Twilight Man

Twilight Man Karen Leabo Single Guy Seeks… Solitude Jones Larabee had hightailed it to this godforsaken swamp to get away from everyone. It wasn't easy, but he'd had the noblest of motives. And he was doing fine, too, even without the female companionship - until beautiful Faith Kimball crashed into his life, bombarded him with questions… and she wouldn't take no for an answer!Single Woman Seeks… Her Savior Faith Kimball was a dedicated professional who could never see beyond her next assignment - until fate threw her very life into the hands of Jones Larabee. She had to know who her rescuer really was - but could a search for his identity blossom into a journey of love? Twilight Man Karen Leabo www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Contents Prologue (#u2ba11518-20cd-5443-a232-0f3d5cf0b6fa) One (#uf526ceb5-06ee-5b82-a856-c10fbc0a29c2) Two (#ua6e7237c-240f-5b10-8b03-0453e4955406) Three (#u2f5aeea8-bade-504b-ae15-f946847907c7) Four (#litres_trial_promo) Five (#litres_trial_promo) Six (#litres_trial_promo) Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Prologue Dusk fell early on that dismal March day. Already aggravated and way behind schedule, Faith Kimball flipped on her car lights and peered intently through the windshield for some sign of the turnoff that would lead her to the campgrounds. Every motel within casting distance of Caddo Lake was full this weekend, thanks to some fishing tournament. At least she’d brought her camping supplies with her on this trip, although she wasn’t looking forward to pitching a tent and fixing dinner in the dark. Black Cypress Campgrounds was supposed to be three or four miles down FM 23, according to the manager at the last motel she’d tried. But, dammit, she’d driven four miles already and she hadn’t seen—no, wait a minute. What did that sign say? She slowed way down as she approached the faded, peeling sign, which was hung too high for her headlights to illuminate. Yes, that was it! Her triumph was short-lived. She looked up to see a huge dump truck barreling toward her at an alarming speed. His headlights were off, and he was driving dead center down the narrow, two-lane blacktop road. Several thoughts flashed lightning fast through her mind. My God, didn’t the idiot see her? She should honk. She should veer off the road and take her chances in the ditch. She did neither when it seemed the truck would miss her after all. Then it swerved and slammed head-on into her compact car without ever hitting the brakes. Faith’s car folded in on itself as it spun around and around, then rolled end over end like a nightmarish carnival ride. She was conscious of her head striking the windshield and a pressure against her left thigh, but there was no pain. She wondered if she was about to die. Oddly, that idea didn’t frighten her. She felt only a few regrets—that she hadn’t married or had children, that she hadn’t told her mother goodbye, and that her doctoral dissertation would go unfinished. Then she felt nothing. A voice brought Faith back through a dark curtain. “Wake up, dammit. Unfasten your seat belt! Lady, I know you’re alive. Wake up!” Unable to disobey, she opened her eyes. Now she felt the pain and the fear. Her clothes were soaked with blood, and her lungs were filled with smoke. She coughed and tasted more blood. Oh, God, she didn’t want to die! “Unfasten your seat belt,” the commanding voice said again. Although the effort cost her, she did what he asked. “Give me your hand.” Now that he had her attention, the voice was gentler. There was a whoosh of heat as something nearby caught fire. Closing her eyes against the blinding, stinging smoke, Faith reached out. Strong hands caught hers in a crushing grip. She bit her lip to keep from screaming from the pain as he pulled her up or sideways—she wasn’t sure which way was up anymore. “That’s it, almost there,” he crooned as the crumbled safety glass from a shattered window scraped her bare legs. As soon as she was free of the twisted metal that had once been her car, her rescuer clutched her against his chest and ran like hell. Moments later a deafening explosion sent them both flying. As they hit the ground, the blow knocked the breath out of her—what little breath was left. Her world went black. She awoke to the strange feel of her rescuer’s hard mouth on hers, breathing life-giving air into her lungs. She pushed him away, coughing from the thick black smoke she’d inhaled, but breathing on her own. “Thank God,” he muttered. “Just relax. Help is coming. I flagged a car down, and the driver called from his mobile phone.” As he spoke in low, reassuring tones, his strong but gentle hands probed for injuries. She opened her stinging eyes just once so that she could see what he looked like. As he removed a headband of some sort, she got only a fleeting impression of longish, dark hair and deep-set eyes, a straight nose and a square chin with a cleft. He tied the headband around her upper thigh. “Hurts,” she mumbled. “I know it hurts, darlin’,” he said, brushing a lock of her curly blond hair from her face. “Hear that siren? Help is here.” Then he stood and walked away. “Wait. Wait!” she called out with the last bit of strength she had in her. “Don’t leave me! Who are you?” He never broke stride. One As the April day dawned warm and clear, Jones Larabee had nothing more pressing on his mind than whether to go fishing or simply work on his tan. Nothing, that is, until he looked out the window of his cabin and spied Miss Hildy’s canoe heading toward him through the swamp. He wondered how she kept from tipping over. She was wider than the boat, which sometimes wobbled alarmingly. But she always managed to deftly maneuver the canoe to shore without mishap. Jones went down to meet her. Although she was meddlesome and tended to hover over him worse than any mother hen, he liked Hildy. A descendant of the Caddo Indians who had settled in the area centuries ago, Hildy was known as the local medicine woman. Some people disliked her, others feared her, but everyone on both sides of the Texas-Louisiana state line respected her knowledge of the swamp and its flora and fauna. “Howdy, Jones,” she said as she heaved herself over the edge of the canoe and waded in the last few feet, soaking her ragged, much-patched tennis shoes. “Mornin’.” He grabbed the boat’s bow and eased it onto the muddy shore. “What brings you here? It’s not your usual day to come calling.” “A body doesn’t have to have a reason to call on a friend, does she?” Hildy reached into the canoe and retrieved two large plastic buckets, in which were stored a variety of treasures from her vast garden. “‘Sides, with all this rain we’ve had, my early crops are already out of control. I’ve got to get rid of this produce somehow. I can’t sell it all at the stand.” Jones relieved her of the heavy buckets. “I haven’t finished what you gave me last week.” “Then you’re not eating enough greens,” she scolded. “What about the tea? You’re drinking my special tea, aren’t you?” “Yeah, yeah. I’m almost out.” “Then it’s a good thing I came today,” she said as they headed toward Jones’s rough-hewn pine cabin, dwarfed by the towering cypress, pine and oak trees surrounding it. “I brought you a big jar.” Months ago, when Jones had first come here, Hildy had sniffed him out like a bird dog hunting quail. She just wanted to have a look-see at her closest neighbor, she’d claimed, but Jones doubted that. He didn’t know where she lived—somewhere deep in the swamp, where a man could get lost and wander for days—but he didn’t think it was anywhere close to him. She was just nosy. Since her first visit, she had paddled to his island once a week, whether he’d invited her or not. Eventually he’d found himself charmed by her backwoods philosophy and her no-nonsense approach to life, and he now counted her as a friend. His only friend. None of the other locals came near his cabin, and that was fine with him. A chair in Jones’s kitchen creaked as Hildy plopped down in it. “I really did come for another reason,” she said, watching Jones where he stood at the sink washing the greens she’d brought. “There’s a gal lookin’ for you.” His whole body stiffened. “Who is she?” But who else could it be except Mary-Lynn? He had taken precautions so that no