First Star I See Tonight

  He’d flipped the trunk and pulled out a small duffel. Piper retrieved her backpack and followed him into an old-fashioned kitchen with a rag rug to wipe feet, a porcelain sink, and an antique gas stove. White lace curtains draped the bottom halves of the narrow windows, and a coffee mill perched on one of the sills. Beneath it, an American flag folded into a triangle rested on top of a wooden hope chest.

  The kitchen smelled of fresh-baked goodness from the two wedges of chocolate cake sitting out on china plates. Through one doorway, she saw a set of stairs, through the other, a turn-of-the-century dining room complete with a steam radiator, dark floral rug, oak dining table, and sideboard displaying china figurines. These were the old lighthouse keeper’s quarters.

  Coop introduced her as Ingrid, his massage therapist.

  “Piper Dove,” she said. “I’m actually Mr. Smith’s sobriety coach.”

  “Well, God bless you,” Marilyn said with a cheery smile. “There’s no shame in admitting you need help, Mr. Smith.”

  Piper patted his arm. “Exactly what I’ve been telling him.”

  The bad mood that had prompted his little outburst in the car seemed to have faded because he didn’t call her out. She, on the other hand, was still miffed by his put-down. This was a new side of herself she didn’t like.

  Marilyn led them into a back hallway, up three steps to a landing, then another three steps—another landing—and into a square hallway with five doors—three to the bedrooms, one to a bathroom, and another into the light tower.

  “You’re the only guests tonight, so you won’t have to share the bathroom.”

  One of “Mr. Smith’s” eyebrows went up. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might have to share a bathroom with the hoi polloi. She, on the other hand, would have appreciated another set of guests for company.

  The rooms were homey—wooden headboards, pretty quilts, old-fashioned glass globe lamps, and more lace curtains. Framed black-and-white photographs of ore boats gone-by hung on the walls.

  Their hostess, who’d been giving them a minihistory of the lighthouse, pointed out the flashlights in each room for guests who wanted to explore the light tower. “There’s a lighthouse ghost, but most guests don’t see him.” She moved out into the hallway. “If you wouldn’t mind, lock the front door after I leave.”

  She was leaving? Piper wasn’t exactly sure why that bothered her. Well, she was sure, but . . . Even with the town only a few blocks away, the lighthouse felt isolated, like a deserted island. With no grown-up around to chaperone.

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” Marilyn said. “Breakfast is at eight thirty.” She disappeared down the steps, and a few moments later, the front door shut behind her.

  Mom! Don’t you know you shouldn’t leave us kids alone?

  He’d set down his duffel, a simple action that burned up all the air in the bedroom. Because of her maddening reaction to what he’d said in the car, she needed to get out of here right away.

  “You’re skittish,” he said as she turned to the door.

  She whipped back around. “I am not. I’m hungry.”

  He dropped his eyelids to half-mast. “Don’t expect me to do anything about that. I already told you. I’m not interested.”

  “For cake! I’m hungry for that chocolate cake she left us. Jeez, what is wrong with you?” She bristled with scorn, even as she resisted a compulsion to whip her sweater over her head, rip off her bra, and see how disinterested he’d be in that.

  She headed downstairs and retrieved her piece of cake from the kitchen. As she ate, she passed through the dining room into a living room that looked as though it belonged to someone’s cozy great-grandmother. The wing chair and blue damask couch had white doily antimacassars across their backs. An old stereopticon and a pot of African violets sat on top of a glass-front bookcase. There was even a spider plant hanging in the window. She imagined the lighthouse keeper and his wife sitting here at night in a time before electronic distractions. They’d be reading, maybe sewing, talking about the next day’s weather. Then mounting the stairs to their bedroom . . .

  She grabbed the ship’s log from the coffee table and flipped it open. The log invited guests to assume the duties of the lighthouse keeper during their stay: raising and lowering the flag in the morning and evening, entering the names of the ships that came into the harbor, and checking the beacon twice a day.

