“I don’t know why I’m asking a stranger for help.”

“Am I still a stranger?” asked Sean.

Moonlight illuminated Connie’s face as she tilted it up toward his. Her eyes were the dark green of a woodsy pond beneath lashes that drew spiked shadows across the curves of her cheeks. “No, I suppose not.”

Sean brushed his fingers over her narrow back, feeling the warmth of her beneath the thin layer of fabric.

“You’ve been very nice about us intruding on your vacation,” Connie said, “but I know Pippa may become an annoyance, especially now that she knows your profession.”

He looked at Connie’s solemn face, with traces of sorrow she couldn’t hide, and nodded. What else could he do, when what filled his mind wasn’t the tragedy of losing her husband—or even the recent upset of his own ordered existence—but that he had an overwhelming desire to kiss her?

“I’ll watch out for your girl,” he said. Then silently added and you.

Dear Reader,

Would you participate in a vacation house switch?

The idea intrigues me. Aside from traveling to an exotic destination, there’s the aspect of moving into another person’s house. How do they decorate, what books do they read, which soap do they use, what’s programmed on their DVR? On the other hand, would I want a stranger in my house, learning the same about me? Maybe if I was happily ensconced in a sun-baked hacienda or a vineyard villa, I wouldn’t care.

Sean Rafferty of Nobody’s Hero takes the plunge and lands in a picturesque cottage on a small island off the coast of Maine. Lucky guy!

Enjoy,

Carrie Alexander

P.S. Visit me at www.CarrieAlexander.com and sign up for my e-newsletter Get Carried Away.

Nobody’s Hero
Carrie Alexander

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Not only has Carrie Alexander given up on keeping her mountainous to-be-read stacks under control, she’s lost count of how many books she’s written. If she were ever to participate in a vacation house switch, she’d have to specify that only bookworms need apply. Carrie and her books live in a riverside cottage in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

To the Deadline Hellions bloggers and our readers,

for coming along on my strange writing adventures—

from rainbow manuscripts to deadline bats at 3:00 a.m.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PROLOGUE

SWAP YOUR VACATION HOUSE AT

HOLIDAYS AWAY!

Available July 21–Aug. 3, Osprey Island, Maine:

Quaint island cottage with splendid ocean view. Two bedrooms, full bath, eat-in kitchen, fireplace, BBQ. Enjoy kayaking, hiking, birding, boating and much more in isolated splendor, sixteen miles off the ruggedly picturesque Maine coast. Motivated owner particularly willing to swap with Sunbelt location.

CHAPTER ONE

Pippa Bradford’s Book of Curious Observations

JULY 21, OSPREY ISLAND, Maine. Latest subjects arrived at 9:17 a.m. on Jonesport ferry.

1. Bald man in trench coat, carrying briefcase, went straight to Whitecap Inn. Does not look like vacationer? (Check guest book for name.)

2. Couple met by Mrs. Sheffield of Peregrine House. Husband short and fat with gray hair and sunglasses, wife (or girlfreind?) tall with blond hair and high voice. Nice dressed, loads of luggage. Departed in silver Mercedes convertible, Mrs. S driving. Graves loaded luggage in pickup truck. Houseguests? High probabillity.

3. Pretty woman in purple shorts. Backpack. Got bike at Dockside Cycle. Overheard: one-day rental. Tourist—no more observation necessary.

4. Tall man with short dark hair. One bag. Jeans and baseball cap (Bruins). Sunglasses, suspicious limp. Walked to Pine Cone Cottage on Shore Road, took house keys from mailbox. Name on box is Potter. Resident? Future observation required.

SEAN RAFFERTY’S NAPE prickled. He brushed a hand inside his collar. There was no mosquito, nor stray hair from his grown-out law-enforcement buzz cut, but then he’d known that.

Someone was watching him.

He continued his limping circuit of Pine Cone Cottage’s backyard. Behind a pair of tinted aviator sunglasses, his eyes were alert.

The sheltering wood was densely evergreen with a few spears of silver birch, bordered by ferns and underbrush. He took his time traversing the bumpy square of crabgrass and dandelions, waiting for the spy to give herself away. She wasn’t nearly as sneaky as she believed.

Sunshine glinted off glass. He narrowed his eyes and searched the forest beyond the weathered picket fence of the vegetable garden. Hidden deep inside the pinecone-laden branches of a blue spruce were twin lenses.

Pocket-size binoculars. They disappeared at his scrutiny. Branches bobbed as the lurker shifted position.

Sean stretched out the morning kinks, tilting his face toward the hot gold disk of the sun that had appeared over the treetops. He might have called out that there was nothing to see, nothing but a broken-down trooper with a bullet hole in his thigh and thirteen more days of emptiness to fill.

But he preferred the silence.

He’d found Maine’s Osprey Island at a vacation house swap site on the Web. Desperate measures—his parents had been urging him to take their time-share condo at an Arizona desert resort. From previous visits there, he’d known that this time around he was in no mood to abide the other retirees’ constant goodwill and inquisitiveness. They would want to commiserate about the shooting and his ongoing recovery. They would refuse to leave him alone, for his “own good.” They’d probably even phone Patrick and Moira Rafferty with updates on their son’s progress.

No, thanks. Peace and quiet was what Sean needed while he licked his wounds, not a resort filled with boisterous seniors in madras shorts and families of squealing, sunburned children.

One furtive child he could deal with. Even one with a penchant for sleuthing.

Sean settled into the lawn chair he’d moved to the backyard from the front, where there was an ocean view just beyond the road that bypassed the house. Two rustic thoroughfares, Shore and Cliff Roads, bordered the tiny island, following the coastline for the most part.

There weren’t many cars but in his first day on Osprey he’d quickly learned that Shore Road was well traveled by both day-trippers and the seasonal locals, many of them creative types with two occupations—art and socializing. Two neighboring cottagers had already shown up at his door offering invitations, which he’d declined. Even in top form, he wasn’t the cocktail-party type.

Pine Cone Cottage belonged to a woman named Alice Potter. She’d removed many of her personal belongings, including photos, so he had no idea what she looked like. From the modest cottage and her polite e-mails, he pictured a middle-aged lady, pleasant and plump. She owned a cat; he’d noticed a bag of kitty litter in a bathroom cupboard. No doubt there was also a close circle of island confidants, but no man, unless the voluble gent next door was not as gay as his beret.

The absent Miss Potter was currently fifty miles outside of Phoenix, enjoying the desert’s baking heat and the air-conditioned comforts of his parents’ place. She’d written that she was looking forward to her first cactus.

Sean tilted back in the lawn chair, his neck still prickling. The girl spy had crept closer and was positioned off his left shoulder to watch him through the picket slats.

He gave her another minute, then suddenly twisted around. “Gotcha.”

She gasped. Her red head popped up from behind the fence. She wanted to escape. He saw that in the angle of her body and the way she nervously clutched her schoolgirl tablet to her chest.