one from his old life could follow him here. He hadn’t applied for a driver’s license or even a post office box. He didn’t have a telephone. He had left his car behind, so there were no license plates to trace. His boat, which had come with the cabin rental, wasn’t registered in his name. How could anyone have found him? “Pretty little thing,” Hildy said. “Blond curls all over.” Jones allowed himself to relax. Not Mary-Lynn, then, whose hair was almost as black as Hildy’s. “I saw her at Pete’s,” Hildy continued. “She had that old green bandanna of yours. The thing’s in pieces, and she was showin’ it around to everyone in the store, trying to find someone who could tell her who it belonged to.” He allowed himself a smile. “Ah, then I know who she is.” The blonde had to be the hit-and-run victim he’d pulled from the burning car several weeks ago. He’d been tromping around in the woods, minding his own business, when he’d heard the crash on the road just a few yards away. Although he didn’t like involving himself in other people’s problems, he could hardly have ignored a life-and-death situation. He had applied hasty first aid to the woman, enough to get her by until the paramedics arrived. As soon as they did, he’d hightailed it out of there. He didn’t need some strange woman’s undying gratitude for saving her life. “You didn’t say anything to her, did you?” he asked Hildy. “No. I know how you like your privacy.” He could see she was brimming with curiosity, but he declined to tell her the story. He didn’t feel much like a hero, and he didn’t want anyone thinking of him that way. With promises to drink his tea and eat his greens, he hurried Hildy on her way. He knew she needed to open up her roadside produce stand, which provided her only income—she wouldn’t accept any money for the vegetables she brought him. When she was gone, his thoughts returned to the angel-faced woman who had been so near death, her skin as white as an egret’s feather. He was glad to hear she had recovered. But he hoped like hell she didn’t find him. * * * Faith studied the crude map the campgrounds manager had drawn for her, then peered at the scene ahead. This wasn’t the first time she’d tracked down someone who lived in an area so remote that she had to follow landmarks rather than street names or house numbers. This was, however, the first time she’d attempted to do it in a swamp from a leaky dinghy with a balky outboard motor. Ahead of her loomed a huge cypress tree, cleaved down the middle as if a giant’s ax had split it. She recognized it as one of her landmarks. “Struck by lightnin’,” Hoady had said. With a mild pang of apprehension she turned off the clearly marked “lake road” and onto a much narrower channel, slowing her speed in deference to the submerged logs and other hazards that lurked just below the water’s surface. Fortunately, the channel wasn’t hard to follow. A definite path wended its way through the water lilies, as if another boat had recently passed. She settled back and tried to relax. Over the past few months while working on her dissertation she had learned to enjoy the sights and sounds of the swamp, the strange creatures, the earthy smells and the people who lived here—especially the people. They were a breed unto themselves. Judging from Jones Larabee’s eccentric reputation, he was a prime example. She couldn’t wait to meet him. The campgrounds manager, Hoady Fromme, had tried to talk her out of going to see Larabee. He’d said the man was spooky, a loner and a mean one at that. But Faith only half believed what Hoady told her. Country people, she had discovered, were prone to exaggeration when they met her and noticed she was enthralled with their every word. And anyway, a man who risked his own life to save hers couldn’t be all bad. At the very least, she would give Mr. Larabee the new bandanna she’d bought him and thank him for saving her life. At best, she would get him talking and convince him to let her videotape him. An interview with the local hermit would make a nice addition to her dissertation. He might be one of the last bastions of local folklore and superstitions, which were dying out as civilization encroached. Faith spotted the next landmark, a vast “field” of water lilies on her left. Later in the summer those huge lily pads would produce impressive, waxy white flowers as big as dinner plates. From there she turned into an even smaller channel, slowing the motor further until she barely putted along, ducking under tendrils of Spanish moss that dangled from low branches. She had never been to such a dense part of the swamp. The dimness pressed in on her, and the sounds made by creatures on the bank no longer seemed friendly. She had an overwhelming urge to flee back into the sunlight, but unless she wanted to flee in reverse, she would have to find a wider place to turn the boat around. The idea of backing out was sounding better all the time when, unexpectedly, the channel widened into a sunlit area of open water. And in the middle of that water a tiny spit of land protruded, on which sat one of the prettiest little houses Faith had ever seen. The steep-roofed, pine log cabin, which stood on tall stilts, featured an inviting wraparound porch. Faith could easily imagine sitting in a rocking chair on that porch with a cold glass of lemonade, watching the sun set. The neatly maintained yard was dotted with carefully sculpted cedar trees. Geraniums, blooming in a profusion of pink and white, were grouped around the staircase that led to the front door. A pair of woodpeckers darted back and forth to a bird feeder hanging from one of the trees. The storybook image didn’t look anything like the weathered, broken-down hermit’s shack she had anticipated. If this wasn’t Jones Larabee’s home, perhaps the residents could direct her to where he lived. Faith nosed her dinghy onto the shore and climbed out. After tying the boat to a stump, she climbed the steps to the front door and raised her fist, intending to knock briskly. She didn’t get the chance. The door opened abruptly and the man coming out nearly plowed her over. When he backed up a couple of paces, clearly stunned to find a strange woman on his front porch, she could see he carried a fishing pole in one hand, a tackle box in the other, and he wore nothing but a skimpy pair of cut-off jeans. “Who are you?” he barked as he dropped the tackle box with a thud. “What are you doing here?” That voice. She couldn’t be mistaken. In anger, the timbre of this man’s voice was identical to the one she remembered ordering her to unfasten her seat belt. Although she couldn’t recall much about his face, the voice had stuck in her mind. Mostly, though, she remembered the gentleness. He sounded far from gentle now. Well accustomed to the sometimes ornery resistance she encountered from the people around here when they were confronted by an outsider, she flashed her most winning smile. “I’m Faith Kimball, Mr. Larabee. I came to give you this.” She held out a brand-new, bright green bandanna. “I bought it to replace the one you used to bandage my leg. The paramedic had to cut it off—the bandanna, not my leg,” she said with a nervous laugh as she realized she was babbling. The man continued to stare at her with undisguised hostility. “Lady, have you lost your mind?” For the first time she wondered if she might possibly be mistaken. “You’re Jones Larabee, aren’t you?” “No.” The response was quick, defensive—and a lie. Faith had studied human behavior enough that she was very good at spotting lies. She briefly studied his face. He looked about right—the dark brown hair that reached almost to his shoulders, deep-set hazel eyes, a long, straight nose and a square chin with a cleft. And a gorgeous torso. Naturally she hadn’t noticed that when she’d thought she was dying, but she sure noticed it now. “Then you’re not the man who pulled me from my car after a truck hit it down on FM 23?” she asked carefully. “I could swear you’re the same man.” His gaze flickered lower, then back up. He’d seen the scar on her leg, she was sure. “You’re mistaken,” he said coolly. “Now would you mind leaving?” Pushing Hoady’s warnings to the back of her mind, she persisted. She pulled the genuine item—the ragged, faded bandanna—still stained slightly with