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She stood five feet nine in her bare feet, closer to five-ten in the shoes she’d been wearing at that moment. He’d towered over her, lithe, muscular, powerful. His hair gleamed damply from a recent shower, his smile captivated, his eyes seduced. But, more than all those things, she’d experienced again that same muffled detonation inside, that sense of having been poleaxed by the magnetic force surging between them.
Once more overcoming the inclination to stammer and drool like some half-baked teenager, she’d ushered him inside and, after an initial moment or two of awkwardness, conversation had come easily. Lunch was no more than half over before he knew that she was a librarian and had worked at college level for five years prior to resuming her career in her home town. And she knew that he had majored in political science and journalism, and traveled all over the world as a foreign correspondent.
‘Sort of polar opposites, aren’t we?’ he’d remarked later, as she showed him around the house.
‘We don’t seem to have much in common,’ she’d replied, all the while excruciatingly conscious of the attraction arcing between them.
‘Apart from our mutual appreciation of old houses, no.’ He’d run an admiring palm over the satin-smooth mahogany of the stair banister, but his eyes had lingered on her mouth. ‘Sometimes, though, it’s the differences that…weld a relationship.’
She’d heard confusion in his voice, and she’d understood why. It defied logical explanation that two strangers could come face to face for the first time and seem to recognize each other. As if, rational intellect notwithstanding, their hearts had said, ‘You’re home. The searching’s over.’
Yet, rational or not, attraction, awareness—call it what you like—had stretched between them, a fine, indestructible line fraught with sexual repercussions.
But still, in love?
‘Of course not,’ she said, not quite meeting Sadie’s probing gaze.
Never one to be easily put off if she scented romance, Sadie smirked. ‘Got a hot date lined up, then?’
To her chagrin, Madeleine almost smirked back. ‘No,’ she said, deciding that a lie of omission was justified in this case. An invitation to join Nick in a simple dinner cooked over a fire on the beach next Friday hardly qualified as hot, after all—except, perhaps, in the most literal sense. ‘What makes you ask?’
‘You’ve got the same sappy grin on your face that that benighted Peg Leg wears all the time,’ Sadie said.
‘There’s no law against smiling, Sadie.’
’There is in your case.’ Sadie hooted, not in the least deterred by Dilys’s ‘Tsk tsk!’ of censure. ‘You’re a librarian and you’re supposed to look smugly academic—though now that I take a closer look, maybe “smug” does fit your description after all, along with “besotted”, and a few other words I can think of. And I’d bet my last dollar that Andy Latham isn’t the one responsible for the change.’
‘Andy’s a nice man, Sadie.’
‘And about as comfortable as an old boot. There’s no spark between the two of you, Madeleine, so quit trying to fool me into thinking there is.’
‘Andy and I enjoy a mutually rewarding… friendship. He takes me out for dinner at least once a week, and we often catch a movie in Dunesport.’
‘I visit my grandma every Sunday afternoon and have a whale of a time,’ Sadie said scornfully, ‘but it no more sends my blood-pressure soaring than your sitting across from Andy and watching him scoff a steak puts yours into overdrive. You have stars in your eyes, my dear, and roses in your cheeks. In fact—’ she stood back and planted her hands on her hips ‘—you present a disgustingly blithe picture of what my old dad used to call “feminine pulchritude” and I have only one piece of advice for you: make the most of whatever—or whoever—is causing it. You’ve spent enough time lamenting the con-artist’s betrayal, my friend, and if something better’s shown up on the horizon, then “Hallelujah!" I say.’
Andy, however, disagreed, as Madeleine discovered after work that same afternoon. She was in the parking lot behind the library, fishing in her purse for her keys, when his patrol car cruised to a stop beside her. ‘Got time for coffee with an overworked cop before you head home?’ he asked, poking his head out of the window.
She smiled. ‘I’ll make the time, Officer.’
‘That Hamilton man,’ he began, as soon as they were seated in the Primrose Café, ‘is he still hanging around?’
