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Besides, her reaction to the stranger wasn’t really about him at all, and she knew it. It was her custom to be rigorously honest with herself, and what she was dealing with here was old stuff, an automatic fear response to a highly testosterone-fueled member of the male sex, a subgroup she could live the rest of her life without, thank you very much, and be quite content.
“Well…” She clung to the doorknob, still vacillating between reason and the instinct to flee.
Just then, Fitzgerald glanced down at her feet—at her bunny slippers, for heaven’s sake, which she had forgotten she was wearing. When he looked up again, she glimpsed a brief flicker of something close to amusement in his eyes. In the next second it was gone, but she’d seen it, and it made her reconsider. She would keep an open mind, give the man a chance.
“Well, um,” she said again, “I think it’s time I washed my face and changed into actual clothes. Help yourself to coffee. Both of you.” She indicated the automatic coffeemaker she’d set last night before going to bed. “I’ll be right down.”
When the woman turned and hurried quickly out of the kitchen, Paul’s gaze followed her movements. Mouth suddenly dry, he licked his lips. He felt like a long-starving man in a room that contained a three-course meal, one he wasn’t allowed to eat, but dammit, no one could stop him from looking. Even in a long robe, her womanly shape was apparent. Slim and tall, with an indented waist and gently rounded hips, she moved gracefully, despite those ludicrous slippers
When he’d first seen her standing in the kitchen doorway, the front view had been just as arresting as the rear was now. Shoulder-length, straight, pale blond hair, sky-blue eyes in a broad, high-cheekboned face that wasn’t beautiful but not plain, either. Character, his father would have said. The woman had character.
She also had breasts—full, rounded ones. He could tell from the way the robe was tied and from the way they bounced gently as she moved.
Real breasts. Real hips. Real blue eyes. Not pictures. A real, live, graceful, damned attractive woman.
Who wasn’t too nuts about him.
Not that he blamed her. He was hard and he was angry. He had nothing left in him of politeness or manners. In the past four years, civilized behavior had been slowly leached out of him by his brutal surroundings, until he’d learned just to survive. However he could.
As Hank poured them two generous cups of coffee, Paul walked over the threshold into the kitchen, musing that he’d accomplished the first part of his purpose, gaining access to Kayla Thorne. But he’d been knocked for a loop by the woman who’d greeted them. She was so different than he’d expected her to be. In the pen they’d watched a lot of TV, and Kayla Thorne was all over the tube. She was famous. Infamous, really.
It was a great story. She’d been a special-duty nurse to millionaire Walter Thorne’s ailing wife. Then six months after the wife croaked, she’d married Thorne, who, at age seventy, was forty-five years her senior. There had been three years of marriage, but the age difference and polar-opposite economic status had given the tabloids and gossipmongers a field day. Thorne had died last year, and she’d been left a wealthy woman, sharing an estate of several million dollars with Thorne’s grown sons.
In all that time, Mrs. Thorne never gave an interview, never talked about herself, never defended herself. During the marriage and since. So the media had invented a personality for her, a cross between a wet-dream fantasy and money-grubbing schemer. Before the wife croaked, was there kinky stuff going on between the old man and the sexy nurse? they’d asked. Had the two of them murdered the first Mrs. Thorne? they’d implied. And finally, had she cold-bloodedly knocked off the old man?
She’d been officially cleared of any complicity in either death, both of which were from natural causes, but suspicion remained, even in Paul’s mind. Money could buy you all kinds of ways to cover up a crime. Besides, once he’d heard her maiden name, Vinovich, he’d associated her with lowlifes and liars. He had a lot of evidence and personal experience to back that up.
Judging from this first meeting, however, unless she was one hell of an actress, it appeared as though both his and the media’s assumptions had been off base. Kayla Thorne was softer than her pictures. More of a real person than a viper. The blond hair was natural, not bottle-created. She was polite, too, no diva, not one of those la-di-da, newly wealthy, lady-of-the-manor types.
The house was a surprise, too, from the outside for sure. Old, shabby even. Needed a third of the slats replaced, a new paint job. No servants that he could see. The kitchen was like the “before” of a before-and-after remodeling ad. Except for the shiny, new-looking coffeemaker and microwave oven, nothing in here had been updated in years. Old, bent pots and pans hung from hooks above the stove. The tile was chipped, the linoleum water-stained and ancient. One large, deep sink, probably installed in the 1930s. All that money and the whole place was ready for the wrecker’s ball. Damned strange was all he could say.
