Dear Reader,

Within these pages you will find three uplifting stories of courage. The stories, written by some of Harlequin’s most beloved authors, are fiction, but the women who inspired them are real. They are women who have dedicated their lives to helping others, and all are recipients of a Harlequin More Than Words award.

The Harlequin More Than Words program was established in 2004. Through the program Harlequin recognizes ordinary women for their extraordinary commitment to community and makes a $10,000 donation to the woman’s chosen charity. In addition, some of Harlequin’s most acclaimed authors donate their time and energy to writing fictional novellas inspired by the lives and work of our award recipients. The collected stories are published, with proceeds returning to the Harlequin More Than Words program.

Together with Carla Neggers, Susan Mallery and Karen Harper, I invite you to meet the Harlequin More Than Words award recipients highlighted in these pages. We hope their stories will inspire you to get involved in charitable activities in your community, or perhaps even with the charities you read about here. Together we can make a difference.

To learn more about the Harlequin More Than Words program or to nominate a woman you know for the Harlequin More Than Words award, please visit www.HarlequinMoreThanWords.com.

Sincerely,

Donna Hayes

Publisher and CEO

Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.

More Than Words
Stories of Strength
Carla Neggers
Susan Mallery
Karen Harper

CONTENTS

STORIES INSPIRED BY REAL-LIFE HEROINES

CLOSE CALL

by Carla Neggers

Inspired by Jan Richardson and Kathryn Babcock

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

BUILT TO LAST

by Susan Mallery

Inspired by Dena Wortzel

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

FIND THE WAY

by Karen Harper

Inspired by Gloria Gilbert Stoga

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

EPILOGUE

JAN RICHARDSON & KATHRYN BABCOCK

SHELTERNET

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world: Indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.

—Margaret Mead

Jan Richardson and Kathryn Babcock took Margaret Mead’s inspiring words to heart when they first set out to create a safe Internet site to link abused women with local shelters. From the very beginning, Jan and Kathryn envisioned a site that would help women across Canada—truly working locally and thinking globally. That vision led to the founding of Shelternet. Today, women and children, no matter where they live in Canada, can connect with the shelter closest to them through Shelternet.

Kathryn and Jan first met by chance when a group of women gathered to discuss philanthropic strategies. At the time, Jan was a director of a London, Ontario, women’s shelter, and Kathryn was a Toronto-based corporate fund-raiser for charitable organizations. They were next to each other, and the outgoing Kathryn began to chat to Jan. The conversation turned to discussing the Internet and the glaring absence of resources out there for women in crisis. In a desperate need to find help, abused women were trying to find information in unregulated chat rooms, and shelters were receiving crisis e-mails from women without knowing how to safely respond. Shelters needed to increase their online presence in a way that would offer information and anonymity. Jan and Kathryn agreed something needed to be done. This casual meeting led to the dream of connecting all shelters for all women across Canada, and after three years of hard work and perseverance, the dream came true.

Jan has always believed a lot of important work comes into being through women’s vision and passion—women dreaming the impossible and making it into a reality. “That’s how women do business,” Jan says. “Women network through their relationships with other women, and women show great strength in making things happen. They’re undaunted—they’ll champion monumental goals, and have a way of overcoming any obstacles in their paths.”

With Shelternet, Jan and Kathryn had that kind of vision—to do something that had not been done before—and they had the courage and determination to realize that vision. Neither Kathryn nor Jan had a background in Web site design or technology—and they had no financial backing. But from her front-line experience, Jan knew what the site should look like and feel like to make it work for the women who needed it. The creation of the site became a collaborative effort as individuals, organizations and corporations came on board with technical and financial support.

Shelternet was successfully launched in August 2002 as the first site of its kind in the world, receiving international and national acclaim. It is available in ten languages, and Shelternet’s interactive map connects women with the shelter closest to them. The site provides links to local help lines, information on developing a safety plan and stories of inspiration from other women who have left abusive relationships. Shelternet also reaches out to children and teens who have witnessed the abuse of their mothers, with special resources for them about where they can get help. So often it is children who find the information for their mothers.

The children are Kathryn’s motivation for her involvement in Shelternet—and in all her work to end violence against women. It’s unimaginable to Kathryn the level of fear a child would feel seeing their mother being abused. Yet in Canada alone, more than 300,000 children witness the abuse of their mothers every year. More than half the women come into shelters with children—many under five years of age. The feisty part of Kathryn can’t stand women being abused and children being scared. “I wish I could be twenty-five feet tall and get the women and children out of there,” she says. “I look at my relationship with my husband, how gentle and loving it is, and I want that for every woman—to never be afraid in an intimate relationship. True partnership is worth fighting for. Children raised in a loving home is the greatest gift we can give.”

Jan was another motivator and inspiration for Kathryn as they worked together on Shelternet. As Kathryn describes Jan, “She had a huge history and significant experience in the shelters. She’s incredibly well versed in the issues. She’s extraordinary.”

Jan is motivated by the possibility that a woman can be anything she wants to be, and she’s dedicated her entire adult life to the experience women have in the world. But as Jan says, “That means violence. Men violate women because they can—they’re allowed to.” Besides having been the director of a women’s shelter for more than fifteen years, Jan has served as an advocate, teacher, writer and community builder—all as part of her ongoing commitment to one day eradicating violence against women and children. Jan’s work with Shelternet has been an inspiration to continue her commitment. “I’ve been humbled by the incredible efforts of others,” she says, “particularly the rural women and shelters that have so few resources and real hardships. Yet these communities have real heart.”

Jan and Kathryn believe that the spirit of collaboration can make anything possible. But as Kathryn emphasizes, “There are so many issues that need help. Don’t be afraid if you’re just one person. Two is better—” she laughs “—but even one is okay. Any passion can be an issue you can volunteer for—and every skill is needed. You just have to reach out.”

Reaching out is the first connection to making a real difference in a community. And in the words of Margaret Mead, it’s the only thing that can change the world.

For more information visit www.shelternet.ca.

CARLA NEGGERS

CLOSE CALL

CARLA NEGGERS

Carla Neggers is the New York Times bestselling author of The Angel, The Widow, Cold Pursuit, Abandon, Breakwater, Dark Sky, The Rapids, Night's Landing and Cold Ridge. She lives with her family in New England.

Visit the author's Web site at: www.carlaneggers.com.

CHAPTER ONE

A dirt-encrusted mountain bike. A battered kayak. Free weights loose on the floor. Gym clothes and squash rackets hanging from a pegboard. Street and ice hockey sticks leaned up against the wall.

Brendan O’Malley’s idea of how to welcome guests to his place.

As she stepped into the foyer, Jessica Stewart told herself there were no surprises. It wasn’t as if she’d expected feng shui or something out of a decorating magazine. She loved the guy. She really did. She didn’t know if she was in love with him, but that was a problem for later—right now, she had to fight her way into his apartment and find out what he was up to.

Jess stuffed the key that O’Malley’s brother Mike—the firefighter brother—had loaned her. Brendan was one of the cop brothers, a Boston homicide detective. The other cop brother, the youngest, was just starting out. There was also a carpenter brother and a marine brother. Five O’Malley brothers in all. At thirty-four, Brendan was smack in the middle. A guy’s guy.

There was, in other words, no logical reason Jess should have expected anything but hockey sticks in the foyer.

Brendan and Mike owned the triple-decker and were renovating it as an investment property. Brendan had the first-floor apartment to himself.

Jess had rung the doorbell. She’d pounded on the door.

Taking Detective O’Malley by surprise wasn’t a good idea under any circumstances, but today it was really a bad one.

He’d almost been killed yesterday.

She hoped the kayak and mountain bike were a sign that he was still in town. Even his brothers didn’t want him going off on his own so soon after a trauma.

Using the toe of her taupe pumps, Jess rolled the dumbbells aside and entered the living room. It was her first time inside his apartment. Their on-again, off-again relationship over the past two months had been at theaters, restaurants and her condo on the waterfront. They hadn’t had so much as a candlelight dinner at his place.

No wonder.