her blood—from her pocket. “You don’t recognize this?” “Lady, if you don’t get off my property—” “Oh, I get it. You’re afraid I’ll sue you or something. You don’t have to worry about that. The doctor who patched me up said you undoubtedly saved my life with the tourniquet and the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.” Finally he showed her something besides anger. As if remembering those tense moments when he had breathed life back into her body, his expression turned pensive, and he moistened his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. Still, he didn’t admit that he was her rescuer. Discouraged, she decided she had no choice but to retreat gracefully. The man had his right to privacy. She thrust the new bandanna into his hand. “Take this, anyway,” she said. “The color brings out the green in your eyes.” Before he could object, she turned and descended the stairs. As she returned to her boat, she felt the heat of his glare on the back of her neck. Strange man, she thought as she pushed the dinghy into the water and climbed in. Her overdeveloped sense of curiosity made her wonder what set of circumstances led to his forsaking society to live alone in the swamp. Or perhaps she was awarding more melodrama to the situation than it warranted. Maybe this was the only society he knew. She grabbed the outboard motor’s starter cord and gave it a pull. The engine growled weakly but didn’t start. She gripped the handle for another pull, this one with more muscle. The results weren’t encouraging. Determined, she knelt on the plank seat in the back of the boat, put both hands on the starter, and yanked for all she was worth. This time the rope broke and she tumbled over the edge of the dinghy onto her rear in two feet of muddy water. It wouldn’t have been so bad, if she hadn’t had an audience. But as she sat there in the muck, she could see Jones Larabee, all six-foot-plus of him, standing at the bottom of the stairs watching her with undeniable amusement on his face. “Problems?” he asked innocently. She almost let her temper get the best of her. But before she could make a rude retort, one he richly deserved, her common sense intervened. Maybe the Fates were giving her a second chance with the moody Mr. Larabee. “It appears the motor isn’t working,” she said as she stood and tried to wipe the mud off her shorts and her legs with the remnants of his old bandanna. “Guess I’ll have to paddle back. Unless... Do you know how to fix it?” He shook his head, but he did come closer. “Other than adding gas, I don’t know anything about boat motors.” That was odd, she thought. Any man who’d grown up on these waters would surely know all there was to know about boats. “Where’d you get this piece of junk, anyway?” he asked. “I rented it from the Black Cypress Campgrounds.” He nodded his understanding. “Hoady. That explains it.” He didn’t elaborate. “Any suggestions?” she asked. After a moment of consideration, he seemed to make a decision. “I was on my way out fishing. I’ll find Hoady and send him in. He can either fix the motor or tow you out.” That wasn’t the solution Faith was hoping for. “Couldn’t you tow me out?” His expression told her just how distasteful he found that suggestion. “My boat’s too big to handle that narrow channel you came through. There’s another waterway I use, but it comes out on a completely different part of the lake. You’d be miles from your campground.” “Then could I call Hoady from your phone?” “You could, if I had a phone.” Now she was desperate. She didn’t want to spend her whole day waiting all alone for Hoady Fromme to rescue her. She had work to do, and besides, she didn’t entirely trust the shifty-eyed little man. “Let me come with you,” she said. “You can dump me off at the first opportunity, wherever there’s a road nearby or a house with a phone. I’ll handle it from there.” He sighed, defeated. “Okay. But you’re not getting in my boat like that.” His eyes raked up and down her body, clearly disapproving of the mud still clinging to her. “I don’t suppose you’d let me use your shower.” “There’s a hose in back of the house. Water’s cold, but it’s clean.” Dismissing her, he turned. “Wait a minute. Say that again.” He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “Say what?” “About the hose.” “It’s in back of the house. I said the water’s cold but it’s—” “That’s it! You’re not even from this area, are you?” she declared triumphantly, pleased with her deduction but disappointed nonetheless. Jones Larabee wouldn’t be part of her dissertation. “Lady, what are you talking about?” “The name’s Faith. And I’m talking about the fact that you didn’t grow up here.” The look in his eye was as close to sheer panic as she’d ever seen. “Where in the hell did you get an idea like that?” “Your accent, your diction,” she replied, her conviction unshakable. “A casual listener wouldn’t pick it up, but I’ve made a study of the subtle nuances among the various dialects of Texas. It’s a dying art, actually. In our mobile society, the dialects are blending more and more. But I’m intimately familiar with the Caddo Lake pronunciations. It’s most notable in the way you say water.” His eyes narrowed. “Think what you like.” With that he continued toward the stairs, where he’d left his fishing gear, then headed for a small boat house to one side of the cabin. I’m right, she thought. And you’re hiding from something, Mr. Jones Larabee. What better place to hide than here in this private lagoon in the midst of an almost impenetrable swamp? Faith figured if she didn’t hurry he would leave without her. So she grabbed her tote bag and video camera case from the disabled dinghy and scampered around to the back of the house to douse herself with the hose. As soon as Jones entered the boat house, safe for the moment from Faith Kimball’s sharp blue eyes and even sharper ears, he consciously took three deep breaths until his heartbeat returned to normal. She’d almost scared him to death back there. He’d thought she’d actually recognized him. It could happen. Dallas was a huge city, but he’d once been fairly visible, appearing in dozens of courtrooms in front of hundreds of jury members. Once, he’d even gotten his picture in the Morning News when he’d been the defense attorney in a high-profile bank fraud case. But Faith hadn’t recognized his face—only doubted his accent. Since moving here he’d deliberately cultivated a slower Southern drawl so he wouldn’t stand out. His efforts fooled most people. No one had ever questioned his origins before. Only Faith. She was a persistent little thing, he mused. And a beauty, no doubt about that, with a round, angelic face framed by a cloud of blond curls that spiraled halfway down her back. Even the thin, still-healing scar on her forehead didn’t detract from her appeal. In fact, he hadn’t noticed it at first, so drawn was he to the intelligence behind those vivid sky blue eyes and the implied promise of her cupid’s bow of a mouth. The angry red scar on her slender thigh was a little harder to ignore, but it was fresh yet. In time it would heal, just as his had, until it was no more than a slight pucker in the smooth, touchable skin. He imagined how it would feel— Immediately he recognized the pang of sexual awareness, and guilt slapped his conscience. How could he even think of another woman? Perhaps he didn’t love Mary-Lynn, not the way a prospective husband ought to, but he was fond of her. She had been so loyal throughout his ordeal, hardly ever leaving his side. Although he couldn’t be with her and would never see her again, she didn’t deserve betrayal, even in his thoughts. When the boathouse door opened and Faith reappeared, soaked to the skin but clean of the sticky swamp mud, thoughts of Mary-Lynn were relegated to the back of his mind. Damn, but a man would have to be dead and buried not to respond to the way Faith’s pale blue T-shirt clung to every curve of her full, rounded breasts. What a package she was—a body to tempt a saint, or in his case a Good Samaritan, and a smile as innocent as that of a kid on her first day at summer camp. He had to get rid of her, and fast, before she beguiled him any further. With the balance of an experienced sailor she climbed onto his bass boat and stowed her tote bag and a mysterious-looking plastic case in the back. “Nice boat,” she said as she cast off the line in back and pulled in the cylindrical bumper pad. “What are you fishing for today, crappie or bass?” “I’ll take either,” he said. