“We’re a lot alike, Sidney. Workaholics with no sense of time or place.”

She smiled. “And here I was thinking how different we are.”

“In what way?”

“You’re at home any place in the world. I’m only happy when I’m here in Devil’s Cove. You willingly put yourself in harm’s way for the sake of your job. I’m the biggest coward in the world. I can’t imagine having the courage to face down danger over and over again.”

“But what about the perils of everyday life? There are different degrees of danger. You never know how much courage you have until you’re called upon to face a challenge.”

He took her empty mug from her hand and gathered her into his arms. “Enough talk about how alike or different we are. There’s one thing we can absolutely agree on.”

Whatever she’d been about to say was gone from her mind in an instant as, with one kiss, one touch, she lost herself in the pleasure he offered….

Dear Reader,

The weather’s hot, and so are all six of this month’s Silhouette Intimate Moments books. We have a real focus on miniseries this time around, starting with the last in Ruth Langan’s DEVIL’S COVE quartet, Retribution. Mix a hero looking to heal his battered soul, a heroine who gives him a reason to smile again and a whole lot of danger, and you’ve got a recipe for irresistible reading.

Linda Turner’s back—after way too long—with the first of her new miniseries, TURNING POINTS. A beautiful photographer who caught the wrong person in her lens has no choice but to ask the cops—make that one particular cop—for help, and now both her life and her heart are in danger of being lost. FAMILY SECRETS: THE NEXT GENERATION continues with Marie Ferrarella’s Immovable Objects, featuring a heroine who walks the line between legal, illegal—and love. Dangerous Deception from Kylie Brant continues THE TREMAINE TRADITION of mixing suspense and romance—not to mention sensuality—in doses no reader will want to resist. And don’t miss our standalone titles, either. Cindy Dees introduces you to A Gentleman and A Soldier in a military reunion romance that will have your heart pounding and your fingers turning the pages as fast as they can. Finally, welcome Mary Buckham, whose debut novel, The Makeover Mission, takes a plain Jane and turns her into a princess—literally. Problem is, this princess is in danger, and now so is Jane.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month for the best in romantic excitement, only from Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

Ruth Langan
Retribution

RUTH LANGAN

is an award-winning and bestselling author of contemporary and historical romance. Her books have been finalists for the Romance Writers of America’s (RWA) RITA® Award. Over the years, she has given dozens of print, radio and TV interviews, including Good Morning America and CNN News, and has been quoted in such diverse publications as the Wall Street Journal, Cosmopolitan and the Detroit Free Press. Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and raised. Ruth enjoys hearing from her readers. Letters can be sent via e-mail to ryanlangan@aol.com or via her Web site at www.ryanlangan.com.

To Tom, with love

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Prologue

Tuscany—1998

Sidney Brennan worked quickly to catch the last rays of the fading sunlight that fanned over the pale, sun-washed landscape. The distant villa, with its stucco walls and tiled roof, was framed with those long rows of grapevines that grew in such profusion. She mixed the paints on her palette until she had the perfect shade of light that tinted the hills surrounding the village in hues of terra-cotta and burnt umber.

At last she set down her paints and took a moment to assess her work. Though she’d captured the feeling of the place where she was staying, the painting didn’t move her. Instead, it left her feeling empty.

Like her life. Like her heart. Like her future.

The best that could be said about it was that it was merely adequate. There was no passion. No fire. Anyone looking at it would recognize this place. But would they feel the burning desire to live here? Did the painting call to them?

What was calling to her was food. She touched a hand to her middle and realized she’d forgotten to eat. Again. Picking up the canvas and paints, the easel and stool, she lugged them across the field and stowed them just inside the door of the villa before going to the kitchen in search of food. Half an hour later she sat on a little balcony and nibbled cheese and bread, washing it down with wine while she watched the sun set over those glorious, purple-hued hills.

This lovely old villa in Tuscany was to have been her haven while her heart healed and she immersed herself in the great passion of her life. She’d come to this place to follow a dream. Instead, it had become her prison. The solitude she had always enjoyed was now filled with utter loneliness. She was bedeviled with memories. Memories that had begun to affect her work. Though she was perfectly capable of capturing the light, the scenery, the feelings of this place, there was no denying that the work she was turning out was mediocre at best.

Sipping her wine she closed her eyes to the beauty around her and drifted back to the month before graduating college.

Silver mylar balloons floated above the hospital bed, anchored by an ice bucket painted with a happy face. Champagne and tulip glasses were cooling on ice. The groom-to-be, too weak to stand, lay surrounded by pillows. He wore a tuxedo jacket over his hospital gown, with a white rosebud pinned to his lapel. His mother and father stood beside the bed, exchanging anxious, worried looks.

The entire Brennan family was there. Judge Frank Brennan, who would perform the ceremony, stood beside his wife Alberta, whom everybody called Bert. Their daughter-in-law Charlotte, nicknamed Charley, stood with her daughters Emily, Hannah and Courtney, dressed in pale pink confections that made them look like prom queens. “The Wedding March” drifted over the intercom, and patients and their families stood in the doorways of their rooms to watch as the young bride, dressed in a traditional white-lace gown, walked slowly along the hallway on the arm of her father, Dr. Christopher Brennan. As they progressed to the groom’s bed, those on the cardiac floor who were mobile followed, until the room and the hallway outside were filled to over-flowing with curious onlookers.

The bride settled herself on the edge of the bed beside her husband-to-be, and handed her bouquet to her sister, Emily. When the music ended, the young couple joined hands.

The judge cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved.” He swallowed the lump that threatened, and forced himself to continue in a strong clear voice. “We are gathered together for the most joyous of occasions. The union of this man to this woman in holy matrimony.” He closed his book and glanced around. “Sidney and Curt have written their own ceremony, and ask only that we share this moment and offer our blessings.”

He nodded at the young couple, who were staring into each other’s eyes with matching looks of love and wonderment.

The groom-to-be spoke first in halting tones, pausing often for a wheezing breath. Beside him, a machine gave off blips that matched his erratic heartbeats.

“Sidney, the first time I saw you, with that red hair flowing down your back and those eyes as green as shamrocks, I was determined to get to know you. I figured I didn’t stand a chance, since you were the most popular student on campus. But after one meeting, I knew that I wanted more than friendship. I sensed that you were fated to be my wife.”

Sidney smiled. “I can top that. I fell in love with you before I even saw you. I remember seeing a bronze sculpture of three little ducklings. One had just fallen off a curb, and the other two were poised, as though to follow. I was so enchanted by the work, I stood there for an hour or more, marveling at the fact that I could almost feel their downy feathers and hear their little quacks of distress. And then a week later I met the artist, and I knew I’d met my soul mate.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “This isn’t exactly the way I’d planned our wedding. And certainly not what I’d hoped for our future. But I’m grateful for the time we’ve had.” He closed his eyes, as though even that small effort cost too much. “You’ve given my life meaning, Sidney. Just knowing you, loving you and knowing you love me, is enough for a lifetime.”

His hand released its grip on hers and fell limply at his side. Sidney leaned over to brush a kiss on his lips and felt the lack of response. At the same instant a machine beside the bed began emitting one long continuous beep. It was, to Sidney’s ears, the most chilling sound she’d ever heard.

