Vicki Hinze - [Seascape 01] Page 16

  “Not unless he specifically asks me. But if I might give you a bit of advice—”

  “I know. I should tell him.” Maggie sighed and slumped over the table. “But I can’t. Not now. I waited too long.”

  Miss Hattie sent her a sympathetic look, her eyes bright. “You know best, I’m sure. But remember that love is too precious to be squandered on half-truths and deceptions, dear. It’s like quicksilver. It can be snatched away as quickly as it’s given.” Her gentle nod set her white hair to shimmering in firelight. “Don’t let it slip through your fingers, mmm?”

  Love again. Why was she insisting that Maggie loved the man? “I agree in theory, just not in this case. I really don’t love Tyler, Miss Hattie. I, care about him, but I don’t love him.”

  “Really?” She arched her brows and retrieved her knitting from the little black bag beside her rocker, then situated the shiny green needles in her hands.

  “Really.” Maggie didn’t... did she?

  Of course not. She’d never love any man—and that was that.

  “Well, as I said, I’m sure you know best. But for a woman who doesn’t love a man, you sure are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to protect him.”

  “I’m not and you know it.” Certainly her mother had dispelled that illusion. “I’m trying to find out if he had anything to do with Carolyn’s death.”

  “He didn’t.”

  The woman sounded just like Bill Butler. The idea of MacGregor being involved was not that far a stretch. Maggie grimaced and lowered her voice. “The Portland police report says no other car was involved in the accident, and there were no signs that anyone had tampered with Carolyn’s car. They did a very thorough investigation and found nothing unusual.”

  “Then why do you feel suspicious?”

  “Because, to me, something extremely unusual happened.”

  “What?” Curiosity glinted in her eyes.

  “There was a painting in the car with Carolyn. The car exploded and she burned beyond recognition, but that painting wasn’t touched.” Maggie leaned closer, dropped her voice a notch lower. “The police in New Orleans insist Carolyn stole that painting from the gallery. But if it’d been in the car at the time of the accident, then it would have been destroyed like everything else. Since it wasn’t, that’s got to mean that someone put it into the wreckage after the accident. And that means someone else had to be there.”

  “You suspect Tyler?” Miss Hattie guffawed, then stilled and stared up at the ceiling as if listening to something Maggie couldn’t hear.

  The little hairs on Maggie’s neck prickled. Did Miss Hattie hear the entity’s whispers, too?

  “Oh my.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, dear.” Miss Hattie lowered her gaze to meet Maggie’s, worry creasing her aged brow. “Nothing at all.”

  This nothing was definitely something. Miss Hattie fairly reeked of it. Maggie licked at her lips. “Miss Hattie, is there anything... unusual going on here?”

  “At Seascape?” The worry disappeared and her laughter tinkled through the fire-warmed kitchen.

  Stiffening, Maggie nodded, not at all reassured.

  “Why, things here are just as they’ve always been, dear.”

  Maggie let out a nervous little laugh, then started to express her relief, but stopped short. As they’ve always been?

  It had been the longest, the most miserable, of all his miserable months of weeks here. Maggie avoiding him at every turn. Him knowing she avoided him to protect him and worrying that nothing he could do would protect either of them. Him fearing that this entity—whatever in hell it was—would play with them until it tired, then do only God knew what to them. And, T.J. finally accepted it, him knowing that more than his next breath, he needed to talk with Maggie. To just be close to her.

  She’d gotten to him.

  How had it happened? Why hadn’t he seen it coming and stopped it?

  Hell, he had seen it coming. He just hadn’t realized his heart had been at risk. Had he mistaken serious attraction for a good dose of lust because the woman had stunned him?

  He stared at his bedroom ceiling and pondered on it. Maybe. Her reaching out to him when he’d deliberately been acting like an ass toward her had stunned him. But maybe she’d gotten to him because when she’d said she wasn’t interested in him he’d known she’d been telling the truth and he’d let his guard down. Or maybe—just maybe—she pulled off this coup because, before he’d recovered and raised his guard back into place, she’d crept inside him and seeped soul-deep. At this point, what difference did how or why make? It had happened, pure and simple.

