Pendragon jumped up onto the railing just then, balancing easily, and sat down to regard her with feline inscrutability.
“What’s wrong with me?” she demanded of the cat with more than a trace of panic.
For once, however, the very responsive Pendragon had nothing to say. He just sat there, tail curled neatly around forepaws, and looked at her. And surely it was her imagination that his permanent cat-smile curled at the corners even more than usual and his china-blue eyes gleamed with an almost human amusement.
Surely.
By the time Marc came over at slightly before nine-thirty that evening, Josie had all her walls up. She’d spent most of the day in the front parlor working, and between that grim task—so far, she hadn’t been able to summon any kind of detachment—and her uneasy awareness of her growing attraction to Marc, she was feeling decidedly upset.
“Here’s the book,” he said cheerfully when she let him in.
“Thanks, I’ll get it back to you as soon as I’ve read it.” Josie led the way into the den, where a brisk fire and a number of lamps provided a warm and cozy atmosphere.
“There’s no hurry. Hello, cat.” He paused at the overstuffed chair to stroke Pendragon briefly and looked around the room with an appreciative gaze. “This is nice.”
Josie didn’t ask whether he meant the general ambience of a crackling fire on a chilly evening or the very few things—some needlepoint pillows, scattered knickknacks, and two casual arrangements of colorful fall foliage in vases—she had used to give the room a more personal feel.
“Have a seat,” she invited, setting the book he’d brought her on the wooden coffee table. “I’ve made some spice tea; I thought it would go well with popcorn or marshmallows. Would you like some?”
“Please.” Marc watched her retreat to the kitchen, then frowned down at Pendragon and muttered, “She all but called me Mr. Westbrook.”
“Yaaa-woo,” the cat commented, just as softly.
Marc sensed commiseration and scratched behind the cat’s ear fleetingly before going to sit on the couch. She wasn’t freezing him out, he thought, but Josie had definitely withdrawn behind walls of polite blandness.
It was baffling. She was baffling. She seemed determined to keep him guessing. Or something. This morning she had been a bit wary, but only—he’d thought—because she’d been describing another ghostly visitation and was apprehensive of disbelief. And just before he’d left her on the porch, he would have sworn there had been something else. A surprising moment when he’d been sure she had really looked at him, had seen him—maybe for the first time.
And now all these walls. So…either she hadn’t liked what she’d seen, or something else had driven her to hide from him. Which presented him with something of a choice. He could pretend her manner was completely normal and just wait to see what would happen next, or else he could ask what the hell was wrong.
Logic told him the former would be preferable if he didn’t want Josie to feel pressed in any way, but a miserably wet weekend spent alone in the cottage with only brief visits from Pendragon had inexorably worn away his patience. Why shouldn’t he ask what was wrong? Something obviously was. And he of all people should certainly know that you couldn’t find answers if you didn’t ask questions.
Josie came back into the den, offering him a mug of steaming spice tea and a smile so impersonal he might have been the man who’d just put gas in her car. She took her own mug and sat down in the overstuffed chair with the black cat curled up behind her bright red head.
Marc tried to be charitable. Perhaps that was just her favorite chair—and never mind that less than a week in a place was arguably not enough time to develop such habits. Maybe she just liked sitting near the cat. Or maybe it was something else.
He sipped his tea, nodding enjoyment of the tangy blend of cinnamon, orange, and other spices. Then, looking steadily at Josie, he spoke in a reflective voice, like a man ticking off important points on his fingers.
“I am an officer of the court. I’ve practiced law in Richmond for some time now, and any number of intelligent, respectable people would probably be willing to vouch for my character. My doctor has known me since college—and he knows me inside out even in the most literal sense—so he could certainly allay any doubts you might have as to my general health, physical and mental. I’d be glad to furnish my sister’s phone number; sisters are brutally honest, you know, unlike mothers who do tend to be biased. I imagine I could even get my school transcripts—”
“Marc, what are you talking about?”
He gave her his best guileless expression. “Wasn’t I being clear? Sorry. It’s just that you obviously view me as a potential ax murderer or, at the very least, a threat to your virtue, and I thought I might need to produce character references.”
“I never suggested you were anything like that,” she said uncomfortably, the wall beginning to crack.
“You didn’t have to say a word.” Deliberately, he allowed his gaze to examine the three quarters of the couch stretching out emptily beside him. When he looked at Josie again, the walls were definitely coming down; a delicate color had spread over her cheeks, and her dismay was obvious.
She’d never be able to hide embarrassment, self-consciousness, or anger even behind her walls, he thought, watching her. Nature had made that impossible by stamping a strong blush response into her genes. He liked it—not because it made her feelings so obvious, but because the extra color in her face turned her eyes the most incredible shade of pale violet….
He got a grip on himself and kept his voice gently reflective. “If you’d prefer a more detached opinion, I’m sure the president of my bank would—”
“Stop it.” She didn’t quite snap the words, but almost. And she wasn’t hiding at all now, behind walls or anything else. Those lovely, fierce eyes regarded him with resentment and annoyance and no little indignation.