Dr. Christopher Brennan shoved his way toward the bed, touching a hand to his patient’s chest. When he looked up, his eyes met his wife’s.

She put her arms around their daughter, gathering her close as Christopher gave a shake of his head. “I’m sorry. We thought there might be enough time. But it’s…too late.”

Curt’s mother was weeping while his father stood beside her, looking lost and helpless.

A nurse began hustling the others from the room.

Before the family could make their exit, Sidney caught her grandfather’s arm. “Wait, Poppie. Say the words. I need…I need to hear the words that would have made us husband and wife.”

The old man arched an eyebrow and glanced at his wife. At her little nod he cleared his throat. The book in his hand was forgotten. Now he would simply improvise, and hope he could find something to say that might ease the pain of the moment for all of them, but especially for this sweet, beloved granddaughter who had always seemed more delicate, more fragile than her sisters. The depth of her pain and grief tore at his heart.

“We have all witnessed the two of you pledge your love to one another. It matters not whether you had the opportunity to be joined as husband and wife, but rather that your intentions were true. It matters not that one heart stopped, for the other heart is strong enough for two. And so I declare, by the power vested in me, that the pledge made this day will be remembered by all assembled here, as it will be recorded, I’m sure, in both your hearts for all time.”

Sidney opened her eyes. The Tuscany landscape was now steeped in shadow. The air had grown cooler, forcing her to draw a shawl around her shoulders.

She’d come here because it had been Curt’s dream. It was all he’d talked about. Her graduation, their marriage and the year they would spend in this lush, lovely place, living in an ancient villa that belonged to a friend of the family, while studying the masters.

Poppie was fond of saying that plans were what people made while real life was happening around them.

The realization came slowly, like the light fading behind the craggy mountain peaks in the distance. She couldn’t go on living Curt’s dreams. She had to live her own. In the real world.

She needed to go home to her family. Back to Devil’s Cove. To paint the things she’d always loved. Nature. Wildlife. Especially waterfowl. Wasn’t that what had first attracted her to Curt? The fact that they shared a love of art, a love of waterfowl, and their delightful antics had been a special bond between them.

For the first time in a year she felt a stirring of hope. Of life. Curt was gone, and the pain of that loss would never leave her. But the dream lived on. Only now, it must be her dream. Her choice. Her future.

She must face it alone.

Chapter 1

Devil’s Cove—Present Day

“I know, Picasso. You’re always in a hurry.” Sidney looked over at the scrawny mutt with gray, wiry hair that made him look like a cross between a steel-wool scrubbing pad and a wire brush. She’d found him cowering in the woods the previous winter, and was delighted when her ad in the local newspaper had produced no one interested in claiming him, for the truth was that this poor, bedraggled little dog had stolen her heart. “Why can’t you be serene like Toulouse?”

The object of her praise, a black-and-white tabby that had wandered in several months ago and had made himself at home, was busy weaving figure eights between the dog’s legs. Odd, Sidney thought, that these two different animals had formed an instant bond. As though each recognized in the other a kindred spirit. The lost and lonely, seeking love and the comfort of home, someone to tend to their needs.

But while she was tending them, she realized they were filling a need in her, as well. They might be just two little animals, but they were someone to talk to in the silence of the day. Warm bodies in the darkness of the night. Boon companions to whom she could confide her most intimate secrets, without fear of ever having them revealed to others. Their companionship eased the enforced loneliness that had become a necessary part of her life.

“All right. I know it’s time to go.” With a sigh, Sidney drained the last of her coffee and set the cup in the dishwasher before picking up her easel and canvas, a wooden case that held her paints and brushes and a small folding stool. All of these were placed in an old wooden wagon.

The minute she opened the door, the dog and cat ran ahead, ready for another day of adventure.

“Oh, sure. Once we’re outside, you never wait for me.” With a laugh she closed the door to the little cabin that she now called home.

When she’d first returned to Devil’s Cove, she’d lived at the Willows, the lovely old mansion over-looking Lake Michigan that had been her family’s home for more than fifty years. That was where her grandparents lived, and where her mother had first come as a bride, with her father. It was where they had raised their four daughters, and where each of Sidney’s sisters had lived until finding a home of their own.

For the first few months Sidney had welcomed the tender ministrations of her family. The serene walks along the shore with Bert. The long, late-night talks with Poppie in his study. And the determination of Trudy, their lifelong housekeeper, to, as she had said in that wonderful old rusty-gate voice, “ply her with food and put some weight on her bones.” But before long Sidney had recognized the worried looks, the questioning glances that passed between her family members. Their constant hovering had begun to make her feel helpless and more than a little smothered. Despite the fact that she was still grieving, and feeling confused about how to get on with her life, she recognized that it would be far too easy to become dependent upon her family for the strengths she needed to find within herself.

“Not yet, dear,” Bert had said gently when Sidney first mentioned finding a place of her own. “It’s too soon. Your emotions are still too raw. Let us indulge you a while longer.”

“Besides,” Poppie had said a bit more vehemently. “Who would stay up late with me and argue the latest murder cases being aired on the news?”

“If you go,” Trudy said in that raspy voice roughened by years of smoking, “your grandfather will be forced to eat an entire batch of chocolate-chip cookies by himself. And then his cholesterol will go up, and his blood pressure, and who knows what else?”

Sidney had remained adamant. “I won’t be bribed or made to feel guilty about going. It’s time.”

Once she’d begun seriously shopping for a place to call her own, her mother, Charley, a real-estate agent, had discovered this little cabin in the woods. From the moment Sidney set foot inside, she’d known it was meant to be.

She still felt a thrill each time she returned home. She loved everything about it. The way it sat, snug and perfect amid the towering pines that surrounded it. The way the waters of Lake Michigan, shimmering just a stone’s throw away, beckoned. The cozy feeling of the cedar logs that formed the walls, and the high, natural wood beams framing skylights that allowed light to stream in even on the grayest of days. Though it was small, with just a single bedroom, a great room and galley kitchen, it was more than enough space for her. She’d turned the upper loft into her studio where she could happily lose herself in her work, when the weather wouldn’t permit her to paint outside. Despite the unreliable Michigan weather and its often turbulent storms, Sidney much preferred to paint in the open air, by the water’s edge, rather than paint her subjects from memory. There was just something about the antics of the waterfowl that were her specialty that could always be counted on to make her smile. The ducks, the geese, the herons that fished these waters were natural clowns, causing no end of amusement. Best of all, they seemed undisturbed by her presence. Because they’d become accustomed to her sitting at her easel along the shore, they went about their business without distraction.

With the dog and cat sniffing a hundred scents in the forest, Sidney pulled the loaded wagon along the trail through the woods until she emerged in bright sunlight at the water’s edge. This was one of her favorite spots. It took only minutes to set up her equipment. Then, after watching a family of ducks splashing near shore, beside a half-submerged wooden rowboat that had stood along the shore for years, she picked up her brush and began to bring them to life on her canvas.