  Unlocking his bent arms from behind his head, he rolled out of bed, then crossed the creak-ridden floor to the window and looked outside. Gloomy and gray. He sighed. Again.

  She’d taken this last warning to stay away from him seriously. Not once had she forgotten to hang out the Occupied sign on the bathroom door’s nail. Not once had she snitched his razor. He frowned and tapped the heel of his fisted hand against the window sash. He’d nearly slit his throat because he’d expected a dull blade and instead had gotten one that hadn’t been touched. And not once had she ventured down to the boundary line to watch him attempt—and fail—to cross it without her.

  That might just hurt most of all.

  He paced the length of his room, the woven rug muffling his footsteps. God, it felt stifling in here.

  Back at the window, he jerked it open. Pine-tinged fresh air gushed in and he breathed in deep, filling his lungs. Still, he felt ready to suffocate. Almost as if the house had shrunk in on him and he couldn’t get enough oxygen into the room.

  Claustrophobia? With his head hanging out a window? With crisp air blowing against his face, tugging at his eyelids, and slicking back his hair?

  Hell, it wasn’t logical. But then what around here was logical anymore? Maybe if he went outside...

  Fifteen minutes later, he’d combed the lawn, the garden, stood on the Seascape cliffs, climbed down the stone path to the little strand of beach then back up again, and he still felt smothered. Stopping on the jagged rocks, he stared out onto the foamy, white-capped sea. Even its roar howling in his ears, its cold and misty salt spray gathering on his skin, didn’t soothe him this time. Seascape grounds just weren’t big enough. He had to get away from here or he’d lose his mind. But there was only one way to do that.

  Maggie.

  And, God, but it appalled him to have to humiliate himself and ask her for help. To have to accept her pity—especially considering the odds ranked about a hundred percent that she’d turn him down cold.

  Maybe not. A man’s voice sounded in T.J.’s head. Ask her.

  Was it T.J.’s own voice? The entity’s?

  Does it matter?

  Did it?

  All she can say is no...

  No.

  No way.

  Uh-uh, absolutely, positively, unequivocally, no way. Miss Hattie had to be wrong. That’s all there was to it.

  Maggie sighed, shrugged, then grimaced. Sitting alone on the bench, she stared out on the wind-rippled pond. Without the sun’s brilliant glint, the water looked murky, dense and dark and almost threatening. Of course, Miss Hattie had been wrong. Maggie had been at the in love brink, but she hadn’t taken the plunge. She didn’t love MacGregor. Spit, most of the time, she didn’t even like him.

  But there was something... special about him.

  The way he talked? Slow and reassuring, as soothing as the ocean’s gentle roar. The way he looked? Gorgeous, but his lure went much deeper than that. She appreciated his easy moves—what woman wouldn’t? They were relaxed, his carriage proud but not boastful. And he did have a perfect nose. Because he was so big? She did like that. His size and strength tugged hard
at her feminine cords, but neither would appeal so much if he weren’t gentle and vulnerable—which he hated—and open in admitting his flaws. Heck, he even admitted them when they weren’t valid—like with his parents.

  She wrapped her arms around her bent knees and dipped her face against the sharp wind. Men weren’t often that comfortable with their masculinity, or in their skin. Nor did the prospect of deceit typically trouble their consciences so much. Her father’s certainly hadn’t been. But MacGregor was... sensitive where her father had been calculating, keeping score and making sure he stayed one up on her mother. Of course, an artist had to be sensitive to paint, so that had come as no great surprise. But his sensitivity carrying over into other aspects of his life had surprised her. Oh, he was a nagging pain in the gluteus maximus, with an attitude and a killer snarl as fierce and disarming as his killer smile. True, but under the bluster, that sensitivity was there. When he held her, she sensed it so strongly it stunned her. The way he made her feel stunned her, too. Sighing, she hugged her knees tighter. She wasn’t sure she was crazy about feeling stunned, but she did really like the way he held her. And the way he hassled her. She even liked the way he drove her up the wall when she was in the tub.