Instead, she stood her ground and screwed her round, freckled face into a knot. “You knew I was here?” Her voice was high and flutey.

“Of course.”

Her eyes darted between him and the wood. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Not yet.”

He settled back again, closing his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. “Then I’ll leave you to find out.”

That was stupid. Almost a challenge, when he wanted only to be alone. But the girl’s solitary preoccupation was somehow amusing, at least for the moment. If she continued lurking, he’d have to put a stop to the intrusion.

He’d seen her several times already. First, trailing him from the ferry. Then poking into Alice Potter’s mailbox at the end of the front yard’s fieldstone walk. And once peering through the vine-covered kitchen window when he’d been putting away the groceries he’d picked up at the Osprey Island general store.

Few children seemed to live on the island. He imagined she was bored. And, therefore, overly curious.

His son, Joshua, had once been like that—bright and inquisitive. Before he’d turned into a prickly thirteen-year-old who hated his dad for living thousands of miles away. Although Sean regretted the miles between them, he knew there were even worse distances. Endless, un-crossable ones.

He shut his eyes tight, gutted by the thought of one particular child who would never have a father again.

Josh lived with his mother, a stepfather, two half sisters. That Sean’s only son had a separate family outside of his father’s was cold comfort, especially during the weeks when monosyllabic phone calls were all they shared. But comfort all the same.

The other child had no one left except a messed-up mother who’d screamed like a banshee over the body of her dead husband in the roadway. Sean would be haunted by the torn sound of those screams forever, by the lights of his patrol car illuminating the pool of blood on the pavement, but most of all by the sight of a small boy’s face pressed to the back window of the family’s car, taking in the entire scene.

That made two boys missing their fathers.

And he was responsible for both.

Sean’s thigh seized. He winced and began to ruthlessly knead the tight muscles with his knuckles, letting the pain of the tender gunshot wound cut through the heavy layers of his guilt and regret.

Gradually the muscle let up. He exhaled, his head hung low on his chest, his eyes closed. Maybe the solitary, isolated cottage hadn’t been such a good idea. Not exactly what the police psychologist had in mind when she’d told him he needed to work through his issues regarding the routine traffic stop gone tragically wrong.

Easier said than done, anyway.

When Sean finally remembered to look up, the redheaded girl was gone. For good, he hoped, doubting that he’d be so fortunate.

Pippa Bradford’s Book of Curious Observations

CONTINUING SURVAILANCE of Subject #4.8:47 a.m. Tuesday morning, Pine Cone Cottage, Osprey Island, Maine. No visitors or phone calls. Subject drank coffee standing at window, then went out to back garden. Patrolled perimeter. Picked up a pinecone, threw it into woods. Carried chair from front yard. (Sunbathing?)

This is boring and my bug bites itch.

Update: Mission aborted!!! Future observation at risk.

“SONOVABIRCH,” Connie Bradford said when she saw the cluster of five-gallon English boxwoods, still not planted. She’d asked Bill Graves, the full-time gardener, to take care of it when she’d first arrived at the Sheffield estate to oversee the grand opening of the garden and maze she’d designed.

This was her biggest job ever. She’d begun work on the project almost three years ago, a scant month after her husband had passed away. But if she wanted perfection, she’d have to see to it herself.

Typical. She set aside her clipboard and picked up a spade.

Connie was halfway through the job when a trio strolled out of the house onto the porch, which overlooked the sloping green lawn. “Connemara,” called Kay Sheffield. Her slender arm waved back and forth in the brisk ocean breeze. “Hello! Come meet my guests.”

Connie lifted a hand in acknowledgment of the summons while muttering “Oh, yay” to herself. She stabbed the spade into a half-dug hole and dusted her hands off on her pants. Time to schmooze. She’d wanted to step up her clientele, but hadn’t counted on how much of her workday would be spent catering to the social niceties of the jet set rather than to their gardens. She was far more talented at coaxing forsythia into bloom.

“What on earth were you doing?” Kay asked as Connie approached. Connie felt disheveled in the presence of the well-groomed Mrs. Sheffield. The woman spoke through her nose with clenched teeth, a silly affectation she’d apparently picked up from old Katharine Hepburn movies. “We have Graves for that.”

The gardener had been notably uncooperative toward Connie. She shrugged. “There’s a lot to do before the party.”

“I’m certain you can manage without getting your hands dirty.” Kay turned to her guests, a squat man and a leggy blonde. “Harold, Jillian, this is Connemara Bradford, our up-and-coming garden designer. Connemara, Harold and Jillian Crosby. He’s in real estate, she’s in Prada.” Kay tittered at her witticism.

“Hal,” said the man, extending his hand.

“Connie.” They shook briskly.

“No one calls me Jillian,” the wife announced in a bubbly soprano voice. “I’m just Jilly.” She, like Kay, was greyhound-lean, bottle-blond and clad in head-to-toe designer labels. The two women might have been twins, except that Kay Sheffield was coolly beautiful while Jilly had an unfortunately long nose that shadowed her narrow lips.

“How do you do?” she asked in a more formal manner.

Connie smiled. “Quite well, thank you. I’m excited to be back on Osprey Island.” While she’d made the trip several times from her home office in Bridgeport, Connecticut, most of her work for the Sheffield estate had been done at the desk and computer. A far cry from the early days of her business, when she’d designed suburban backyards, carting, digging and planting all on her own.

“This is my first visit.” Jilly’s buoyant personality bobbed back to the surface. She clasped her hands, the large rock on her ring finger almost clipping her chin. “The estate is just gorgeous. You’re so lucky, Kaylene.”

The pleasure on the other woman’s face turned to restraint. “I go by Kay now.”

Jilly’s lips puckered around an oops. “Me and my big mouth.” She winked at Connie. “We used to be Las Vegas showgirls together, but I’m not supposed to mention that.”

Kay’s expression was pained. “It’s no secret,” she admitted. “But you know Anders.” Her husband. “He doesn’t want to advertise my past.”

Hal squeezed his wife’s waist.

Connie decided she liked the Crosbys, even if they were an odd couple. “Would you like a tour of the maze?” she asked Jilly, who gave a flattering, “Ooh, yes!” at the prospect.

“Not yet,” Kay commanded. “I want to keep it a surprise until the party. The opening of the maze is the event of the island’s social season.” Her mouth twitched. “Not that the island has much of a season, according to my husband.”

“Then I’d better get back to work. Saturday’s coming up fast.” Connie nodded, stepping aside as Kay swept her guests back indoors.

The woman was right, of course. Osprey would never make the list of society hot spots. Most of the small island’s vacation homes were modest cottages, with only a handful of old-money mansions like Peregrine House scattered along the prime oceanfront acreage. The really fashionable people went to Martha’s Vineyard or Newport Beach or the Hamptons.