Adam Morgan sat straight up in bed, ready to bolt, when he came fully awake and realized he’d been in the throes of the recurring nightmare. Rubbing a hand over his face, it took him a moment to gather his thoughts. The doctors had warned him that these terrifying dreams were part of the healing process. Though the wounds to his body were visible, and therefore easier to tend, the ones in his mind were no less serious. There were too many things about the incident that were still lost to his conscious memory. But they were there, locked away in his mind, and when he relaxed in sleep, they rose to the surface, taunting him with bits and pieces of the terror he’d experienced. There was still so much about the accident that he couldn’t remember. But he’d been assured by his doctors that it would all come back to him in time.

He slid out of bed and moved slowly across the room. Filling a glass with water, he gulped down two capsules, then leaned on the bathroom sink and waited for the dizziness to pass. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and winced. Eyes bloodshot. Cheeks and chin darkened by several days’ growth of beard. It would take too much energy to shave. Besides, why bother? Who would see him here, in the middle of nowhere?

The doctors had done all they could. Now, they warned him, what he most needed was time. His frown deepened. Time. There would be plenty of that now. He couldn’t return to work until the madman who dogged his trail was captured and put away for good. Twice Adam had managed to elude his stalker, and twice the man had proved just as adept at escaping the authorities, despite their best efforts.

It had been Phil Larken, Adam’s boss and president of WNN, World News Network, who had arranged for Adam to use this lighthouse as his own private retreat. Though the nearby town of Devil’s Cove was small, there was a modern medical clinic and an excellent physical therapist. Since Adam couldn’t return to work until he had a clean bill of health from the doctors, and since they weren’t about to let him off the hook until he’d completed at least six months of therapy for the shoulder that had been shattered in the blast, this place afforded him the perfect refuge until he could take back his life.

Odd, he thought as he returned to the bedroom. He’d been working nonstop since his college days. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken time off. As a photojournalist for World News Network, he’d covered every hot spot in the world. Asia, Africa, Europe, the Middle East. How ironic that his injuries had occurred not in some troubled corner of the world, but right here in the United States, in New York City, outside the United Nations Building.

Now, here he was, feeling as though he’d been caught in a time warp. He looked around as though still doubting he was really here. The last time he’d been in Devil’s Cove, he’d been all of twelve, on a fishing trip with his uncle. He’d taken one look at the lighthouse that sat on a finger of land that jutted into Lake Michigan and fell wildly, madly in love. There was just something about the look of it. That tall spire looking out over miles and miles of nothing but dark water, its beacon the only warning the captain and crew of ships plying this lake had of the dangerous shoals and shallows that lurked beneath the waves.

And now it was his home. At least until he healed. And all because, in a moment of dark depression, he’d confided in Phil that if he had to do nothing for six months, he’d surely go crazy. When Phil asked if there was any place he might be able to endure the boredom, Adam had blurted out his boyhood fascination with the lighthouse. The next thing he knew, Phil had used his considerable influence to make it happen. Adam had been invited by the historical society to spend the off-season living in the Devil’s Cove lighthouse, in exchange for photographing the various changes of season for their almanac. Simple work. A simple lifestyle. And because it had all been arranged quickly, and in complete privacy, the authorities were hoping that this time, his stalker would be confounded. Not that Adam believed it was over and he was safe. He’d believe that only when the assassin who’d triggered the car bomb that killed the ambassador and his assistant was behind bars, and not a minute sooner.

Moving like a slug he climbed the dozens of stairs that led to the tower. Though the ships passing through the Great Lakes had long ago switched to the latest in high-tech navigational equipment, and the lighthouse was no longer necessary to the boaters’ safety, the computer-operated light still went on every day at dusk and stayed on until morning. There was something comforting in that. The sameness of it gave him a sense that, in a world gone crazy, some things never changed.

When he reached the top he looked down at the serene waters, reflecting the forest that ringed its banks, alive with fiery autumn foliage. Smoke drifted from an ore carrier moving slowly upriver. In the distance was a ship bearing a foreign flag. Several sailboats danced across the waves, and Adam wondered at the hardy souls willing to risk the wrath of frigid water and fickle winds. Still, if he had the strength, he knew he’d be out there with them. Hadn’t he always enjoyed a challenge? It was one of the reasons he thrived on the dangers of his job.

He walked over to the telescope he’d set up, so that he could keep a close eye on his surroundings. He peered through the lens, thinking there couldn’t be a more beautiful place in the world than Michigan in fall. Especially here on the shore of Lake Michigan. As long as he had to spend his sick leave somewhere private, there wasn’t anywhere he could think of that would suit him more, so long as he could see an end to the idyll. He knew himself well enough to be certain that even paradise would seem like a prison to him if it stretched on endlessly. He was determined to get out of here as soon as the doctor’s projected goal of six months of therapy was over. He shook his head, trying to recall the last time he’d spent six months in one place.

Now that the daylight was fading to dusk, he decided to grab a camera and try for a few shots of the nearby forest at sunset. If nothing else, it would take his mind off his pain and boredom.

Sidney alternately watched the antics of the duck family and lowered her head to return her attention to her canvas, perfectly capturing the line, the form, the symmetry of each of her models.

In early spring she’d watched this pair of proud mallards bring their six babies to the water and hover over them as they’d taken their first swim near shore. Now the six were as big as their parents, and ready for the flight south with other migrating flocks. To prepare for the grueling trip, they were driven to search out as much food as their bodies could hold. Tipping upside down to feed on the bottom of the shallows, only their tail feathers were visible. It was a sight she always found endearing. She’d already thought of the title for the painting. Bottom’s Up. That had her grinning.

Though the earlier afternoon sunshine had caused her to discard her corduroy jacket and roll her sleeves, she now shivered in the gathering shadows as she struggled to put this entire scene on canvas before the duck family decided to depart for warmer climates.

Picasso lay at her feet, panting from his romp in the woods, his fur matted with burrs that would take most of the evening to remove. Toulouse was nowhere to be seen, but Sidney wasn’t worried. Even if he stayed out all day stalking field mice, that cat was smart enough to show up at her door in time for dinner. Toulouse never missed a meal or a chance to curl up before the fire.

She added a dab of paint to her palette, mixed it and bent to her work.

Picasso’s ears lifted. He sprang to his feet, a low warning growl issuing from his throat.

Surprised, Sidney turned in time to see a shadow emerging from the cover of the woods. As the shadow separated itself from the others, she realized it was a man. At first, judging by his rough beard and even rougher garb, she thought he might be a hunter, until she realized that he was carrying, not a rifle, but a camera. A second camera hung from a strap around his neck.

He paused, allowing the dog to get close enough to take his scent.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was deep, the words spoken abruptly, as though he resented having to speak at all.

Sidney set aside her brush and wiped her hands on a rag before getting to her feet. “We don’t see too many people out here.”

“I didn’t expect to run into anybody.” He glanced around. “I don’t see a car or a boat. How’d you get here?”

“I live over there.” She pointed to the forest at his back.

“In those woods?” He shot her a look of surprise. “I was told this was federally protected land.”