  Oh-oh. She pulled up a dead blade of grass and slid it between her forefinger and thumb. Serious trouble brewing here. Very serious trouble. She liked too much about the man, especially his huge hands and the way he skimmed them over her back... She positively hated loving that. And, aside from his lethal kisses, she just might hate loving their through-the-bathroom-door conversations most of all.

  Sighing deeper, she tossed the grass blade onto the stony ground and watched the wind catch it and send it tumbling toward the big oak down by the water. Poor grass. It was as out of control of its destiny as she seemed of her own. She didn’t love MacGregor, no. But she sure did miss him.

  “Maggie?”

  She jerked, turned and saw him standing not three feet behind her, wearing a gray shirt and jeans and a black cashmere sweater that made him look as dark and dangerous and as alluring as the Seascape painting. Her heart started a slow, hard beat. “You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me, MacGregor. You’re stunting my growth and I’m determined to reach five-eight.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Hate to break it to you, but I think your growing years have passed.”

  She feigned a sigh. “There you go again, blowing my fantasies.”

  “Old habits die hard.”

  They did. And sometimes, without a whimper. Depressing, that.

  “How about if I make it up to you?” He shrugged. “I have shattered a lot of your fantasies.”

  He’d generated a lot of them, too. Especially in the past week. “How?”

  He flipped his sweater over his shoulder and held it with a careless thumb. “I could tell you that you look fantastic in burnt umber.”

  “Burnt umber?”

  “Brown.” He smiled. “Burnt umber is a paint color.”

  “Ah.”

  “Sorry. Like everyone else, artists notice things in the familiar—even when they can’t work.” He cocked his head, lowered his lids to half-mast and gave her a killer smile that wilted her knees. “Or, I could take you to the Blue Moon Cafe for dinner.”

  Oh, how she wished he could. “We can’t risk that”—a wave of regret washed through her—“so I’ll take the fantastic compliment.”

  The wind stilled. She returned her gaze to the slick pond. A bug lit on its surface and tiny circles expanded to large ones, rippling out. For some reason, the old saying about casting your bread upon the water came to mind. Silly really. “You shouldn’t even be here talking with me. What if our entity gets ticked?”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  The wind started up again. Shivering off a chill, she looked over the slope of her shoulder, back at him. The breeze had his shirt and sweater blown snug over his chest, molding his shoulders, and his wind-tossed hair kissing his forehead. Blades of brown grass clung to his shoes.

  She envied it all. Everything touching him. And she was angry with herself because she did. Even now, after a solid week of stern lectures and heart-to-heart talks with herself about accepting her feelings for him but limiting expressing them to her mission here, she got one look at him and envied even the wind because it could touch him and she couldn’t.

  I’ll risk it. How easily those brave words had tripped off his tongue. And, oh, what she’d give for just an ounce of his courage.

  But he could afford courage. He had far less to lose. His self-respect wasn’t in jeopardy. “You don’t know the consequences. Why are you willing to risk it, MacGregor?”

  “Because.”

  “Well”—she smacked her lips—“that explains that.”

  He frowned.

  “Wait, I know.” She lifted a pointed finger. “You have faith everything will work out okay.”

  “You are kidding.” He snorted. “Faith? With my track record?”

  Pollyandying, he wasn’t. She forced her expression to become passive. “Why, then?”

  “Because I’m feeling... landlocked.” He sighed and looked skyward at the heavy, gray clouds scudding across the sky. “Because if I don’t get away from here and see other people and do something semi-normal, I think I’ll go crazy.” He lowered his gaze to her. “Because I’ve missed—”

  “Shattering my fantasies?” she interrupted, unwilling to test her resistance if he should say he’d missed her. “And because you can’t go without me?” Coward! Coward!

  He blinked twice, shuttering the longing from his eyes. “Yes.” His jaw tightened. “Please, Maggie.”

