connections whatsoever to the Tolkin blast.
All Jett had to do was keep his hands off her for maybe forty-eight hours, max, until he could reach Brock. But the more he was with Muirinn, the more he wanted her. And the longer he tried brush the fact that he was divorced under the carpet, the more onerous the deception became, and the worse it was going to be to tell the truth.
Not to mention the truth about Troy.
Her words sifted into his mind: “ I wanted a son, too. ”
Well, she could have damn well had one if she hadn’t given him up for adoption, right? He stalked across the living room, furious with himself and his own out-of-control libido.
Gus’s silver tomcat watched Jett as he paced, its tail flicking like an irritating metronome. He scowled at the creature, then strode into the kitchen, looking at Gus’s things, anything to distract himself while he waited.
He picked up a small tin of herb tea, prepared by Mrs. Wilkie, no doubt. The label said comfrey. He opened the tin, shook the thin furry dried leaves, put it back, then picked up another tin. Chamomile. He set it back, stared at the foxglove bells in a copper vase on the long wooden table, the basket of vegetables in the kitchen. Mrs. Wilkie was still doing her thing, as if Gus were still here, as if nothing had changed.
But so much had changed—the echoes from a murderous blast two decades ago still rippling into the future.
Jett felt bad for the old woman. Gus had always been good to her, and he knew Lydia Wilkie was deeply fond of him.
If Muirinn was correct—if Gus had been murdered—Jett was going to make damn sure the bastard paid, and that an end was finally put to this case. He stalked back through the living room.
There were photos and paintings of Muirinn everywhere.Claustrophobia reared up and came down on him with sharp teeth bared. He swung around, feeling short of breath.
And there she was.
Standing in the brick archway with her bag in hand, her ripped pants still caked with silt from the mine, her hair still matted. Gone was the feisty redhead. She looked more like a forlorn orphan.
“I need to leave a note for Mrs. Wilkie to feed the cat,” she said stiffly.
“Fine.”
She got a notepad from the hall table, her movements tense, mouth tight. She’d been crying again. God, he felt bad, putting her through the ringer after all she’d gone through today. He had no right to kiss her, and here he was telling her that she needed to think of something other than herself, while he’d acted like a selfish ass. What must she think of him?
“Muirinn…I…”
She looked up.
I’m not married. And I still love you.
He clamped his mouth shut.
She returned her attention to scribbling a note for Mrs. Wilkie, purple petals falling onto the back of her pale hand as she inserted the corner of the paper under the big copper vase on the table. She removed a key from her pocket and unlocked a drawer hidden into the side of the table. And gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
“Muirinn, what is it?”
Her eyes flared to his, panic on her face.
“It’s gone! The laptop—it’s missing! ” She rummaged frantically. “The envelope with the photos—that’s gone, too!”
She yanked the drawer out further.
“Maybe you put the laptop somewhere else?”
“No, Jett! It was here. All the evidence is gone …” Her eyes flickered as she remembered something. “Except for these—” She fumbled to unbutton the side pocket of her cargo pants.
With a shaking hand she held out a set of crumpled black-and-whites. “I took these four photos with me to the mine so I could compare them with the area around the Sodwana shaft.”
He placed his hand over hers, stopping the shaking. “Come,” he said firmly. “I’m taking you home. We can think about this later.”
Jett handed Muirinn her bag as they entered the hallway of his house. “I’ll set up the spare room for you,” he said. “Bathroom’s that way.”
She walked slowly
All Jett had to do was keep his hands off her for maybe forty-eight hours, max, until he could reach Brock. But the more he was with Muirinn, the more he wanted her. And the longer he tried brush the fact that he was divorced under the carpet, the more onerous the deception became, and the worse it was going to be to tell the truth.
Not to mention the truth about Troy.
Her words sifted into his mind: “ I wanted a son, too. ”
Well, she could have damn well had one if she hadn’t given him up for adoption, right? He stalked across the living room, furious with himself and his own out-of-control libido.
Gus’s silver tomcat watched Jett as he paced, its tail flicking like an irritating metronome. He scowled at the creature, then strode into the kitchen, looking at Gus’s things, anything to distract himself while he waited.
He picked up a small tin of herb tea, prepared by Mrs. Wilkie, no doubt. The label said comfrey. He opened the tin, shook the thin furry dried leaves, put it back, then picked up another tin. Chamomile. He set it back, stared at the foxglove bells in a copper vase on the long wooden table, the basket of vegetables in the kitchen. Mrs. Wilkie was still doing her thing, as if Gus were still here, as if nothing had changed.
But so much had changed—the echoes from a murderous blast two decades ago still rippling into the future.
Jett felt bad for the old woman. Gus had always been good to her, and he knew Lydia Wilkie was deeply fond of him.
If Muirinn was correct—if Gus had been murdered—Jett was going to make damn sure the bastard paid, and that an end was finally put to this case. He stalked back through the living room.
There were photos and paintings of Muirinn everywhere.Claustrophobia reared up and came down on him with sharp teeth bared. He swung around, feeling short of breath.
And there she was.
Standing in the brick archway with her bag in hand, her ripped pants still caked with silt from the mine, her hair still matted. Gone was the feisty redhead. She looked more like a forlorn orphan.
“I need to leave a note for Mrs. Wilkie to feed the cat,” she said stiffly.
“Fine.”
She got a notepad from the hall table, her movements tense, mouth tight. She’d been crying again. God, he felt bad, putting her through the ringer after all she’d gone through today. He had no right to kiss her, and here he was telling her that she needed to think of something other than herself, while he’d acted like a selfish ass. What must she think of him?
“Muirinn…I…”
She looked up.
I’m not married. And I still love you.
He clamped his mouth shut.
She returned her attention to scribbling a note for Mrs. Wilkie, purple petals falling onto the back of her pale hand as she inserted the corner of the paper under the big copper vase on the table. She removed a key from her pocket and unlocked a drawer hidden into the side of the table. And gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
“Muirinn, what is it?”
Her eyes flared to his, panic on her face.
“It’s gone! The laptop—it’s missing! ” She rummaged frantically. “The envelope with the photos—that’s gone, too!”
She yanked the drawer out further.
“Maybe you put the laptop somewhere else?”
“No, Jett! It was here. All the evidence is gone …” Her eyes flickered as she remembered something. “Except for these—” She fumbled to unbutton the side pocket of her cargo pants.
With a shaking hand she held out a set of crumpled black-and-whites. “I took these four photos with me to the mine so I could compare them with the area around the Sodwana shaft.”
He placed his hand over hers, stopping the shaking. “Come,” he said firmly. “I’m taking you home. We can think about this later.”
Jett handed Muirinn her bag as they entered the hallway of his house. “I’ll set up the spare room for you,” he said. “Bathroom’s that way.”
She walked slowly
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