by Nora Roberts
I have, he mused wryly, been put in my place. Princess to peasant. Considering his options, Grant rocked back on his heels. Through the thick walls of the lighthouse, the storm could be heard whipping and wailing. Even the mile ride to the Lawrence place would be wild and miserable, if not dangerous. It would be less trouble to bed her down where she was than to drive her to the cottage. With an oath that was more weary than pungent he turned away.
“Well, come on,” he ordered without looking back, “you can’t sit there shivering all night.”
Gennie considered—seriously considered—heaving her purse at him.
The staircase charmed her. She nearly made a comment on it before she stopped herself. It was iron and circular, rising up and up the interior. Grant stepped off onto the second level which Gennie calculated was a good twenty feet above the first. He moved like a cat in the dark while she held on to the rail and waited for him to hit the light switch.
It cast a dim glow and many shadows over the bare wood floor. He passed through a door on the right into what she discovered were his sleeping quarters—small, not particularly neat, but with a curvy antique brass bed Gennie fell instantly in love with. Grant went to an old chifforobe that might have been beautiful with refinishing. Muttering to himself, he rooted around and unearthed a faded terrycloth robe.
“Shower’s across the hall,” he said briefly, and dumped the robe in Gennie’s arms before he left her alone.
“Thank you very much,” she mumbled while his footsteps retreated back down the stairs. Chin high, eyes gleaming, she stalked across the hall and found herself charmed all over again.
The bath was white porcelain and footed with brass fixtures he obviously took the time to polish. The room was barely more than a closet, but somewhere in its history it had been paneled in cedar and lacquered. There was a pedestal sink and a narrow little mirror. The light was above her, operated by a pull string.
Stripping gratefully out of her cold, wet clothes, Gennie stepped into the tub and drew the thin circular curtain. In an instant, she had hot water spraying out of the tiny shower head and warming her body. Gennie was certain paradise could have felt no sweeter, even when it was guarded by the devil.
In the kitchen Grant made a fresh pot of coffee. Then, as an afterthought, he opened a can of soup. He supposed he’d have to feed her. Here, at the back of the tower, the sound of the sea was louder. It was a sound he was used to—not so he no longer heard it, but so he expected to. If it was vicious and threatening as it was tonight, Grant acknowledged it, then went about his business.
Or he would have gone about his business if he hadn’t found a drenched woman outside his door. Now he calculated he’d have to put in an extra hour that night to make up for the time she was costing him. With his first annoyance over, Grant admitted it couldn’t be helped. He’d give her the basic hospitality of a hot meal and a roof over her head, and that would be that.
A smile lightened his features briefly when he remembered how she had looked at him when she’d sat dripping on his sofa. The lady, he decided, was no pushover. Grant had little patience with pushovers. When he chose company, he chose the company of people who said what they thought and were willing to stand by it. In a way, that was why Grant was off his self-imposed schedule.
It had barely been a week since his return from Hyannis Port where he’d given away his sister, Shelby, in her marriage to Alan MacGregor. He’d discovered, uncomfortably, that the wedding had made him sentimental. It hadn’t been difficult for the MacGregors to persuade him to stay on for an extra couple of days. He’d liked them, blustery old Daniel in particular, and Grant wasn’t a man who took to people quickly. Since childhood he’d been cautious, but the MacGregors as a group were irresistible. And he’d been weakened somewhat by the wedding itself.
Giving his sister away, something that would have been his father’s place had he lived, had brought such a mix of pain and pleasure that Grant had been grateful to have the distraction of a few days among the MacGregors before he returned to Windy Point—even to the extent of being amused by Daniel’s not so subtle probing into his personal life. He’d enjoyed himself enough to accept an open-ended invitation to return. An invitation even he was surprised that he intended to act on.
For now there was work to be done, but he resigned himself that a short interruption wouldn’t damage his status quo beyond repair. As long as it remained short. She could bunk down in the spare room for the night, then he’d have her out and away in the morning. He was nearly in an amiable mood by the time the soup started to simmer.
Grant heard her come in, though the noise from outside was still fierce. He turned, prepared to make a moderately friendly comment, when the sight of her in his robe went straight to his gut.