The Sheffield home was an immense gray-shingled structure of the classic Cape Cod style, perched atop a narrow peninsula on the southeastern side of the island. The panoramic view of waves crashing on the cliffs was spectacular, but had left Connie with limited grounds to develop into the grand garden scheme the owners had requested. She’d designed a formal garden that followed the natural contours, with the octagonal maze fitted into the large open area created by a circular drive. For the upcoming garden party, they would set up a tent on the remaining stretch of flat lawn near the cliffs.

Connie returned to the boxwoods. As soon as she finished, the garden plantings would be complete. She’d have only the final touches to see to, which was no small task. Her clipboard lists were rife with notations on details and reminders that needed to be checked off before Saturday.

While she dug, Connie’s thoughts turned to her daughter. Pippa was ten years old, an intelligent and inquisitive child who had grown too solitary and quiet since her father had passed away. Because Philip’s treatments had frequently kept him from working, he’d acted as Pippa’s primary caregiver during the day while Connie had been at school or work. His death from the leukemia two years ago had come after years of illness, no less difficult for being expected.

Connie was strong. The loss of her first and only true love still hurt badly, but she had finally reached the point where she could manage the sorrow. Pippa’s continuing grief was her main worry.

Her daughter needed a boost. She’d hoped that a week on Osprey Island would at least get the girl outdoors. But so far Pippa had been more alone than ever, absorbed with scribbling in her notebook and rereading the few Trixie Belden mysteries she’d been allowed to pack.

Pippa clung to her precious Trixies as though they were life rafts. Philip had read the stories to her, one or two chapters a night. The tomboy detective—with her eager exclamations of “Gleeps!” and “Jeepers!”—had remained a part of their nightly ritual until the very end.

No wonder Pippa wasn’t ready to let go of that strong link to her father. Connie didn’t expect her to. She only wanted to encourage her child to move ahead with her life.

Connie straightened and pushed back the wiry strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. The sweater she’d put on that morning against the island chill had been tied around her waist for hours now. With the temperature heating up, the manual exertion had her sweating through her cotton blouse, as well. Determined to finish, she tamped the soil down around the boxwoods and went to find a hose to water them.

The gardener was nowhere to be seen. Graves had resented Connie’s presence from the start, especially after she’d brought in her own off-island workers to do the clearing and demolition of the old garden and its hardscape structures. He’d had it easy for years, doing only a minimum of upkeep to the grounds. Anders Sheffield hadn’t bothered with the family’s vacation estate until he’d married Kay, who’d soon begun to fancy herself becoming a proper New England grand dame. Thus the refurbishing had begun.

The current mistress of the manor didn’t strike Connie as the outdoor type. Kay had never displayed a great appreciation for horticulture, either, but that wasn’t Connie’s concern. Her only responsibility was to turn the grounds into a showplace.

Hose in hand, she turned away from the outdoor tap and paused to take in the panorama of trimmed hedges and lavishly blooming flower beds. Four more days and she could turn in her final bill, then take time off at last to concentrate on Pippa.

Voices drifted from the open windows of Peregrine House. “I don’t know why we have to go to all this trouble to impress your friends,” huffed Anders Sheffield. He was in his fifties, more than a decade older than Kay, with two grown sons from previous marriages. Each successive wife had been taller, blonder and more beautiful than the last. The next one would have to be a six-foot Swedish supermodel.

“What about all the boring business associates of yours that we invited?” Kay responded in a lethally quiet tone.

Ice cubes clinked. Connie checked her watch. Early yet for cocktails.

“I don’t need to impress them,” Anders sneered. “They hope to impress me.”

“Nothing impresses you. All the work I’ve done…” Kay’s voice trailed off as the couple moved out of the room.

All the work I’ve done, Connie said to herself. Her only regret was that her thriving business had taken her away from Pippa, when the girl needed her mother most.

MIDMORNING WAS TOO EARLY for lunch, but Sean had nothing else to do. He got out a can of ravioli and cranked the lid off with the handheld opener he’d found in a kitchen drawer. He took a plastic fork from a box and ate the pasta cold, straight out of the tin. Not cold, he decided after a deliberate culinary evaluation. Room temperature. Almost tasteless, too, but the effortless cleanup was worth the sacrifice.

He threw out the can, the ravioli only half-eaten. His appetite had been lousy for a while now.

The lid of the trash swung shut. So much for lunch. Now what? The day stretched before him, empty and endless, with nothing but his thoughts to fill in the silence.

A long walk, he decided. The physical therapist had said walking would be good for working his leg muscles back into shape, as long as he didn’t overdo it and reopen the wound.

“Not much chance of that,” he muttered, his hand going to the misshapen dent where a .32-caliber slug had torn through his thigh. The island was less than three miles long, from the southernmost ferry dock to Whitlock’s Arrow, a rocky outcropping that shot straight into the frothing surf of the Atlantic. He’d head north. The Potter cottage was halfway up the island, so a trip to Whitlock’s Arrow would be no more than a three-mile jaunt, round trip.

Not an exceptionally long walk, but a good start. By the end of his two weeks, he’d be scaling cliffs.

The sun wasn’t yet at its zenith, but it had grown hotter. Sean knotted a bandanna over his head, slid on a pair of sunglasses and took off down the lane. He followed the road north, moving at a clip that kept the occasional bikers or strollers from breaking his momentum with their cheery hellos.

The view was impressive, even though the drop to the ocean wasn’t as steep on the western side of the island. Waves surged over the rocks; grass and wildflowers nodded in the breeze. He breathed the air—thick with brine and the pungent smell of evergreens—into the bottom of his lungs as he walked along Shore Road, coming to realize how grateful he was to be a long way from the job he’d previously lived for.

Gulls spiraled above the rocks up ahead, dropping down, then alighting in a flapping cacophony. The laughter of a group of picnickers sent Sean off the lane and onto the dirt paths that wound around the heart of the island, leading in no discernible pattern to various woodland cottages.

The hush was immediate. Towering pines closed ranks overhead, their interlaced branches blocking out all but intermittent patches of the vivid blue sky. Even the crash of the surf subsided until it was only background noise. The rhythmic pulse of the island.

Sean slowed, testing his pulse. He was out of shape. Getting blasted at short range by a crazed ex-con tended to have that effect.

A flash of reddish brown at the edge of a small meadow caught his eye. Too slow for a deer. Too tall for a fox.

He took off his sunglasses and polished them on the hem of his plain white T-shirt, watching out of the corner of his eye as the same redheaded girl from that morning peeked out from behind a tree. Had she been following him the entire way?

He walked on, not glancing back until he reached a fork in the path. “Right or left?” he called.

After a short silence, the girl blew out a disgusted breath. “Whatsa matter? Are you lost?”

He didn’t turn. “I’m taking you home.”

A twig snapped as she stepped out onto the path. “I don’t want to go home.”

“I can’t have you trailing me all over the island.”

“How come?”