It wasn’t that it was a pigsty in the sense of trash and garbage all over the floors and furniture. He didn’t live like a rat—or with rats. His apartment simply reflected his priorities. He had a flat-screen television, stacks of DVDs, an impressive stereo system, a computer, shelves of books on the Civil War and more sports equipment. In the living room.

He wasn’t much on hanging up his clothes, either.

Mike had warned Jess when she talked him into giving her the keys to his younger brother’s apartment. Brendan had lived on his own for a long time. His apartment was his sanctuary, his world away from his work as a detective.

Inviolable, and yet here she was.

She walked into the adjoining dining room. The table was stacked with car, sports and electronic gaming magazines and a bunch of flyers and guidebooks on Nova Scotia—another sign, she hoped, that he hadn’t already left.

He needed to be with his family and friends right now. Not off on his own in Nova Scotia. Everyone agreed.

Jess continued down the length of the apartment to the kitchen. A short hall led to the bathroom and bedroom. The bedroom door was shut, but she knew she’d never have gotten this far if he were on the premises. It was only five o’clock—she’d come straight from the courthouse—but he’d taken the day off.

No dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter, none in the dishwasher.

Not a good sign.

The house was solid, built about a hundred years ago in a neighborhood that wasn’t one of Boston’s finest, and had a lot of character. Brendan and Mike were doing most of the work themselves, but they were obviously taking their time—both had demanding jobs. They’d pulled up the old linoleum in the kitchen, revealing narrow hardwood flooring, and scraped off layers of wallpaper. Joe, the carpenter brother, had washed his hands of the place.

Jess peeked out onto the enclosed back porch, stacked with tools and building materials, all, presumably, locked up tight.

Brendan had mentioned, over a candlelight dinner at her place, that a couple of jazz musicians lived in the top floor apartment, a single-mother secretary with one teenage daughter in the middle floor apartment. He and Mike had fixed up the upper-floor apartments first because they provided income and allowed them to afford the taxes and mortgage.

Taking a breath, Jess made herself crack open the door to his bedroom.

It smelled faintly of his tangy aftershave. The shades were pulled.

The telephone rang, almost giving her a heart attack.

So much for having a prosecutor’s nerves of steel.

She waited for the message machine.

“Stewart?” It was O’Malley. “I know you’re there. I got it out of Mike. Pick up.”

No way was she picking up.

“All right. Suit yourself. I’m on my way to Nova Scotia. I’m fine.”

She grabbed the phone off his nightstand. “You left your bike and kayak.”

“Don’t need them.” She could hear the note of victory in his tone now that he’d succeeded in getting her on the line. “Place I’m going has its own bikes and kayaks.”

She noticed his bed was made, not that neatly, but he’d put in the effort. “Why sneak off?”

“I didn’t want a lot of grief from everyone.”

“Brendan—come on. You had a bullet whiz past your head yesterday. You need to be with family and friends.”

“The bullet didn’t whiz through my head. Big difference. It just grazed my forehead. A little blood, that’s it. I get banged up worse than that playing street hockey. A couple days’ kayaking and walking on the rocks in Nova Scotia, and I’ll be in good shape.”

“Did you bring your passport? You know, they don’t just let you wave on your way across the border these days—”

“Quit worrying. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Jess said. “You sound like you’re trying to sound fine.”

“What are you now, Stewart? Ex-cop, hard-ass prosecutor, or would-be girlfriend?”

She stood up straight, catching her reflection in the dresser mirror. Chestnut hair, a little frizzed up given the heat and humidity. Pale blue suit in an industrial-strength fabric that didn’t wrinkle, repelled moisture, held its shape through the long hours she put in.

Definitely a former police officer, and now a dedicated prosecutor.

How on earth had she become Brendan O’Malley’s would-be girlfriend?

“Don’t flatter yourself, Detective. Just because we’ve seen each other a few times doesn’t mean I’m mooning over you—”

He laughed. “Sure you are.”

“I’ve known you forever.”

“You haven’t been sleeping with me forever.”

True. She’d slept with him that one time, two weeks ago. Since then, he’d been acting as if it had been a fast way to ruin a perfectly good friendship. Maybe she had, too. They’d known each other since her days at the police academy, when O’Malley had assisted with firearms training. He was only two years out of the academy himself, but even then everyone knew he was born to be a detective. She’d been attracted to him. What woman wasn’t? They’d become friends, stayed friends when she went to law school nights and then took her job as a prosecutor. She’d never even considered dating him—never mind sleeping with him—until two months ago.

She could feel the first twinges of a headache. “Some crazy fairy with a sick sense of humor must have whacked me with her magic fairy wand to make me want to date you.”

“Honey, we haven’t just dated—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Best night of your life.”

He was kidding, but she knew what had happened that night. Brendan O’Malley, stud of studs, had gone too far. He’d been tender and sexy and intimate in a way that had scared the hell out of him. Now he was backpedaling. Pretending it was her chasing him and it was all a game.

“O’Malley—Brendan—”

“I’m losing the connection. I’m up here somewhere in moose country. Quit worrying, okay? I’ll call you when I get back.”

“I might never make it out of this damn apartment of yours. I’ll need a compass to navigate through all your stuff.”

But he wasn’t making up the bad connection, and his cell phone suddenly blanked out altogether, leaving Jess standing there in his bedroom, his phone dead in her hand.

She cradled it with more force than was necessary.

Bravado. That was all this was about.

O’Malley was shaken by yesterday’s close call. He and his partner had entered a seedy hotel to question a possible witness in a murder, only to have the guy throw down his backpack, turn and run. An ancient .38 fell out of the backpack, hit the floor and went off.

The bullet just barely grazed O’Malley’s forehead.

It could have killed him. It could have killed anyone in the vicinity.

O’Malley was treated on the scene. He wasn’t admitted or even transported to the hospital. As he’d said, he was fine.

Physically.

It was his third close call that year. The sheer randomness of this latest one had gotten to him. He wasn’t a target. The witness wasn’t a suspect in the murder, wasn’t trying to kill him or anyone else, said he had the .38 for his own protection—never mind that he was now charged with carrying a concealed weapon, possession of a weapon in violation of his probation, and assault with a deadly weapon.

Over dinner with Jess last night, after he’d been debriefed, Brendan had admitted he didn’t think he’d get this one out of his mind that easily. He kept seeing the gun fall out of the backpack. He kept feeling himself yell, “Gun!” and jump back, an act that had saved his life. The heat of the bullet, the reaction of his partner, the paramedics—he remembered everything, and it played like a movie in his head, over and over.

“In the blink of an eye,” he said, “that would have been all she wrote on the life of Brendan O’Malley.”

He’d wanted to be alone that night.

When Jess called to check on him in the morning, he blamed his moroseness the evening before on the shrinks and too much wine and said he was heading off on his own for the weekend.

She’d talked to a few people, who all agreed it might not be a good idea for him to be alone right now. He needed his support network. Family and friends. Time to process what was, after all, a scary incident, no matter that it had a happy ending.

Not that Detective O’Malley would listen to her or anyone else.

Jess wandered back out to the dining room and flipped through the brochures and guidebooks on Nova Scotia. She’d never been to the Canadian Maritime Provinces—she’d only been to Canada a few times, including the usual high-school French-class trip to Montreal in Quebec.

The brochures were inviting. The pictures of the rocky coastline, the ocean, cliffs, beaches, kayakers, fishing boats, harbors, quaint inns and restaurants. The Lighthouse Route. Cape Breton Island. The Evangeline Trail.

So many possibilities.

How would she ever find him?

No one had shot at her lately, but Jess could feel the effects of her months of nonstop work. She’d just finished a major trial and could afford to take a few days off. She knew better than to get in too deep with O’Malley, but she had to admit she’d fantasized about going somewhere with him. She kept telling herself that she was well aware he wasn’t the type for long-term commitments—she had her eyes wide-open. She didn’t mind if they just had some fun together.

He’d mentioned getting out of town together for a few days. Casually, not with anything specific in mind, but it at least suggested that the only reason he hadn’t invited her to go with him to Nova Scotia was the shooting. It had only been a day. He wouldn’t want to inflict himself on her.