  Coop’s cake still sat on the kitchen counter. She set her empty dish in the sink and went upstairs to her room. She changed into her black plaid pajama bottoms and Chicago Bears T-shirt, but she wasn’t ready for bed. As long as she was here, why not get into the spirit of the place? She fetched her flashlight from the top of the bureau, thrust her feet into flip-flops, and crossed the hallway to play lighthouse keeper.

  It was icy cold and dark inside the tower, with not even a trickle of illumination from the big lens above penetrating the thick blackness. She flicked on her flashlight, sending eerie shadows looming up the plastered walls. A narrow staircase with treads painted a dark maroon led to the lantern room high above. A small window on the landing pointed toward the harbor, but fog had crept in since they’d arrived, and she could make out only the dimmest structural outline of the iron ore docks.

  She began to climb the stairs. The chill penetrated her T-shirt and pajama bottoms. She curled her toes to keep her flip-flops from slapping the wooden stair treads. The creepy shadows, the darkness, the isolation . . . It was deliciously sinister. She felt as if she’d slipped into one of the mysteries she’d devoured as a kid. Piper Dove and the Secret of the Lighthouse Murders.

  She reached another tiny landing, this one with a round porthole. Still no light visible from the big lens above. She flipped off her flashlight to gaze through the porthole out toward the lake, but the fog was too thick to see anything.

  She heard a noise below.

  The click of a door opening. The stealthy sound of a foot hitting the bottom tread.

  The lighthouse murderer had followed her here.

  She knew his identity. He knew she knew his identity. He couldn’t afford to let her leave here alive.

  No one to help.

  Only herself to depend on.

  Alone in a deserted lighthouse with a demented villain who had killed . . . and intended to kill again.

  Life didn’t get any better than this!

  She flattened herself into the corner, not making a sound, the dead flashlight hanging at her side. He moved with the stealth of a panther. But then, he would.

  His footsteps came closer. Closer. Closer still.

  He hit the landing.

  She sprang out. Shrieked. “Yeeeeeeeeeeoooooooo!”

  He yelped. Dropped his flashlight. Crashed back against the wall.

  He was actually clutching his chest. As she turned on her own flashlight, she realized she’d perhaps gone a wee bit too far. “Um . . . Hey, what’s up?” she said.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he yelled.

  “Just . . . having some fun witcha. I might have gotten a little carried away.”

  A low growl rumbled in his throat. He lunged for her. Caught her by the shoulders. Gave her a hard shake. And then he kissed her. Again.

  She felt his anger in the force of his lips, the coiled tension in his body. He dragged her against him, making her seem small and defenseless, even though she was neither.

  “I have no sexual interest in you. None. Zip. Zero.”

  She’d see about that.

  She dropped her own flashlight and pressed against him.

  He was already hard.

  He wasn’t the only one who loved a challenge, and instead of withdrawing, she looped her arms around his neck. Cooper Graham, you are so full of crap. She tilted her head. Parted her lips. He thought he was so tough. Lord and master over all women. Well, not this woman. She slipped off one flip-flop and stepped up on his shoe to make herself taller and deepen their kiss. Making certain he got the point.

  Whi
ch he did. His lips softened, opened. Their tongues met. She plowed her fingers into his hair. His big hands cupped her bottom. She wrapped her other leg around his as the warmth of his broad palms spread through the thin cotton pajama fabric to her skin. How do you like me now?

  Very much, it seemed. Their tongues battled. And . . .

  She was melting inside. Melting and burning all at the same time. Her knees grew soggy, forcing her back to arch, ringing alarm clocks of urgency inside her. Buzzing, chiming, flashing alarms of urgency.

  She was burning from the inside out. His big, athletic hands lifted her off the floor. Braced her against the wall as if she weighed nothing at all. Their kiss turned into a wild thing all its own. Her hands were under his T-shirt, her fingers sinking into the hard flesh of his back.

  He pulled away abruptly. Grabbed her by the shoulder and directed her ahead of him down the stairs. They emerged into the light of the hallway. She spun toward him. Opened her mouth to speak.

