large paper bag in the other.
She roused herself to look down the walkway as he approached. "I was thinking you were going to come up with some kind of excuse to keep me on this island."
"Actually, I think I would've enjoyed having the place to myself for twenty-four hours, without anyone watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to trip up," he said pleasantly. "Unfortunately no one's flying out tonight, and every hotel, motel, and bed-and-breakfast on the island is closed down or has no vacancies available."
"Every one, eh?" She didn't bother hiding her disbelief.
He reached the top of the steps and set down her suitcase. "Almost every one. There are a few rooms available at the Red Cow Tavern, but I think you'd be happier here. There's so much room in this old place that we don't even need to see each other till we leave tomorrow."
"What about the plumbing? The electricity? The house has been closed for the winter." She waited for him to start stumbling over words and excuses.
He didn't. " Constanza said she'd have someone come in and turn things on for us. Bring in a few supplies in case we need them."
She should have known it wouldn't be that easy. "Then what's in the grocery bag?"
"Dinner, my precious. If you can stand my company long enough to partake of it."
She knew what it was—she could smell it. It had been more than twelve years since she'd had fried clams from the Red Cow Tavern, but the aroma was unmistakable.
Alex had been the only one in the family who'd shared that particular weakness. Just two days before he'd disappeared he'd showed up at her door at
midnight
, a bag full of greasy fried clams and french fries in his fist, and he'd lured her onto the roof overlooking the inlet to feast in companionable silence.
"How long has it been since you've had fried clams, Carolyn?" he said. "Whole-belly clams, the kind that would make George turn green?"
He could have found that out from anybody. There was no way he could know about the
midnight
feast—no one had known about it but the two of them.
She realized belatedly she was hungry, hungry enough to eat fried clams with him, hungry enough to let the questions go. There'd be other ways, other times to trap him. Besides, hostility wasn't getting her anywhere. Maybe she could be halfway pleasant and trip him up that way.
"There's beer in the refrigerator," she said evenly. "I'll get plates and silverware—"
"Don't bother," he said. "Why don't we eat out on the porch roof, using our fingers? There's no proper MacDowell around to drill us on etiquette."
She could feel her face freeze. He couldn't know, unless he was Alexander MacDowell come back from the dead. Unless someone else had been watching, listening.
She wasn't going to start doubting herself at this point. It didn't matter that the man looked down at her out of Alex MacDowell's eyes, that he smiled with Alex MacDowell's luscious mouth. It didn't matter that he knew things no one else could possibly know.
And most of all, it didn't matter that he left her feeling angry, confused, and irrationally yearning.
Alexander MacDowell was dead. And this man was a charming liar.
"The porch roof sounds just fine," she said after a moment. And she forced herself to smile up at him with deceptive trust.
----
Chapter 8
« ^ »
T he moon had risen across the inlet, sending a path of iridescent silver light over the water. The empty food containers lay scattered over the flat porch roof, and Carolyn pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them, as she stared out over the night.
It wasn't that late—daylight savings time wouldn't start until next week, and the night poured down around them, carried on a breeze that held only a faint bite. A reminder of the snow that lay melting on the hills of
Vermont
.
"I think I'm going to be sick," she said with utmost calm. "I'm not used to all that grease."
He was leaning against the house, his long legs stretched out on the shingled roof, a beer in one
She roused herself to look down the walkway as he approached. "I was thinking you were going to come up with some kind of excuse to keep me on this island."
"Actually, I think I would've enjoyed having the place to myself for twenty-four hours, without anyone watching me like a hawk, waiting for me to trip up," he said pleasantly. "Unfortunately no one's flying out tonight, and every hotel, motel, and bed-and-breakfast on the island is closed down or has no vacancies available."
"Every one, eh?" She didn't bother hiding her disbelief.
He reached the top of the steps and set down her suitcase. "Almost every one. There are a few rooms available at the Red Cow Tavern, but I think you'd be happier here. There's so much room in this old place that we don't even need to see each other till we leave tomorrow."
"What about the plumbing? The electricity? The house has been closed for the winter." She waited for him to start stumbling over words and excuses.
He didn't. " Constanza said she'd have someone come in and turn things on for us. Bring in a few supplies in case we need them."
She should have known it wouldn't be that easy. "Then what's in the grocery bag?"
"Dinner, my precious. If you can stand my company long enough to partake of it."
She knew what it was—she could smell it. It had been more than twelve years since she'd had fried clams from the Red Cow Tavern, but the aroma was unmistakable.
Alex had been the only one in the family who'd shared that particular weakness. Just two days before he'd disappeared he'd showed up at her door at
midnight
, a bag full of greasy fried clams and french fries in his fist, and he'd lured her onto the roof overlooking the inlet to feast in companionable silence.
"How long has it been since you've had fried clams, Carolyn?" he said. "Whole-belly clams, the kind that would make George turn green?"
He could have found that out from anybody. There was no way he could know about the
midnight
feast—no one had known about it but the two of them.
She realized belatedly she was hungry, hungry enough to eat fried clams with him, hungry enough to let the questions go. There'd be other ways, other times to trap him. Besides, hostility wasn't getting her anywhere. Maybe she could be halfway pleasant and trip him up that way.
"There's beer in the refrigerator," she said evenly. "I'll get plates and silverware—"
"Don't bother," he said. "Why don't we eat out on the porch roof, using our fingers? There's no proper MacDowell around to drill us on etiquette."
She could feel her face freeze. He couldn't know, unless he was Alexander MacDowell come back from the dead. Unless someone else had been watching, listening.
She wasn't going to start doubting herself at this point. It didn't matter that the man looked down at her out of Alex MacDowell's eyes, that he smiled with Alex MacDowell's luscious mouth. It didn't matter that he knew things no one else could possibly know.
And most of all, it didn't matter that he left her feeling angry, confused, and irrationally yearning.
Alexander MacDowell was dead. And this man was a charming liar.
"The porch roof sounds just fine," she said after a moment. And she forced herself to smile up at him with deceptive trust.
----
Chapter 8
« ^ »
T he moon had risen across the inlet, sending a path of iridescent silver light over the water. The empty food containers lay scattered over the flat porch roof, and Carolyn pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them, as she stared out over the night.
It wasn't that late—daylight savings time wouldn't start until next week, and the night poured down around them, carried on a breeze that held only a faint bite. A reminder of the snow that lay melting on the hills of
Vermont
.
"I think I'm going to be sick," she said with utmost calm. "I'm not used to all that grease."
He was leaning against the house, his long legs stretched out on the shingled roof, a beer in one
Similar Books