She noticed that he’d circled a bed-and-breakfast listed on a Web site printout.

The Wild Raspberry B and B.

Cute. Cheeky, even. Jess smiled to herself and, before she could talk herself out of it, dialed the Wild Raspberry’s number.

A woman answered.

Jess reminded herself she was a prosecutor accustomed to delicate situations. For the most part, it was best to come to the point. “Hello—a friend of mine has a reservation with you this weekend. Brendan O’Malley.”

“Right. He’s not due to arrive until tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Jess said, hanging up.

Of course.

He was in moose country. That meant he’d gone farther north than Portland, Maine, and wasn’t taking the ferry to Nova Scotia from there. He must have decided to drive up to Mount Desert Island and catch the ferry out of Bar Harbor. He had to be booked on one of the ferries, since it would take forever for him to drive all the way up through Maine and New Brunswick.

Jess dug some more on the dining-room table and found a printout of the ferry schedule from Bar Harbor to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.

Bingo.

If she hurried, she could make the overnight ferry from Portland, about two hours north of Boston, and maybe even beat O’Malley to the Wild Raspberry.

After he checked into a small, tidy motel in Bar Harbor on Maine’s Mount Desert Island, Brendan O’Malley walked over to the cheapest-looking restaurant he could find and ordered fried shrimp and beer. There was fresh raspberry pie on the dessert menu, but he passed. Once he got to Nova Scotia, he’d be staying at a place with a name like Wild Raspberry, so he figured he’d have another chance.

He touched the bandage on the left side of his forehead, just above his eyebrow.

Man. Talk about luck.

The graze didn’t hurt at all. He could take the bandage off anytime. He figured he’d let it fall off in the shower.

His brother Mike had arrived at the scene. “Brendan—damn. You are one lucky cop. How many of your nine lives have you used up now?”

“Eleven.”

Gallows humor, but Mike understood. He’d had his share of brushes with death in his work. They both counted on their training, their experience, the people who backed them up—they didn’t want to count on luck.

Luck was unpredictable. Fickle.

And it could run out.

Brendan shook off any hint of encroaching self-pity and paid for his dinner. He’d have to walk all the way to Nova Scotia to burn off the fried shrimp, but he settled for an evening stroll along Bar Harbor’s pretty streets, not overly crowded with summer tourists. He had a reservation on the morning Cat ferry, which shortened the normal six-hour trip from Bar Harbor across the Gulf of Maine to less than three hours.

Marianne Wells, the owner of the Wild Raspberry, had assured him he’d have peace and quiet at her B and B. She only had three guest rooms. One was free, one was occupied by a hiker, and then there was the room she’d reserved for him.

O’Malley had debated pitching a tent somewhere on the coast for a few days, but Jess would have regarded that as total nut behavior under the circumstances and hunted him down for sure—or, more likely, sent someone after him. There wasn’t much that could pry her away from her job as a county prosecutor. She was a worse workaholic than he was.

A disaster in the making. That was what their relationship was.

Except he couldn’t imagine not having Jess Stewart in his life. She’d been there so long—forever, it seemed.

He didn’t want to screw things up by falling for her.

Mike had said she’d looked worried when she’d talked him into giving her the key to his place. Brendan doubted it. Jess had been a cop for five years, earning her law degree part-time. She wasn’t a worrier. She just didn’t like it that he’d skipped out on her.

What the hell, he didn’t owe her anything. He didn’t even know how they’d ended up dating. He’d always thought of her as a kind of kid sister.

Mike hadn’t bought that one. “There isn’t one thing O’Malley about her. You’re in denial, brother.”

Ten years Brendan had known Stewart, and not until two months ago had he seriously thought about sleeping with her. Maybe she was right, and they’d both been struck by some crazy fairy with a weird sense of humor.

They’d gone to dinner and the movies a few times. Jess had dragged him on a tour of the Old North Church because he was from Boston and he’d never seen it, and that just couldn’t stand another minute as far as she was concerned. But she was a native Bostonian, and had she ever been to a Bruins hockey game? One time, when she was ten. It barely counted.

O’Malley found a flat stone and skipped it into the smooth, gray water of the harbor. He had to stop thinking about Attorney Stewart. Their relationship wasn’t going anywhere. They’d slept together that one time a couple weeks ago, before the shooting, but that had just been one of those things. Spontaneous, unplanned, inevitable.

He’d been such a mush, too. He couldn’t believe it.

He heaved a long sigh, feeling a headache coming on that had nothing to do with the bullet that had missed his brain pan by not very much at all.

Back at his motel, he flopped on his sagging double bed and stared at the ceiling.

Nova Scotia. He could just skip it and hang out on Mount Desert Island for a few days—except the same instinct that had prompted him to jump back a half-step yesterday, thus saving his life, told him to head east. He’d been gathering brochures on Nova Scotia for weeks, checking out the tourist sites on the Internet, poring over maps, all with some vague idea that he should go there.

Maybe it was karma or something.

With his head bandaged up last night and his brother’s talk of using up his nine lives, he’d stared at the lodging list he’d printed off the Internet, picked out a B and B that looked good and called.

Now here he was, on his way. Alone.

Jess could have a point that he shouldn’t be alone.

“Too late.”

He hit the power button on the TV remote and checked out what was going on in the world, feeling isolated and removed and suddenly really irritated with himself. But he was nothing if not stubborn, and he needed a few days to pull his head together, not just about the shooting, but about Jess.

He thought of her dark eyes and her cute butt and decided the bullet yesterday was the universe giving him a wake-up call. What did he think he was doing, falling for Jessica Stewart?

He had no intention of tucking tail and going home.

CHAPTER TWO

The overnight ferry from Portland, Maine, to Yarmouth, on Nova Scotia’s southwest shore, was surprisingly smooth—and fun. Jess hadn’t been anywhere in so long, she made an adventure of it. When she arrived back on land, she followed the directions to the Wild Raspberry B and B, which, she soon discovered, was on Nova Scotia’s South Shore, a breathtaking stretch of Canada’s eastern coastline of rocks, cliffs, narrow, sandy beaches and picturesque villages.

“Forget O’Malley,” she muttered to herself. “I want to go hiking!”

She’d at least had the presence of mind to pack trail shoes and hiking clothes on her quick stop back at her condo last night. Now it was a sunny, glorious morning, and she debated leaving Brendan to his own devices—his determined solitude—and finding another place to stay. He wouldn’t even have to know she was there.

But she continued north along what was aptly named the Lighthouse Route and kept forcing herself not to stop, kept warning herself to stay on task. Finally she came to a small cove near historic Lunenburg, named a UNESCO World Heritage Site because of its pristine British colonial architecture and rich seafaring heritage, and found her way to the Wild Raspberry.

It wasn’t a renovated colonial building like those in Lunenburg, which Jess had read about on the ferry. The Wild Raspberry was, fittingly, a small Victorian house, complete with a tiny guest cottage, that perched on a knoll across from the water. A tangle of rose and raspberry vines covered a fence along one side of the gravel driveway. The house itself was painted gray and trimmed in raspberry and white, and had porches in front and back that were crammed with brightly cushioned white wicker furniture and graced with hanging baskets of fuchsias and white petunias.

Jess parked at the far end of the small parking area—so that O’Malley wouldn’t spot her the minute he pulled into the driveway. As she got her suitcase out of the back of her car, she could smell that it was low tide.

And she could hear laughter coming from the back of the house, toward the guest cottage.

Women’s laughter. Unrestrained, spirited laughter.

It was so infectious, Jess couldn’t help but smile as she made her way up a stone walk to the side entrance, where an enormous stone urn of four or five different colors of petunias greeted her. There was also—of course—a Welcome sign featuring a raspberry vine.

She thought of O’Malley’s rat hole apartment. How had he picked this charming, cheerful place?

She sighed. “Because he got shot in the head yesterday.”

A forty-something woman in hiking shorts, a tank top and sports sandals came from behind the house. She had short, curly brown hair streaked with gray and a smile that matched the buoyant mood of the B and B. “May I help you?”

