There didn’t seem to be anyone collecting money, so Janet nudged her car down the lane, looking for parking. Old-fashioned shrub roses, ghostly in the filtered moonlight, lined the track, and daylilies, their trumpets shut like spears. She was a little surprised the fair organizers had chosen such an out-of-the-way spot for their festival, but it was certainly very lovely.
Unease fluttered through her when the way widened and she saw how few vehicles were actually parked under the trees. The long silver hood of a classic automobile gleamed under the moon. Several horses tossed their heads in a tethered line, looking like circus ponies with long manes and decorated bridles. A row of motorcycles leaned together, black and sleek and wicked with chrome.
Janet frowned. Was this a Renaissance fair or a bikers’ convention? And where was everyone?
She sat inside her parked car with the doors locked and the windows rolled up, trying to summon the nerve to get out. With the engine and the air-conditioning off, she could hear that music again, pipes and fiddles and drums, evocative harmonies with a heady beat. Her foot tapped the floor of the car. Her hands twisted in her lap.
On impulse, she flipped down the visor over the driver’s side and peered at her reflection. She looked . . . nice, she decided, with an unfamiliar flare of hope. Her long hair was down, and she was wearing more makeup than usual. Remembering the dancers’ dress-up costumes, she’d paired her long skirt with a slim-fitting top that showed off her arms and more of her bosom than she was used to. The night was hot, so she’d left off her pantyhose. Her bare legs made her feel cooler and vaguely daring.
Would he think she looked old?
Janet blew out her breath and slapped the visor up. One thing was for sure. She wasn’t getting any younger sitting here. Before she could chicken out, she threw open her door and climbed from the car.
A warm breeze swirled her skirt. Leaves dipped and swayed. A cloud scudded across the face of the moon. It was as if her action had set everything else in motion, Janet thought fancifully.
And when the cloud passed and the moon shone bright, he was there, tall and lean and dark, one more shadow among the shadows of the yard. He was all in black, his face barely discernible by the moon’s glow, but she knew him. She knew.
“Hi.” Janet was so relieved to see him—to see anyone, actually—that her smile was genuine. She gestured around the surprisingly empty yard. “Am I early or late?”
“You shouldn’t be here at all.” His voice was harsh.
She quailed. But having come this far, she refused to back down. “You invited me.”
ROSS MacLean was furious.
He’d made the big sacrifice, damn it. He’d let her go. Hell, he’d helped her on her way.
She had no business showing up now, tempting him, putting herself in danger, ruining his brief and bitter pleasure that this once he had done the right thing.
“The hell I did,” he growled.
“You did,” Janet insisted, but her voice wobbled. “You called me.”
Panic struck him. She wasn’t going to cry, was she? He’d never been able to resist her when she cried.
“Look,” he began desperately, “I don’t know what you—”
“Take it easy on the girl.” Puck materialized from a shaft of moonlight. A pony snorted and pawed the line at his sudden appearance. Ross glared.
“She did get a phone call.” Puck grinned, showing his teeth. “Lucky for you, her leaving her card behind like that.”
Janet stood by her car, twisting her fingers together. Her ringless fingers, Ross noted, and was ashamed of the hot, deep flare of satisfaction he felt. If she heard his conversation with Puck,
she gave no sign. Well, she wouldn’t, if Puck didn’t want her to.
Ross reached for his pocket. His empty pocket. “You bastard,” he said slowly. “You called her.”
The little man cocked his head, mischief gleaming in his eyes. Or was it sympathy? “She’s your last hope, boyo. Do you really want to send her away?”
Not his last hope, Ross thought. He had no hope.
But it might be she was his last chance. A chance to feel something human, to feel human, to feel.
Ross let himself drink in the sight of her, her cloudy dark hair, her soft, bewildered eyes, her tender mouth and determined chin. Memory, desire, and despair stopped his breath and hollowed his chest.
“It’s not like you don’t want her,” Puck observed slyly from beside him. “And she’s willing, so why not?”
“I won’t use her that way,” Ross said fiercely. “I’ll be damned first.”
Puck chuckled. “You’re damned anyway, boyo. Might as well make the most of it.”
Ross turned on him.
But after fourteen years, the sidhe knew the limits of the human’s temper. Or maybe Puck had already said what he came to say. He vanished, leaving Ross and Janet alone in the moonlight.
“Obviously, I’ve made a mistake,” Janet said. Her voice was stiff with rejection. Hurt shimmered in her eyes. “I . . . Good-bye.” She turned jerkily and reached for the handle of her door.
Way to feel like a dirtball, MacLean.
“Wait,” Ross said.
Janet sniffed. “For what?”
Oh, God, she was crying.
“For . . .” His fists clenched. Why should she stay? How could he bear to let her go? “You just got here.”
Okay, that was lame.
But she stopped fumbling with the door handle. “And I’m just leaving.”
He could let her go.
He should let her go. Now, before she recognized him. Now, while there was nothing to hold her here.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let her walk away believing he didn’t want her. Again. He had left her once. Betrayed her once. Let what should have been a stupid, patched-up lovers’ quarrel turn into a fourteen-year exile because he’d been unwilling to give her everything she had the right to expect from him.
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