“It is. Or at least most of it is. My property was grandfathered in before the government bought the surrounding land. It’s been owned by the same family since the turn of the century, so it remained private property. When it went on the market, I liked the idea of a guarantee that there would never be any neighbors.”

She could feel him studying her a little too intensely. When an uncomfortable silence stretched between them she tried a smile. “How about you? I don’t believe I’ve seen you around Devil’s Cove before.”

He didn’t return the smile. “Just moved in.” He watched the way the dog moved to stand protectively beside Sidney. “I’m staying in the lighthouse.”

“Really?” She turned to study the tower that could be seen above the tree line. “How did you manage that? I thought it was an historic building now, and off-limits to the public.”

“Just lucky, I guess. The historical society asked me to photograph the area for their almanac. In exchange, I get to stay there until next spring.”

“Then you’re a professional photographer?”

“Yeah.” He glanced at the canvas. “And from the look of that, I’d guess I’m in the company of a professional artist.”

When he made no move to introduce himself, Sidney offered her hand. “I’m Sidney Brennan.”

He seemed to pause a beat before saying gruffly, “I think I’ve seen some of your work. Wildlife?”

She nodded.

“Adam Morgan.”

He had a strong, firm handshake, she noted. And his eyes stayed steady on hers until she withdrew her hand and motioned toward the dog at her feet. “This is Picasso.”

When he looked down, the dog cocked his head to one side and regarded him. “A good watchdog.”

She laughed. “He knows who feeds him.”

“Lucky dog. Since I have to feed myself, I’m about to head back and see about dinner.”

“Dinner?” Sidney glanced up at the sky, noting for the first time that the sun had begun to slip below the horizon. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“That must mean you were having a good day.”

She nodded, surprised that he understood. “That’s right. I get so lost in my work, I forget everything. I even forget to eat.”

“Yeah. I know the feeling.” He turned toward the lighthouse in the distance. “Good night.”

“Nice to meet you, Adam. Maybe I’ll see you again some time.” Sidney began to pack up her paints.

Seeing her fold up her easel and camp stool to pack them in the wagon, he paused, taking her measure. She was no bigger than a minnow and couldn’t weigh a hundred pounds. “You sure you can handle all that?”

“Don’t worry. I haul it all the time.”

She’d gone only a few paces when he fell into step beside her.

At her arched eyebrow he merely took the handle from her hands. “Sorry. I’ve forgotten my manners. Living alone does that. I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me pull this.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse. She didn’t know this man, and wasn’t sure she wanted to get to know him. But she was feeling the effects of working all day without eating. Not really weak so much as light-headed. The thought of having help hauling this equipment home was comforting. “Thanks.”

As they followed the path deeper into the woods, Sidney looked up at the canopy of fiery autumn foliage. “You picked a great time of year to visit.”

When he didn’t reply, she added, “This is my favorite season.”

“For the color?”

“There’s that, of course. But it’s more. The tourists are gone, a lot of the trendy shops are closed until next summer, and there’s this wonderful feeling of anticipation.”

He turned to her. “What is it you’re anticipating?”

She shrugged. “Slowing down, I guess. Settling in for the winter. Have you ever spent a winter in Michigan?”

“No. Tell me what I’m in for.”

She laughed. “Snow. Mountains of it. I hope you like skiing, sledding and ice fishing.”

“I’ll let you know after I’ve tried my hand at all of them.”

“Where are you from?”

Again that pause, as though reluctant to reveal anything about himself. “Florida, originally. But it’s been years since I’ve been back.”

“Where do you live when you’re not here photographing nature?”

“Wherever an assignment takes me.”

“Assignment?”

“I’m a photojournalist with WNN.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? I’ve never met anyone who actually worked for television news before. I suppose you’ve been all over the world.”

He merely gave a shrug of his shoulders, as though reluctant to talk about his work. And though it was on the tip of her tongue to ask why he was here in Devil’s Cove, instead of some exotic location, there was something about his closed, shuttered look that told her he wouldn’t be comfortable answering any more of her questions.

They came up over a rise and Adam stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of the cabin. “Talk about isolation.”

Sidney couldn’t decide if he was impressed or dismayed. “I guess I’m just comfortable with my own company. I knew the minute I saw it that it had to be mine.”

He shot her a sideways glance as she opened the door and held it while he stepped past her. Once inside he handed her the easel and stool, and she set them in a corner of the room, along with her paints and canvas.

When she turned, she saw him rubbing his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He lowered his hand. “Just nursing an injury.”

“You should have told me.”

He shook his head. “Nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

Sensing that he was uncomfortable talking about it, she quickly changed the subject. “How about some cider before you go?”

“Cider?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never tried our Michigan cider?” Sidney opened the refrigerator and removed a jug. “Apple cider. Made just outside of town at the Devil’s Cove Orchard and Old Mill.” She nodded toward the great room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring you a mug. You’re in for a treat.”

“I’ll stay here.” He remained by the door. “My boots would track dirt on your floor.”

“You could take them off.”

“I’d rather not.”

When he didn’t move, Sidney filled two mugs with cider and handed him one before crossing to the fireplace, where she held a match to kindling. Within minutes a cozy fire was burning on the hearth.

She looked at the window with a laugh. “I see Toulouse is back.”

While Adam watched with interest, she walked over, reached around him and opened the door. The black-and-white cat bounded inside and crossed the room to settle on a rug in front of the fire, where he began grooming himself.

“Another one of yours?” Adam asked.

She nodded. “Toulouse found us about six months ago. Just wandered in and never left.”

“Smart cat.” Adam sipped his cider and looked around the cozy cabin, letting the warmth of the fire soothe his aching shoulder. The place smelled of cedar, apples and faintly of linseed oil. A bowl of apples adorned the coffee table set in front of the sofa. He looked up, admiring the rugged cedar beams overhead. Spying the loft he tilted his head for a better look. “Your studio?”

“Yes. It’s perfect under the skylights. I usually work there only when I can’t paint outside. But I much prefer working in the fresh air, with my models posing in the water close to shore.”

“Models?”

She laughed. “Ducks. Geese. All kinds of waterfowl. They’re my specialty.”

“I see.” He noted the number of canvases, stacked in no apparent order along the wooden railing, and the easel positioned directly under the skylights. “I guess I’ll need some models, too. Deer and foxes, and whatever else I can scare up in these woods.”

“You’ll be amazed at how much wildlife you’ll see. This forest is alive with some wonderful creatures.”

He heard the warmth in her tone. “I’m counting on it. I’m hoping to put together a workable darkroom at the lighthouse, so I won’t have to send my work to an outside lab. There’s a fairly good-size utility room on the lower level that I think might work. It has a small sink and several long cabinets connected by a countertop. I think it’ll give me the room I need to develop my prints.”

It was, Sidney realized, the most he’d said since they’d met. “It’s so nice to be able to work at home. If you’re like me, you’re going to like living and working in the same space.” She settled herself on the raised hearth and absently ran a hand over Toulouse’s back. The cat closed his eyes and purred contentedly.