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he could tell the difference. He’d only taken up fishing a month ago, when the weather had started to turn warm. He’d been itching for something to do and, spotting the cabin owner’s fishing gear, had decided to give it a try. His success was only marginal. He did, however, know that he could learn to love the sport. He had never experienced anything so relaxing as watching the beautiful arch of the lure sailing above the water, then slowly reeling it in as the boat swayed gently and the sun warmed his back. Actually getting a strike or catching a fish was only icing on the cake. “Do you fish?” he asked casually, backing the boat out of its shelter and turning toward the channel. “Mmm, yeah. Haven’t gone in a while, though. Not since my dad died.” Funny how quickly priorities change sometimes, he thought. Initially he’d felt panicked by the idea of an outsider invading his space, asking questions. All he could think about was getting rid of her. But really, Faith wasn’t such a threat. Even as his body responded to hers, his mind leapt at the prospect of a few minutes’ feminine companionship. How long had it been since he’d carried on a conversation with any woman besides Hildy? He would drive slowly to the marina, he decided. Even if they didn’t exchange another word, he would enjoy Faith’s proximity. Just this once he would take a break from his self-imposed isolation. It wouldn’t do any harm, so long as she didn’t ask any more questions. Two Faith watched Jones, intensely fascinated with him. He might not be a native, but he was comfortable in his world. He ignored the seat intended for the driver and stood before the steering wheel, keeping a keen eye ahead of the boat while navigating the narrow, snaking channel. Although not as torturous as the one through which Faith had reached Jones’s island, this one was still tricky. Several times the boat shuddered when the motor kissed something underwater, causing Faith to hold her breath. Jones hardly blinked. As they passed a triangle formed by three huge cypress trees, a fish jumped out of the water, flashing silver in the dappled sunlight. Jones shoved the throttle into neutral. “Did you see that?” “Yes, I did. I hear there are some huge bass in this lake since they stocked it several years ago.” Jones stared at the spot where the fish had disappeared. Faith could see him battling with temptation. Finally he cut the engine and dropped anchor. “You don’t mind if we stop for five or ten minutes, do you? I just want to cast a couple of times.” She nodded. “Okay with me.” Faith liked the peaceful atmosphere of this sheltered spot. There was a certain primeval feel to this part of the bayou, as if no human had ever touched it. “I brought an extra pole,” he said. “You’re welcome to throw out a line.” “Okay, thanks.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to fish until he’d invited her. With a minimum of fuss Jones opened the tackle box, chose a purple worm lure, and started to cast. Faith found a yellow spinner for herself, attached it to the end of her line and moved to the opposite end of the boat. Her father had taught her that fishing was a quiet sport. And since Jones didn’t appear eager to chat, she kept her mouth closed, although there were hundreds of questions she wanted to ask him. She was particularly anxious to know why he was letting her fish with him at all. It seemed odd, given his initial animosity toward her. As the minutes passed in silence, Faith’s awareness of the man increased. She tried to concentrate on her casting, but how could she not notice that body of his when he ran around half-naked? He had a helluva tan for this early in the year, she thought, watching the bronzed muscles of his back bunch and stretch as he made a long, lazy cast. He caught her staring at him. “Did I do something wrong?” “What?” Self-consciously she started reeling in her forgotten lure, which was probably dragging the bottom by now. “My casting. The way you were looking, I thought maybe my form was bad or something.” “There’s nothing wrong with your form,” she said, far more sincere than he would ever know. They didn’t speak again for a long time. The only sounds were the chatter of birds in the trees, the insects buzzing and the occasional whir, plop and click as she and Jones cast their lines. But Faith had the odd sensation that a bond was forming. Sharing a boat and a patch of sunlit water with a man was a curiously intimate experience. The sun rose higher and the temperature climbed with it. Jones paused to take the green bandanna out of his pocket and mop his forehead. He then twisted the cloth into a rope and tied it around his head. With that dark, shaggy hair and the tan, he could have been a savage, Faith mused. Mentally she replaced his threadbare cut-offs with a loincloth, then turned away so he wouldn’t sense the heat in her face. “You are the same man who rescued me,” she said quietly, without looking at him again. “There couldn’t be two of you.” He sighed. “If I admit that it was me, will you stop pestering me about it?” She couldn’t help but smile. She’d never met such a reluctant hero before. “If you’ll let me say thank you. Thank you for saving my life.” “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly. “You could have been killed yourself,” she said. “It’s not every man who will—” He threw her a warning look. “Right. ‘Nough said. Have you caught a lot of fish in this spot before?” she asked. Despite the jumping fish they’d seen earlier, neither of them had gotten a strike all morning. “No, not really. I’m still shopping for a really good spot.” “I don’t think this is it,” she said. “Not today, anyway. What do you say we pull anchor and try another place?” He shrugged. “Fine by me. You pick out the next one.” It took her a long time to find a suitable spot. Finally, after exploring several inlets, she selected a shady area along the edge of one of the river roads. “Why here?” Jones asked, although he didn’t hesitate to drop the anchor. “I don’t know. My dad taught me to pick out a spot that feels right, and this one does.” With a shrug Jones switched to a frog lure, but Faith kept her yellow spinner. Within five minutes she had a fish on the end of her line. It was a big one, judging from the fight it gave her. A rush of adrenaline energized her as Jones stepped up behind her, silently urging her on. She played the fish just right, tiring it out until she could pull it out of the water without it jumping off the hook. Jones stood waiting with the net. “That’s a nice one,” he said. “Must be at least two pounds.” “Oh, pound and a half, maybe,” she said modestly as she removed the hook from its mouth. “A meal’s worth, anyway. Where’s the stringer?” His face fell. “You aren’t thinking of killing and eating him, are you?” “Well, it’s hardly trophy size.” He shook his head. “No, I mean, I don’t usually keep them. I let them go.” “Oh, I see.” So, her savage was squeamish. She never would have guessed. Then again, maybe she was being unfair. Perhaps he simply had a healthy respect for life—any life, be it a woman injured in a car accident or a dumb fish. Mourning the loss of a tasty fried fillet, she eased the net out of his grip and dumped the contents back into the water. This was Jones’s expedition, after all, so he got to call the shots. “Bye, fish,” she said. “Luck’s with you today.” Jones was standing close enough to her that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. He watched with a satisfied grin as the fish swam away. When he turned that grin on her, something inside her melted. She saw nothing of the meanness Hoady had warned her about. As if suddenly remembering himself, Jones moved away from her, then busied himself riffling through the tackle box. “What kind of lure are you using, anyway?” he muttered. “Try a spinner,” she said, hiding a secret smile. She had the fleeting suspicion that Jones Larabee was warming up to her just a little. She wasn’t sure why that mattered, but it did. Though she wouldn’t be interviewing him for