days by tiptoeing carefully past land mines. Curt made a point of not inquiring about her past, her love life or anything of a more personal nature than whether she liked her eggs fried crisp, sunny-side up or mangled.
Lily deliberately refrained from asking about his scars, his sparsely furnished house and why he disliked being shut in as much as she did. Why, instead of buying a window unit and cooling at least one room, he kept all the windows wide open day and night, when it was even hotter outside than it was inside. It hadnât rained since sheâd been there, but she had a feeling those windows would stay open, rain or shine.
Not that a little water could do much damage. It was a bare-bones kind of house. She rather liked it. Having experienced every type of domicile from a packing crate in an alley to a rat-infested slumâseveral of those, in factâto any number of luxury hotels when she was on tour, shewasnât at all critical. And while she loved her own apartmentâher homemade home, as she thought of itâCurtâs house had a certain basic appeal. One of the earliest lessons she could remember learning was that what you donât have, you canât lose.
Evidently, she wasnât the only one who felt that way.
Lily never pried, but she had always been observant. It was a useful trait, vital when it came to knowing in advance which way to jump when trouble was headed your way. As a writer, the trait was invaluable. She studied people, tried to work out their motivations, the carrots and sticks that enticed or threatened. It hadnât taken her long to notice that Curt went out of his way to avoid small enclosures and crowdsâanyplace where he might find himself cornered. Sheâd seen that same watchfulness in the eyes of smart cops and smart crooks.
He could be a cop, but she didnât think so. A smart crook would have probably found a more comfortable hideout. One with air-conditioning, at the very least.
The trouble was that she had stopped thinking of him as grist for her writerâs mill and started reacting to him as a devastatingly sexy man with a droll sense of humor and far too many shadows behind his lapis-colored eyes. That just might be a problem if she let it become one.
So she wouldnât. She simply wouldnât. Lily the writer might wonder whether or not he was seriously involved with a woman. Lily the woman simply closed that particular door in her mind.
Lily the writer might wonder about his mysterious past. She loved mysterious pasts. She could dream one up at the drop of a hat for any stranger who happened to catch her eye, and Curt Powers positively radiated mystery. Mystery number one being all those scars he made no effort to hide.
Oh, yes, Lily the writer was an expert at reading people. She had learned in a hard school, graduating magna cum whatever. It was Lily the woman who was in trouble. The deeper she delved, the more attracted she was, and she didnât even know what made him tick. She did know that while he might think all his old wounds had healed over, he still had some inner healing to do. Sheâd seen children whoâd been severely beaten, their fragile bones snapped like twigs. Even when the physical injuries healed, the internal scars remained. After all these years she still had scars of her own.
Curt Powers had a few secrets to go along with those scars of his. She would bet her last dollar on that.
Â
âYou mentioned a deadline,â Curt reminded her on the morning of day six. The sun had barely risen over the dunes. Just back from his morning swim, heâd encountered her on the front porch, egg sandwich in hand, taking advantage of a warm, sluggish breeze.
âI mailed back my contract yesterday. Technically I donât have to start my next book until itâs countersigned and returned.â
âYouâre the one who mentioned a deadline. If you need to get back, donât let me
Lily deliberately refrained from asking about his scars, his sparsely furnished house and why he disliked being shut in as much as she did. Why, instead of buying a window unit and cooling at least one room, he kept all the windows wide open day and night, when it was even hotter outside than it was inside. It hadnât rained since sheâd been there, but she had a feeling those windows would stay open, rain or shine.
Not that a little water could do much damage. It was a bare-bones kind of house. She rather liked it. Having experienced every type of domicile from a packing crate in an alley to a rat-infested slumâseveral of those, in factâto any number of luxury hotels when she was on tour, shewasnât at all critical. And while she loved her own apartmentâher homemade home, as she thought of itâCurtâs house had a certain basic appeal. One of the earliest lessons she could remember learning was that what you donât have, you canât lose.
Evidently, she wasnât the only one who felt that way.
Lily never pried, but she had always been observant. It was a useful trait, vital when it came to knowing in advance which way to jump when trouble was headed your way. As a writer, the trait was invaluable. She studied people, tried to work out their motivations, the carrots and sticks that enticed or threatened. It hadnât taken her long to notice that Curt went out of his way to avoid small enclosures and crowdsâanyplace where he might find himself cornered. Sheâd seen that same watchfulness in the eyes of smart cops and smart crooks.
He could be a cop, but she didnât think so. A smart crook would have probably found a more comfortable hideout. One with air-conditioning, at the very least.
The trouble was that she had stopped thinking of him as grist for her writerâs mill and started reacting to him as a devastatingly sexy man with a droll sense of humor and far too many shadows behind his lapis-colored eyes. That just might be a problem if she let it become one.
So she wouldnât. She simply wouldnât. Lily the writer might wonder whether or not he was seriously involved with a woman. Lily the woman simply closed that particular door in her mind.
Lily the writer might wonder about his mysterious past. She loved mysterious pasts. She could dream one up at the drop of a hat for any stranger who happened to catch her eye, and Curt Powers positively radiated mystery. Mystery number one being all those scars he made no effort to hide.
Oh, yes, Lily the writer was an expert at reading people. She had learned in a hard school, graduating magna cum whatever. It was Lily the woman who was in trouble. The deeper she delved, the more attracted she was, and she didnât even know what made him tick. She did know that while he might think all his old wounds had healed over, he still had some inner healing to do. Sheâd seen children whoâd been severely beaten, their fragile bones snapped like twigs. Even when the physical injuries healed, the internal scars remained. After all these years she still had scars of her own.
Curt Powers had a few secrets to go along with those scars of his. She would bet her last dollar on that.
Â
âYou mentioned a deadline,â Curt reminded her on the morning of day six. The sun had barely risen over the dunes. Just back from his morning swim, heâd encountered her on the front porch, egg sandwich in hand, taking advantage of a warm, sluggish breeze.
âI mailed back my contract yesterday. Technically I donât have to start my next book until itâs countersigned and returned.â
âYouâre the one who mentioned a deadline. If you need to get back, donât let me
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