“Yeah, there’s something to be said for that.” Adam found himself watching the cat with envy. Sometimes when Marcella Trowbridge, his physical therapist, whom he’d silently dubbed The Dominatrix, was pushing him to the limits of endurance, he wanted to ask her to stop and just massage his shoulder instead. Of course, Marcella wasn’t being paid to soothe him. Her job was to get him back to normal, or as close to normal as possible, in the shortest amount of time. And she did that by beating him up on a regular basis, until he wanted to beg for mercy. Each time their therapy session ended, he felt like a whipped dog. He was intelligent enough to know it was necessary, and that it was, indeed, getting the job done. Without the therapy, he’d never be allowed back to work. But he couldn’t help wishing for it to be over sooner rather than later.

To keep from thinking about what it would be like to be the one getting a back rub, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. The walls were hung with paintings of waterfowl. Some were sweet. Families of ducks or geese swimming in perfect formation, mother in front, young in the middle, the father taking up the rear, head lifted to guard against predators. Some were poignant, like the one of a pair of ducks anxiously guiding their lone baby into the water for a first swim.

He stepped closer, careful to keep his muddy boots on the small square of rug at the door. “Those are wonderful. Are you able to make a living with your art?”

Sidney nodded. “I consider myself lucky. Several galleries carry my work. And since my sister Courtney came back to Devil’s Cove and opened her shop, I haven’t been able to keep up with the demand.” She laughed. “My grandfather likes to say that Courtney could sell sand in the desert.”

“I know the kind. A real people person. But I’m betting she doesn’t have to twist any arms to sell this. You have an amazing talent.”

“Thank you.” She heard the wind pick up outside and glanced at the window where red-and-gold leaves tumbled in a wild dance. The air had grown considerably colder now that the sun had set. On impulse she said, “I’m thinking of making an omelette for dinner. Would you like to stay?”

He gave a quick shake of his head and drained his mug before setting it on the kitchen table. “Sorry. I’ve got to go. But you were right. The cider was great.”

“I thought you’d like it.”

That wasn’t all he liked. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he had just stumbled into some sort of enchanted cottage. And the red-haired woman with the soft green eyes was either a witch or a goddess.

He resolutely turned the knob and pulled open the door, absorbing a blast of chilly wind. “Good night.”

Sidney hurried across the room and stood in the doorway, the dog and cat at her feet. “Good night, Adam. Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

Not likely, he thought as he started toward the beacon of light in the distance. The last thing he needed was a female cluttering up his already messed-up life. Especially one that smelled of evergreen and had hair the color of autumn leaves, not to mention eyes all soft and deep and green. Eyes that a man could drown in.

He’d already made up his mind to carefully keep his distance from Sidney Brennan.

Chapter 2

Adam carefully looked around the grounds of the lighthouse for signs that anyone had been here while he’d been gone. Confident that nothing had been disturbed, he shoved open the door and set his camera on a nearby table. Since the explosion, and subsequent attempts on his life, extreme caution had become second nature to him.

Not that he’d ever been careless. His work had taken him to some of the most dangerous hot spots in the world. He’d covered wars, revolutions, uprisings and rebellions for WNN. Life in a war zone had taught him many things. Among them, to trust his instincts, to know not only where he was headed, but how to escape a trap. His associates used to boast that he had eyes in the back of his head. How ironic that it had been here at home, with his guard down, that he’d found himself in the greatest peril of his life.

He started toward the kitchen, thinking about the day he’d put in. He’d just spent hours on a trek through the woods, capturing the spirit of northern Michigan in autumn. Though he’d seen deer before, it was different watching them in their natural habitat. They were careful animals, he’d noted. Heads lifted often to catch any strange scent. The buck standing guard while the herd feasted on the tender branches of low-hanging trees. Not so different from people, he realized. Always looking out for any danger that might threaten. By the time they’d finally caught his scent and melted into the forest, he’d used up an entire roll of film.

There had been humor in the forest, as well as beauty. A squirrel, busy storing acorns in the hollow of a giant oak, had been his first model. Then he’d come across a spider spinning a web, intricate as finest lace, damp with dew and glistening in the thin rays of sunlight that filtered through the branches of towering evergreens. Next he’d spotted a flock of geese honking as they flew overhead in perfect formation on the first leg of their southward journey. No sooner had they passed than he’d come upon two chipmunks that performed a comedy routine by leaping into a mound of red-and-gold leaves, then leaping out again with their precious store of nuts puffing out their tiny faces. They’d managed to entertain him for an hour or more.

Odd, he thought, how much vibrant life he’d discovered in these woods. He’d come here expecting to be bored. After a lifetime spent covering wars and terrorist uprisings, recording the range of human emotion from despair to euphoria, from depravity to heroism, he wouldn’t have believed he could be amused, entertained and thrilled, all in a matter of hours merely by tramping through a Michigan forest. What’s more, he was learning to look at life on a smaller scale rather than the large canvas he’d been using for most of his adult life. When he took the time to look, really look, he’d managed to find beauty, humor and even drama alive and well in the seclusion of the forest.

Idly rubbing his shoulder he heated up the last of the morning’s coffee. After two sips he nearly gagged before tossing the rest down the drain and turning away. He promised to treat himself to a fresh cup in town after another therapy session with The Dominatrix.

If he was making any improvement, he couldn’t see or feel it. The pain never left him, and the range of movement seemed unchanged since he’d first begun therapy. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needed this therapist’s signature, as well as his surgeon’s, on a set of discharge documents required by WNN, he would simply forego any future torture. Still, Marcella The Dominatrix insisted he was showing definite improvement. And this was, he knew, more than just a chance to heal. It had been singled out as the perfect refuge from an assassin bent on eliminating any witnesses to his crime. The authorities were convinced that no one could penetrate their secrecy and locate their witness in this wilderness.

Adam was hoping they were right. But he wasn’t about to let down his guard.

He walked outside, climbed into his Jeep and headed for town.

The afternoon was bathed in sunlight and warm enough to be sultry, but he wasn’t fooled. The nights had become increasingly cooler, with a hint of frost. And though the waters of Lake Michigan were placid enough today, he’d seen angry whitecaps whipping the waters into foam that sent a spray hundreds of feet into the air as the surge of water thrashed against the base of the lighthouse.

He followed the narrow trail that led to the highway, until he caught sight of a figure hauling a wagon and moving away from the water’s edge, trailed by a dog and cat. Just seeing Sidney had him frowning. He’d worked very hard these last couple of days to avoid going near the area where he’d first seen her sitting at her easel.

The authorities might believe he was safely hidden away here, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He had no right to involve an innocent bystander in the danger and chaos that had become his life.

At some other time, in some other place, it would have been an interesting challenge to get to know the sweet, pretty artist. As usual, the timing was all wrong.

He could certainly keep his distance for six months. After all, he’d managed to keep any serious commitments at bay for years now while he pursued this career that was as demanding as any mistress.

Sidney glanced at the lighthouse towering above the line of trees, before reluctantly heading toward her cabin. She found herself wondering, as she had all week, about the man who was now living there.

His brief visit had been an unexpected treat. Though she enjoyed her solitude and never tired of her own company, there was no denying that she’d been curious about Adam Morgan ever since their meeting.