‘As far as I know,’ Madeleine said evasively, un-willing to admit more and give Andy the chance to hold forth on the inadvisability of inviting a total stranger to lunch without a bodyguard in attendance. ‘Why?’
‘Just wondered.’ He stirred his coffee vigorously and tapped the spoon three times on the rim of the cup, a habit of his that usually denoted that he had something on his mind. ‘I checked out his vehicles. He picked up both from a rental outfit in Vancouver last week. He holds a valid California driver’s license, collared two speeding tickets in the last five years, and has no out-standing fines.’
‘So he’s harmless, just as I expected.’
Andy looked at her from under puckered brows. ‘"Harmless" isn’t a word that I’d apply to a man like him, especially not where a woman like you is concerned.’
She bristled with annoyance at that. ‘What do you mean, “a woman like me”?’
Andy stirred his coffee again. ‘Well…’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘You’re different.’
‘Different how?’
‘You’re sort of…’ Tap, tap, tap. ‘Impressionable. You’re not as…well, as hard-boiled as, say, Sadie, and that can make you an easy mark to a certain type of man.’
‘What you’re really saying, Andy,’ Madeleine cut in sharply, ‘is that because I made the mistake of marrying Martin I must be a few bales short of a full load. And I have to tell you I’m beginning to resent your attitude.’
‘Well, heck, Madeleine!’ Andy protested. ‘You’ve got to admit that Martin and this Hamilton guy do seem to be cut from the same cloth.’
‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Nick Hamilton is nothing like Martin. Nothing at all.’
‘He’s a sight too smooth for my liking. Too damned full of himself. And you—’ Andy’s warm brown gaze had narrowed with suspicion ‘—you seem unusually sure of someone you hardly know. Or have I missed a chapter somewhere between now and last Friday?’
She hoped that he interpreted the flush on her cheeks as anger and not guilt. Because, she assured herself, she’d done nothing to feel guilty about. ‘You missed nothing,’ she said.
‘And it’s none of my concern anyway,’ he finished gloomily.
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. The message came through loud and clear that what you do and who you see when I’m not around is no one’s business but your own.’
‘We have no claim on each other, Andy.’
‘I know.’ He stared morosely into the dregs of his coffee. ‘Has he said how long he’s going to be hanging around?’
‘No, but then I haven’t asked him. I didn’t think it was any of my business.’
Andy sighed. ‘Will you promise me one thing? Will you at least be careful? Just because he doesn’t have a criminal record it doesn’t mean he’s harmless, no matter what you might think. I’m only asking because I care about you, Madeleine.’
His obvious concern softened the edges of her annoyance. ‘I know that, Andy, and I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. But you have to understand that I can’t go through the rest of my life expecting that everyone I meet is a carbon copy of Martin, or that because I made one mistake I’m doomed to repeating it. Give me credit for having some brains.’
‘It’s not your brains I worry about,’ Andy said on another sigh. ‘It’s your heart If you’d give it to me, it’d be safe.’
He was right, Madeleine thought, as she drove the five miles out to Spindrift Island. The trouble was, as Sadie had so accurately observed, it wasn’t ‘safe’ that put ‘spark’ into a relationship between a man and a woman. There had to be an undercurrent of excitement, an edge of danger, of risk, to bring it alive. And, in order for it to survive, there had also to be that sense of having found a soulmate to give it balance.
Even at its best, her marriage to Martin had been lacking in whatever vital ingredient made two separate people into a couple. There had been, at least in the beginning, a semblance of passion and desire, but there had never been much meeting of the minds. Nor, as she had ultimately learned to her cost, a mutual under-standing of values or ethics.
On Sunday, however, as Nick’s visit had stretched from one hour to two, and eventually to three, she’d had a little taste of what she’d missed in matrimony. Over and above the erotic pull, she’d experienced a sense of sympathetic communion with Nick; a sense of sharing such as she’d never known with Martin.