“It’s dangerous.”

She edged closer. “What’s dangerous?”

He angled his head, taking a better look at her. She was short. Not abnormally, just kid-size. Genius observation.

The girl had pale, freckled legs and a round body. She wore shorts and an untucked T-shirt with pit stains. The binoculars hung around her neck and a spiral notebook was clamped under one arm. Her hair was fuzzy, drawn into stubby braids that barely reached her shoulders. Behind a pair of wire-frame glasses, her hot, red face was squished into a frown.

“You look like an angry tomato,” he said.

Her mouth opened, then closed into an even tighter pucker. She shook off a few flecks of forest debris before shooting out her chin. “You look like a…a…peg-legged pirate!”

He remembered the bandanna on his head and laughed. “Fair enough.”

Her small, chubby hand clenched a pen. “How come it’s dangerous for me to follow you?”

“Just because.” He moved off a couple of steps, but she kept pace. “Don’t you have parents? Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“My mom’s working,” she blurted, then looked sorry she’d given that away. Still, she added, “I’d just be alone there.”

“You shouldn’t tell that to a stranger.”

She blinked. “I know.”

He started off, taking the path to the left. “Don’t follow me anymore. Go home.”

He listened to her moving behind him, relieved when she turned onto the path that led toward the more populated southern end of the island. He stopped and watched as she progressed slowly, kicking at pinecones, glancing over her shoulder.

Her scowl deepened. “What are you doing?”

“Watching to see that you really go.” He made a shooing motion.

She stomped off, but he wasn’t convinced. He waited until she was out of sight, then followed, coming upon her almost immediately where the path twisted. She was scribbling inside her notebook, and looked up guiltily when he approached.

“I thought you were going home.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say that. You did.”

Spunky girl. “You can’t keep following me.”

“I wasn’t. I was making—” She cut herself off by slapping shut the tablet.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“I don’t tell strangers my name.”

He nodded. “Do you live on the island?”

“For now.”

“Will you stop bothering me if I tell you my name?” She weighed the question, so he added an extra tidbit to tip the scales. “It’s not Potter.”

Her eyes got big. “Then you’re a renter.”

“More or less. The name’s Sean Rafferty. I’m from Worcester, Massachusetts, originally, but now I live in Holden. It’s a small town.”

The girl smiled. “I was guessing Boston, ’cause of the accent.”

“I’ve lived there, too. I’m on vacation for two weeks. And that’s all you need to know.” He made the shooing motion again, but it worked about as well on little girls as it did on his elder neighbor’s cats. He pointed at the path, doing his best imitation of his first duty sergeant. Or his father, a decorated trooper who’d run a tight outfit at home. “Go. Now.”

She went, reluctantly, looking small and alone.

Sean waited a couple more minutes, debating with himself while pine siskins hopped from branch to branch, nattering in chirps that punctuated his thoughts. A couple of teenagers came barreling down the path on mountain bikes, whooping back and forth harmlessly enough, but that settled it. Sean took the path to the right. He could just as easily walk down-island as up.

The girl soon realized she was being followed. She sped up, not liking it any more than he had.

In a short while, the path emerged from the woods and they were on the hard-packed dirt and gravel of Cliff Road. Beyond an ancient post-and-beam fence, sheer cliffs dropped into the booming surf.

After another quarter mile, the road veered inland again, losing the ocean view to a copse of pines. The girl scurried past gates guarding a couple of the larger island estates before turning between a pair of mossy stone pillars. A heavy iron gate that bore a scrolled initial S stood open. A plaque on one of the pillars read Peregrine House.

A poor little rich girl? Sean hadn’t figured her for that.

The estate’s gravel driveway led into a thick forest. The girl had already disappeared, but he could’ve sworn she’d turned off too quickly, into the woods. Maybe she was fooling with him, planning to double back.

He strode through the pillars, looking off into the woods, trying to pick up the girl’s trail.

“Hey!” a woman shouted.

Sean halted at the start of a woodsy path so narrow it was almost grown in by the crowded foliage. He saw the peak of a red-roofed cottage among the trees.

A woman charged down the main driveway, spewing pebbles in her wake. Corkscrew curls of dark red hair bounced around her face, which was suffused with color.

He lowered his sunglasses, taking a good long look.

“Hey, you, mister,” she accosted him. One fist raised. “What do you think you’re doing, following my daughter home?”

CHAPTER TWO

SEAN SURRENDERED WITH his hands up. “Uh, hey. It’s not what you think.”

“Pippa?” the woman called. “Pippa, are you all right?” She aimed a finger at Sean before heading toward the overgrown trail. “Don’t you dare move. I want to talk to you.”

Sean remained frozen. She said talk the way his mother used to, when he and his brothers had been raising hell in the neighborhood and she’d resorted to threatening them with a talk from their father. The talk was usually a scolding, sometimes followed by a licking when the crime had been particularly heinous.

The girl had reappeared. “Jeez, Mom. Why are you yelling?”

So her name’s Pippa, Sean thought, but his gaze was on the mother. With the wild red hair and the fighting attitude, she was the spitting image of her daughter. Except that the chubbiness around Pippa’s middle had migrated in different directions in the mother, giving her an hourglass figure on a petite frame.

The woman gripped her daughter’s shoulders. She bent to stare into the child’s downcast eyes. “Are you okay, Pippa? Did this man try to hurt you?”

Pippa looked up with an owl-eyed blink. Her lower lip stuck out. “No, Mom.”

“We only talked,” Sean said.

“You talked?” The mother wheeled on him. “What are you doing, talking to a ten-year-old girl in the middle of nowhere? There’s something fishy going on here.” She looked ready to tear his head off with her hands, but she swallowed hard and turned back toward her child. “I’m warning you right now, buster. Stay away from my daughter.”

“That’s fine.” Sean flicked his chin toward the girl. “You be sure to tell her to keep away from me, too.”

The mother had Pippa in a headlock, crushed to her bosom. She threw him a look. “You can bet on that. And I’ll also be talking to the Jonesport police about strange men who prowl the woods looking for…” She snorted. “Conversation.”

Sean was running short on patience, but he jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and retreated a few steps so he wouldn’t appear threatening. “I only followed her because—”

“Then you admit it.” The mother clutched Pippa even tighter before abruptly releasing her. “Run up to the house now, Pip. I’ll be along in a minute.”

Pippa hesitated, grimacing as if she wanted to speak up. “Okay,” she finally whispered, then turned and ran off.

The mother advanced on Sean, her hands clenched and her chest heaving. He couldn’t help admire her ferocity, even if it was directed at him. He was Irish; he liked a woman with spirit. And the flaming hair didn’t hurt, either.

“Do I get to explain before I’m condemned?” he asked.

She tossed her head back. “Go ahead. Try and worm your way out of it. I know what I saw—you creeping after my little girl, glancing around to be sure no one was watching.”