It had been too long since she’d allowed anyone other than family to invade her privacy. Adam’s brief presence hadn’t felt like an invasion. He’d been oddly distant, but also quiet and respectful of her work. Being an artist himself, he understood her need for solitude and seemed to share her work ethic. That appealed to her on so many levels. She missed having someone to talk to about her work. Not the technique, which she’d mastered at a very young age, but the passionate love of the work itself. There were times, when a painting was finished, that it felt like pure magic. As though someone else had taken over her body and mind and soul, and had created something out of nothing. She had never been able to explain the feeling of transforming a blank canvas into color and form and the living, breathing creatures looking out at her from her paintings.

With Adam, she hadn’t needed to explain. She’d sensed that he knew exactly what it was she did and how she did it. What’s more, he shared that artist’s eye for the interesting and intriguing.

She shoved a tangle of hair from her eyes and paused to study the day’s work. She’d captured a pair of old-squaws that had flown into the shallows several days ago. There was no telling how long they would stay before continuing their southward migration. Their color wasn’t spectacular. Both male and female were dull brown and white. But the male’s bill was tinged with bright orange, and his tail a long wisp that fluttered like a ship’s sail in the breeze. They’d been delightful subjects for her canvas.

When Picasso had decided to cool off in the shallows, the pair of ducks, angry at this intrusion, took refuge on shore, giving Sidney a chance to see their feathers at closer range. Working quickly she’d added depth and texture to the painting. By the time the dog had returned to lie at her feet, and the ducks were safely back in the water, she’d been lost in her work, and had remained so for hours.

Now it was time to head home. She’d promised her grandparents a visit, and she would use the visit to town to stock up on some supplies, as well. As she followed the familiar trail, she was struck by the beauty of the day. Sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees, casting the ground in light and shadow. The air was so mild she’d been forced to remove her sweater and roll the sleeves of her shirt.

At the cabin she stowed her canvas and equipment, leaving the wagon just outside the door. Then she took the time to feed Picasso and Toulouse. That done, she tucked her shopping list in her backpack, tied the sleeves of her sweater around her waist and headed for the log building out back that served as both storage shed and garage. Because the day was so lovely, she decided to forego the Land Rover in favor of her bike.

As she climbed aboard and began peddling past the cabin, she found herself laughing at the forlorn sight of her dog and cat watching from the window.

“Sorry, babies. Maybe next time.”

The dog set up a loud yapping, while the cat turned his back on her, as though giving her the cold shoulder.

That only had her laughing harder. The poor little things had no idea why they were being excluded from this latest adventure. All they knew was that they were being left behind, and were doing their best to let her know how bitterly disappointed they were.

“I’ll see you Tuesday. One o’clock all right for you?” Marcella Trowbridge waited, pen poised over her appointment book, while Adam buttoned his shirt.

“That’s fine.”

“Good.” She filled in the time, added it to an appointment card and handed it to him before snapping the book shut.

He tucked his shirt into his jeans and studied the woman who, though no more than five-and-a-half feet tall, had hands strong enough to make him want to whimper in pain every time she touched him. “Seems like everyone in this clinic is a native of Devil’s Cove. Are you one of them?”

She shook her head, sending frizzy blond corkscrew curls dancing around a chubby face that was always wreathed in smiles. “I’ve only been here a couple of months.”

“What brought you here?” He probed his shoulder, feeling as if he’d just come through a war.

“Funny story. I had no idea of leaving the big city. But a friend of mine from University Hospital opened her new clinic and I drove up for the open house, without realizing that she had space to lease. I took one look at this quaint little place and decided I had to give small-town living a try. Within two months I’d given up my apartment in Lansing, found a place to live just a block away from here, overlooking the water and signed a lease on this suite.”

“Can you make a living here?”

She laughed. “I’ll say. Not only does my friend give me plenty of referrals, but my old friends at University Hospital keep sending me more than I can handle.” Marcella shook her head. “Strange how these things happen. I’m working more hours than ever, and yet I’m letting go of all the stress I once had working in a big city. I recently went through a painful divorce, vowed I’d never put myself through the marriage game again, and now I’m engaged to the pharmacist who works in suite Twelve-A. Go figure. And all because of my friendship with Dr. Emily Brennan-Cooper.”

Adam’s hand paused in the act of turning the door handle. “Brennan-Cooper? Does she have a sister named Sidney?”

“Yeah. The artist. You know her?”

“We met. She mentioned a sister who owned a gift shop. I didn’t realize there were more.”

“I can see that you’re not spending enough time in town. Everywhere you turn, you’ll find a Brennan. Let’s see.” She thought a minute. “Far as I know, she has a mother, three sisters, prominent grandparents. Her grandmother was a teacher here for thirty or forty years. Her grandfather is retired Judge Frank Brennan. Her father was the town doctor before he died, and now my pal Emily has stepped in and taken over his practice. Besides which, the pretty doc is married to Jason Cooper.”

“The bestselling author?”

“Yep.” Marcella’s smile grew. “Her mother owns her own real-estate firm and handles most of the mansions over on Historic Scenic Drive. Her sister Hannah owns Hannah’s Garden and Landscape, and her sister Courtney is the one who owns Treasures, a fancy gift shop in town.” She paused a beat, as though considering how to ask a delicate question, before deciding to simply plow ahead. “How did you happen to settle on Devil’s Cove?”

He merely shrugged. “One place is as good as another when it’s just a temporary port, Marcella. Thanks.” He winced as he touched his shoulder. “I think.”

She was staring after him with a puzzled grin as he pulled the door shut. He was certainly living up to his reputation as the town’s new mystery man. Though he’d managed to find out all about her within a minute or so, she knew no more about him now than when he’d arrived for his first session.

She gave a toss of her curls. “Sooner or later I’ll find out about you, Adam Morgan.”

She loved a good mystery.

Adam handed his prescription refill to the girl behind the counter. He was mulling over the shelves of pain relievers, wondering if he needed something for sleep, when he caught the sudden flash of red hair peddling past his line of vision.

Curious, he moved to the window of the drugstore and watched as Sidney propped her bicycle against the wall of the building across the street and walked inside.

He couldn’t help admiring the view of her backside in slim, snug denims before she disappeared through the doorway.

A short time later, noting which way Sidney was going, he tucked his prescription into his pocket and headed in the opposite direction, toward The Pier, which had come highly recommended.

If he felt a twinge of guilt at his deliberate attempt to ignore her, he pushed it aside. After all, it was for her own good.

“Sidney.” Her grandmother stood framed in the doorway as Sidney lowered the kickstand of her bike and raced up the front steps of the Willows.

“Hi, Bert.” Sidney gave her grandmother a warm hug before stepping past her. “Mmm. Something smells wonderful.”

“Trudy is baking pies.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“No special reason. She just said she always feels like baking pies in the fall.”

“I’m sure Poppie will be happy to eat them.”

The older woman winced. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Which is why you’ll have to take a few home with you.”

“I’ll take one. That’s all the room I can manage with my bike’s basket.”

“If I had my way you’d take all of them.”

They walked arm in arm along the cool tiled hallway. When they stepped into the cozy, sun-drenched kitchen, Sidney was surprised to see her sisters Hannah and Emily at the table, enjoying slices of freshly baked pie and steaming cups of tea.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” With a laugh Sidney danced across the floor to hug each of her sisters. “Where’s Courtney?”