Damn, she was beautiful. Too beautiful for his peace of mind. The robe dwarfed her, though she’d rolled the frayed sleeves nearly to the elbow. The faded blue accented the honey-rich tone of her skin. She’d brushed her damp hair back, leaving her face unframed but for a few wayward curls that sprung out near her temples. With her eyes pale green and the dark lashes wet, she looked to him more than ever like the mermaid he’d nearly taken her for.
“Sit down,” he ordered, furiously annoyed by the flare of unwelcome desire. “You can have some soup.”
Gennie paused a moment, her eyes skimming up and down his back before she sat at the rough wooden table. “Why, thank you.” His response was an unintelligible mutter before he thumped a bowl in front of her. She picked up the spoon, not about to let pride get in the way of hunger. Though surprised, she said nothing when he sat opposite her with a bowl of his own.
The kitchen was small and brightly lit and very, very quiet. The only sound came from the wind and restless water outside the thick walls. At first Gennie ate with her eyes stubbornly on the bowl in front of her, but as the sharp hunger passed she began to glance around the room. Tiny certainly, but with no wasted space. Rough oak cabinets ringed the walls giving generous room for supplies. The counters were wood as well, but sanded and polished. She saw the modern conveniences of a percolator and a toaster.
He took better care of this room, she decided, than he did the rest of the house. No dishes in the sink, no crumbs or spills. And the only scents were the kitcheny aromas of soup and coffee. The appliances were old and a bit scarred, but they weren’t grimy.
As her first hunger ebbed, so did her anger. She had, after all, invaded his privacy. Not everyone offered hospitality to a stranger with smiles and open arms. He had scowled, but he hadn’t shut the door in her face. And he had given her something dry to wear and food, she added as she did her best to submerge pride.
With a slight frown she skimmed her gaze over the tabletop until it rested on his hands. Good God, she thought with a jolt, they were beautiful. The wrists were narrow, giving a sense not of weakness but of graceful strength and capability. The backs of his hands were deeply tanned and unmarred, long and lean, as were his fingers. The nails were short and straight. Masculine was her first thought, then delicate came quickly on the tail of it. Gennie could picture the hands holding a flute just as easily as she could see them wielding a saber.
For a moment she forgot the rest of him in her fascination with his hands, and her reaction to them. She felt the stir but didn’t suppress it. She was certain any woman who saw those romantic, exquisite hands would automatically wonder just what they would feel like on her skin. Impatient hands, clever. They were the kind that could either rip the clothes off a woman or gently undress her before she had any idea what was happening.
When a thrill Gennie recognized as anticipation sprinted up her spine, she caught herself. What was she thinking of! Even her imagination had no business sneaking off in that direction. A little dazed by the feeling that wouldn’t be dismissed, she lifted her gaze to his face.
He was watching her—coolly, like a scientist watching a specimen. When she’d stopped eating so suddenly, he’d seen her eyes go to his hands
and remain there with her lashes lowered just enough to conceal their expression. Grant had waited, knowing sooner or later she’d look up. He’d been expecting that icy anger or frosty politeness. The numb shock on her face puzzled him, or more accurately intrigued him. But it was the vulnerability that made him want her almost painfully. Even when she had stumbled into the house, wet and lost, she hadn’t looked defenseless. He wondered what she would do if he simply got up, hauled her to her feet and dragged her up into his bed. He wondered what in the hell was getting into him.
They stared at each other, each battered by feelings neither of them wanted while the rain and the wind beat against the walls, separating them from everything civilized. He thought again that she looked like some temptress from the sea. Gennie thought he’d have given her rogue of an ancestor a run for his money.
Grant’s chair legs scraped against the floor as he pushed back from the table. Gennie froze.
“There’s a room on the second level with a bunk.” His eyes were hard and dark with suppressed anger—his stomach knotted with suppressed desire.
Gennie found that her palms were damp with nerves and was infuriated. Better to be infuriated with him. “The couch down here is fine,” she said coldly.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Without another word, he walked out. Gennie waited until she heard his footsteps on the stairs before she pressed a hand to her stomach. The next time she saw a light in the dark, she told herself, she’d run like hell in the opposite direction.
Chapter 2
Grant hated to be interrupted. He’d tolerate being cursed, threatened or despised, but he never tolerated interruptions. It had never mattered to him particularly if he was liked, as long as he was left alone to do as he chose. He’d grown up watching his father pursue the goodwill of others—a necessary aspect in the career of a senator who had chosen to run for the highest office in the country.