So much insight, she thought, pulling into the driveway leading to the farmhouse, and all because a man she’d known only a few days had wonderful blue eyes and the voice of a fallen angel! A man of whom Andy passionately disapproved—but whom Peg Leg found completely and unconditionally acceptable.
Peg Leg, thank the lord, had impeccable instincts.
At six o’clock on Friday evening Nick collected the papers littering the small table in the main cabin of the RV and shoved them haphazardly into his briefcase. Scraping a hand over the day-old growth of beard on his jaw, he headed for the cramped bathroom to shower and shave.
He had a headache, the sort that aspirins couldn’t cure. The sort inflicted on a man by his conscience—something Nick Hamilton didn’t usually allow to trouble him. But the fact was that the success of Phase Two of Operation Tyler, last weekend, bothered him more than he cared to admit. And Phase Three would shortly get under way.
Within the hour Madeleine would show up on his doorstep, never suspecting that the real reason he was pursuing her so assiduously was to bring a speedy and satisfactory end to his stay in the area. Satisfactory to him, that was. Because enforced visits to small towns half buried in sand and crab-traps, and peopled with dogooders concerned with the faded grandeur of crumbling old houses, weren’t his bailiwick. There was a world of political intrigue and modern warfare being played out on the international stage, and his usual ringside seat was growing cold without him.
But he couldn’t turn his back on family. Edmund couldn’t be blamed for the fact that, at ninety-one, his health was failing and his faculties weren’t as sharp as they’d been when he was seventy. The truth was that he’d declined drastically since his first stroke five years ago and, in all honesty, had been losing his grip for nearly ten years, leaving Flora to manage his affairs by herself.
Flora. Lathering his face, Nick tried to subdue the irritation his step-grandmother always provoked in him. It wasn’t her fault she was ditsy; she’d been born that way and was pretty enough, in a fluff-headed sort of way, for people to let her get away with it. Still and all, if he now found himself in a predicament that was leaving a surprisingly bad taste in his mouth, it was Flora he had to thank for it. Allowing her to handle money without adequate supervision was the same as letting a baby loose to play with fire.
Who knew what straits the old couple would have been reduced to if Nick hadn’t found himself between assignments and decided to make one of his infrequent flying visits home? Perhaps if he’d visited more often he wouldn’t now be up to the neck in complications he’d never expected.
The solution to their difficulties had seemed simple enough at the time. Within hours of learning of their financial predicament, he’d flown from San Francisco to Vancouver and rented the Jeep, and the RV that was to be his home for the few days it would take him to straighten out the mess with the back taxes and generally check out the property that was the cause of so much distress and anxiety.
A day’s drive later, he’d seen for himself that years of neglect had reduced the place to a travesty of what it must once have been. It was glaringly obvious even to the most inexperienced eye. Everywhere he turned the evidence confronted him-—mildew, rot, decay—and with each new discovery his dismay increased, fueled by the information that the garage attendant had been so willing and eager to impart.
‘Them Heritage Society folks wield a big stick in these parts,’ the man had confided over his third beer. ‘Right powerful, they are. You need permission from them to paint your own front door once they decide that what you got is so damned old and ugly you can’t wait to set a match to it.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Nick had replied, deciding on the spot that, Heritage Society or no Heritage Society, he wasn’t about to be told what he could and couldn’t do with property that had been in his family for decades. ‘Well, if I decide to take a bulldozer to the place, it’ll be a fait accompli before anyone from the society has time to stop me.’
‘There’s some folks around town that might agree with you,’ the old coot had cackled, ‘but hell, sonny, the president of yon society ain’t one of ‘em, and she’s your next-door neighbor. The minute as she hears that bull-dozer engine start up, she’ll chain herself to the front wheel sooner than let you touch a single brick on the place.’
‘She’ll be escorted off the property with a flea in her ear if she tries.’