He heard her footsteps before he saw her appear from around the corner. He’d been propping a hip against one of the tile counters, sipping his coffee, but he straightened automatically as she entered the room, dressed in a comfortable-looking navy blue sweat outfit and tennis shoes, her hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail. Her face was shiny, as if she’d just washed it, which made her look about eighteen, although he knew she was about ten years older.
“Did you find the milk?” Avoiding eye contact with Paul, Mrs. Thorne directed the question at Hank, who sat at the small, two-person corner table.
“Sure did,” Hank said, “and the sugar.”
“Well, good,” she said, pouring herself a cup, taking a sip and then venturing a quick, sideways glance at Paul. The kitchen was small, there wasn’t a lot of room for maneuvering, so she stood close. He could smell fresh soap and some flowery kind of body lotion. For a moment, he felt light-headed.
“It’s good coffee,” he said, trying to remember how to be pleasant. He wanted this job, for more reasons than the obvious one, and it was, so far, not a done deal.
Out of nowhere, a small animal appeared in the doorway, something dirty and floppy in its teeth. Paul frowned. He’d never been a fan of Yorkshire terriers—rats with hair, he’d always thought of them—and his opinion was now reinforced as the runty-looking thing seemed to realize there were two newcomers in the kitchen. Dropping the toy from its mouth, it began a ferocious, high-pitched, extremely irritating round of barking.
The woman looked down at the tiny dog at her feet, then scooped it up into her arms. “It’s okay, baby,” she cooed, which made it stop barking and begin whimpering, an equally unpleasant sound, to Paul, anyway. “Bailey’s a little upset,” she told them. “We had some kind of nocturnal visitor and he got scared.” She caressed the animal some more. “You want a treat?” she asked him, then got a dog biscuit out of a nearby jar.
Paul watched her stroke the small animal’s head, scratch it behind its ears. Her hands were pretty and slim, her fingers long, with short, unpolished, efficient-looking nails. He sure wouldn’t mind those hands stroking his head, those fingernails scratching his skin, in all kinds of places.
At the image, he felt his body stirring. Damn. He really hadn’t expected his hormones to do a dance in Kayla Thorne’s presence. Although, he knew none of it showed; he’d trained himself to keep all emotion out of his expression, all physical reaction to a minimum. But now, as a free man—for the present, at least—it sure wasn’t easy.
Not that it had anything to do with this specific woman. In his state, she could have been any female of the species. On top of that, there were too many other sources of stimulation this morning not to have some kind of reaction. He’d been locked up for four years, and now here he was, on top of a gorgeous mountaintop. There was an endless expanse of forest all around, not to mention fresh, clean air, a warm kitchen, even freshly brewed coffee.
And the woman. His groin tightened even more with a fierce desire that nearly took his breath away. Yeah, most especially the woman.
She wasn’t the first female he’d encountered since being released five days ago. But it had been a long, long time since he’d been intimate with one, and at the moment, Kayla Thorne was provoking a reaction far stronger than anything he’d expected.
He didn’t like it. Not at all.
He angled his body away from her. “This place is pretty old,” he said, steering the conversation toward safer territory and figuring he’d score points if she thought he really did know what he was doing. “A hundred years or more, I imagine.”
“It was built in 1895,” she said.
“Just move in?”
“Hell no.” Hank answered the question cheerfully from the corner table. “Property has been in the Thorne family forever.”
Mrs. Thorne correctly read Paul’s one raised eyebrow. “Walter, my late husband, said he liked to keep it just as he remembered it as a child, before garbage disposals and subzero refrigerators.” A small, fond smile lit her face. “He was happy here, with his grandparents, every summer. A golden time, he called it.”
Damn, she had a great smile, Paul observed, attracted to her genuine niceness. Then he ruthlessly banished the thought from his brain. He had an agenda here, and none of the softer emotions were welcome. Besides, he no longer believed in much of anything having to do with men, women and possibilities.
Too close, Kayla thought. She was standing way too close to Paul Fitzgerald in the small kitchen. Despite the impersonal chill of his gaze, his big body radiated enough energy to power an electric blanket, and it was warming her up. Setting Bailey down, she said brightly, “I think the kitchen is a bit small for all of us, so shall we go outside?”
She swept past both men and out into the garden that covered the entire area between the house and the driveway. Whew, she thought, as the cool morning air hit her. If she had a folding fan, she’d flutter it in front of her face, that’s how hot her cheeks felt.