He supposed he might have appeared furtive, although he was positive he hadn’t crept. “I followed her only to see that she got home safely. I swear on my honor, that’s all there was to it. No harm intended.”

“Right.” The woman folded her arms, regarding him skeptically. “And what about the ‘talk’?”

“I caught her following me through the woods. She was lurking around my cottage, too, yesterday and this morning.”

The woman’s eyes flickered, betraying the slightest hesitation. “I’m sure. So you’re blaming the victim?”

“There’s no victim here. You keep your daughter away from me, and I’ll stay away from her.”

“You’re claiming that Pippa was at your house?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. Why would my girl be interested in you?”

“How should I know? You’re her mother.”

She frowned.

“Maybe it was some kind of game.”

“I…” The woman drew in a breath, lifting her chin an inch higher. She couldn’t have been taller than five-two, at least ten inches shorter than Sean. “I’ll speak to her.”

He nodded. “Good.”

Her mouth thinned. “That doesn’t mean I believe you.”

“You don’t have to, as long as your daughter tells the truth.”

“Pippa doesn’t lie to me.”

Sean hoped not. “If you want me…” to apologize for your tirade, perhaps “…I’m staying on the west side, at Pine Cone Cottage, just off Shore Road.”

“Wonderful.”

She offered only the one sarcastic word, with no name, so he nodded and walked away, certain they’d meet again. Presumably under better circumstances. Osprey was, after all, a very small island.

CONNIE WAITED UNTIL they were seated at the dining table with their lunch—toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches—before she started in with the inquisition. Pippa was expecting it, and took a huge bite when her mother said, “All right. Tell me what happened.”

“Mmph, mouth’s full.”

“I’ll wait.” Connie speared a dill pickle out of the jar. The juice speckled the table’s watermarked wood surface, and she swiped it up with a paper napkin.

The Sheffields had installed Connie and her daughter in a somewhat ramshackle, long-forgotten guesthouse, as all the bedrooms in the main home were reserved for their VIP guests. Small and dark, the cedar-shingle house was hidden out of sight, in the woods not far from the front gate. The accommodations were summer-camp rustic, with thin, sagging mattresses, balky plumbing and flyspecked screens, but the privacy was wonderful. Constant exposure to the Sheffields worked Connie’s last nerve. Anders Sheffield was an entitled snob with morality issues, and the lady of the manor was too unsure of herself to give him the boot up the butt that he deserved.

Connie had thought that the guesthouse setup was ideal. She’d be close enough to keep an eye on her daughter, even while she worked. It appeared she’d been wrong.

Pippa swallowed and went in for a second bite.

“Pippa.”

She put the sandwich down. “Yes, Mom?”

“Were you at that man’s house?” Connie was certain about one thing—her daughter wouldn’t lie. Pippa’s good conscience and the tendency to blush beet-red had always given her away. She’d learned not to even try.

“Not in it,” Pippa said. “But I was nearby.”

“Did you follow him?”

Her daughter’s face was inching toward her plate as her shoulders caved inward. Gradually, over the past several years, Pippa had become more secretive and self-contained. Emotional conflict bothered her. She’d picked up the habit of cowering whenever she couldn’t physically retreat.

“I guess so,” Pippa whispered.

Connie winced, remembering the accusations she’d flung at the stranger. “Why?”

“I was observing him.”

The notebook again. Connie sighed. “Pippa, I’ve warned you about that habit….”

The girl’s head shot up. “I was bored! I read all my books. There’s nothing to do here.”

“I said you could go for a short walk. That didn’t mean spying on strangers.” Connie would have normally considered Pippa’s spurt of temper and the venture outdoors to be promising. These days, it was tough to raise a child to be both bold and cautious.

Connie chose her words carefully. “This island may be small, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe for a young girl to be wandering around alone. Still, I want you to have fun here. Kid-type fun. You are not to get up to any of your Trixie Belden and the Mystery of the—the whatever mischief.”

“Oh, Mom. Please? There’s lots to see on the island. I won’t bother anybody.”

“Especially not that man.”

Pippa sighed. She was good at doing that, in a way that made Connie feel like a tyrant.

“All right, Pip. I’ll do my best to make some extra time for us to try a few island activities.” Connie bit the pickle in half with a satisfying crunch. “But I want you sticking with me up at the garden for the rest of the day.”

Pippa kicked the table leg. “Will I have to dig? Ugh.”

“No, you won’t have to dig. You can play in the maze if you like. As long as I know where you are.”

“Okay.” Pippa was fascinated by the maze; she’d studied the plans from their first inception, until Connie had drawn up an extra copy for her daughter to trace out the solution with her markers.

Pippa gave her a toothy smile and returned to her sandwich. She was like her mother that way—running hot and cold at the turn of a tap.

An only child, Connie had been smothered and pampered by her parents. As a result, she’d developed a strong need for freedom and independence, but also a hair-trigger temper. In her adult years, she’d been forced to learn to control her emotions and act as the rock of the family, particularly during the final years of her marriage. Even so, Philip had often teased her that she was only a dormant volcano, ready to burst forth at the first rumbling provocation.

She’d certainly gone off on Pippa’s stranger. He must be feeling rather scorched.

Connie pressed two fingers between her closed eyes. She couldn’t seem to remember exactly what the man looked like, beyond an impression of a lean body with wide shoulders and a fringe of dark hair sticking out from beneath his bandanna. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses. She’d taken that as shady, but maybe she’d been wrong.

She didn’t want to encourage Pippa’s surreptitious sleuthing, especially after the “Case of the Locked Garden Shed” had led to a policeman showing up on her doorstep back home. Unfortunately, her own curiosity about the stranger was suddenly on a par with Pippa’s.

Connie shoved aside her paper plate. “All right. Tell me. What did you find out about him?”

Pippa dropped the cheesy crust she’d been nibbling. “He came on the nine-fifteen ferry. I first saw him yesterday, when we were having breakfast at the harbor. Want me to get my notebook? I made lots of observations.”

Connie had noticed her scribbling away at the time, but had overlooked it. “That’s not necessary, Pippa.” She picked up her can of diet soda. “Did you get his name? I should probably make a point of apologizing since it seems that he’s not quite the degenerate I believed him to be.”

“I didn’t find out his name on my own, but he told me.” Pippa looked sorry about that. She took pride in her growing ability to ferret out information. Too much pride. “It’s Sean Rafferty.”

Sean Rafferty, Pine Cone Cottage. Connie filed the info away before popping the top of the soda. She licked the fizz from her thumb. “And was he alone?”

“Yep. He says he’s on vacation.”

Connie’s eyes narrowed. “How long did you two talk?”

“Only a minute. He knew I was following him and he told me to go home.” Pippa frowned. “He didn’t act like a vacationer.”

“How does a vacationer act?”

“Happy. I think Mr. Rafferty is sad. Or maybe sick.”