  Please, Maggie. Take the risk. Jump off the bridge. Act like a damn fool, knowing you’re acting like a damn fool to please Maggie.

  Inside, she sighed. She wanted to do this for him, but she wanted to do it for her, too, because despite her family responsibilities and obligations she wanted to be with him. Foolish move or sorry judgment factored into the equation, she still wanted to be with him. But did she want it more than she feared crossing the entity? It had played a joke on them with the condoms, yet what if they angered it? Would it still joke? Or would it grow deadly serious?

  Lacing her fingers together, she studied them. No, she couldn’t risk defiance. Wanting to help and to protect him, wanting to be with him, even wanting his rendition of what had happened to Carolyn, Maggie just couldn’t risk defiance. But curious—half-obsessed, actually—she did want the truth. And maybe at the moment MacGregor was vulnerable enough to give it to her.

  What signs had he ignored, in his own words, that had caused Carolyn’s death? Ninety-nine point nine percent of the time, Maggie felt convinced MacGregor couldn’t have been involved, not even remotely or indirectly. But there remained that shadow of doubt and, if only she’d been honest with him from the start, she could just ask him. But she hadn’t been honest. And if she told him the truth now, he’d hate her. She didn’t want MacGregor to hate her...

  “Maggie,” he said, sounding irritated. “Countries have settled wars in less time than it’s taking you to decide on dinner.”

  Arrogant man. Asking for a favor and sounding irked. No, that didn’t feel right. Irked, yes, but not at her slow decision. That he’d had to ask her. That she’d forced him to admit his vulnerability, to forfeit his pride. Why had she done that? Tables turned, she’d have hated it. Clearly, he had, too.

  Wanting to apologize, she looked into his eyes. Hunger that gnawed soul-deep reflected there. He didn’t just want this, he needed it.

  Her heartstrings suffered a fierce tug. God, what should she do? She reached deep for the courage to resist him—one of them had to remain responsible and aware of the possible consequences of crossing the entity. She opened her mouth to refuse him, but a phantom wind suddenly tore through the trees. Its keening grew shrill, ear-pier
cing, and she steeled herself to hear that ominous whisper.

  Take him.

  She shut her mouth without uttering a sound. Had it been the man’s whisper? Her own wishful thinking?

  She didn’t know.

  She didn’t want to know.

  Shunning thought, she stood up and clasped MacGregor’s outstretched hand.

  He closed his thick fingers around her slender ones, gave them a gentle squeeze, and smiled. “Thank you, Maggie.”

  Her heart lighter than it had been for a week, she saw the cut on the underside of his chin and conjured a little audacity-laced lip. “What happened to you, MacGregor? Looks as if you nearly slit your throat.”

  He cocked a brow at her. “I expected a sassy redhead had been using my razor.” He fingered the cut with his free hand. “She hadn’t.”

  “Let me get this straight. You wrongly assume I’ve been on a revenge binge—while I’ve truly been a virtuous paradigm—and nearly slit your throat.”

  “A virtuous paradigm? You?”

  She ignored him and went on. “And this inaccurate assumption on your part is somehow my fault?”

  “That’s about how I see it.”

  He would. She stepped closer, until her breasts rose a hair’s width from his chest. “Now, why doesn’t this bit of twisted male logic surprise me?”

  He dipped his chin, his eyes twinkling those beautiful gray flecks that stole her sense. “Guilty conscience?”

  That suggestion she hadn’t expected. “I should feel guilty because I didn’t use your razor?”

  “No.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. Her hips bumped against his warm thighs. “Because you know how much I’ve missed you and you haven’t admitted that you’ve missed me.”

  She nuzzled him, resisting the urge to purr at the soft feel of his sweater against her face, deeply inhaled his scent, and loved it. Pine, sea, and warm man. Could it get any better than this? “You’re definitely suffering from Inflated Ego Syndrome, MacGregor. That, or possibly Acute Arrogant Jerkism.”