Hot now, shivering earlier, all in Paul Fitzgerald’s presence. But why such a strong reaction? He terrified her, that was why, she told herself. But was that all it was?
No, she was forced to admit to herself. Standing next to him in the kitchen, she had felt an odd kind of—what? A connection with him. Not to mention a quivery, shuddery sensation in various body parts. There was a name for it: chemistry.
Hello and welcome to good old-fashioned lust.
No! Her mind rebelled. How could that be? Paul Fitzgerald had the personality of a serial killer. Heck, he might even be a serial killer, for all she knew. And while there seemed to exist women who found potentially violent, dangerous men a turn-on, she was definitely not one of them. Never had been, never would be.
It was the lack of sleep, she told herself. Her fragile emotional state since Walter’s death. This, whatever it was between her and Paul Fitzgerald, was an aberration, and would soon pass. She fervently hoped. And she could help it along by not hiring him.
There! she thought, mentally brushing her palms against each another in job-well-done fashion. She’d made her decision. Fitzgerald was history. She was sorry if he needed the job, but her own peace of mind had to be her first priority.
The men had followed her out the kitchen door, and now the three of them stood along the fenced-in compost heap that was situated in the shadow of a tall pine tree. “I hate to sound stupid, Mr. Boland, I mean, Hank,” she said with another bright smile, avoiding Fitzgerald’s gaze, “but are there bears around here?”
“Bears?”
“I heard something last night. It woke me up, and I guess Bailey wasn’t the only one who got scared. I must have fallen asleep listening for it again.”
“Bears?” Boland repeated, scratching his head. “Could be. We’re on the edge of wilderness up here, you know. Or it coulda been a coyote, even a raccoon.”
“Are raccoons heavy enough to make the porch creak?”
“Well now—”
“There’s your culprit,” Fitzgerald said, cutting him off, crouching down and picking something out of the compost heap. “Chicken bones.”
“Excuse me?” Kayla said.
“If you don’t want to attract wild animals, you need to keep animal remains out of the compost. Carrot peelings, coffee grounds, stuff like that, is all that should go there. No bones or animal fat.”
The slight condescension in his tone made her cross her arms over her chest and declare defensively, “I know that.”
He raised one jet-black eyebrow. “Do you?”
“Yes. Walter, my late husband, taught me well, and I’m very careful about what I put in that compost heap. Nothing but vegetation. All other garbage is wrapped tightly in plastic and kept in the mudroom until garbage pickup day. I’m not a total fool, you know.” She was annoyed, at him for figuring her for a dimwit, and at herself for having lustful thoughts about him just moments ago.
Which, thank heavens, were now gone.
“Besides,” she said, her chin sticking out defiantly, “I haven’t had any chicken since I’ve been here, so there’s no way I could have put those bones in there.”
Again, the raised eyebrow, the shrug. Then he stood, towering over her, blocking out the sun with his body. “Maybe it was a tramp,” he said, hitching his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans, the material of his T-shirt tightly stretched across pecs the size of boulders. “Some homeless guy. What do you think, Hank?”
“Maybe,” the other man said. “Up here’s usually too big a hike for strangers, but there’s some great hiding places if you’re on the run.” He scratched his head again. “Gee, Miz Thorne, I wish I could help. Are you sure you’re all right here, all by yourself?”
“I’m fine.”
“How long you planning on staying?”
“As long as I need.”
“Oh, I thought it was maybe a few days, that’s all.”
She lifted her shoulders. “I really don’t know.”
“But not during the winter, right?” Hank persisted. “It gets snowbound up here in the winter.”
“Isn’t there a plow service?”
“Can’t count on it. Hardly anyone up here then. You’d be pretty much alone, with no way to get down the mountain.”
“Maybe,” Fitzgerald joined the conversation, “someone from your family should come up here and stay with you. Your dad? A brother?”
Kayla nearly laughed bitterly at the ludicrousness of that suggestion, but all she said was “I don’t think so. And, anyway,” she added philosophically, “winter’s a long way off.”
“Maybe only a month or so,” Boland said. “It’s late September. Snowfall begins in the autumn.”
“Hank Boland,” she said, her hands on her hips. “Are you trying to scare me?”
He held up both hands, palms out, and grinned sheepishly. “I’m just old-fashioned, I guess, about women being alone up here where there’re wild animals. In case you get, you know, attacked or something.”
She gave him a forgiving smile. “You’re allowed to be as old-fashioned as you like. But I assure you, I really can take care of myself.”