“What makes you say that?” Connie asked, although as soon as the comment had come out of Pippa’s mouth, she’d realized that she’d had the same impression. Despite the wide shoulders, he’d been gaunt. He hadn’t smiled once, even to reassure her when she was frantic and overprotective.

“Well, he limps. And he’s restless. He ate his lunch standing up.”

“Oh, Pippa. Were you looking in his windows?”

Pippa’s head drooped. She gave a little nod.

“Good grief. That’s so wrong I don’t even know what to say to you.” Connie set the soda can down with a clunk. She waved Pippa away. “Go on, wash up and get ready to come to the maze with me. You’re staying within my sights for the rest of the day, young lady.”

Connie took a few quick bites of her sandwich, regretting that she’d asked the questions and reignited her daughter’s imagination. As well as her own.

She was on Osprey Island to achieve a garden design that would put her on the map. She had no time to become involved in one of Pippa’s imaginary mysteries, especially a puzzle that might as well be titled The Secret of the Handsome Stranger.

THE NEXT MORNING, Sean made his second attempt at the walk to Whitlock’s Arrow. The brisk salt air was invigorating, and by midmorning he was negotiating a tricky path down the cliffside to the shingle beach. Up top, he’d come across an island old-timer who’d offered directions, warning that while the close-up view was worth the trip, it was potentially dangerous once the tide came in.

Despite a few hairy moments when he slipped on the slick rocks, Sean landed safely on the beach. He sat on one of the outcroppings to rest his injured leg while watching the blue-green waves beat at the craggy stones of the point.

After a while, the constantly changing patterns of spume and the fecund smell of the tide lulled him into forgetting about himself. The shore was a world in itself, private except for the sightseers who appeared at the edge of the cliff to pose for photos. Some of them shouted into the roar of the surf, setting off the gulls and cormorants that speckled the rocks.

When the tide turned, Sean got up to go back. Along the way, he took a few extra minutes to explore the tidal pools formed by the water’s recession. The microcosms of ocean life were more fascinating than he expected.

He’d been born and raised and gone to college in cities, then moved several times around Massachusetts during his career as a state trooper. He’d never much considered the rugged appeals of the country. After a marriage prompted by his girlfriend’s pregnancy, vacations to Cape Cod with baby Josh in a soppy diaper and Jen complaining about her sunburn had been about as rural as he’d gotten.

He’d made the trip to Maine strictly out of desperation. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it. He hadn’t expected that the respite would truly help him recover.

Minutes flew by while he watched crabs scurry over the rocks and the delicate but sturdy anemones bob in the water of the tidal pool. Seaweed spread green tentacles through the shallows. Snails left glistening trails on the stones. He touched the elaborate white designs drawn on the black rocks, then licked at the crystalized sea salt left on his finger.

Only when he put a foot down wrong and his running shoe plunged into icy water did he realize how much time had passed. The tide was rising rapidly, already turning several of the formerly accessible rocks into mini islands of their own. He moved from stone to stone, traversing rivers that foamed white with each crashing wave.

A plaintive cry stopped his scramble up the cliffside path. He looked back the way he’d come, but saw only a white gull diving into the sea.

“Over here!”

He shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the ocean. Huddled, shivering and wet, stranded on a steeply slanted rock that had become surrounded by the rising tide was the girl, Pippa. Sean’s blood turned cold. There was no way for him to swim out to rescue her without being beaten bloody on the rocks by the incoming surf.

CHAPTER THREE

“DON’T MOVE!” HE SHOUTED, although clearly Pippa had no intention of moving. Flattened against the stone, she flinched each time the thunderous waves crashed and sent spray high into the blue sky. She was somewhat sheltered from the surf by adjacent jutting rocks, but her position grew more precarious every minute. The water crept higher, swirling with dangerous currents.

Sean shielded his eyes and searched down shore for help. He’d spotted a beached dinghy maybe a half mile away, but gave that up as useless. There was no time. Not even to climb the cliff in hope of finding tourists nearby.

A length of frayed rope lay twined among the stones on the beach. He grabbed it and backtracked, working out a route to cross the slippery stones. Several times he waded through the frigid water. Soon he was plunging in, swimming the gaps from rock to rock. Each time, the icy shock of it stole his breath and sapped another portion of his strength as he fought against the treacherous pull of the current. By the time he pulled himself onto the rock that brought him as close to Pippa as he could get, he was numb through.

The waves surged past Pippa’s sheltered position and battered him full on. “Can you catch the rope?” he called, knotting a loop.

Her face was stark white, her lips almost blue. “I th-think so.”

He threw the lasso, which barely had enough length to reach her. She lifted a hand but missed as a large wave broke behind her. The roped dropped into the rush of rising tide.

“You’re fine.” He reeled in the line. The waves lapped at her shins. “Try again.”

Pippa got it on the third attempt and slipped the loop over her head and shoulders before clamping herself to the rock again. She closed her eyes and said, “Okay,” through chattering teeth.

Not okay. He gripped the end of the worn rope, praying it was strong enough. “You have to climb down. Or jump.”

She stared at the tumultuous gap between them. “In the water?”

At Whitlock’s Arrow, the surf boomed as loud as thunderclaps. He’d read Pippa’s lips more than heard her. “Keep hold of the rope,” he yelled, hoping she’d understand. “I’ll reel you in.”

She looked down, then clutched at the craggy rock. “I can’t!”

“You have to. I can’t come to you.” As it was, he could only hope he’d be able to catch her before the waves slammed her into the rock—or pulled her under.

She hunched her shoulders up around her ears and shook her head, her eyelids squeezed shut again.

“You can’t wait!” he roared. He didn’t give her time to think, just leaned farther over the edge of the rock and whipped the line taut between them, giving her middle a jerk. “Jump this way when I say go.”

He’d been watching the waves. They came in escalating series of seven. When the largest one broke, showering both of them with foam, he barked, “Go!” and gave the rope another pull.

Pippa plunged into the water and was immediately swept sideways into the current, heading directly toward a half-submerged rock. The rope caught her up short. The sharp snap sent a jolt juddering up Sean’s arm into his shoulder. She surfaced, white-faced and sputtering.

He pulled her in hand over hand, sliding dangerously low over the rock ledge, his thighs straining. The adrenaline that burned through him gave his numbed arms an extra shot of strength.

A wave descended as he reached in to haul her out. She was deadweight, and he had only enough time to press them both against the rock face, clinging like limpets as the icy water pelted them. When the waves receded he pushed her up and followed with a great heave, covering her as the next rush arrived.

Immediately he got Pippa moving, herding her along mercilessly until they were beyond the waves. They slumped onto the pebbly beach, and he pulled her roughly into his arms, chafing at her limbs to bring the blood up.

The sodden lump of her spiral-bound notebook fell out of the front of her windbreaker, along with her glasses. She reached for them.