“I’m Jessica Stewart—”

“I thought so. Welcome! I’m Marianne Wells. Please, come inside. Make yourself comfortable. I can help you with your bags—I just need to say goodbye to some friends.”

“Don’t let me interrupt. I’m in no hurry.”

“Oh, we were just finishing up. We meet every week.”

As Marianne turned back to rejoin her friends, Jess noticed a faint three-inch scar near her hostess’s right eye. A weekly get-together with women friends—it wasn’t something Jess took the time to do. Given her busy schedule, her friendships were more catch-as-catch-can.

The side door led into a cozy sitting area decorated cottage-style, with an early-twentieth-century glass-and-oak curio filled with squat jars of raspberry jam, raspberry-peach jam and raspberry-rhubarb jam, all with handmade labels. There was raspberry honey in a tall, slender jar, and a collection of quirky raspberry sugar pots and creamers.

“I’ve told all my friends no more raspberry anything,” Marianne Wells said as she came into the small room. “You should see what I have in storage. It can get overwhelming.”

“I have an aunt who made the mistake of letting people know she collects frogs. Now she’s got frog-everything. Frog towels, frog soaps, frog statues, frog magnets. Frogs for every room. She even has a frog clock.”

Marianne laughed, the scar fading as her eyes crinkled in good humor. “I know what you mean. It’s fun to collect something, though. You must want to see your room. Come on, I’ll show you upstairs.”

As she started down the hall, following her hostess, Jess noticed a bulletin board above a rolltop desk with a small, prominent sign on it:

The Courage to Click. Shelternet.ca.

Shelternet can help you find a link to a shelter or a helpline in your area.

From her experience both as a police officer and a prosecutor, Jess immediately recognized Shelternet as a resource for victims of abuse, one that Marianne Wells obviously wanted people coming through her B and B to know about.

Instinctively Jess thought of the scar above Marianne’s eye and guessed she must have been a victim of domestic abuse at one time, then reminded herself that she didn’t know—and shouldn’t jump to conclusions.

But Marianne paused on the stairs and glanced back at Jess. “Clicking on Shelternet helped save my life.”

“I’m a prosecutor in Boston. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just couldn’t help noticing—”

“I’m not uncomfortable. If that sign prompts just one person to take action—well, that’s why it’s there. If a woman in an abusive relationship walks into this inn, I know that she’ll walk out of here with that Web site address in her head. Shelternet. ca.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but she seemed to mean for it to. “I don’t mind that you noticed it. Not at all. I’m not ashamed of what I’ve been through. I used to be, but not anymore.”

Jess smiled back at her. “I hope you’ll tell me more about Shelternet while I’m here.”

“Gladly.”

They continued up the white-painted stairs to a large, airy room overlooking the water. The decor was Victorian cottage, with lots of white and vibrant accents, nothing stuffy or uptight. There was a private bathroom—with raspberry-colored towels—and upscale scented toiletries that surely would be a waste on O’Malley.

Marianne pointed out the television, how to work the windows, where to find extra linens. “My friend Pat comes in to clean every morning. Her grandmother lived in this house before I bought it. I’ve made a lot of changes, but Pat approves. You’ll like her.”

“I’m sure I will,” Jess said.

“There’s one other guest room on this floor and a room on the third floor in what was once the attic. A long-term guest is staying there. Brendan O’Malley will be staying on this floor. He’s not here yet. I thought you two might have made arrangements to arrive together.”

Jess felt a twinge of guilt. When she’d called back to make a reservation, Marianne had recognized her voice from her previous call about O’Malley. “Uh, no.”

Marianne frowned. “But you are friends, right?”

“Yes. Yes, definitely.” Which, Jess thought, didn’t mean he’d jump up and down with joy to see her. But as a survivor of abuse, Marianne Wells would be sensitive to such matters—and properly so. “We’ve known each other since I was a police recruit.”

“You’re a former police officer?”

Jess nodded. “And O’Malley—Brendan is a detective.”

Her hostess seemed satisfied. “Is there anything I can get you right now?”

“No, nothing. The room’s lovely. Thank you.”

“We serve afternoon tea at three, on the back porch if the weather’s good, and a full breakfast in the dining room starting at seven. If there’s anything special you’d like to request, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

Jess debated warning Marianne that Brendan O’Malley wasn’t expecting to find her here, but decided there was no point in complicating the woman’s life just yet—or stirring up any old fears. O’Malley would behave. It wasn’t as if he’d be really irritated that Jess had followed him.

On the other hand, he’d had a rotten week. Everything might irritate him.

After Marianne left her to her own devices, Jess unpacked, opened the windows and took a bath to the sound of the ocean, listening for O’Malley’s arrival.

O’Malley waited in the hall while Marianne Wells pushed open the door to his second-floor room. The place was nice, a little quaint, probably, for his tastes, but maybe the bright colors would improve his mood. At least Marianne—she’d already told him to call her by her first name—was dressed for climbing on the rocky coastline. And the other guest, the one in the attic, was a guy.

The scar on Marianne’s face looked like it was from a knife wound, but Brendan figured he was in a frame of mind to come to the worst conclusion. She could have slid off a sled as a kid and cut her face on ice.

He noticed the pink towels in the bathroom.

Pink. It was a grayed pink, but it was still pink.

He wondered if the guy in the attic got white towels.

“Your friend from Boston is in the room across the hall.”

His experience as a detective kept him from choking on his tongue. “Jess?”

“That’s right. You seem surprised.”

And she didn’t like his surprise. He could see it in her body language. She straightened, narrowing her eyes on him, and moved to the doorway, ready for flight.

O’Malley relaxed his manner, not wanting to get his hostess mixed up in whatever he and Jess had going on. “I’m just surprised she beat me here. I thought I had the head start.”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Marianne said firmly. “If you don’t want Ms. Stewart here—if she’s stalking you—”

“Jess? Stalking me? No way. It’s nothing like that.”

“And you. You’re not—”

“No, I’m not stalking her.”

She seemed at least partially relieved. “I hope not.”

He pointed to his bandaged forehead. “I was in a scrape at work a couple days ago. Jess is worried about me is all. She and I go way back.”

“You’re a police officer, aren’t you? Were you—”

“It was nothing.”

Jess had been talking. O’Malley had known her since she was a recruit. She’d gone through the police academy two years after him and had done a good job on the force, but her heart wasn’t in it, not the way it was in her job as a prosecutor. She absolutely believed that the system could, should and most often did work, and that she was there to get to the truth, not advance her own career, change the world or pander to public opinion.

O’Malley wasn’t that idealistic. Jess insisted it wasn’t idealism on her part, but a serious, hardheaded understanding of her duties as a representative of the state’s interests. She’d tried to convince him of that over one of their dinners together. But he wasn’t convinced of anything, except she was a bigger workaholic than he was and needed to take a vacation once in a while.

And he’d wanted to make love to her.

He’d been very convinced of that.

After Marianne retreated downstairs, he stood out in the hall and stared at Jess’s shut door. Damn. What was she doing here?

The three-legged puppy syndrome, he thought.

She must have been the kind of kid who brought home injured animals, and that was what he was at the moment.

Except he didn’t see it that way.

He walked over to the door and stood a few inches from the threshold, wondering if he’d be able to figure out what she was doing in there. Sleeping? Plotting what she’d do once he got there? But he didn’t hear a sound from inside—no radio, no running water, no happy humming.

No gulping.

No window creaking open as she tied sheets together to make good her escape.

She must have heard him talking in the hall with their hostess.

The door jerked open suddenly, and Jess was there in shorts and a top, barefoot, her hair still damp and her skin still pink from a recent bath or shower.

“O’Malley,” she said. “What a coincidence.”

“Like minds and all that?”

“Mmm.”

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing ‘like’ about our minds.”

But she was unflappable—she’d had longer to prepare for this moment. “I saw all those Nova Scotia brochures on your dining-room table and couldn’t resist. Funny we picked the same B and B.”

“You’re not even trying hard to sound convincing.”

She ignored him. “It’s adorable, isn’t it? I love the cottage touches and the raspberry theme.”