“At her shop. She said she’d be by later to enjoy some of Trudy’s pie.”

The housekeeper looked up from the stove. Her white hair, damp from the heat of the oven, was curled like cotton balls around a face that crinkled into a smile at the sight of another of her girls. “Don’t you look fresh.” She gave Sidney an approving glance before accepting a kiss on the cheek. “Living out in the wilderness seems to agree with you.”

“It’s not exactly the wilderness, Trudy.” Sidney accepted a slice of pie on a crystal plate and settled herself at the table beside her grandmother. “I’ve got electricity, heat, light and even the Internet. What more could a girl ask?”

“Neighbors,” the housekeeper said in her trademark raspy voice. “Your family would feel a whole lot better if you could count on someone nearby in times of trouble.”

Sidney glanced around the table. “It just so happens I do have a neighbor.”

Hannah’s head came up. “The mystery man in the lighthouse?”

Sidney seemed puzzled. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Only that someone’s living there. Have you actually met him?”

At Sidney’s quick nod, her two sisters looked intrigued.

Hannah’s pie was forgotten. “What’s his name?”

“Adam Morgan.”

Emily took a sip of tea. “What does he look like?”

Sidney shrugged. “Tall. Rugged. It’s hard to tell what he’d look like without that beard.”

Hannah grinned. “He has a beard?”

“He does. And hair that really needs a trim. It brushes his collar.”

“Dark hair or light?” Hannah demanded.

“Dark. Like his eyes.” Sidney’s voice lowered. “His eyes are…I don’t know. Penetrating, I guess. He has a way of looking at me that makes me uncomfortable.”

“In what way?” Alarmed, Trudy picked up a wooden spoon and held it in a threatening gesture.

“Not in a bad way, Trudy. He just seems intense. As though trying to read my mind while guarding his own.”

“A mystery man.” Hannah sighed. “There’s nothing quite like an air of mystery to get a girl’s interest.”

“I’m not interested.” Sidney looked around the table at the sly grins being exchanged between her sisters. “He’s abrupt and distant, and besides, I’ve only seen him once, and that was more than a week ago.”

“What was more than a week ago?” At the booming voice of her grandfather, Sidney pushed away from the table.

“Poppie.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on his cheek. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, my darling. When are you going to move back home?”

“Sorry. I’ve left you for good. I’m having way too much fun in my own place.”

He chose to ignore that. “I see Bert and Trudy conspired to have you join your sisters in eating as much pie as possible, in order to save me from indulging in too many calories.”

“Guilty.” Sidney joined in the laughter.

“Now tell me what happened more than a week ago?”

Before Sidney could answer, Hannah said, “She met the mystery man who’s living in the lighthouse.”

“And is he a werewolf, as some in town have claimed?”

At Sidney’s puzzled look he threw back his head and roared. “You can’t believe all the rumors floating around about the man. That he only comes out after dark. That he’s in the Federal Witness Protection Plan, and is starting a new life. That he’s a former CIA agent hoping to write a book. So…” The Judge helped himself to a bite of Sidney’s pie before releasing the fork when he caught a threatening look from his wife. “What do you know about the man?”

“His name is Adam Morgan. He’s a photographer with World News Network, and he’s living in the lighthouse while he assembles some photographs for the historical society’s almanac.”

Hannah turned to their grandmother. “You’re a member of the historical society, Bert. Why didn’t you tell us?”

The older woman shrugged. “It was all handled very discreetly. We were told only that the man in question came highly recommended by his employer, that he won a Pulitzer for one of his war photographs…”

“He won a Pulitzer?” Sidney’s eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”

Bert nodded. “As I said, he came highly recommended. We wouldn’t allow just anyone to live in one of our historic treasures.”

“A prize-winning photographer.” The Judge poured himself a cup of tea. “Living practically next door to our Sidney.” He sipped and glanced around the table with that impish grin they had all come to recognize. “Now, isn’t that interesting?”

Sidney could feel her cheeks coloring as she deposited her plate and cup in the dishwasher. “I need to get back before dark.”

“I could drive you,” Emily offered. “I have a couple of evening appointments at the clinic.”

“It’s too far out of your way. I can manage.”

As Sidney started toward the door, Trudy stopped her with a pie, neatly wrapped in foil.

“Thanks, Trudy.” She kissed the housekeeper’s cheek, then circled the table kissing her family goodbye. “See you at Sunday brunch.”

Hannah’s eyes twinkled with teasing laughter. “If you happen to run into that mystery man, you could always entice him into your cabin with Trudy’s pie.”

While the others laughed, the Judge huffed out a breath. “As if any of the Brennan women need pie to snag a man’s interest.”

“Good one, Poppie. I can always count on you to stand up for me.” Laughing along with the others, Sidney blew her grandfather a kiss before walking out the door.

Chapter 3

Sidney waved at old friends and neighbors as she pedaled her bike through the dusk-shadowed streets of town. Once she’d left Devil’s Cove behind, she found herself deep in thought over what little she’d learned about Adam Morgan.

Her mystery man wasn’t just a photojournalist, but an award-winning one, as well. Not that she was too surprised. There was an intensity about him that suggested that whatever he attempted, he would do well.

She’d always admired that in a man. Hadn’t it been what had first attracted her to Curt? She’d fallen in love with his work before ever meeting him.

It pleased her to know that she could think of Curt now without tears. At first, every time she spoke his name, or saw a flash of his face in her memory, she’d been battered by grief. Now, each year that passed made the loss more tolerable. She would always love him. He’d been her first love, and the bond between them had been so special, so tender, she knew nothing would ever erase those happy memories from her mind. But she’d moved on. It had helped to come back to Devil’s Cove. She’d needed family and friends around her, and the comfort of familiar childhood haunts. It had helped, too, to carve out her own space. Her own life, apart from Curt’s. Apart even from that of her own very talented, very driven family.

There had been a few men since Curt, but none who merited more than a passing interest. She knew her family watched and waited, clucking like hens over the fact that she was still alone, but the fact was she liked her life as it was. She had her career. She had Picasso and Toulouse for company. And she had her dreams. Maybe that wasn’t enough for some, but it was certainly enough for her. For now.

At a gust of icy wind Sidney ducked her head and pulled up the collar of her jacket. Legs pumping, she began to pedal faster, suddenly eager for the warmth of her cabin. She should have started home sooner, before the sun had disappeared behind the clouds, leaving the gathering darkness and its attendant chill nipping at her heels like the hounds of winter.

Adam cranked up the volume on Bruce Springsteen and turned the Jeep off the highway and onto the dirt road that snaked through the forest. The Lake Michigan perch and the cheesecake at The Pier were as good as promised, and he was feeling mellow, despite the curious stares he’d had to endure from the locals while he ate.

That was the trouble with a small town, he thought. Every new face was a source of speculation. Still, it could work to his advantage, as well. Another new face would spark just as much interest, and would have the authorities moving quickly to investigate. The team assigned to the car bombing was already on high alert to his new location, and had promised to move in at the first sign that security had been breached.