Marc had spent too much time learning to read witnesses not to know that most of her emotions stemmed from sheer embarrassment, so he didn’t hesitate to keep gently hammering away.
“I’m sure you’re right to discount my attempts to prove I’m perfectly safe. Family and friends, even business associates, can hardly be counted upon to provide accurate testimony about a man’s character. Why, even the most malevolent serial killer can produce dozens of shocked neighbors and relatives to exclaim, ‘But he seemed so normal!’”
Glaring now, Josie said, “Now, there’s a reassuring thought.”
“Isn’t it? And it leaves me in the painful position of not knowing how to convince you I can be trusted. You obviously don’t believe me. In fact, I have the impression that even if I had a visible halo, it wouldn’t cut any ice with you.”
Josie gnashed her teeth almost audibly, but then frowned in a new way. “Why am I letting you put me on the defensive? Dammit, I haven’t known you a week.”
In an interested tone, he asked, “Do you have a set amount of time that must pass before you decide it isn’t necessary to sit on the other side of the room? Or is it a matter of territory? At the cottage, you sat beside me; are things different on your own turf? I’m only asking because a man likes to know these things.”
“You’re asking because it amuses you to make fun of me.” This time she did snap.
Marc shook his head. “Now, you see? There you go thinking the worst of me again. When all I was trying to do was to narrow this chasm you’ve put between us.”
“Chasm? It looks like a coffee table to me.”
“It’s the Grand Canyon.”
“Stop exaggerating. It’s about six feet.”
Rueful, he said, “And lawyers get accused of having literal minds.”
For the first time tonight Josie smiled a real smile. Not as if she wanted to, but Marc was encouraged. “Why don’t we compromise, and meet each other halfway? That’s a nice, thick hearth rug, with plenty of room between the coffee table and the fireplace for us to sit. We need to be closer anywa
y. To roast the marshmallows.”
He waited, patient and intent, watching her hesitation, seeing the swift play of emotions across her delicate face. With her walls down, the feelings were startlingly naked, stealing his breath with their honesty.
Fading irritation. Uncertainty. Anxiety and longing. Wariness. The fleeting ache of some deep pain. And, finally, a fragile dignity.
She leaned forward and put her mug on the coffee table, then rose and turned to the kitchen. “I’ll get the popcorn and marshmallows,” she murmured.
Marc had all but forgotten he had ostensibly come over here to catch a glimpse of his long-dead ancestor. He wasn’t much interested in ghosts at the moment. He was fully and completely interested in Josie.
Deciding to assume her acceptance of his suggestion, he left the couch and moved around the coffee table. The hearth rug was comfortably thick, and a couple of her pillows made leaning back against the coffee table satisfactory. Absently, he picked up the poker and reached to stir the fire, causing the flames to leap higher.
Did she know how nakedly emotions showed on her face with the walls gone? She had to know. Maybe that’s where the walls came from. Maybe someone saw what she felt, and used it to hurt her.
From the first day they had met, Marc had been aware of her guardedness, but he had supposed it was only the ordinary caution between strangers. Now he was convinced she had built a wall for herself out of necessity. Without that barrier, Josie was so vulnerable it was almost terrifying.
She would raise it again, of course, if not tonight then tomorrow. Self-preservation would demand it of her. But now that he had seen inside, she wouldn’t be able to shut him out as she had done. Now he knew the way in.
When Josie came back into the den, she joined him on the hearth rug without hesitation or comment—with a careful foot of space between them. She had a bag of marshmallows and two long, thin metal skewers obviously designed for roasting marshmallows or shish kebabs. And she had a long-handled metal basket.
“Did you know this stuff was here?” she asked him. “The skewers and the corn popper?”
“I wasn’t sure, but I knew we’d done this sort of thing as kids here. Where did you find them?”
“In one of the lower cabinets in the kitchen.” She twisted around to put the skewers and marshmallows on the coffee table, then checked the corn popper. “I’ve never used one of these before.”
“Let me,” Marc said.
She handed it over willingly and watched as he leaned forward and held the popper close to the crackling fire. After a few quiet minutes the corn began to pop—at first slowly and then with more enthusiasm. It wasn’t long before they were munching on popcorn from the basket set on the rug between them.
“Very good,” she offered.
“Thank you. It’s all in the wrist.”
“I’ll remember that.” She hesitated, then commented neutrally, “It’s nearly ten.”
Marc didn’t respond for a moment, then asked, “Do we search the house for him, or let him come to us?”
Josie glanced at him and shrugged. “Both times I saw him, I was basically just minding my own business. Searching the house probably doesn’t make sense.”
“Then we wait.” Marc turned a bit more to face her, resting his left arm on the coffee table. “Still mad at me?”
“For what?” She didn’t look at him.
Even with only her profile available, he could see her tension, see her vulnerability. “For needling you,” he replied, completely serious.
“Is that what you were doing?”
“More or less. I could have just demanded to know why the hell you couldn’t sit beside me, but I had a suspicion that wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere at all.”
“And needling did?”
“You want me to tell you what you’re feeling right now?”