her dissertation, she wanted this puzzling man to like her. They remained at that spot for an hour more, catching and releasing three more bass between them. But as the day’s heat increased and their shade disappeared, the action petered out. “I think the fish have gone somewhere cooler,” Faith said. Jones pulled in his line. “Yeah.” He scanned the horizon, shielding his face from the sun with his hand. “I’ll take you to the Sinclair Marina. You can call from there and make whatever arrangements you want.” Her heart sank. She could easily have spent all day fishing with Jones, and to hell with work on her dissertation. She felt a small pang of guilt at her laziness. Before her accident, she had worked night and day on her paper with feverish enthusiasm. At the same time she’d been applying for teaching positions at institutions all over the Southwest, anticipating her Ph.D. in anthropology. She’d been burning the candle at both ends. That might be why she hadn’t been alert enough to avoid the hit-and-run truck. Since she had come so close to losing her life, however, she’d slowed down considerably. She already had more than enough material to support her theory, and her adviser had extended her dissertation deadline, so there was no hurry. What was wrong with spending a day fishing? Jones had other plans for her, that’s what was wrong, she thought, watching him neatly stow the lures in his tackle box and the poles in their niches on the side of the boat. He was ready to be rid of her, even if he had decided she wasn’t such a horrible person after all. “What’s in there?” Jones asked, pointing to the plastic case Faith had stored in back of the boat. “My videotape recorder,” she replied as she slathered sunscreen on her face. “I was planning to film you—” “Like hell!” he objected, scowling fiercely. “Relax. I’ve never filmed anyone against their will.” She rubbed sunscreen onto her legs, putting a little extra on her healing scar. Feeling the heat of his gaze on her, she became self-conscious about the scar and turned her back on him to rummage around in her tote bag. “Besides, since you’re not from Caddo Lake, I’m not interested in making you a star.” He looked relieved. “Why’s that?” he asked as he pulled up the anchor. “Because I’m interviewing lifelong residents of the area for my doctoral dissertation, and you don’t qualify.” “What are you studying?” He made no move to start the motor. “I don’t think you’d really be interested,” she said, hedging. She’d learned long ago that no one outside her own esoteric field gave a flip about her work. “Yes, I would. Tell me about it.” He propped his lean hips against the back of the driver’s chair and crossed his arms, waiting. Apparently they weren’t going anywhere until she obliged. “Well, if you insist, the subject matter is anthropology. Using the same protocol as Dr. Alfred Kermit, who studied the folklore and superstitions of this area thirty years ago, I’m trying to draw a negative correlation between economic growth and the survival of folkways and the specialized traditions peculiar to an isolated geographical location.” That ought to stifle his curiosity. He surprised her by nodding thoughtfully. “You’re trying to prove that development and tourism are destroying the backwoods feeling that makes this place unique.” So, he understood. She wondered what kind of education he’d had. “That’s about the size of it. Dr. Kermit’s films are filled with barefoot men and women fishing for their living, smoking hand-carved pipes and strumming banjos, drinking homemade whiskey and telling the most outrageous stories. “Most of it’s gone, now,” she said wistfully. “I’ve interviewed some of the children and grandchildren of those people. They still fish, but they also listen to rap music, watch movies on their VCRs and buy their clothes at Walmart just like everyone else. They remember some of the stories, but most have lost the art of telling a story.” Jones watched her, both amused and saddened by her passion for her work and the reality of what her research uncovered. He thought briefly of asking her if she’d met Miss Hildy, then decided not to. Although he imagined Faith would turn cartwheels at the prospect of interviewing an authentic medicine woman—a throwback to another time—he would have to ask Hildy first. He respected her privacy just as she respected his. He turned the ignition key. “You hungry? They serve a pretty decent cheeseburger at the marina.” The shine of excitement returned to her eyes. “Starved. And it’ll be my treat.” When he started to object, she cut him off. “Consider it payment for being my fishing guide. I haven’t enjoyed a morning like this in...well, in quite a few years.” A shadow crossed her face, fleeting but definite. “When did your father die?” “Am I that transparent? He died last year. But he was sick for a long time before that.” “What was wrong with him?” Jones asked. He was exceeding the bounds of polite conversation, but suddenly he had to know. She answered readily enough. “Lung cancer. Smoked like a chimney, right to the end.” Who could blame the man? Jones thought. When you’re handed a death sentence, you might as well enjoy whatever pleasures remain in your life, right to the end. “What about your mother?” “She lives in Florida. They divorced years ago, so she wasn’t around when Dad died.” “You handled it alone, then?” God, how awful for her. She nodded, then smiled unexpectedly. “It wasn’t so bad, not all of it. We became a lot closer. I learned more about him during the year he lived with me than I had in the preceding twenty-six.” It wasn’t so bad? He couldn’t think of anything worse than watching someone you love die by slow, painful degrees. “What about your folks?” Faith asked. “Are they still living?” He should have expected it, he realized. For a while he’d let down his barriers and engaged Faith in normal, getting-to-know-you questions and answers. Now she was reciprocating. It was only natural. So how did he answer her? Earlier, he would simply have told her to mind her own business. But that was before he knew she liked to fish and that she’d loved her father—and had gone through hell for him. That knowledge made it hard for Jones to be nasty to her. “I don’t have any family,” he said offhandedly. “I’m, uh, an orphan.” Why did he find it so hard to lie? He used to routinely twist the truth in a courtroom without an ounce of remorse. What was happening to him? “Okay, I get the message,” she said. Obviously she didn’t believe him. Not only was he a reluctant liar, he was a bad one. He felt as if he was cheating her, refusing to talk about himself after she’d opened up to him. But those were the breaks. He pushed the throttle forward, and the boat surged ahead. He made sure they went fast enough that the engine noise would make further conversation impossible. At the marina Jones ordered a cheeseburger and fries for Faith and a chef salad with whole-wheat Texas toast for himself, then paid for it with the ten-dollar bill Faith had obstinately stuffed into his hand. When he brought the tray to their outdoor table, she gave the salad a questioning look. “I thought you wanted a cheeseburger,” she said. He shrugged. “When I was placing the order, suddenly a salad sounded better.” It must be Hildy’s influence, he decided. All that scolding about eating his greens was bound to have an effect on him. Faith still thought his choice was odd. Most men she knew just didn’t like salads. Certainly Jones didn’t need to lose any weight. No, his body was about as lean and fit as any she’d seen. The more she observed him, the more puzzling he became. His wallet, which he’d casually laid on the table, was a perfect example of his perplexing nature. It was made of eelskin, a finely crafted, expensive piece if she’d ever seen one. And it was monogrammed. A tiny gold plate bore the initials L. J. Not J. L. Holy— The man was living under an assumed name, she realized with a jolt. What was he hiding from? Was he a fugitive from the law? Avoiding child support payments? A federal witness, relocated through the witness protection program? Or just a burned-out business executive who ran away? At that point she should have shoved down that cheeseburger, thanked him for the fishing and gotten the hell out of there. He