He had no idea what she meant by “cottage touches.” He placed one hand on the doorjamb and leaned in toward her, smelling the fragrance of her shampoo. “How’s your room?”

“Perfect.”

He tried to peer past her. “I think it’s bigger than mine.”

She opened the door a bit wider. “See for yourself.”

In her own way, Jessica Stewart liked to play with fire. O’Malley stepped into her room and saw that it was shaped differently from his, but about the same size. “I didn’t see your car,” he said.

“Really?”

All innocence. “Did you hide it?”

“I engaged in strategic parking. If you’d arrived with a woman friend, I’d have been out of here in a flash.”

He smiled. “Don’t want any competition?”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass you. You deserve a break, you know, after the shooting. It’s just that you also need to be around friends.” She scrutinized his head as he walked past her. “How’s the wound?”

“I’ve cut myself worse shaving.” He peered into her bathroom. “Do you have pink towels?”

“They’re a shade of raspberry. Don’t think of it as a feminine color.”

“It’s a cheerful place. I’ll say that.” He stopped in front of Jess’s bed and turned to her, noticing the color in her cheeks. It was more than the aftereffects of her shower. “Now that you see me, do you feel like a dope for following me?”

“It’d take a lot for you to make me feel like a dope, O’Malley. Everyone’s worried about you. What did you think would happen when you snuck off like that?”

He shrugged. “I thought I’d get to spend a few quiet days on my own in Nova Scotia.”

“No, you didn’t. You thought I’d follow you. That’s why you circled the name of the B and B—”

“You didn’t have a key to my place.”

“You knew I’d ask your brother. I’ll bet he okayed it with you to give me the key. Am I right?”

“Hey, hey. I’m not on the witness stand, prosecutor.”

She sighed, shoving her hands into her shorts’ pockets. “O’Malley—” She broke off with a small groan. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I ever slept with you. My first day at the academy ten years ago, I was warned about you.”

He feigned indignation. “Warned in what way?”

“Every way.”

“What, that they don’t come any smarter, sexier, more hell-bent on catching bad guys—”

“More full of himself, more hell on women, more cynical—”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t cynical in those days.”

“You are now.”

“Only a little.”

He approached her, slipping his arms around her as she pulled her hands out of her pockets. She didn’t stiffen. She didn’t tell him to back off or go soak his head. Instead she met his eye and smiled. “You’re more than a little cynical, O’Malley.”

“It’s to protect a soft heart.”

“Ha.”

But she had to know he had a soft heart—he’d exposed it to her when they’d made love. He’d never done anything like that before and wasn’t sure he wanted to again. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable—emotionally or physically.

She was still smiling when his mouth found hers, and he could taste the salt air on her lips, her tongue. She draped her arms around his neck and responded with an urgency that told him she’d at least thought about this happening on her trip up here. He lifted her off her feet. Why hadn’t he asked her to come with him? Maybe she was right and it was some kind of test, some kind of sexy game between them.

“O’Malley.” She drew away from him and caught her breath. “Brendan. Oh, my. I didn’t mean—” She didn’t finish. “Maybe we should take a walk.”

“A walk?”

“It’s a gorgeous day.”

“Right.”

He set her down and backed up a step, raking one hand through his close-cropped hair. She licked her lips and adjusted her shirt, which had come awry during their kiss.

“I’m on a rescue mission,” she said. “I shouldn’t be taking advantage of your situation.”

“Why the hell not?”

But the moment had passed. She had something else on her mind besides falling into bed with him—not that it was easy for her, he decided. She just had a lot of self-discipline.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said. “We can take a walk, then do afternoon tea.”

That was it.

Jess made her way to the door and held it open for him as he strode past her back out into the hall. “Think Marianne Wells would have a ham sandwich or something at tea time?”

“I doubt it.”

“Little scones, probably, huh?”

Jess smiled, looking more at ease, less as if she was afraid he’d go off the deep end at any moment. “I’d count on something with raspberries.”

The afternoon stayed warm and sunny, and Marianne served tea on the back porch, laying out an assortment of miniature lemon scones with raspberry jam, tiny triangles of homemade bread, fresh local butter and watercress, and warm oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies that one of her friends had dropped by that morning.

Jess couldn’t have been happier, but O’Malley looked a little out of place sitting on a white wicker rocker with a watermelon-colored cushion as he negotiated a Beatrix Potter teacup and plate of goodies.

He’d gotten rid of the bandage on his forehead. His bullet graze looked more like a nasty cat scratch. Probably no one would guess what it really was, or even bother to ask. He’d had no trouble negotiating their hike along a stunning stretch of the rugged granite coastline. Whenever the afternoon sun hit his dark hair, his clear blue eyes, Jess was struck again by how really good-looking and madly sexy he was. She hadn’t thought about his mental state—the possibility he was suffering from post-traumatic stress symptoms—at all.

Maybe it was being away from Boston—violence and his work seemed so far removed from Nova Scotia.

Or maybe it was the way he’d kissed her.

When a middle-aged man joined them on the porch, Jess forced herself to push aside all thought of kissing Brendan O’Malley.

The man introduced himself as John Summers, the Wild Raspberry’s third guest. He had longish graying hair and a full gray beard and was dressed in worn hiking shorts and shirt, with stringy, tanned, well-muscled legs and arms. He looked as if he’d been strolling the nooks and crannies of Nova Scotia for months, if not years. His eyes were a pale blue, and he had deep lines in an angular, friendly face.

But something about him immediately set off O’Malley’s cop radar. Jess could see it happening. He started with the inquisition. “How long have you been here?”

“A month. Gorgeous spot, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Spend the whole month here alone?”

Summers winced visibly at O’Malley’s aggressive tone, then said coolly, “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Must be relaxing. Hike a lot? Or are you into sailing?”

“Hiking and kayaking, mostly.” He sat on a wicker chair with his plate of goodies and a cup of tea and changed the subject. “What brings you to Nova Scotia? You’re American, aren’t you?”

“From Boston. Just taking a few days off.” O’Malley didn’t take the hint and back off. “Where are you from?”

“Toronto.”

“That’s a ways. You fly here or drive?”

Jess tried to distract O’Malley from the scent by offering him a warm cookie. He didn’t take the hint. Summers, to his credit, just answered the question. “I flew into Halifax.”

“I’ve never been to Halifax,” Jess said.

Summers seized on her comment like a lifeline. “It’s a wonderful city. I hope you’ll have a chance to spend a day there, at least, while you’re here. The entire South Shore is worth seeing. Lunenburg can occupy you for quite some time.”

“What would you recommend I see?”

O’Malley scowled at her as if she’d interfered with a homicide investigation. He said nothing, just downed a final scone in two bites. Jess chatted with their fellow guest about South Shore sites, then got him to recommend hiking trails. O’Malley finally growled under his breath and excused himself.

Summers nodded at his retreating figure. “You two know each other?”

“We work together,” Jess said vaguely. It was close enough to the truth. “He had a bad experience before coming up here.”

“He reminds me of a cop. Are you two in law enforcement?”

Jess sighed, then smiled. “Caught. Brendan’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor.”

He didn’t seem pleased that he’d guessed right. “Have you prosecuted many domestic abuse cases?”

“Too many on the one hand, too few on the other.”

“Meaning domestic violence shouldn’t happen, ever, but it does and you want to get all the perpetrators.” Summers nodded with understanding. “Our hostess left an abusive marriage two years ago. She’s a very courageous woman. She’s come a long way in a relatively short time.”

Jess set her plate down, no longer hungry. “The scar above her eye?”

“Her ex-husband’s handiwork. He was convicted. He’s out of prison now. He was a businessman in Halifax, but he’s relocated to Calgary.” Summers’s expression didn’t change, but Jess could feel his sarcasm. “Apparently he said he needed a fresh start.”

“Not for her sake, I’ll bet.”

“He’s from western Canada originally. His reputation here was in tatters. People didn’t want to believe he was capable of abuse, but the knife cut ended their denial.”

Jess wondered why he was telling her all this. “It looks as if Marianne’s built a new life for herself.”

