Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto

month. The books were of course at her father’s house. But Fredric wasn’t about to break in and steal them. He told her to wait, she’d have them in six or seven days. But still she’d panicked. Nothing to do but drive down to UW and buy a new set.
    He wanted to release her. But that would mean not only the end of his friendship with Raoul, but also an encounter with Raoul’s viciousness. Fredric had seen Raoul explode; people ended up in the hospital.
    The real trouble with guarding Susanna, Fredric was finding he liked her. A great deal. She was lovely to see, despite the baggy clothes he’d bought her. She was lovely to talk to as well. She asked him questions about himself and he wanted to answer them honestly. Not possible.
    She had a fine face, good cheekbones, small ears. She didn’t use makeup because she didn’t have any, and Fredric wasn’t about to buy any of that. Talk about drawing attention to himself. Purchasing her clothes at the Sally Ann was bad enough. Rifling through women’s blouses and pants had made him feel like a weirdo, and he knew everyone in the store was watching him. In actuality only one clerk seemed to have noticed him, and she came over. “Can I help you?”
    â€œOh, uh, no, I’m just looking for some clothes. To use as costumes. In a play. I was given the job of finding them.”
    â€œDo you have the women’s sizes?”
    â€œUhm, one’s kind of short and the other one’s middle size.”
    â€œLooking for anything special?”
    â€œWell, sort of sporty.” Damn, why hadn’t he prepared this better!
    â€œWould you like suggestions?”
    Why wouldn’t she go away! “I’ll know what we need when I see it.”
    â€œPlease yourself. There are sizes marked on each rack.” She left him alone at last.
    He bought everything larger than looked right for her—better too big than too small. Then a real department store for the underwear. The panties—just plain white cotton, a three-pack, but god, getting into line and handing them to the clerk and her grinning at him, awful. He got so flustered, he dropped his wallet. And the woman behind him was staring at his purchase. Yes, of course he wanted a bag!
    Fredric brought Susanna all her meals. He hadn’t even thought about feeding her when he’d agreed to Raoul’s prank . His idea of cooking was to order in. But here on this island, anything unusual—he hadn’t seen a lot of fast-food places—might raise questions. So he’d decided to learn something new. His other purchases on that expedition, three cookbooks: West Coast Flair for Fish by Gord Quincy, Frieda Hoff’s From Garden to Table and Taquila Gnomes’s Red Meat Health . He’d bought ingredients at two Friday Harbor stores and begun to experiment. One meal a day was all he could handle. Plus breakfast, open a box of cereal, and lunch, sandwiches. Amazingly, he was enjoying cooking. Helped to have an appreciative and very pretty recipient.
    The cutlery was white plastic. The first week he’d given her the food, said little and left her alone. When he came back, she’d finished everything. After the third dinner, she said, “Thank you. Delicious.”
    He’d nodded and smiled, but she couldn’t see because he had to wear the balaclava, which was thick and hot. By the second week, he’d shifted to a mask that covered from his brow to below his nose. An Italian mask, from commedia dell’ arte. High forehead, furrowed. Almond eye holes. Chubby cheeks and a broad nose. Thin upper lip to the top of Fredric’s lip. He’d played the role once, in a school play: Arlechino the Harlequin—servant, trickster, clown. Was that Fredric? At least way better than a balaclava. And lots cooler. In both senses. First time he entered her room with the new mask, she had smiled at him and said, “I like that.”
    A few