She almost flinched away from that, as if he’d struck her or threatened to, and stared fixedly into the fire with color burning in her face.
Marc wanted to touch her, to somehow reassure her that he wouldn’t hurt her, but he was even more determined to hold on to this moment long enough to understand her. “Josie, why do you have to push me away? Why can’t you let me get close to you?” He kept his voice quiet.
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’m just not interested?” She obviously tried hard to sound cold, but her voice quavered.
“No,” he replied. “Because I know that isn’t the answer. I knew the night I kissed you. I’m not a kid, Josie. I know when a woman wants me.”
Still without looking at him, she said tightly, “Do you notch your bedpost?”
He shook his head. “Don’t try to convince yourself that I’m just out for what I can get. I’m not into one-night stands or brief affairs—if I were, do you really think I would have kept my hands to myself all this time?”
“How do I know?”
“You know. For God’s sake, trust your instincts. I’m no plaster saint, but I’m not a monster either, you must know that. I’ve never knowingly hurt anyone in my life, and the last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
“That’s not—” She broke off abruptly.
“That’s not what you’re worried about? Then, what, Josie? If it isn’t me?”
She turned her head finally and looked at him, only a little color in her cheeks now and her glorious eyes darkened. “It’s me.” Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. “There’s no…no room in me, don’t you understand?”
He matched her grave tone. “No, I don’t understand.”
She shook her head helplessly. “There’s no room. I have all I can handle, more than I can handle sometimes—” She steadied her voice. “I can’t take anything else in my life. Not now. I came out here to—to simplify everything, not to make it even more complicated.”
“I’m a complication?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because I want you?”
Color came and went rapidly in her cheeks. “Marc…haven’t you ever been…consumed by something going on in your life? A case that was incredibly difficult or—or something in your personal life that took all your energy to resolve?”
“A few times,” he said slowly. “Cases that seem to demand every waking moment.”
She nodded slightly. “It’s like that. My—my writing. I’ve given myself a year, and I worked very hard to make that possible. Now I have to focus, to concentrate. I can’t afford any distractions.”
“You can’t write twenty-four hours a day.”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
It was his turn to nod, but what he said was, “That friend of mine—the one who got interested in the paranormal—is also a rather well-known writer. He tells me that some writers make the mistake of believing they have to isolate themselves in order to hear their muse. But it doesn’t work that way. A writer has to be like a sponge, soaking up information and experiences.”
“Maybe some writers—”
“Josie, if you can’t tell me the truth, then just say it’s none of my business. Tell me to go to hell or otherwise get lost. But don’t lie to me.” He knew his voice had roughened, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.
Her eyes widened. “Lie? I’m not—”
“Yes, you are. I think you are consumed by something, but it isn’t writing. There’s no joy in you when you talk about it. No excitement or uncertainty. No frustration or anxiety. Just…resolution. And that’s all wrong. If you were a writer who’d reached the point of taking a year to find out if you were any good, your whole attitude would be different.
“But if you aren’t a writer—then what are you? What did you take a year off to do? What is it that takes up so much of your energy and yourself that you have…no room left?”
SIX
FOR A MOMENT, gazing into tarnished-silver eyes that saw too much, Josie was tempted to tell him the truth. But it had become a conditioned reflex to shy away, to avoid talking about what had happened to
her father. Definitely once and probably twice in the past twenty years, confiding had cost her a romance, and it had definitely cost her at least one friend.
She had learned to be wary.
Slowly, carefully, because she had a notion something would break if she wasn’t cautious, she said, “I don’t think Luke is going to show up tonight. Perhaps you should go.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Perhaps I should. But I’d like you to answer something—honestly—before I go.”
She didn’t say she’d have to hear it first; both of them knew that. So she merely waited.
“Are you so sure there’s no room in your life for me? So sure that you aren’t even willing to give us a chance?”
“I’m sure.” But she wasn’t, and even she could hear that in her voice. Already, he’d gotten too close, and she didn’t even know how he’d done it.
“Are you?” Without another word, Marc leaned over and covered her startled lips with his in an abrupt kiss.
He didn’t hold her in place; his unencumbered right hand lifted, but only to lie gently against her neck while his thumb brushed her jaw. Yet she couldn’t escape him.
She didn’t want to escape him.
If the first kiss between them, days ago, had shaken her, this one was devastating. It was as if her body, stirred awake by his touch, recognized him as its master in some deeply primitive way she hardly understood. All she knew was that she could no more prevent her response than she could willfully stop the beating of her heart.
There was nothing tentative about Marc, nothing hesitant. He wanted her, and he meant her to have no doubts about that. His mouth plundered hers, not bruising and yet with a hungry intensity that flooded her senses with molten heat. She was hardly aware of turning more toward him until her thigh pushed against the corn popper between them and her hands touched his chest.
The flannel of his shirt was soft beneath her fingers, and beneath the shirt his body was surprisingly hard, with little give to the flesh. He smelled of a spicy musk and woodsmoke, the combination curiously potent. Josie heard a faint sound escape her, shockingly sensual, and his heart was pounding beneath her hand, or maybe it was her own pulse she felt….