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  “See? When I promise a lady something, I always deliver. Sea’s still rough, but the sun’s already trying to break through.”

  As if on command, a shaft of sunlight slanted through the clouds, glinting pale gold on the distant horizon. Molly sighed and leaned forward to peer through the pitted windshield. And then she squeaked, “Oh, my mercy, look at all the shells!”

  She was out before he could offer to come around and help her down, never mind that big-wheeled 4x4s had not been designed with short people in mind. Soggy raincoat flapping, she jogged toward the surf in the clumsy boots, where several days of mountainous seas had deposited tons of broken shells.

  Rafe joined her there, making a mental note to buy her some decent rain gear before he left. And a pair of boots that fit. The ones she was wearing looked miles too big. “These are all busted up. There’s a whole cockleshell, though. And, hey—here’s an unbroken Scotch bonnet.”

  Molly ignored his perfect finds to pounce on a worn fragment of broken clamshell. “Purple,” she crowed. “Did you ever see such a rich color? Oh, and look—there’s another one!”

  And so it went. Rafe soon discarded his modest finds. Most of the tourist shops along the eastern seaboard had bins filled with perfect shells, all imported. He doubted if anyone had ever expressed as much delight over a queen conch or a perfect murex as Molly did over a few thumbnail-size bits of broken clamshells.

  “Oh, look—I know what this is, it’s an oyster shell.” She slipped a small, nondescript shell into her pocket, which was already bulging with wet, sandy treasures. “It reminds me of a raccoon’s foot—the shape and all.”

  Rafe thought about buying her a shell book so she could identify her finds, but decided against it. No point in spoiling her pleasure. Bless your little heart, honey. I’d like to turn you loose on my stretch of the coast for a few hours.

  By the time they got back to the cottage, Molly was chilled, even though the temperature had reached the high fifties. She must have walked off at least a pound. That was a down payment on cheekbones…wasn’t it?

  “We need to warm you up. What’ll it be, hot chocolate or Irish coffee?”

  “No chocolate, please. I didn’t know coffee grew in Ireland, I thought it came from South America.”

  “Trust me, you’ll like it,” Rafe said solemnly. If Molly hadn’t known better, she might have mistaken the twinkle in his eyes for laughter.

  And heaven help her, she did. Loved it! Strong coffee, Irish whiskey, whipped cream and all. “Oh, my mercy, this is delicious,” she all but purred. Thank goodness he’d used the teacups instead of the big lighthouse mugs.

  One of the troubles with alcohol was that it had too many calories. Another was that it seldom fit into her budget. But worst of all, Molly had learned a long time ago at an office party that when she tippled, she had a tendency to chatter. Since then she had made a conscious effort not to. Not to drink, and not to chatter. “No more, thank you, but it was delicious. Honestly.” She manufactured a yawn that turned into the genuine article. “I’m not really much of a drinker.”

  Sprawled in the room’s one easy chair, Rafe studied the woman curled up on the sofa, her feet tucked under her, cheeks flushed from a combination of wind and Bushmill’s. She looked about sixteen years old. “Tell me about my new in-laws,” he prompted. “There’s you, Annamarie and another one, right? And you’re the eldest?”

  She nodded solemnly. “I’m thirty-six. Mary Etta’s next. She’s the brainy one—she’s an assistant research chemist. She always loved chemistry—all kinds of science, really. When she was a little girl, I remember…” Her voice trailed off and she yawned again. “Hmm, where was I?”

  “You were about to tell me about my new sister-in-law.”

  “Annamarie. You wouldn’t believe what a beautiful baby she was. I used to take care of her because Mama worked at the doctor’s office. Strangers would come up and say how pretty she was. Well, actually, we didn’t get all that many strangers in Grover’s Hollow. The population stays right around nine hundred. People die, people are born, but almost nobody ever moves there voluntarily.” She caught him looking at her with those translucent gray eyes and wished she could read his thoughts.

  “You were saying?” he prompted.

  “Oh. I talk too much. But about Annamarie, I was only trying to explain what she’s like. Everybody loves her. Even when she lost six front teeth at one time, she had the sweetest smile.” Pausing for breath, she heaved a sigh that caused his gaze to fall from her face to her bosom. Rafe would have to say that proportionally she was just about perfect. A nice, uncomplicated dumpling of a woman who happened to have her own sweet smile, not to mention beautiful eyes and the kind of skin that invited a man’s touch.

  Not that he was tempted. Not that she’d done anything to tempt him, he had to admit. Just the opposite, if anything, which in itself was something of a novelty. Women had always gone out of their way to catch his attention. He usually enjoyed it. What man wouldn’t?

  He had a feeling this one would be a lot happier if she’d never laid eyes on him. There was a certain novelty appeal, he had to admit, in being with a woman who wanted nothing more from him than his absence.

  She claimed to have been at the wedding—the wedding Rafe had missed. She knew Stu, so he had to wonder just how much had the kid told her about the half brother who had helped raise him. Had he mentioned that Rafe made and lost more money in a single year than some men saw in a lifetime? When a man could afford to lose, he usually didn’t. Had that impressed this woman at all? Did anything impress her…anything besides broken bits of purple clamshells?

  “Do you like to fly?” he asked. Go ahead, jerk, spread it on. She’s seen the Beechcraft. Now tell her about the other plane back in Tampa.

  “I don’t know, I’ve never flown.”

  He blinked twice at that. “Everybody flies. It’s a lot safer than getting out on the highway.”

  “You’re probably right, but I’ve never had any real reason to fly anywhere.”

  That pretty well took care of that topic. “How about boating?”

  “Well, I rode in a boat on the New River once.”

  He waited. “And?”