  “Shut up,” he said before she could utter a word. “I don’t like this any better than you.”

  It was the best thing he could have said. They were no longer Piper and Coop. They were simply two bodies in need of release. Depersonalized. Sex at its most primitive.

  They were in his bedroom. He made a dash for his duffel. Fumbled around inside it. She could have sworn his hands were shaking, but she was pulling her Bears T-shirt over her head, and that blocked her view. She stood, bare-breasted, in only her pajama bottoms, as he peeled out of his clothes, and, oh, but he was a glorious sight to behold. Fierce muscle and supple tendons, tanned skin and pale scars. She wanted to bite every one of them, but she needed to feel anonymous, and she flipped off the overhead light, sealing them in the darkness.

  She heard the last of his clothes disappear, and the next thing she knew she was flat on the bed, still in her pajama bottoms, pressed underneath his body. His legs trapped her own as he turned his single-minded focus on her breasts.

  She thrashed beneath the pull of his fingers, the lash of his tongue. She shoved him in the chest hard enough to push him off balance and wedge out from under him so she could climb on top. His washboard abs gave him more than enough muscle to angle up his torso, bring his mouth to her breasts, and continue his black magic. She threw back her head and rode him. He groaned, and she was on her back again, with those big hands yanking off her pajama bottoms.

  Once again, his mouth crushed hers, and she arched to meet him. In the thick darkness, he couldn’t see, but he could feel, and he did.

  It hurt a little as he opened her with his fingers, but only for a moment, and then it didn’t hurt at all . . . and she was moving against his hand, mind shut down, crazed, only a body—swimming, surging, no breath—falling apart.

  He gave her a moment. Reached for her again. Tortured her. She still hadn’t touched him. Not the way she wanted to.

  She hated the dark. Needed to see. He twisted. Reached for something. The condom.

  She had to touch him. Muscle and skin. She closed her hand around him.

  He gave a hoarse cry. And it was over.

  Before it had even begun.

  11

  Coop sprang from the bed. He couldn’t believe what had happened. It was a nightmare. Worse than a nightmare. Total humiliation. A sexual apocalypse.

  He stalked out of the bedroom and across the hallway. The last time he’d gone off like that, he’d been sixteen. And of all the women he had to relapse with . . . Piper Dove!

  He closed himself in the bathroom. The shared bathroom. Thank God it wasn’t shared now, because he had to be alone.

  The foghorn sounded its mournful wail. He flipped on the light, but he couldn’t look at himself. Staying at this place had been a terrible idea.

  The bathroom was as old-fashioned as everything else, with a radiator under the window and a claw-foot tub surrounded by a white shower curtain. He turned on the water in the tub and somehow maneuvered himself inside. The shower nozzle barely came to his chest, and the curtain kept sticking to him until he felt like he was being attacked by a monster squid.

  “You’re getting water everywhere,” said a grouchy voice from the other side of the curtain.

  “Get out of here!”

  “I have to pee. Don’t look.”

  “Like I’d want to.”

  The toilet flushed, and scalding water cascaded down his chest. He jumped back and bumped into the end of the tub. The wet curtain wrapped its tentacles tighter around him. He heard a snort from the other side.

  This was what happened when you abandoned your game plan. You got beat. And that’s what she’d done. She’d beat him at his own game.

  The shower had just returned to its normal temperature when she turned on the sink, and another blast of scalding water assaulted him. Once again, he jumped back.

  Premature ejaculation. Just thinking the words made him wince. He was an endurance athlete. The marathon man. The distance swimmer. Stamina was a point of pride with him. She’d messed up his whole life, disrupted everything. But he’d never expected her to disrupt this.

  He flipped the shower water to cold. Let the icy blast force his brain to work again. If he started thinking like a loser, he’d turn into one, and nobody bested Cooper Graham. He had to come up with a logical reason for what had happened, something to save face. Maybe he’d tell her he had a medical problem. An encroaching case of the flu. An old injury acting up. Or he could be a dickwad and blame her. Say she’d been—what?—too damn sexy? This was no time for honesty.