“She has. It wasn’t easy. She told me she used to worry constantly that he’d come back. On some level, I think she still does.”

“The emotional wounds of abuse can take a long time to heal.”

He looked away. “Sometimes I wonder if they ever do, if someone who’s been through that kind of horror can love and trust someone again—” He broke off, as if he hadn’t meant to go that far, adding sharply, “Marianne has put all she has—her time, her money, her energy, her love—into getting this place up and running, into her life here. She has friends, she volunteers at a local shelter.”

Something about his manner struck Jess as antagonistic, even accusatory. “Mr. Summers, we’re not here to upset anyone—”

“What happened to your friend Detective O’Malley? He’s had a recent brush with violence, hasn’t he?”

“You’re very perceptive. It wasn’t a major incident, fortunately.”

“But it wasn’t the first. Men like him—” Summers paused, seeming to debate the wisdom of what he wanted to say. “They’re magnets for violence.”

“Not O’Malley,” Jess said, although she didn’t know why she felt the need to defend him.

Summers looked past her. “I’ve been her only guest on and off since I arrived, especially during the week. Weekends she’s usually full.” But he had a distant look in his eye, as if he wouldn’t necessarily trust himself—or maybe Jess was reading something into his manner that wasn’t there because of O’Malley’s instant suspicion of him. Summers drifted off a moment, then smiled abruptly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re not the one who was rude.”

He almost laughed. “Well, I suppose we want a homicide detective to be of a suspicious nature. Does he give everyone the third-degree like that?”

“Actually, no. I think he’s just on edge.”

“It’s taken a lot of courage and effort for Marianne to build a life for herself that’s free of violence. See to it he keeps himself in check, okay?”

“Mr. Summers, Brendan has never lost control—”

“I’m sure he hasn’t.” He made a face, rubbing the back of his neck as he heaved a sigh. “And I’m sure Marianne would have a fit if she thought I was protecting her. She can take care of herself. She has a great group of friends. She’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever met.”

Jess smiled at him. “Smitten, are you, Mr. Summers?”

His cheeks reddened slightly. “I guess there’s no point in hiding it.”

“She’s not interested?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t—” He frowned suddenly. “You must be a hell of a prosecutor, Ms. Stewart. I didn’t mean to tell you any of this.”

“Call me Jess,” she said. “And, yes, I do okay in my work.”

She joined O’Malley in the English-style garden, filled with pink foxglove, purple Jacob’s ladder, pale pink astilbe, painted daisies, sweet William, lady’s mantle and a range of annuals. He looked as if he could stomp them all into the dirt. Jess inhaled deeply. “I could get into gardening.”

“The guy’s lying about something.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t know that.”

He mock-glared at her. “Your gut’s telling you the same thing.”

“Maybe, but not all untruths are nefarious untruths. What set you off?”

“He’s been here a month, shows up looking like he could scale the Himalayas. This isn’t your ‘outdoors guy’ kind of place.”

Jess smiled, amused. “Because of the pink towels?”

“You know what I’m saying.”

“No, I don’t. You’re here—”

“That’s karma or something. I can’t explain it.” He grimaced, as if the thought of trying to explain how he’d ended up at the Wild Raspberry made him miserable. “Whatever Summers is hiding, it’s more than a social lie.”

“Like telling me you’re staying home in bed when you’re actually packing for Nova Scotia?”

“That was a strategic lie. I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone otherwise.” He had a sexy glint in his eyes that he seemed able to produce at will. “You didn’t, anyway.”

“You can be alone after you’re over the shooting.”

“I was over the shooting once I knew the bullet missed.”

Jess didn’t argue with him and instead related her conversation with their fellow guest. O’Malley looked disgusted. “I hate wife-beaters. I knew a guy my first year on the force who beat up his wife and kids. He was a good cop. No one wanted to believe it, but it was true.”

“What happened to him?”

“He went through anger management—after his wife packed up herself and the kids and got out of there before he could do more damage. He lost his job. He screwed up a lot of lives, including his own, before he figured out he was the one who had to change. Most guys don’t ever figure that out. It was an eye-opener for the rest of us, seeing that a guy we respected was capable of beating up on his wife and kids.”

Jess glanced back at the porch. “If Summers has a thing for Marianne and has lied—”

“She’s not going to like it.”

“He seems to admire her a great deal.”

“Maybe.” O’Malley tilted his head back and smiled. “The sun and sea agree with you, Stewart. You’re looking good this afternoon.”

“I wish I could say the same for you.”

“I don’t look so good?”

“No. You look like you had a bullet whiz past your head a couple of days ago.”

He shrugged. “You still think I’m sexy.”

“Where did you get the idea—”

“Uh-uh. You can’t take it back. I heard you whisper it when we were in the sack—”

“Not so loud!”

He grinned broadly. “Shy?”

“I just don’t need to be reminded. You’re the lone-wolf type, O’Malley. Two seconds with you, and people know it.”

“Lone-wolf type? What the hell’s that? I like women.”

“My point, exactly. Women. Plural.”

He stared at her as if she’d just turned chartreuse.

“I don’t want to fall for a guy like that,” she told him.

“Hey. Lone-wolf. A guy like that. I think I’m being categorized here. You’re not the only one who did some talking that night—”

“Yours was just of the moment. You were pretending to be what I wanted you to be.”

He stared at her. “Stewart, where are you getting this stuff?”

But after his recent brush with death, Jess didn’t want to get into an intimate, emotional talk with him. She didn’t regret their night together, but she’d made the mistake of letting him know that she was attracted to him on a level that just wasn’t smart. He’d responded in kind, but she knew better than to take what he’d said to heart.

No wonder he’d run off to Nova Scotia.

She squared her shoulders. “I followed you up here as a concerned colleague, nothing more.”

“Uh-uh.” He sounded totally disbelieving. “You didn’t kiss me like a concerned colleague—”

“Well, you’d been shot at. I thought I could indulge you that once.”

“It was a charity kiss?”

“Something like that.”

He grinned at her. “Then I’ll have to figure out a way to get another.”

CHAPTER THREE

O’Malley dragged Jess out for dinner and a scenic drive through beautiful Lunenburg with its restored historic houses, narrow streets and picturesque waterfront, then on along the coast, past lighthouses and coves and cliffs. When they arrived back at the Wild Raspberry, Jess found a book in the library and settled on the front porch. She looked content, not so worried about him. O’Malley felt less jumpy, less as if he could—and should—run clear across Canada and not come up for air until he got to Vancouver.

Not that the dark-eyed Boston prosecutor on the front porch had a calming effect on him.

Suddenly agitated, he stormed down the steps and walked across the road to the water. The tide was going out, seagulls wheeling overhead, a cool breeze bringing with it the smell of the ocean. The sun had dipped low on the other side of the island, and dusk was coming slowly.

He spotted Marianne Wells sitting on a large boulder, her knees tucked up under her chin, her arms around her shins as she stared out at the Atlantic. Not wanting to disturb her solitude, he veered off in the other direction, heading down to a shallow tide pool forming amidst the wave-smoothed rocks as the water receded.

“Detective O’Malley?” Marianne jumped up off her boulder and trotted down to him, her agility on the rocky shore impressive. He paused, waiting for her to catch up to him. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

She didn’t jump right in with what was on her mind, but nodded at the tide pool. “It’s amazing—it never changes. I’ve come out here every day since I got here. I had the house, friends—hope. I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“I understand you’re a survivor of domestic abuse.”

“My husband started out by isolating me from my family and friends. He worked on my self-esteem, belittling me, telling me I was ugly, stupid, going into rages when I made even the tiniest mistake—” She took a breath, but didn’t look away from him. “He didn’t hit me at first. That came later.”

“How long were you with him?”

“We met a year before we married. We were married for seven years.”

“No children?”

She shook her head. “That helped when it came to making a clean break with my abuser. Visitation access often becomes another way for abusers to continue to control women. And children…what they see, their own lack of control…”

“It’s a vicious cycle,” O’Malley said.

“I gave up a lot when I decided to do something about my situation. There’s no denying that I didn’t. It’s not just challenging the violence that takes courage, but deciding to give up the status quo and embrace an uncertain future.”