To keep his visits into town to a minimum, he’d loaded up with supplies from the grocery store. His backseat was piled high with bags and boxes. He’d stocked up on film, as well, and was determined to get a darkroom equipped as quickly as possible. That would cut down on his visits to Devil’s Cove even more.

He was actually looking forward to living the life of a recluse for the winter. It would be a new experience for him. The very nature of his business made it necessary to move easily in crowds of people. One of the first things he’d mastered was the ability to blend in. Whether he was photographing soldiers at war, children in a jungle clearing, or women haggling at an open-air market, he made certain that no one took any notice of him. That was what gave him the opportunity to move freely among strangers, snapping pictures without making his subjects appear self-conscious. No matter where he was, no matter the faces of those around him, Adam had the uncanny ability to become one of them.

He was thinking about the children he’d met at an orphanage in Afghanistan as he rounded a curve in the road. For an instant there was a flash of color that barely registered in his brain as he hit the brakes with such force, the Jeep fishtailed and turned a full circle. The dirt spewing from his wheels rose up in a cloud of dust that obliterated everything. Before the vehicle had even come to a stop he hit the door and scrambled out, struggling to see through the curtain of dust to where Sidney was lying in a tangle of bike and arms and legs.

Nerves had him swearing viciously as he dropped to his knees. “Don’t move. Don’t you even think of moving. Where does it hurt?” His voice was gruff with self-loathing. “Sorry. I was going too fast. I never even saw you.”

“I’m…okay.” Sidney started to sit up and was startled when his hands closed roughly over her upper arms.

“I told you not to move.” His face was thrust nose-to-nose with hers. His hot breath stung her cheek. “Something could be broken.”

“I think I’d know if I’d broken any bones.” She tried to evade his touch, gingerly lifting a hand to her head. “I’m just a bit dizzy.”

“Hold still. It might be a concussion.”

She shook her head and waited until his face came into sharper focus. “I think I just had the wind knocked out of me.”

She saw him take in a long, deep breath. All the while his eyes never left hers. “You’re sure? You’re not bleeding? Nothing’s broken?”

“Not as far as I can tell.”

“Think you can stand?”

She nodded and he wrapped his arms around her, helping her gently to her feet. In that instant she felt a rush of heat so intense, she could do nothing more than stand quietly, sucking in several deep breaths.

“Any dizziness?”

“I’m…” She struggled to find her voice. “I’m fine.”

“I’m driving you home.”

She started to turn back. “My bike…”

“I’ll put it in the back of my Jeep.” He walked with her to his car and held the passenger door open, practically lifting her off her feet until she was settled inside.

After stowing her bike in the back, he climbed into the driver’s side.

He turned to study her and she felt again that quick sizzle of heat along her spine. “You okay?”

She nodded, afraid to trust her voice.

They drove the entire distance in silence. When he pulled up to her cabin, he turned off the ignition and turned to her. “I’m really sorry about this.”

“No harm done.”

“You may think so now. By tomorrow you’ll be cussing me out. A spill that hard, I doubt you’ll get away without a few cuts and scratches.”

She managed a weak smile. “Nothing I won’t survive.”

He walked around and held the door open, then eased her out of the Jeep and put an arm around her shoulders as she walked toward the cabin. This time, though she steeled herself against feeling anything at his touch, she couldn’t deny the reaction. Despite the cold she was sweating.

The minute she unlocked the door, Picasso and Toulouse raced out and began dancing around her feet.

“They act like they just got set free from prison.”

She managed a quick laugh. “That’s probably what they’re thinking. They whine every time they’re left alone.”

Adam paused by the door. “Where do you store your bike?”

“In the shed in back.” She handed him her keys.

He returned to the Jeep and lifted her bike out, examining it for damage before heading toward the shed. Minutes later he found her kneeling in front of the fireplace, struggling to coax a fire on the hearth.

Crossing the room he handed her the keys. “Your bike doesn’t seem any the worse for wear. But if you should find any damage, I’d like to pay for it.”

She looked up at him, and for the first time he noticed the bruise beginning to bloom on her cheek.

He swore again, causing her to arch an eyebrow in surprise. “Sorry.” He put his hands under her elbows and nearly lifted her off her feet as he propelled her toward an overstuffed chair. “Sit here. I’ll see to the fire.”

“What’s wrong?”

He touched a finger to the spot. Just a touch, but he saw her wince in pain. “You didn’t get as lucky as you’d hoped. That’s a nasty bruise.”

She lifted her hand and probed. “I don’t remember hitting the ground. But I may have bumped the handlebars. Or maybe a rock on the ground.”

“Whatever you hit, if it moves up just a little, you’re going to have a dandy shiner by morning.” Feeling another round of guilt, he tended to the fire. When it was blazing, he made his way to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove.

A short time later he handed her a cup of tea. “Drink this.”

“Thanks.” She sipped. “Did you make one for yourself?”

“I don’t deserve one.” Besides, what he really wanted right about now was a good stiff drink. “Got any whiskey?”

“Sorry, no. But there’s some wine in the cupboard.” Seeing him hesitate, she added, “If you’d like to open the bottle, I’ll have some.”

“Right.” He rummaged around and found the wine and a corkscrew, and filled two glasses.

After handing her one, he perched on the edge of the hearth and studied her pale face. “You sure you’re all right?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. Really.” She paused. “Did you happen to find a pumpkin pie in the basket of my bike?”

He shook his head. “The basket was empty.”

She sighed. “I guess that means the raccoons will feast on Trudy’s pumpkin pie tonight.”

He started to stand. “I could go back and look for it.”

“Leave it, Adam. I’m sure it’s nothing but a soggy mess by now, anyway.”

Adam frowned as another layer of guilt rolled over him. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No thanks. I couldn’t eat a thing.”

Feeling suddenly weary, Sidney set her glass beside her cup on the end table and leaned back, closing her eyes. “I think I’ll just clean up now and get ready for bed.”

He knew she was politely asking him to leave. But guilt held him back. “Maybe I should stay.”

She gave him a weak smile. “What could you possibly do that I can’t do for myself?”

“Wake you through the night and see if you can focus your eyes. If you can’t, I’ll know you’ve suffered a concussion and I can call a doctor.”

“That’s very kind of you. But my sister Emily is a doctor, and if I’m suffering any ill effects in the morning, I’ll be sure to call her.” She got slowly to her feet and stood a moment, waiting until the room stopped spinning.

Seeing the way she was holding on to the back of her chair, Adam took a step toward her.

She lifted a hand to stop him. She didn’t think she could bear another round of the weakness his touch seemed to cause. “Please. I’m fine now.”

“You don’t look fine. You look…” Like a piece of fragile crystal, he thought miserably. Or like a tiny bird, its wing broken, hopping just out of reach, refusing to allow itself to be caught by the very one who could most help.

She misread his silence. “I’m sure I’ll look much better after I’ve had a shower. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Hearing the edge to her tone, he set aside his empty glass and wrote on a slip of paper before passing it to her. “This is the number of my cell phone. It’s always with me. If you should need me for any reason tonight, just call.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.