could be an ax murderer, for all she knew. But she sat right there, stretching every minute she was given with him. Her curiosity and fascination grew. So did her attraction. “Who are you?” She didn’t even realize she’d spoken the words aloud until his head snapped around. The panicky look had returned to his hazel eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a coldness she didn’t like at all. “We had a nice morning,” he said evenly. “Don’t ruin it.” They finished the meal in silence. When she was done, Faith murmured some inane pleasantry, grabbed her things and went inside to use the pay phone. Forcing her mind to the problem at hand, Faith flipped through the pages of the slim local phone book until she found the number she wanted. After digging a quarter from her tote bag, she shoved it into the phone and punched in the number, her back turned resolutely toward the plate glass window that faced outside, where she’d left Jones. “Black Cypress Campgrounds,” Hoady Fromme answered in a bored voice. Faith explained her predicament to him. He listened patiently until she mentioned just exactly where the dinghy was stranded. “Missy, you’re nuts if you think I’m going anywheres near Jones Larabee’s place,” he said. “I told you not to go there. I told you there’d be trouble. You broke the pull cord on the motor, now you can figure out how to get the boat back where it belongs. And don’t be thinkin’ you’ll get your deposit back if the boat’s not returned by tonight, either.” “But it’s not my fault your equipment is faulty,” she argued. “Why should you keep my seventy-five dollars?” That was money she could scarcely afford to spend. Her salary as a teaching assistant at the university was paltry at best, and the accident, though covered by insurance, had cost her quite a bit out of pocket. “Because that’s the way it works, that’s why,” Hoady said smugly. He hung up more forcefully than was necessary. Frustrated, Faith considered her options. First, she would ask if this marina could rent her another boat. Next she would navigate back through the swamp, tie up the disabled dinghy behind her, and tow it to the campgrounds. Then she would have to return to the marina with the boat—and she would still be stranded. Just thinking about all those logistics exhausted her. And when she saw the hourly rates for even the smallest motor boat, she was downright depressed. * * * As he waited at the window to pay for the gas he’d pumped, Jones overheard most of Faith’s conversation with Hoady. Then he’d deliberately lingered, listening as she tried to negotiate with the marina for a boat. She wasn’t having much luck. He wondered why he cared. She’d certainly gotten under his skin in no time flat. Resolutely reminding himself that personal entanglements were not an option for him, he left the marina with only a couple of backward glances, intending to wipe pretty Faith Kimball and her dilemma out of his mind. He set out toward the Big Lake section of Caddo, far from the swampy muck of the bayou, where he could swim without the fear of sharing his space with some vile swamp creature. He anchored the boat, then dived into the cold water and began to swim. He’d once considered himself a pretty good swimmer, but it had been years since he’d been in a pool. Now he felt awkward in the water. Gradually, however, his splashy, choppy strokes evened out and he found his rhythm. The exertion felt great. He swam circles around the boat until he was exhausted, then hoisted himself aboard and rested, letting the sun warm and dry him. And still he couldn’t stop thinking about Faith—how her hair formed a glowing halo around her face, and the way her nose had started to turn pink from the sun, and most especially how she’d smeared that sunscreen lotion on her shapely legs. But it wasn’t just her looks that drew him. He liked her easy conversation, her passion for her work and the way she’d cheerfully let that big, fat fish swim away in deference to his softheartedness. He couldn’t stand to kill anything anymore—not even the spiders that constantly got into the cabin. Once, just as he was about to smash one of the creatures out of existence, he’d noticed the huge web it had built in the corner of his living room. After spending a good ten minutes contemplating the complexity and the sheer beauty of the fragile structure, he couldn’t bring himself to destroy its creator. He had caught it in a cup and thrown it outside. He hadn’t killed a spider since. How could he have so much compassion for fish and spiders, then be so indifferent to Faith Kimball’s plight? It was a matter of survival, he answered himself. Faith, with her overabundance of curiosity, posed a threat to the path he’d chosen. He headed for home, more determined than ever to put their encounter behind him. For the rest of the afternoon, as he puttered around the cabin, he kept an eye out the front window, wondering when she would return for her rented dinghy. Storm clouds were moving in. If she didn’t get on with it, she’d be caught in the rain. He fixed a microwave pizza for dinner, along with another salad made from Hildy’s tasty produce. Still, there was no sign of Faith. She had probably decided to wait until tomorrow. That meant seventy-five dollars would go into Hoady Fromme’s pocket, money he hardly deserved. What the hell. Jones could buzz over to the Black Cypress Campgrounds and be back before dark. It looked as if the rain would hold off. He wouldn’t even have to see Faith Kimball if he didn’t want to. Problem was, he wanted to. Just once more. Three Faith allowed herself a huge yawn as she walked back to her campsite from the public showers. Although it wasn’t yet dark, she felt like burrowing into her sleeping bag and hibernating until morning. That was the kind of day she’d had. Her attempt to rent a boat from the Sinclair Marina had met with failure. Discouraged, she’d ended up hitching a ride back to her campgrounds, then again confronting Hoady. With her patience paper thin, she had threatened to sue him if he tried to keep her deposit. He had finally agreed to give her until tomorrow to return the disabled dinghy—if she would rent another boat from him and retrieve the first one. He was adamant about not going near Jones Larabee’s island himself. Jones Larabee. Or maybe it was Larabee Jones, depending on whether she believed his word or his monogram. Her encounter with the mysterious loner had been by far the most unsettling event of the whole day. For a man who had shunned society to live alone in the swamp, he certainly seemed to have enjoyed her company—to a point. Was he a reluctant hermit as well as a reluctant hero? If so, what had driven him to seek a life of isolation? How did he live? Where did he get his money? You idiot, she thought, berating herself as she reached the small, red dome tent that marked her campsite. Jones could easily be involved in something illegal. Maybe he grew marijuana back there in the swamp. And she was nuts for nursing this curiosity about him. She should just forget about him. Now that she had officially thanked him for saving her life, their business was finished. Her stomach growled ominously as she unzipped the tent flap. She would cook dinner...but then a roll of distant thunder echoed her stomach’s rumble, changing her mind. She could smell rain in the air. Building a fire to roast hot dogs was out of the question. She would have to satisfy herself with cheese and crackers in her tent. That decision made, she went to her station wagon and retrieved a few snackables from the cooler. The clouds were moving in quickly, she noticed. The temperature had dropped several degrees in the past few minutes, and the wind had picked up. She hoped she wasn’t in for a bad storm. Although she knew her tent was sturdy and rainproof, she wouldn’t be able to sleep through a night of loud, blustery thunderstorms. She grabbed her food and scrambled into the tent, then zipped it, making sure all flaps were securely tied down. She had just changed into her nightshirt and was laying out her modest feast on a paper towel when she thought someone said her name. She tensed and listened, but all she heard was the howl of the strengthening wind. “Is someone out there?” she called, her heart hammering inside her chest. Although there were other campers around, she felt suddenly vulnerable. “Faith, it’s Jones Larabee. I wanted to let you know I brought your boat back.” She broke a fingernail getting the flap unzipped. When she stuck her head out, she found herself looking at his jean-clad knee. At least he was dressed decently, she thought as her gaze traveled upward. But on second thought, he looked just as sexy clothed as he did half-naked. His faded jeans, soft from many washings, clung to his lean thighs and hips with loving familiarity, and his Texas Rangers T-shirt, cut off at the waist, revealed a tanned strip of rock-hard stomach muscles. “Why?” The single word almost stuck in her dry mouth. “This morning you said it was too much trouble.” He knelt on one knee, bringing his face close to hers. “I overheard you talking to Hoady, and I didn’t want that skunk keeping your deposit.” Jones’s change of heart surprised her. But then, he’d made a habit of surprising her from the moment they’d met. “Thank you.