He closed a hand over hers. “Dammit, Pippa. What did you think you were you doing, following me down here? Do you realize the danger you were in?”

The girl gasped for air. “D-don’t tell my mo-mom.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “You know I have to.”

Pippa’s shoulders shook violently against his chest. He felt as though he’d been cracked open against the rocks and emptied out, but still he cradled her, willing his warmth into the girl’s small body even when he believed he had none left to give.

He wouldn’t have this one’s fate on his conscience.

CLEAR MIND, pure heart, gentle soul.

Despite Connie’s best intentions, her lips tightened, her fingers curled toward her palms. Maybe it worked for some, but to her the mantra was a load of claptrap. She had way too much going on to forget for even a minute.

Breathe, woman. Relax and give it another go. You’re on a picturesque island sixteen miles off the Maine coast. You can’t get any more idyllic. The oms should be rolling off your tongue.

Connie had plunked herself on the ground outside the guesthouse. Her friend Lena swore by meditation, but then Lena was the sort of woman who kept a yoga mat in her desk drawer, which happened to be in her corner window office in the busiest business tower at the intersection of Boston’s noisiest streets. Lena was the calm at the eye of the tornado.

Whereas tornado was Connie’s middle name. When she made time for the gym, it was to take a kickboxing class. No oms, just right jab, left jab, kick, kick, kick.

Kay Sheffield, who’d yoo-hoo’d Connie from a leisurely breakfast on her seaside patio to say there was a touch of yellow in the maze hedge and that if Connie couldn’t replace the section—yeah, sure, overnight—she might want to consider green spray paint? Pow.

The supplier who’d screwed up a gravel shipment, leaving Connie and her day workers empty-handed at the dock in the morning fog? Punch.

Graves, who’d absconded with several of her tools, even though they were clearly marked Bradford Garden Designs, and had then said—to her face—that she must have lost them? Bam, bam, bam. Three lightning kicks, right under the chin.

Connie untangled herself out of the pretzel pose and leaned back on her hands to look up at the cloudless sky. Meditation wasn’t working. No surprise. When Philip had been sick as a dog from chemo and she’d been half out of her mind, trying to take care of him and Pippa while beginning work toward her master gardener qualification, the only calm she’d known had been in their tiny backyard. Little by little she’d weeded, planted and pruned until the space had become a lush green paradise.

She’d always remember the quiet evenings in the garden with Phil, how he’d made her promise that she wouldn’t give up on her dream, no matter what.

Connie squeezed her lids shut. If he could see her now, he’d bust with pride.

He’d also be terribly concerned about Pippa. He’d always known the right way to comfort their daughter without coddling her, while Connie couldn’t seem to get it right no matter what she tried. She was either too harsh, to toughen Pippa up, or too open and easy, to encourage Pippa’s independence.

Then again, everything was ten times more difficult without Phil. Whenever Connie thought she had herself under control and her life in order, she was reminded how alone she was without him.

Were her struggles the result of missing her husband, or simply the lot of every single working parent?

Probably both, she conceded. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life without a partner. In recent weeks, her loneliness had even led to a few thoughts about agreeing to one of Lena’s setups.

But she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Lena’s men were business executives with sky-box connections to the Sox. Connie was a hot-dogs-in-the-bleachers woman. Only a rare man would pique her interest. None had landed on her doorstep.

“Mrs. Bradford?”

The sudden shout of her name was a shock. She sprang up as Sean Rafferty came around the corner of the house at a brisk clip. “Sorry to disturb you.” He was out of breath. “I caught a glimpse and—”

“No, that’s fine.” She slapped the pine needles off her butt. “I was taking a break, is all.” Why should that fluster her? “I, uh, didn’t expect to see you again so soon, but since you’re here, I ought to…” She stopped to inhale, which should have slowed her galloping pulse. “Apologize.”

The man pulled up short, apparently speechless.

“I was wrong. I admit it. I jumped to conclusions about you, Mr. Rafferty, and I’m sorry. You’re not a—a—” She gestured with both hands, trying to think of polite words rather than the blunt ones she was more accustomed to using. Watching her salty tongue around her new class of clientele was a job in itself.

“A monster?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows.

“A child molester.” A spade was a spade, even if it was in the hands of a resentful gardener like Graves.

“That’s good, because…” Sean inclined his head toward the front of the house.

Connie groaned. “Pippa? Not again.”

Pippa had still been sleeping when Connie had left the house to meet the early ferry. She’d set out cereal and a note on the kitchen table, instructing the girl not to wander off beyond the Sheffield estate. Since it was a big estate with much for an inquisitive girl to explore, she hadn’t been overly worried when she’d found Pippa gone when she’d returned. For all her curiosity, Pippa was too cautious to get into dangerous situations.

At least, she had been.

While Connie’s mind had raced, she’d also been staring at Sean, cataloging his features and build as if she might need to identify him in a lineup. The shoulders she remembered. Above them, his face was handsome, if gaunt. He had a good, strong nose and jaw. A sprinkle of gray in the clipped hair. His eyes were a solemn gray-blue, not dark the way she’d remembered.

She dropped her gaze, then blinked, appreciation turning to apprehension. “Why are your jeans wet? You’re soaked to the skin!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Pippa’s okay, but she was caught out by the tide. I hauled her in.”

“Pippa…was in the ocean?”

“No, she was on a rock.” He conceded with a nod. “And briefly in the water.”

“Where is she?”

“Sitting on your front step. Seeing as she was following me again when it happened, I think she’s afraid to face you.”

“Afraid?” Connie’s head jerked back. “Because I’m the monster?”

“Maybe a tigress,” Sean said with a small smile.

Connie resisted the urge to let out a low growl. Pippa was safe, that was the important thing. If there was anyone to blame, it wasn’t Sean and it wasn’t Pippa. It was her.

“PIPPA, PIPPA. WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Connie’s hands shook as she pulled a towel off the shelf. She clenched the length of terry cloth taut, then enfolded her daughter’s shivering body. “I said over and over that you were not to go near the ocean without supervision. You’ve never disobeyed me so badly before. When I think what might have happened…”

Don’t think it. She’s safe.

Pippa bleated from the depths of a fervent hug, the third or fourth since her mother had rushed her inside and up to the bathroom for dry towels and a hot shower. “Oh, Mom.”

Connie set Pippa back, knowing that despite her own culpability she must scold the girl. Mete out some sort of punishment. But that could wait.

“I’d rattle your bones if you weren’t already shaking like a drowned kitten.” Connie swept aside the mildewed shower curtain and cranked on the tap. “In you go.”

Pippa stared, the towel clutched under her chin.

“Privacy.” Connie bit her lip, remembering that her daughter was ten and growing up fast. No longer a little girl. But not a big one, either. “Right. Stay in the shower until the hot water runs out. I’ll go brew you a cup of tea.”

“Tea?” Pippa made a face.

“Hot chocolate, then, if I can remember how to make it when I’m so shook up.”