‘Not this here president, she won’t. Miz Slater’s plagued with the idea that if something’s old, it’s valuable. She’s been after the society for months now to turn the Tyler place into some sort of historical shrine. You check at the Town Hall if you don’t believe me. They got it in writing down there.’ He’d chewed on his tattered moustache for a while, before dunking it in his beer again, then added gloomily, “They got every sin a man ever committed written down at the Town Hall, and I oughta know. Darn near shut me down last year, they did, all because that old biddy Roberta Parrish complained I didn’t keep a clean enough washroom. As if that’s where I make my money! Might as well face it, sonny. In this town, you can’t fight the Town Hall, and it’s darn certain that you can’t fight yon Heritage Society—leastways, not while Miz Slater’s president you can’t.’
Disquieting news that, unfortunately, had proven all too accurate. When Nick had gone to pay the back taxes he’d checked, and found that designation of the lodge as a historic site was indeed pending. Any structural changes would require a specific permit approved by the Heritage Society. He would have to appear at their monthly meeting and make his application in person before he would be allowed to remove so much as a broken pane of glass. And his biggest obstacle, the busty blonde behind the desk at the Town Hall had informed him, would be convincing the president of the society.
He’d realized then that, unless he came up with drastic action, he could be delayed here indefinitely while his rights were argued back and forth. Stymied, Nick had thanked the blonde then marched out, determined to overcome every obstacle thrown in his path by whatever means presented itself. Which brought him to where he was now: slapping aftershave on his jaw and preparing to play Romeo to an unsuspecting Juliet.
Snorting with disgust, he left the steamy bathroom and resigned himself to carrying on with what he’d started the day he’d met his lovely next-door neighbor. It was a question of priorities—and the fact that his hormones were out of sync with his brain couldn’t be allowed to influence that. He wasn’t about to be sidelined in this godforsaken provincial backwater, reduced to learning second-hand what major developments were taking place overseas. That wasn’t what being an ace foreign correspondent was all about.
Checking the time, he folded a plaid blanket on top of the picnic hamper, weighted it down with a portable radio, and made sure the ice in the cooler hadn’t melted too fast. Earlier he’d selected a picnic site and prepared a fire pit All he needed now was for the moon to rise and the lady to show.
She arrived just as dusk faded into dark, slender and graceful and more than a little flushed, as if she’d raced to get there on time.
‘You look ready for a little R and R,’ he said, jumping right into Phase Three of Operation Tyler. ‘Tough week?’
‘A normal work week,’ she said, pushing her fingers through that long, dark hair and retying the scarf that bound it loosely at her nape. ‘The pace didn’t let up once and I’m glad it’s finally over.’
‘So am I,’ he said, dismissing the twinge of guilt that persisted in plaguing him. ‘And if you’re anything like me, the last thing you want to do on a night like this is talk about your job.’ He took her hand, lightly and briefly. ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again ever since last Sunday.’
He thought her flush deepened at that, though it was hard to be sure in the faint light spilling out of the camper.
‘Have you?’ she returned, and added with disarming diffidence, ‘So have I.’
‘Then let’s forget about work and concentrate on recreation. I’ve got everything ready down on the beach, except for this stuff here. If you can carry the blanket and radio, I can manage the rest.’
‘You’ve gone to so much trouble,’ she said, staring around her when they arrived at his pre-selected hollow in the dunes. ‘I hadn’t expected anything quite so…elegant.’
‘Why not?’ He spread the blanket for her to sit on, placed a couple of cushions in the small of her back, then put a match to the kindling. ‘You’re an elegant lady and deserve nothing less.’
She smiled at him and said, ‘And you’re very gallant.’
He smiled back, and hoped that the deceit didn’t show in his eyes.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_cfac2ff8-d481-5e98-9333-e1b752759658)
‘A SIMPLE dinner,’ he’d said when he’d issued the invitation. ‘Remember, I’m living out of a camper.’
But it was a camper that ran to mohair blankets and quilted cushions, and his idea of simplicity included champagne cooling in an ice-bucket. Madeleine was glad she’d worn her apricot cashmere sweater and silk-lined woollen trousers instead of the fleecy jacket and jeans she’d originally considered. Glad, too, that vanity had compelled her to sprite her throat with a little Alfred Sung cologne and to add a touch of mascara to her already dark lashes.