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Hoady’s lucky he already went home for the day, or I might have told him what I think of the way he treats his customers.” The thought made her smile wickedly. “You would have scared the poor man half to death.” Hoady, who was already leery of Jones, would have dissolved into a pool of abject terror if he were actually subjected to another face-to-face meeting with his angry nemesis. “It’s no more than he deserves, sending a woman out alone into the swamp in that piece of junk he calls a boat. What if you’d gotten lost and the motor had quit in some isolated place where you couldn’t get help? You might have been stuck for days.” “I had a paddle,” she said, though his concern warmed her. Lightning flashed, accompanied seconds later by a loud boom. Faith cringed and Jones winced. “Looks like I’d better be on my way,” he said with a wary eye skyward. As he spoke, the first fat drops began to pelt down on them, hitting the tent’s taut nylon with loud splats. Now it was Faith’s turn to be concerned. The clouds moving in from the southwest were thick and black as cast iron, blanketing the setting sun and bringing on an early dusk. “You can’t leave now,” she objected. “Even if you don’t get struck by lightning, you’ll get soaked by the rain and you’ll have to navigate in the dark.” She shivered just thinking about how black that swamp would be. “I can find my way in the dark,” he said. Arguing with him, the sky released a renewed flurry of drops. “But not when it’s raining buckets,” she insisted. Her hair was getting wet from the downpour. She pulled inside and opened the flap wider. “For heaven’s sake, get in here before you’re soaked through. You can at least wait out the worst of the storm.” He hesitated. Clearly he felt uncomfortable accepting her hospitality, humble though it was. Then another flash of lightning and a clap of thunder, louder than the last one, seemed to convince him. He dived into the shelter she offered, leaving his feet outside just long enough that he could take off his battered tennis shoes. The moment he zipped up the flap, a torrential rainfall began in earnest. Big mistake, Faith thought as she tucked her sleeping bag securely around her bare legs. She should never have invited him in. Here in this confined space, Jones’s blatant masculinity was overwhelming. His wide shoulders and long legs seemed to fill the tent, and the scent of him—the smell of damp hair and cotton and clean skin—wrapped its tendrils around her like one of the jungle vines she’d seen in the swamp. The enforced closeness between them was potently arousing and a little scary. He pulled his long legs under him to sit Indian-style on her extra blanket, then took note of his surroundings. “I’ve interrupted your dinner, I see,” he said, nodding toward her crackers and cheese. “And quite a feast it is, too. Want some?” “I’ve already eaten.” He appeared antsy as he looked around for something to occupy his hands. Finally he picked up her portable radio. “Mind if I turn this on?” “No, go ahead. Maybe we can get a weather report.” He fiddled with the dial until he found a station with a signal strong enough to be heard over the crackles of static. The news wasn’t good. The line of thunderstorms moving through the area was substantial, expected to bring strong winds and possibly hail. The county was under a tornado watch. Faith sighed. “I wish I hadn’t heard that.” “Do storms bother you?” Jones asked. She jumped a good two inches at the next deafening boom of thunder. “Does that answer your question? Really I’m no more frightened than the next person when I have a roof over my head. But when nothing separates me from the raging elements except a thin sheet of nylon, I tend to get...nervous.” She was more than nervous, Jones decided. Although it was growing dark enough that he couldn’t see her well, he knew she was shivering—not only from the temperature drop, but with fear. He could almost smell it. He could definitely smell the electricity in the air, and not all of it came from the storm. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “I’m glad you talked me into staying, though. It would have been a rough trip home.” The wind challenged his words, roaring around the tent, snapping the nylon and causing nearby trees to creak and groan. The rain fell with the force of a waterfall cascading over the tent. By the time Faith finished her cheese and crackers, the darkness was thick. Yet Jones knew exactly where she was. Her case of nerves had grown into an almost tangible terror, which rolled off her in waves. “Is it ever going to stop?” she demanded in a shaking voice. Jones recognized the warning signs of a full-blown anxiety attack. Mary-Lynn had experienced them often enough, although it wasn’t thunderstorms that had frightened her. “It’ll be okay,” he soothed, reaching for her hand. When he found it, it was icy cold. He slowly moved closer until he sat next to her on her air mattress. His arm stole around her trembling shoulders. Rather than object, as he thought she might, she snuggled closer to him, burrowing her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He held her close, warming her body with his until the shivering stopped. In his head he knew she accepted simple comfort from him and no more. But his body disagreed. Although he was unable to see her, there were plenty of other physical signals for his senses to collect—the skin of her midriff, shielded only by her thin nightshirt, soft and warm against his palm; her silky hair tickling his face; and the sweet, womanly smell of her that seemed to permeate his very pores. Even her breathing turned him on. “I feel ridiculous,” she said into his chest. “I mean, I hardly even know you, and...” “Shh,” he said. No, she didn’t know him, and she never would. He would make sure of that. He was so tempted to tell her everything and satisfy her curiosity, but he dared not. If he did, he might well end up in exactly the same kind of untenable situation that had forced him to leave his hometown, his friends, his family, his fianc?e. “I think it’s letting up, isn’t it?” Faith asked hopefully. Jones didn’t have the heart to answer her. If anything, the storm had intensified. Between the almost constant claps of thunder, car doors slammed and engines started, evidence that many of their fellow campers had opted for higher ground. A weather bulletin on the radio informed them that funnel clouds had been sighted in Marshall and Kildare, both within twenty miles of Caddo Lake. The tornado watch was upgraded to a warning. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I think we should get out of here,” Jones said. “And go where?” The panic had edged back into her voice as she pulled away from him. “The shower building,” he replied, picturing a sturdy brick structure. “Isn’t there one just up the road?” “Yes. Good, that’s a good idea. Just let me put some clothes on...” She sounded calmer, now that she had something to occupy her. Jones waited in the darkness as she slipped on a pair of jeans under her nightshirt just inches from him, driving his imagination wild. He guessed that ordinarily she wouldn’t have been so uninhibited, but speed was of the essence. “You drive,” Faith said, handing him the keys. When they both had their shoes on, they made a dash for the car, but they might as well have saved the effort. Their clothes were soaked to the skin. Jones turned on the heater, flipped the windshield wipers to high speed, then crept cautiously onto the narrow road that meandered through the small campgrounds. One wrong turn, he thought, and they could end up fender-deep in swamp muck. Somehow, though he couldn’t see an inch in front of the car, he made it to the main road and then the public shower building without mishap. He parked close to the door. Then he and Faith made a break for shelter. “Whew!” Faith exclaimed, visibly relaxing now that she had a roof over her head. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see this nasty building. I feel much safer.” Jones wasn’t so sure they were safe. The small building had only a corrugated fiberglass roof, which a high wind could easily whip away. He was also bothered by the fact that no one else had taken shelter here. He tried not to reveal his uneasiness, however. Unless he wanted Faith’s anxiety to return, he needed to make her believe he had everything completely under control. At least the place had lights. Faith sat down on the wooden bench between the doors leading to the men’s and women’s sides of the building, leaned her head against the brick wall and closed her eyes. Jones took the opportunity to study her. She looked like a half-drowned cat, with her hair plastered to her head and her clothes dripping wet, and yet she managed to maintain an air of fragile beauty. His gaze was drawn to her pink nightshirt. The wet, nearly transparent fabric clung to the bare skin beneath it, revealing firm, rounded breasts with nipples that pebbled against the cool night air. He tore his gaze away and sat down next to her, close but not touching. His libido had taken enough of a beating for one night. “You okay now?” he asked. “Yes, I feel much better.” She opened her eyes and fixed him with her clear blue gaze. “I’m sorry I was such a baby.” “It was understandable.” “You’re not living up to your reputation, you know. Offering comfort, that is. The folks around here are scared to death of you. Hoady says you tried to kill him.” “That’s a gross exaggeration.” “Then what really happened?” That damn curiosity of hers was going to lead to trouble, Jones thought. But he didn’t see any harm in telling her this particular story. “He was setting trotlines in my lagoon. I didn’t want to have to deal with him coming around every day to check them, and I didn’t want to look at those ugly floats all the time. I told him to take his lines elsewhere. And when he ignored me, I got out a shotgun and—” Faith gasped. “You didn’t!” “I shot into the air.” Jones laughed. “I didn’t think fat little Hoady could move so fast.” Faith shared his laughter for a moment, but then she sobered. “Hoady’s not the only one. The man at Jasper’s Grocery, Bill Something, I think his name was, thinks you’re a fugitive from the law, probably a murderer. He says he saw your picture in a post office.” Bill Holt. Jones never had liked the man, or his nosy questions. “Bill can think what he likes.” “It seems everyone has a different opinion as to what you’re doing all alone in the swamp, but everyone agrees about one thing. They all say you’re meaner than a snake, and they advised me to keep my distance.” “But you didn’t.” “Because I knew you weren’t mean. I remembered how you talked to me after the accident, how you coaxed me to unbuckle my seat belt. And I remembered how kind you were when you wiped the blood off my face and bandaged my leg.” Now they were in uncomfortable territory. Jones shrugged. “Yeah, well, you needed help and I happened to be there.” “But you’re not mean,” she insisted. “Why do you let everyone believe you are?” “So they’ll keep their distance. Of course, that doesn’t deter some people.” He gave her a pointed look. “Why do you want them to keep their distance?” “Faith, will you stop with the questions?” He did his best to bark at her, but it came out sounding like a plea instead. “I can’t answer them.” “Is it something illegal?” “No, dammit.” Not unless disappearing was a felony. It was if you did it to get out of paying your debts, but he didn’t fall into that category. Practicing law had netted him more money than he knew what to do with. “Then why won’t you tell me?” “Why do you need to know?” he shot back. “Because...” She took a deep breath, then placed her hand over his where it rested on his knee. “Because I like you, and I want to know you better.” Her message was unmistakable. For him to respond to it was unthinkable. He jumped up from the bench as if he’d been scalded and took two long strides away from her. Even if he could allow someone to get close to him—which he couldn’t—there was Mary-Lynn. He read the hurt plainly in Faith’s eyes and felt like an absolute heel. This was all his fault. Maybe she’d been the one to seek him out, but he had allowed her to pull him from his shell. He had let her get too close. “It’s nothing personal, Faith,” he said. “Well, it feels personal.” “It’s not—please believe me. You’re an attractive, interesting woman, and under normal circumstances, I would jump at the chance to know you better.” A lot better. “But I can’t. I’m...committed elsewhere.” “Girlfriend?” “Fianc?e.” “Who is she?” “Her name’s Mary-Lynn.” “What’s her last name?” Faith asked with a skeptical tilt to her head. “Hoffman,” he blurted out because he wanted to convince her he wasn’t making this up. Immediately he regretted his impulsive admission. There was little chance Faith could or would locate Mary-Lynn, even given her last name. After all, she didn’t know where he was from. But it worried him anyway. “When are you getting married?” “We’re not, I guess.” “Then she’s not your fianc?e.” “She still has my ring.” Maybe. He’d left her a note, telling her to sell the ring and find someone new, but he doubted she’d done it. Mary-Lynn was a sentimental soul. “Then why—” “Faith!” He was getting truly angry now. Her curiosity was understandable, but she was invading his privacy. “No more questions.” In a quieter tone he added, “Listen, the rain is letting up. I’m going to turn on the car radio and see if I can get an updated weather report.” She watched him walk away, feeling utterly wretched. She’d made a fool of herself. Even if Jones were attracted to her, he wouldn’t give in to temptation. His loyalty to the mysterious Mary-Lynn Hoffman made him that much more appealing. She stepped into the ladies’ room to have a look at her hair. What she saw made her groan. Jones wasn’t attracted to her. How could he be? She looked about as appealing as a wet log. She pulled a comb out of her purse and tried to make sense of her damp, curly mane. What had happened to Mary-Lynn? Faith found herself wondering. Had the woman jilted him? Had she died? Damn, she had to stop this endless speculation about Jones Larabee’s life. He didn’t welcome her curiosity, and he had a right to his privacy—much as that irked her. “Faith?” His voice through the bathroom door sounded a bit anxious. “Be out in a minute,” she called back. She gave herself one final appraisal in the streaked mirror, making sure she carried a confident expression. It wouldn’t do to let him know how thoroughly humiliated she was. She would give the impression that his rejection had made barely a ripple in her psyche. When she emerged, he was pacing the concrete floor, his thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets. “There you are.” Had he suspected her of being so distraught that she’d thrown herself in the lake and drowned? “Here I am, all right.” “The weather bureau has given the all-clear. Seems the worst of the storm has moved on into Louisiana and Arkansas.” “That’s good to know. Let’s get out of here.” She was anxious to send Jones home, dark or no dark. Maybe then things could get back to normal. But normal simply wasn’t to be. As she turned her station wagon onto the narrow road that led to her campsite, Faith spotted flashing red and blue lights ahead of her and a general state of chaos that hadn’t existed when they’d left. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/karen-leabo/twilight-man/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.