“I’ve been to too many domestic-abuse crime scenes. Are you worried this guy’ll come back?”

“A tiny bit less with each day he doesn’t. I’m prepared for that fear to go on. I’ve found ways to live with it. I have a lot of support.”

“You’ve done a good job with your place here.”

She smiled, but without looking at him. “I didn’t think I could do it. I thought I’d fail. A part of me believed he was right about me. But I got up each morning, and I did what I could. Then I got up the next morning, and I did a little more. Bit by bit, it came together.”

“You deserve a lot of credit.”

“Taking that first step was so scary and difficult. I was in the local library—I thought if I could go online and find some information, maybe it’d help.” She crossed her arms on her chest, against the breeze. “I found the Shelternet Web site. It has a clickable map of Canada with links to local shelters, detailed information on how to make a safety plan, stories of other abused women. I sat there and read every word.”

“How long before you went to a shelter?”

“A month. Abuse—it does things to your head.”

“But you did it,” O’Malley said.

She ran the toe of her sandal over a hunk of slimy seaweed. “My life was as big a wreck as this place was when I bought it. But I was living a violent-free life. That gave me such hope, such energy. It still does. I’m taking care of myself for the first time in a very long time. That matters.”

“It matters a lot.”

“I’d always dreamed of opening a bed-and-breakfast on the coast. I love it out here. I live in the guest house—it’s perfect for me—and have the house for guests. That might change one day, or it might not. I’m just enjoying the moment. And I’ve done exactly what I want with the place.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “I decided—I like pink. Raspberry, watermelon, orange-pink, petal pink. I didn’t have to explain it to anyone or excuse it or pretend I liked chartreuse or rust when I like pink.”

O’Malley smiled at her. “I’m not as big on pink as you are.”

She laughed. “I appreciate your honesty. Anyway, I don’t mean to bore you—”

“You’re not boring me,” he said sincerely.

She angled a look at him. “That’s why you do police work, isn’t it? Because you like people, you like to figure them out?”

“My father was a cop. I knew the work suited me.”

“Jessica? She says she was a police officer, too.”

“For a few years.”

“Her father—”

“Investment banker. Very white bread. Her mother is a volunteer for a bunch of different charities. They almost had a heart attack when she got accepted to the police academy.”

“But they supported her decision? They didn’t try to stop her?”

“They were the proudest parents at her graduation.”

“Good for them.”

O’Malley knew Marianne hadn’t joined him at the tide pool to chitchat. “Look—”

“I think someone’s snooping on me,” she blurted.

“What do you mean, snooping? Spying? Stalking you?”

She shook her head. “Nothing that overt. There’ve been these odd incidents.” She took a breath, not going on.

“Like what?” he prodded.

She squatted down, dipping a hand into the cold water, her back to him. “I don’t imagine things. I don’t make things out to be worse than they are. The fears I have—they’re real fears.”

“You think your ex-husband is in the area?”

“Let’s say I fear it.”

But she didn’t go on, seemed unable to. O’Malley walked around to the other side of the tide pool and squatted down, noticing that she had grabbed something from the bottom of the pool. “What do you have?”

“Starfish,” she said, and smiled as she lifted it out of the water and showed it to him. “I used to love to collect things from tide pools when I was a little girl. I’d put everything back, of course. Once—once I forgot, and I was mortified for days.”

A sensitive soul. “I understand.”

Her eyes met his, just for an instant, and she replaced the starfish back in the water. “When I got up this morning, before you and Jessica arrived, I was positive someone had been through the Saratoga trunk in the living room during the night. It’s an antique, from my great-grandmother.”

“The living room’s open to guests?”

She nodded. “But no one—it was just John Summers here last night. And he wouldn’t be interested in the contents of an old trunk. He’s a hiker. He goes out every day for hours. He pays me extra to load up his daypack with lunch and snacks.”

“What’s in the trunk?”

“Nothing of any value to anyone but me. Family photo albums and scrapbooks of my life before I married.” She spoke clearly, directly, without any hint of trying to hide something. “Some old books and diaries.”

“Your diaries?”

“Oh, no. My great-grandmother’s. She and my great-grandfather came to Nova Scotia from Scotland.”

“Have you read her diary?”

“Bits and pieces. It feels like prying, frankly.”

O’Malley shrugged. “That’s half of what I do for a living. What made you think someone had been in the trunk? Was the latch open, something like that?”

“It was moved and—” She thought a moment as she got to her feet. “I’d draped a throw over it last night. It was on the couch this morning.”

“Maybe Summers couldn’t sleep and came downstairs to read for a while, get a change of scenery, and used the throw to keep his feet warm.”

“It’s possible.” She smiled. “I like that theory.”

“Any other incidents?”

“A few more like that.”

“All with personal items?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing that’d tempt you to call the police?”

“No, not yet. I just feel—I don’t know how to describe it. Like somebody’s looking for something, prying into my life, or if not my life, my family’s past. It’s a very strange feeling.”

“Anything exciting about your family’s past?”

She frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Was one of your ancestors secretly married to the Prince of Wales or something?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that.”

“But like something else?”

“Well—” She shook her head, laughing a little. “My great-grandmother lived in this area during a famous, tragic incident when a Halifax heiress ran off with a no-account foreign sailor. Irish, I think. Their boat went down in a storm just beyond the cove here.”

“They were killed?”

“Drowned.”

“Bodies recovered?”

Marianne nodded sadly. “There are rumors the heiress had taken gold coins and jewels with her, as a nest egg for her new life.”

O’Malley watched her expression and, from long experience, knew there was more to the story. “No sign of them?”

“It depends on whom you believe.”

Vague answer, but he didn’t push.

“None of this is like my ex-husband. He’s more the type to take a baseball bat to the kitchen because I left a coffee filter in the sink. But I haven’t seen him in two years. I don’t know—” She left it at that, then said abruptly, “I’ll walk back to the house with you. Would you and Jessica care for some blueberry wine? It’s made by a local winery. It’s quite good.”

O’Malley winked at her. “So long as it’s not raspberry wine.”

She laughed again, seeming more relaxed now that she’d told someone about her snooper. He wanted to know what she was holding back, but he doubted he’d get it out of her tonight. Marianne Wells was a direct, strong, self-contained woman, comfortable in her own skin. He wondered how much of that had been there before her husband went to work on her, and how much she’d had to get back, rediscover and build after she got him and his violence out of her life.

When they crossed the road, she paused at the base of the porch steps, then turned abruptly to him. “It’s all too easy, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“To hide yourself from the truth. I pretended for such a long time that I wasn’t living the life I was living.”

“Well, you know what they say.”

“What’s that?”

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.”

“Oh, stop. Oh—oh, that is so lame!” She called up to the porch. “Jessica, your friend here is just awful.”

Jess slid off her swing and stood at the top of the steps, the evening light catching the lighter streaks in her hair. O’Malley had tried to pretend she wasn’t as beautiful as she was. Talk about hiding from the truth. She grinned at him and Marianne. “Is he telling you stupid jokes?”

“Close. Very lame pearls of wisdom.”

Jess winced, still grinning. “That’s our Detective O’Malley. He’s got a saying for every occasion. His brothers are the same. They can reduce complicated issues and emotions to soundbites.”

“Well,” Marianne said cheerfully, “I guess it’s a gift.”

She trotted up the steps, a lightness in her gait that hadn’t been there before, and went inside to fetch the blueberry wine.

O’Malley joined Jess on the porch. “Where’s Summers?”

“He turned in early. What were you and Marianne talking about?”

“Violent men, snoops and treasure lost at sea.”

“I hate the idea of violent men. Snoops can go either way. Treasure lost at sea—now, that could be fun.”

“I’ll tell you all about it. Speaking of snoops, how’d you like my apartment yesterday?”

“No vermin. That’s something.”

“No interior decorator, either.” He moved in closer to her, smelling the scented soap she’d used in the shower. “It’s a shame we’re paying for two rooms.”

“O’Malley—” She blew at a stray lock of hair that had dropped onto her forehead. “Damn.”

