He drew back. She thought she could hear his teeth grating, his muscles snapping with tension. “All right, Montague. I’m sorry if I’m blunt. You’re a cute kid, with a lot of the right stuff. I’m older, worn, jaded and I’ve seen way too much stuff go down, okay? Humor me.”
He started past her, taking her arm. He didn’t jerk her, but he had one firm hold. She walked along—stumbled first—after him, smarting anew from his words.
Cute kid?
“There’s a door to my wing right there.”
“Great.”
He scissored over the low wooden wall that separated the dock from the shore. She followed suit, and he walked her to her door.
“Thanks for the escort. We cute kids are always grateful to make it home safe.”
“Great.”
“Well?”
“Open the door and get inside.”
She threw up her hands, reached into her purse…and couldn’t find her keys to save her life. She fumbled blindly through the contents. He was still standing there. Impatient, she went down to her knees and dumped the contents out on the walkway. Miraculously, her keys appeared immediately.
He bent down to help her throw the wallet, pens, lipsticks, compact and other paraphernalia back in.
“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said.
He stood, not replying. She twisted the key in her lock and went inside. “Okay, I’m in now.”
“Good night.”
He turned and started back for his boat. She bit her lip, watching his back. Well, that was it, he was leaving. Over and done. After giving her nothing but facts and discouragement. Had she envisioned another scenario? Him welcoming her onto his boat, discussing the case seriously with her, telling her that together, somehow, they would find the answers?
Of course not.
But she also hadn’t thought he would walk her to the house as if she were indeed a child. That he would stay, make sure she had the key, that she got inside safely.
Had she hoped that he was going to follow her in, check out the room, move close to her again, talk softly in that gruff voice?
Stay?
Cute kid. Why on earth did that asshole appeal to her so much?
She’d never thought of herself as cute. She wasn’t small; she didn’t have a round face or dimple. She might not be a raving beauty, but she knew she was attractive, that her posture was good, that she had, at the least, some essence of sophistication.
He was such a jerk.
But when she stood there, close to him…
Don’t you ever just want to have sex?
Yes, Karen! At the moment, rather desperately, I’m afraid…. With a royal jerk.
When he stood there, insulting her, she just took it all in with indignation, all the time thinking that she liked the darkness of his eyes, the structure of his face. His flesh. His naked flesh. He just had to live on a houseboat, where it was the most natural thing in the world to sit around on deck in nothing but cutoffs.
He turned, and she was still standing there at the door, watching him go.
“Get in and lock that door,” he shouted impatiently.
She closed the door and locked it.
To Jake’s amazement, he returned to the Gwendolyn feeling an unreasonable tension and anger. His neck was sore. It had been a long drive up and back in the one day. And all he felt was frustration, both with the Bordon case—and Fresia’s.
Frustration…with Nick’s niece. She had to slow down.
Frustration…because he wanted to shake her. Only because he wanted to keep her from harm.
No. Because he wanted a lot more. He wasn’t sure why it had taken him so long to notice that Ashley Montague’s eyes weren’t just green. They switched from a cool lime to a deep emerald when she spoke, when she grew angry. She wasn’t just slim, lean and agile; she had really great curves. She smelled subtly of a soft, deep, underlying perfume. Her hair wasn’t carrot red or flaming; it was deeper, like her scent, seductive as a soft, hot whisper.
He opened the refrigerator, meant to take another beer.
He closed the refrigerator.
He looked around the living area of the houseboat. He was sure there had been someone on the Gwendolyn the other night. Nothing was gone, but he knew someone had been here.
And now Ashley had said she’d been nearly accosted in the parking garage.
There could be no relation between the two incidents.
Still…
Jake put on a pot of coffee and sat in front of his computer. He pulled up the records he’d been keeping for years.
Was that it?
Had someone come onto the boat to examine his private files, knowing that he’d kept much of his research on his private computer, rather than at work? Maybe.
Tomorrow he would get someone out to change the locks. He should have had that done today.
He laced his fingers behind his head, remembering his conversation with Bordon.
Smoke and mirrors…
Mary Simmons was convinced Harry Tennant had been crazy. That he listened to voices. Lazarus. Lazarus…awakened from the dead.
Stuart Fresia had been writing a story.
Ashley Montague had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen, with sparks of fire. Great breasts. Really nice, tight ass.