  He grabbed a towel. One thing was certain. He had to face her. Maybe he could use grief as an excuse. That might work. He’d tell her he’d just gotten the news that his grandfather had died. She had no way of knowing that mean son of a bitch had died twenty years ago. The perfect excuse.

  She wasn’t in his bedroom, and her own door was shut. He pulled on his jeans and knocked. When she didn’t respond, he tried the knob, but it was locked.

  He was overcome with grief. Definitely the way to go. The loss of his beloved grandfather. “Open up!”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said from the other side. “It can happen to anybody.”

  She was gracious in victory. Oh, so fucking gracious. If women like her were let loose to rule the world, men would become obsolete. “I’m not worried,” he heard himself say. “It happens all the time.”

  Where the hell had that come from?

  “Seriously?” she said. “To you?”

  He plunged on. “Hell, yes.” So much for his dead grandfather.

  She threw open the door, eyes blazing. “And you’re proud of it?”

  “I don’t think much about it one way or the other.”

  Her legs were bare, but she’d pulled her detestable Bears T-shirt back on. “You’re a total asshat. You know that, right?”

  He propped himself against the doorjamb and fulfilled her low expectations. “The thing you’ve got to remember, Sherlock, is—when you’re me, life is basically a female smorgasbord. I can do what I want, when I want.”

  Her lips were still puffy from his kisses, and her blueberry Pop-Tart eyes smoldered with outrage. “Are you for real, or are you a comic book character I made up in my nightmares?”

  He’d unwittingly stumbled onto the perfect defense, and he went with it. “Most women don’t mind, and if they do . . .” He shrugged.

  She slammed a hand on her hip. “There are more damselfish in the sea? Is that the way it is?”

  He yawned and stretched. “Yeah, I should probably be ashamed of myself.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “All they have to do is say no.”

  “Which they never do.”

  “Who understands women?”

  She was too smart for his own good, and her outrage had begun to shift into something that was beginning to look like amusement. He didn’t like that at all, so he called an audible. “Refresh my memory, Sherlock. Did I miss hearing you say no?”

 
She set her jaw. “You did not hear me say no. I already told you I’ve been known to use men.”

  “You also told me you were off them.”

  “But I didn’t say for how long.” Just before she shut the door in his face, she fired her final salvo. “Good night, Rocket Man.”

  ***

  Piper woke to the sound of a halyard slapping the metal flagpole outside her window. During the night, a deep sense of disappointment had burrowed inside her, and she did her best to shake it off. His failure to execute might have been humiliating for him, but it was a gift to her. Things had gone far enough—much too far—without that final intimacy.

  What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking. That was the problem. Something about Cooper Graham made her disengage her brain. One thing was blindingly clear: despite their banter, despite the attraction he undeniably held for her, she wasn’t going down that path with him again, no matter how good it had been. Almost fantastic. The hard tension of his body under her palms. Those skillful hands that knew just where to go. She shivered.

  They barely spoke over a breakfast of strawberry muffins and a delicious ham and cheese frittata she could only pick at. Piper dreaded the hours she’d be locked in the car alone with him, and as they set off from Two Harbors, she was as tightly wound as an ignition coil.

  Instead of berating herself about what had happened, she should be happy that she’d made the great Cooper Graham lose control. But she didn’t feel happy. She could only hope he wouldn’t bring up last night because if he did, she’d have to play all her smart-ass cards, and she wasn’t sure how many she had left.

  They’d barely cleared the iron ore docks before he released a diabolical chuckle. “Face it, Sherlock. You’re easy pickin’s. All I have to do is take off my shirt, and you’re pretty much a lost cause.”

  And here they went again. Off to the wisecrack races.

  “That’s true,” she said. “Male chests have always been my weakness. Seriously, Coop, if you get any more muscular, you’ll be scratching your armpits and wolfing down bananas.”

  “You let me worry about that while you figure out how you’re going to help me with my little problem.”