“Hot all of a sudden, huh?”

“It’s too late not to pay for both rooms…”

“We could do Marianne a big favor and pay for both rooms, but only actually use one. Save her on cleaning, anyway.”

“You’re just looking for distractions.”

“It was your idea to come up here and become one.”

But before she could respond, their hostess arrived on the porch with three glasses and an open bottle of blueberry wine.

Jess woke up very early and wandered outside to catch the sunrise, thinking of the rest of the continent still shrouded in darkness as the first morning rays skimmed the horizon and glowed orange on the ocean. Fishing boats puttered across the mirror like water, leaving a gentle wake, the quiet and stillness disturbed only by a few seagulls.

She’d never been anywhere more beautiful, and yet she couldn’t relax.

It was O’Malley, of course. She’d dreamed about him.

Not good. An intelligent woman had no business dreaming about a Boston homicide detective with a penchant for getting himself shot at. Never mind all the other reasons. The tight-knit family where she would always be a stranger, the lone-wolf apartment that showed no sign of needing anyone to share it, the dedication to the job that bordered on obsession.

Then again, those could be the same reasons he was avoiding getting more involved with her. She thought of her own family, her own apartment, her own dedication to her job.

But she’d never been shot at, even during her five years on the police force.

She’d also never been more comfortable with anyone than she was with Brendan O’Malley.

Taking a deep breath, Jess pushed all thought of him out of her mind and focused on the sunrise as she walked down to the water’s edge. It was just before low tide, which only added to the stillness, the sense of solitude and isolation.

When she returned to the Wild Raspberry, Marianne was up, humming as she worked in the kitchen. Jess called good morning, startling her. Marianne jumped, clutching her heart as she turned, recognized her guest, and collapsed against the counter. “I didn’t realize you were up. Everything’s all right? I’m fixing breakfast—”

“Everything’s fine,” Jess said. “Don’t let me disturb you.”

“It’s no problem.”

But Marianne’s skin was pale—paler than it should have been. She must be used to guests getting up at different hours. Jess found herself lingering in the kitchen doorway. “Marianne? Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

John Summers appeared behind Jess in the hall. “What’s going on?” he asked, immediately attuned to Marianne’s tension.

“Nothing, I hope,” Jess said. “I was out for a walk and startled Marianne when I came in.”

Marianne turned quickly. “It happens sometimes,” she mumbled, dismissing the subject as she busied herself pulling pots and frying pans out of a low cupboard.

Summers started to say something, then changed his mind and stalked out to the dining room. He sat at the smallest of three tables, snatched up a Halifax newspaper and held it up, a none-too-subtle way to cut off conversation. Jess didn’t know if she’d annoyed him or he just wasn’t a morning person.

She helped herself to a bowl of cut fruit—including raspberries—that Marianne had already put out on a sideboard. The breakfast room was as quirky and cheerful as the rest of the house, done in yellows and blues with raspberry accents. Summers’s grumpiness was out of place.

Sitting at the farthest table from him, Jess decided to confront him. “Mr. Summers—”

He sighed audibly, folded his newspaper and set it on the table. “Something’s wrong with Marianne. She’s on edge. She wasn’t like that when I first arrived.”

Given Marianne’s personal background and her talk of snoops and treasure with O’Malley, Jess was especially interested in Summers’s observation. “How long has she been on edge?”

“A week or so.” He eyed Jess a moment, as if she were responsible for their hostess’s mood, then sighed again. “I’m sorry. I wanted to blame you and your cop friend, but she’s been jumpy since before you two arrived.”

Jess could understand his desire to blame her and O’Malley. A cop and a prosecutor could remind an abuse survivor of her past, dredge up fears and insecurities she thought she’d put behind her. It would make Marianne’s uneasiness easier to explain. But it wasn’t the case.

“You’ve been here a while,” she said. “Any idea what’s going on?”

Summers didn’t answer at once, then lurched to his feet, muttering, “I hope it’s not me.”

Not one to let a comment like that go, Jess leaned back in her chair, chose a fat raspberry from the top of her fruit and watched Summers’s stiff back as he grabbed a small glass bowl. “Why would it be you?” she asked.

He glanced over at her. “I’ve been here too long.”

“Hiking?”

“I think of it as exploring.”

He loaded up his bowl with fruit and took it out to the back porch without a word.

O’Malley came downstairs and sat across from Jess. He was showered and dressed, but he hadn’t shaved, which didn’t help her already supercharged reaction to him. The dark stubble on his jaw somehow made the scar forming on his forehead from the bullet graze stand out even more.

She pushed her bowl toward him. “Help yourself. I got too much.”

“What’s with Summers? Doesn’t like to talk to people in the morning, or did you irritate him?”

“Perhaps both.” But she told O’Malley about Marianne and Summers’s reaction to her jumpiness, then added, “I wonder if something is going on around here. Do you think the ex-husband could be back? Abusers generally don’t respect law and authority. And they don’t like to give up. He could have got to thinking about her, found out what a success she’s made of this place and decided to come back and resume control over her and her life.”

“It’s possible.”

“But you don’t think so.” Jess sighed. “Neither do I.”

“Maybe Summers and Marianne have a thing for each other and don’t know what to do about it.” His dark eyes lifted to Jess. “Sound familiar?”

“I don’t have a thing for you, O’Malley.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t give me that dubious tone—and stop with the sexy twitch of the eyebrows.”

“I had an itch.”

“Ha.”

“You just think everything I do is sexy.”

It was true, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. “We’re friends. We let our friendship get out of hand. Insisting I’m falling for you is just another way for you to avoid dealing with the real issue.”

“Which is what? That I almost got my head blown off the other day?”

She bit off a sigh. “Bravado, bravado, bravado.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me more about Summers.”

“He’s tense, he’s abrupt and he’s more on edge than our hostess.”

“Who is making up a hell of a breakfast this morning from the smell of it.”

“Brendan—”

“I have no authority in Canada. Neither do you. If we have reason to suspect something’s going on, we can call the local police, just like anyone else. That’s it.”

“You still think the guy’s hiding something?”

“Yep.” O’Malley held a raspberry up to one eye and examined it as if it were a diamond. “I think there’s a worm in it.”

“There is not—”

He popped it into his mouth and grinned at her. “Let’s hope you’re right. What do you want to do today? Go kayaking, or discuss my post-traumatic stress symptoms?”

“Both.”

“Can’t do both. What else?”

Jess lowered her voice. “I thought we might sneak up to the attic—”

“And search our fellow guest’s room? You’re going to get us arrested.”

But she could tell he’d already thought of it, too. “Not if we’re right and he’s hiding something.”

Summers returned from the porch in a moderately better mood, and Marianne set out an enormous breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled tomatoes, corn muffins, streusel muffins and jam. Marianne’s friend Pat, who also did the cleaning, had made the muffins. There was coffee, tea, juice and hot chocolate. Jess figured if she ate even a little of everything, she’d have to do a lot of kayaking to burn up the calories.

Hiking up the steep stairs to the attic wouldn’t hurt, either.

When Summers retreated to his room after breakfast, O’Malley and Jess postponed checking out their fellow guest and instead went kayaking. Marianne provided all the equipment they needed—kayaks, paddles, life vests, emergency whistles, dry packs—and suggested several scenic routes that would take the many where from a couple hours to all day. O’Malley picked one that would have him in a restaurant, eating fresh scallops and drinking beer, by lunchtime.

After watching Jess drop her behind into the cockpit of her kayak and paddle two strokes, he forgot all about the scallops and beer and started looking for a secluded beach.

She seemed to sense his thoughts as they made their way along the shallow, rocky shoreline. “It’s a romantic spot, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

“Is that why you picked it?”

“Jess, I came up here alone. I had lobster and scallops on my mind—a few days on my own, not romance.”

She gave him one of her mysterious smiles. “I don’t believe you.”

“You think I had you in mind?”

But she stroked hard, pushing her boat ahead of him, and he cursed himself for being so obtuse. He held back, noticing the play of muscles in her arms and shoulders. She was strong. She worked hard, she was smart, she was dedicated.

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