Even as a child Grant knew his father was a man who demanded extreme feelings. He was loved by some, feared or hated by others, and on a campaign trail he could inspire a fierce loyalty. He had been a man who would go out of his way to do a favor—friend or stranger—it had never mattered. His ideals had been high, his memory keen, and his flair for words admirable. Senator Robert Campbell had been a man who had felt it his duty to make himself accessible to the public. Right up to the moment someone had put three bullets into him.
Grant hadn’t only blamed the man who had held the gun, or the profession of politics, as his sister had done. In his own way Grant had blamed his father. Robert Campbell had given himself to the world, and it had killed him. Perhaps it was as a direct result that Grant gave himself to no one.
He didn’t consider the lighthouse a refuge. It was simply his place. He appreciated the distance it gave him from others, and enjoyed the harshness and the harmony of the elements. If it gave him solitude, it was as necessary to his work as it was to himself. He required the hours, even the days, of aloneness. Uninterrupted thought was something Grant considered his right. No one, absolutely no one, was permitted to tamper with it.
The night before he’d been midway through his current project when Gennie’s banging had forced him to stop. Grant was perfectly capable of ignoring a knock on the door, but since it had broken his train of thought, he had gone down to answer—with the idea of strangling the intruder. Gennie might consider herself lucky he’d only resorted to rudeness. A hapless tourist had once found himself faced with an irate Grant, who had threatened to toss him into the ocean.
Since it had taken Grant the better part of an hour after he’d left Gennie in the kitchen to get his mind back on his work, he’d been up most of the night. Interruptions. Intrusions. Intolerable. He’d thought so then, and now as the sun slanted in the window and onto the foot of his bed, he thought so again.
Groggy after what amounted to almost four hours’ sleep, Grant listened to the voice that drifted up the stairwell. She was singing some catchy little tune you’d hear every time you turned on the radio—something Grant did every day of his life, just as religiously as he turned on the TV and read a dozen newspapers. She sang well, in a low-pitched, drumming voice that turned the cute phrasing into something seductive. Bad enough she’d interrupted his work the night before, now she was interrupting his sleep.
With a pillow over his head, he could block it out. But, he discovered, he couldn’t block out his reaction to it. It was much too easy in the dark, with the sheet warm under his chest, to imagine her. Swearing, Grant tossed the pillow aside and got out of bed to pull on a pair of cutoffs. Half asleep, half aroused, he went downstairs.
The afghan she’d used the night before was already neatly folded on the sofa. Grant scowled at it before he followed Gennie’s voice into the kitchen.
She was still in his robe, barefoot, with her hair waving luxuriously down her back. He’d like to have touched it to see if those hints of red that seemed to shimmer through the black were really there or just a trick of the light.
Bacon sizzled in a pan on the stove, and the coffee smelled like heaven.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Gennie whirled around clutching a kitchen fork, one hand lifting to her heart in reflex reaction. Despite the discomfort of the sofa, she’d woken in the best of moods—and starving. The sun was shining, gulls were calling, and the refrigerator had been liberally stocked. Gennie had decided Grant Campbell deserved another chance. As she’d puttered in his kitchen, she’d made a vow to be friendly at all costs.
He stood before her now, half naked and obviously angry, his hair sleep-tumbled and a night’s growth of beard shadowing his chin. Gennie gave him a determined smile. “I’m making breakfast. I thought it was the least I could do in return for a night’s shelter.”
Again he had the sensation of something familiar about her he couldn’t quite catch. His frown only deepened. “I don’t like anyone messing with my things.”
Gennie opened her mouth, then shut it again before anything nasty could slip out. “The only thing I’ve broken is an egg,” she said mildly as she indicated the bowl of eggs she intended to scramble. “Why don’t you do us both a favor? Get a cup of coffee, sit down, and shut up.” With an almost imperceptible toss of her head, she turned her back on him.
Grant’s brows rose not so much in surprise as in appreciation. Not everyone could tell you to shut up in a butter-melting voice and make it work. He had the feeling he wasn’t the first person she’d given the order to. With something perilously close to a grin, he got a mug and did exactly what she said.