An amused, exaggeratedly patient look passed between the two men, one of the aren’t-females-foolish? variety, but she decided to ignore it. The male brain worked differently from the female’s, and that was just the way it was.
“Well, look,” Hank announced, “I’d best check on that leak under the church. Why don’t the two of you go over the stuff on your list?”
Now was the moment, Kayla knew, the one where she could say, “I’m sorry, but Mr. Fitzgerald won’t do.” She wouldn’t have to explain her reasons. After all, she was doing the hiring here and didn’t owe anyone anything.
But before she could, Fitzgerald said, “What church is that?”
Kayla pointed toward an expanse of birch trees on the far side of the house. “It’s over there. The Old Stone Church. It’s part of the property.”
Paul had always been fascinated by early American architecture, and now his curiosity was piqued. “Mind if I take a look with Hank?”
“We can all go, I guess,” Mrs. Thorne said.
As they followed Hank down the gravel driveway toward the main road, Paul asked her, “Does the church still function as a church?”
“Mostly it’s used for weddings and funerals. Anyone who wants to belong to a congregation has to go down the mountain to Susanville.”
Susanville.
The name sent a chill through him. It was where he’d just spent four hellish years in the penitentiary. Where the families of the prisoners rode the bus from New York City and Albany and Buffalo on Sunday mornings, filled with excitement and picnic baskets, and returned on the same bus, subdued and sad, their baskets empty, on Sunday nights.
As they walked along the main road for a brief period, then turned up the path leading to the church, Paul shook himself mentally. He was out now. His lawyer had gotten him released on a technicality, but if he was lucky, he’d never have to go back. Hell, he couldn’t go back. Didn’t think his soul could take another day there.
Which was why he was here, high in the Catskills, on the way to checking out an old church with Kayla Thorne. She held the key to his freedom, although he doubted she was aware of that.
And, if he played his cards right, she would never have to be.
Chapter 2
Kayla remembered the first time she’d seen the Old Stone Church; it had been nearly four years before, when Walter had brought her here on their honeymoon. As he’d shown her around his family’s mountain retreat and related stories of his childhood, there had been rueful pride and unabashed sentimentality in his voice. At the moment, she couldn’t help comparing that time with this one.
Somewhat guiltily, she contrasted her late husband with Fitzgerald. Walter had been under six feet, reedy rather than muscular. And, of course, a young-thinking but still aging man of seventy. Fitzgerald was so much taller and broader, so much more muscular…and so much younger. Always a fast walker, Kayla had had to slow her pace to match Walter’s stride. Today, she had to hurry to keep up.
They paused at the front of the building, which was relatively modest as churches went, one story made to look a lot taller by its sharply pitched roofline and a high, broad steeple. The bell tower still had its original nine-hundred-pound bell, one that was rung on special occasions.
Fitzgerald ran one huge hand over several of the dark gray and dusty brown stones that made up the entire facade. “Solid workmanship,” he said, and she detected a flicker of admiration—an actual emotion?—on his face as he did. “Do you know anything about it?”
“Just what’s in the brochure. It’s native fieldstone and was carved by Italian masons,” Kayla explained, “brought to America in the mid 1890s for that express purpose. A wealthy widow, Honoria Desbaugh, built it to honor her husband. For years, it was run by some monks, an offshoot of a sect called the Brothers of the Sacred Nazarene. Our cabin was their dormitory. One by one, the monks died out, and the place was pretty much abandoned till the 1920s, when Walter’s family bought the entire property.”
“The church is a real tourist attraction in the summer,” Hank added. “Good for the town.” He pulled open the thick wooden front door, and they followed him in.
As it had before, the cool quiet of the church’s interior had the effect of a balm on Kayla’s nerves; even if she hadn’t been aware of being tense, the easing of the tightness in her shoulder muscles and abdomen was a dead giveaway. She stood in the nave and breathed deeply of the air—it had the slightly musty but clean smell of damp earth and old caves.
The calm lasted seconds only, because Paul Fitzgerald came up to stand beside her, his hands in his back pockets as he peered upward, his gaze taking in the high ceiling and its heavy beams. She couldn’t help noting his strong neck and prominent Adam’s apple. The filtered sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows cast shadows on the sharply defined planes of his face.
Good Lord, she thought, he was like some kind of stone monument himself.
“This has been kept up,” he said.
Hank, still standing near the door, said, “Mr. Thorne paid for the restoration years ago,” to which Kayla added, “Walter set up a fund to keep it up in perpetuity.”
“Religious, huh?”