‘I got steaks,’ he said, poking at the flames and arranging the bed of coals so that he could prop a metal grill over it. ‘And potatoes and mushrooms. How does that sound?’
‘Perfect.’
All the time he spoke he was busy unloading from the picnic hamper. Little foil-wrapped packages emerged that she assumed were the potatoes and mushrooms, followed by plates made of rather good china, and fluted glasses that, though plain, were definitely crystal.
‘Thought we’d start with champagne,’ he said, tackling the corked bottle with casual familiarity. ‘And smoked salmon. It’s going to take a while before the potatoes are ready.’
The champagne foamed and sparkled in the firelight; the smoked salmon bites glowed like uncut jewels. The air was completely still, allowing the smoke to spiral straight up into the night. Beyond the shelter of the dunes the surf mumbled and complained, but the hollow Nick had found seemed charmed, a place removed from the everyday world. Madeleine sank back against the cushions, that sense of rightness she’d experienced from the first with him flourishing more strongly than ever.
‘A little music, and we’re all set,’ he said, fiddling with the radio dials until he found a station playing light classics. He cocked a dark eyebrow her way, inquiringly. ‘This OK with you, Madeleine?’
‘Perfect,’ she said again, intoxicated by something more potent than the champagne.
The firelight danced over his face, blurring his features with shadows and masking him with a mystery tinged with a delicious edge of danger.
Dropping down beside her, he sprawled on one elbow and tapped the rim of his glass against hers. ‘Here’s hoping that dinner is edible.’
‘I’m not worried.’
He smiled engagingly. ‘Perhaps you should be. I’m not renowned for my cooking, but restaurants are a dime a dozen and I thought something like this—’ he gestured at the scene around them ‘—would be a change. Come to think of it, though, I don’t suppose it’s all that novel an experience for you, living so close to the shore. You probably average a beach picnic a week.’
‘When I was in junior high school, yes,’ she admitted. ‘My girlfriends would come out on the weekends during the summer months and we’d have wiener roasts and beach parties. But it wasn’t the beach that was the big attraction so much as the place next door.’
‘I can understand why,’ he said. ‘I find myself quite obsessed by the poor old relic, too.’
‘But it wasn’t always the way it is today.’ She shook her head, remembering how awed she and her crowd had been by the Tyler Resort. ‘Back then, it seemed the epitome of sophisticated elegance to us, a sort of for-bidden Shangri-La that never lost its fascination. I remember one time a whole gang of us went sneaking over there and swam in the outdoor pool.’
‘Did you get caught?’
‘No. There was some sort of costume ball being held and people were too busy having a good time inside to notice what was happening out.’
He laughed. ‘I bet you all had a pretty good time, too.’
‘Not really,’ she said, smiling at the memory. ‘We were too terrified by our own daring, tiptoeing through the bushes and slipping into the water without making a splash, and always looking over our shoulders to make sure no one saw us. The thrills came the next day when we regaled everyone else at school with what we’d done. I suppose if anyone had asked what we all wanted most from life at that time we’d probably have said, to be part of that glamorous segment of society that used to gather on the fringes of our very ordinary lives.’
‘They were probably very ordinary people, too.’
‘Not all of them. When my mother first came here, as a bride, some very well-known names and faces used to be seen at the lodge. Movie-stars, politicians, even minor royalty.’ She paused, recalling winter evenings when she’d been a little girl and the wind had screamed like a banshee around the farmhouse. She had used to cuddle up on the long sofa that flanked the living-room fireplace, and listen entranced as her mother talked about those grand old days. The resort might have sunk into dilapidation, but the tales of its former grandeur endured, untouched by time.
‘You’re looking very pensive all of a sudden,’ Nick said. ‘Does talking about the place stir up unhappy memories?’