She didn’t sing anymore as she finished making the meal, but he had the feeling she would’ve muttered bad-temperedly if she hadn’t wanted him to think she was unaffected by him. In fact, he was certain there was a good bit of muttering and cursing going on inside her head.
As he sipped coffee the grogginess gave way to alertness, and hunger. For the first time he sat in the tiny kitchen while a woman fixed his breakfast. Not something he’d want to make a habit of, Grant mused while he watched her—but then again, it wasn’t an unpleasant experience.
Still clinging to silence, Gennie set plates on the table, then followed them with a platter of bacon and eggs. “Why were you going to the old Lawrence place?” he asked as he served himself.
Gennie sent him a narrowed-eyed glare. So now we’re going to make polite conversation, she thought and nearly ground her teeth. “I’m renting it,” she said briefly, and dashed salt on her eggs.
“Thought the Widow Lawrence had it up for sale.”
“She does.”
“You’re a little late in the season for renting a beach cottage,” Grant commented over a mouthful of eggs.
Gennie gave a quick shrug as she concentrated on her breakfast. “I’m not a tourist.”
“No?” He gave her a long steady look she found both deft and intrusive. “Louisiana, isn’t it? New Orleans, Baton Rouge?”
“New Orleans.” Gennie forgot annoyance long en
ough to study him in turn. “You’re not local, either.”
“No,” he said simply, and left it at that.
Oh, no, she thought, he wasn’t going to start a conversation, then switch it off when it suited him. “Why a lighthouse?” she persisted. “It’s not operational, is it? It was the light from the window I followed last night, not the beacon.”
“Coast Guard takes care of this stretch with radar. This station hasn’t been used in ten years. Did you run out of gas?” he asked before she realized he’d never answered the why.
“No. I’d pulled off the side of the road for a few minutes, then when I tried to start the car again, it just made a few unproductive noises.” She shrugged and bit into a slice of bacon. “I guess I’ll have to get a tow truck in town.” Grant made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You might get a tow truck up at Bayside, but you’re not going to find one at Windy Point. I’ll take a look at it,” he told her as he finished off his breakfast. “If it’s beyond me, you can get Buck Gates from town to come out and get it started.”
She studied him for nearly thirty seconds. “Thank you,” Gennie said warily.
Grant rose and put his plate in the sink. “Go get dressed,” he ordered. “I’ve got work to do.” For the second time he left Gennie alone in the kitchen.
Just once, she thought as she stacked her plate on top of his, she’d like to get in the last word. Giving the belt of Grant’s robe a quick tug, she started out of the room. Yes, she’d go get dressed, Gennie told herself. And she’d do it quickly before he changed his mind. Rude or not, she’d accept his offer of help. Then as far as she was concerned, Grant Campbell could go to the devil.
There wasn’t any sign of him on the second floor when she slipped into the bathroom to change. Gennie stripped out of the robe and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. Her clothes were dry, and she thought she could ignore the fact that her tennis shoes were still a bit cold and damp. With luck she could be settled into the cottage within the hour. That should leave her the best of the afternoon for sketching. The idea kept Gennie’s spirits high as she made her way back downstairs. Again there was no sign of Grant. After a brief fight with the heavy front door, Gennie went outside.
It was so clear she nearly caught her breath. Whatever fog or fury had visited that place the night before had been swept clean. The places on the earth where the air really sparkled were rare, she knew, and this was one of them. The sky was blue and cloudless, shot through with the yellow light of the sun. There was some grass on this side of the lighthouse, tough and as wild as the few hardy flowers that were scattered through it. Goldenrod swayed in the breeze announcing the end of summer, but the sun shone hotly.
She could see the narrow rut of a road she’d traveled on the night before, but was surprised by the three-story farmhouse only a few hundred yards away. That it was deserted was obvious by the film of dirt on the windows and the waist-high grass, but it wasn’t dilapidated. It would have belonged to the keeper and his family, Gennie concluded, when the lighthouse was still functional. They would have had a garden and perhaps a few chickens. And there would have been nights when the wind howled and the waves crashed that the keeper would have stayed at his station while his family sat alone and listened.
The white paint was faded, but the shutters hung true. She thought it sat on its hill waiting to be filled again.