“It’s just chocolate and milk, Mom.”

“Don’t be a smarty-pants. You’re in for it, you know. I’ll have to ground you.” But she already had, in effect, and that hadn’t done any good. Before there could be a punishment, she’d have to find out why Pippa had disobeyed, what she’d hoped to gain.

Sean Rafferty.

He might know. Connie had left him on his own when she’d rushed Pippa inside.

He’s probably gone, she told herself as she descended the cottage’s narrow steps with a couple towels in her arms. A glance out the stairwell’s porthole window revealed no sign of him, but then she found him sitting at the dining table, perched damply on the edge of a ladderback chair, his face pinched white. He looked as though he couldn’t figure out why he was still there.

Suddenly, Connie knew nothing except that seeing him had eased her worry. As wary and edgy as he came across, she was instinctively comforted by his presence. Go figure.

“Towels.” She thrust them at him. “You’re shivering.”

He stood and draped one around his shoulders, ignoring the wet denim clinging to his legs.

“Well,” Connie said, pulling away her gaze. “Pippa’s taking a hot shower. For a minute there, I was worried about hypothermia.”

“She was chilled through, but the walk home warmed her up. I kept her moving. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Sean rubbed his arms vigorously. “Since you’ve got everything under control, I’ll leave.”

“No, please stay. I’d like to talk to you.” Connie put her hand on his arm to urge him down into the chair, then pulled away when the renewed warmth of his skin and the firm muscle beneath it came as a pleasant shock.

She rubbed the prickly hair on her forearms as she headed to the fridge. Holding a half-gallon container of milk and a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, she turned back to Sean. “Will you come to dinner tonight? I’d like to—” Breathe, dammit! “—express my gratitude to you.” Despite the inappropriate timing, there was no denying she was aware of all sorts of things she’d like to do with him.

“That’s not necessary,” he said in a grave tone, and she dearly hoped he hadn’t been reading her mind.

Her laugh sounded rusty. “Hey, c’mon. You rescued my daughter from the briny brink. A home-cooked meal is the least that I owe you.”

He glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. It had dried into short porcupine quills. “It was nothing.”

“It was huge. You’re a hero in my book.”

His face contorted. Only for a millisecond, but she noticed.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” She bent and clattered the pots and pans in the drawer under the electric stove more than she had to, then tossed her hair as she straightened. She shot him a smile over her shoulder. “Are you modest? Shy? Secretly a Mr. Limpet?”

“What’s a Mr. Limpet?”

She poured milk into a saucepan. “A character from The Incredible Mr. Limpet. You don’t know the movie?”

He shook his head.

“We watched a lot of oldies with Pippa when she was little,” Connie explained. “Mr. Limpet was a favorite. Don Knotts played a wimp who turned into a heroic fish wearing glasses. The fish was animated.” She paused, considering. “It was better than it sounds.”

Sean rubbed a finger above his upper lip. “I’m not a wimp or a fish.”

Connie grinned. “Not even a heroic one?”

“No.”

“Seriously, though,” she said and squirted the syrup into the milk. Not the best recipe for hot chocolate, but it’d do in a pinch. “What about dinner?”

He didn’t answer.

She saw the beginnings of his frown and rushed on. “Sharing a little companionship won’t hurt you. The island can be a lonely place. That is, assuming you are alone?” She stopped stirring. “Would there be a Mrs. Limpet?”

“Pippa didn’t tell you?”

“I neglected to interrogate her.” On that point.

“I’m here alone.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wincing slightly. “There’s no fish wife.”

With a chuckle, she resumed stirring. “Then you can come over. About six? Just so you know, I’m not promising a gourmet meal. My purpose is to find out exactly what happened with Pippa this morning.”

“Then I can save you the trouble. What happened is that Pippa was spying on me again.”

“I told her not to,” Connie interjected. “Very firmly.”

He nodded. “Even so, she followed me out to Whitlock’s Arrow, on the north end. Apparently she climbed down to the shore after me, then was stranded on a rock when the tide came in.” He rubbed his leg. “I didn’t notice her until it was too late, or I’d have sent her home right away.”

“What were you doing at Whitlock’s Arrow?”

She got a shrug. “Walking. Exploring the shore.” He met her eyes. “In complete innocence.”

“I didn’t intend to accuse you of anything. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with Pippa. You seem like a normal sort of guy.” Normal? Maybe. “What’s so intriguing about you that she’d break the rules and—” she exaggerated for his benefit “—risk my wrath?”

Connie knew why he intrigued her—no mystery in that at all. In the fourteen years since she’d hooked up with Philip when they were both sophomores in college, she may have forgotten how strong the first sweet rush of attraction could be. But she was recognizing it now.

Sean’s gaze took in her face, her hair. “Do you have a lot of wrath?” he asked, bemused.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Her scalp tingled. “My temper has been known to flare.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. I remember now.”

She snorted. “Hey, wait a minute. I wasn’t completely off the mark about that.” She tilted her head toward the ceiling as the sound of drumming water ceased. “A mother’s got to be diligent, nowadays.”

Sean retreated. “You’re right, of course.”

Connie poured the hot chocolate into a mug. “Want some? You got wet, too.” She stared at his clinging jeans. “Shoot. I should have offered you a change of clothing, and instead I’m entertaining you with plot summaries of old Disney movies.”

He waved her off. “Thanks, but I’m not fitting into any of your gardening togs. I’ll go home to change.” He dropped the towels on the back of the chair and moved to the front door, which still stood wide-open.

She followed. “I want you to know that I realize how lucky we were that you were there to rescue Pippa. If you hadn’t seen her…If you hadn’t acted quickly…Well, that’s too horrible to consider. Words of gratitude aren’t enough.” She grasped the edge of the door. Swallowed the lump in her throat. “Pippa and I are indebted.”

“A thank-you is enough.” Sean stooped and picked something up off her doorstep, using his left hand. The knuckles of his right pressed hard into his thigh.

With a wince, he straightened and extended his hand. “You and Mr. Bradford owe me no more than that.”

He thought there was a Mr. Bradford? Connie didn’t wear a wedding ring, although that was because of her job rather than her marital status. She might have immediately explained that her “we” was a family of only two, but she was distracted by what Sean had handed her.

Pippa’s sodden notebook. The answer, perhaps, to all of Connie’s questions, even if she couldn’t possibly read it without her daughter’s permission.

“Thank you.” She clutched the tablet to her midriff, even though it was cold and smelled of seaweed. She needed to hold on…to something.

Sean gave a short wave and strode down the path to the main road. Even with the pronounced hitch in his step and his damp, wrinkled clothing, he cut an admirable figure in the dappled sunshine—proud, angular and so very capable of the heroics that he denied.

Connie took a deep breath and pushed down the damnably persistent tide of attraction. She’d explain about Phil later, when and if Sean returned at six to take her up on the dinner invitation.

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