There was a sturdy little pickup near the base of the slope which she assumed was Grant’s. Because he was nowhere in sight, Gennie wandered around the side of the lighthouse, answering the call of the sea.
This time Gennie did catch her breath. She could see for miles, down the irregular coastline, over to tiny islands, and out to the distant horizon. There were boats on the water, staunch, competent little boats of the lobstermen. She knew she would see no chrome and mahogany crafts here, nor should she. This was a place of purpose, not idle pleasure. Strength, durability. That’s what she felt as she looked out into blue-green water that frothed white as it flung itself at the rocks.
Seaweed floated in the surf, gathering and spreading with the movement of the water. The sea had its way with everything here. The rocks were worn smooth by it, and the ledges rose, showing colors from gray to green with a few muted streaks of orange. Shells littered the shoreline, flung out by the sea and yet to be trampled under a careless foot. The smell of salt and fish was strong. She could hear the toll of the bell buoys, the hollow hoot of the whistling markers, the distant putter of the lobster boats and the mournful cry of gulls. There was nothing, no sound, no sight, no smell, that came from anything other than that endless, timeless sea.
Gennie felt it—the pull, the tug that had called men and women to it from the dawn of time. If humanity had truly sprung from there, perhaps that was why they were so easily lured back to it. She stood on the ledge above the narrow, rocky beach and lost herself in it. Danger, challenge, peace; she felt them all and was content.
She didn’t hear Grant come behind her. Gennie was too caught up in the sea itself to sense him, though he watched her as a minute stretched to two and two into three. She looked right there, he thought, and could have cursed her for it. The land was his, this small, secluded edge of land that hovered over the sea.
He wouldn’t claim to own the sea, not even when it rose high at noon to lick at the verge of his land, but this slice of rock and wild grass belonged to him, exclusively. She had no right to look as though she belonged—to make him wonder if the cliff would ever be only his again.
The wind plastered her clothes against her, as the rain had done the night before, accenting her slim, athletic body with its woman’s roundness. Her hair danced frantically and free while the sun teased out those touches of fire in the ebony that seemed to hint of things he was nearly ready to test. Before he realized what he was doing, Grant took her arm and swung her to face him.
There was no surprise in her face as she looked at him, but excitement—and an arousal he knew came from the sea. Her eyes mirrored it and tempted.
“I wondered last night why anyone would choose to live here.” She tossed the hair from her eyes. “Now I wonder how anyone lives anywhere else.” She pointed to a small fishing boat at the end of the pier. “Is that yours?”
Grant continued to stare at her, realizing abruptly he’d nearly hauled her against him and kissed her—so nearly he could all but taste her mouth against his. With an effort he turned his head in the direction she pointed. “Yes, it’s mine.”
“I’m keeping you from your work.” For the first time, Gennie gave him the simple gift of a real smile. “I suppose you’d have been up at dawn if I hadn’t gotten in the way.”
With an unintelligible mutter as an answer, Grant began to propel her toward his pickup. Sighing, Gennie gave up her morning vow to be friendly as a bad bet. “Mr. Campbell, do you have to be so unpleasant?”
Grant stopped long enough to shoot her a look—one Gennie would have sworn was laced with amused irony. “Yes.”
“You do it very well,” she managed as he began to pull her along again.
“I’ve had years of practice.” He released her when they reached the truck, then opened his door and got in. Without comment, Gennie skirted the hood and climbed in the passenger side.
The engine roared into life, a sound so closely associated with towns and traffic, Gennie thought it a sacrilege. She looked back once as he started down the bumpy road and knew instantly she would paint—had to paint—that scene. She nearly stated her intention out loud, then caught a glimpse of Grant’s frowning profile.
The hell with him, Gennie decided. She’d paint while he was out catching lobsters or whatever he caught out there. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, in this case. She sat back in the seat, primly folded her hands, and kept quiet.
Grant drove a mile before he started to feel guilty. The road was hardly better than a ditch, and at night it would have been a dark series of ruts and rocks. Anyone walking over that stretch in
a storm had to have been exhausted, miserable. Anyone who hadn’t known the way would have been half terrified as well. He hadn’t exactly dripped sympathy and concern. Still frowning, he took another quick look at her as the truck bounced along. She didn’t look fragile,