  “And it turned over and my friend had to drag me ashore. He was worried sick about losing the boat—it was a rental—so I sat in the car and waited while he went downriver to catch it.”

  “And did he?”

  “Oh, sure. It had hung up on a snag. I caught a bad cold.”

  Lady, Rafe was tempted to say, you are no ball of fire when it comes to conversation. “So, what are your hobbies?”

  She frowned. Silky auburn eyebrows puckered into worried lines. “Um…I like to read. I’ve always done a lot of reading. I taught Mary Etta and Annamarie to read before they were old enough to go to school.”

  It was like pulling teeth. The less she told him, the more determined he was to get behind that placid façade and discover the woman who lived there. It was the challenge of the thing, Rafe told himself. He’d always been a sucker for a challenge. Besides, he was used to women trying to impress him, trying to seduce him—wanting something from him. In the circles he moved in, that was the way the game was played. And when it came to playing the game, he prided himself on being one of the best, making certain first that everyone knew the rules going in.

  Molly probably didn’t even know there were rules.

  “What kind of work do you do when you’re not cleaning cages and trying not to blush when a parrot calls you a—”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t say it. I can’t believe— I don’t even know half the words they say. One’s as bad as the other. They egg each other on once they get started.”

  “Who taught them to talk? Your sister?”

  Molly eased a foot out from under her and flexed her ankle as if her leg had gone to sleep. “Heavens, no! Annamarie said they were rescued from a fraternity house after a fire. Nobody would claim them, and Annamarie’s fascinated
by the way people talk. Birds, too, I guess. She says some of their words are Chaucerian. She wants to do a study of their vocabulary once she finishes with her Ocracoke project. I don’t know about Chaucer—it sounds like pure gutter to me.”

  “Or impure gutter. What kind of work do you do, Molly?”

  “I’ve done lots of things, most of it pretty dull.”

  He didn’t doubt that. On the other hand, no woman in his experience was an open book. Even his gorgeous, hedonistic Belle had turned out to have a latent nesting urge. Thank God he’d discovered it in time. “Such as?” he prompted.

  Molly stiffened her legs out on the sofa and wriggled her toes. She was wearing socks, as Stu’s boots had blistered her heels—and until she bought bandages, she didn’t care to risk wearing shoes.

  “Such as janitor at a grocery store when I was too young to get a regular job. I got paid off in day-old bread and expired meat and produce, which was legal. I think. Anyway, it came in handy and none of us ever got sick. Once I learned simple bookkeeping I did better, but nowadays there are so many different computer programs, and everyone seems to use a different one. I’m a fast learner, about that sort of thing, anyway, but it seems like every time I tackle a new system, it’s obsolete by the time I catch on.”

  She smiled at him, inviting him to share her amusing dilemma. When she forgot herself long enough to let down her hair, so to speak, she was a surprisingly attractive woman. Friendly, warm, engaging. “And?” he prompted, not particularly interested in a recital of her work history so much as fascinated by the way she spoke, using her hands, her eyes and her full, unpainted lips.

  “Well. Next came the bank. I’ve always been good at math, but mostly you just have to be able to read and understand regulations, but anyway, the branch closed when the bank merged and I was redundant. Then I got a job as a stock clerk for a building-supply place. I like the smell of new wood, but the warehouse was full of wallboard and chipboard, all sorts of fabricated materials, and it turned out I was allergic to some of the glues and chemicals. I do—I did—bookkeeping for some small businesses at home.”

  Some women touched their hair. It was a classical female gesture. Molly touched her foot. He didn’t have a clue what that meant. “So what happened then? You found an allergy-free zone with an opening?”

  She flashed him a quick look that made him feel vaguely guilty. All women liked to talk about themselves. He’d thought he was doing her a favor. It wasn’t as if they had a lot to choose from when it came to entertainment.

  “I’m sorry. I told you—no, I guess I didn’t, but the thing is, sometimes I talk too much. I’m not sure if it’s the Irish coffee or nerves, so if you’ll excuse me—” She reached for her book, but he stayed her hand.

  “Molly, don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t read?”

  “Don’t make me feel guilty, I’m lousy at guilt.” He was good at guilt. It was one of the reasons why he was here.

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake, you’re not the one boring me to death with a recital of all the dull jobs you’ve ever held in your life.”

  “I will if you’ll listen. But first tell me the rest of the story of Molly Dewhurst.”

  “It’ll be Molly Stevens again once I get around to changing it legally, but that’s another story.”

  “For tomorrow night,” he said, offering her his most disarming grin. Another thing he was good at—disarming women. Evidently he hadn’t lost his touch. He wondered if she’d ever heard of Scheherazade. “Go on with what you were saying.”

  Molly couldn’t remember what she’d been saying. She wasn’t sure if he was interested or merely pretending. They could both sit around and listen to the parrots, but that was more embarrassing than entertaining. There was a weather radio but the automated voice quickly grew boring. The tiny AM-FM radio got mostly static and country music.

  “So—well, my current job is a position, with a title and everything. And I love it, I really do. I’m going to stay there forever, if they’ll keep me.” Unless Kenny found out where she was and made a nuisance of himself again. His usual tactic was showing up at her workplace to ask for money, perching on her desk, spreading his smarmy charm on everyone within range, making a general nuisance of himself until, embarrassed to death, she gave him whatever she had on her just to get rid of him. A loan, he always called it, promising to pay her back as soon as his luck turned around.

  “And that is?”

  “And what is?”

  “Your present job.”

  “Oh. Well, my official title is head housekeeper at an assisted-living establishment, but actually I do a little of everything. Aside from seeing that the laundry and cleaning staff do their jobs, and that supplies are kept current, I mean.”

  Rafe held his empty cup in both hands and stared at the rain-lashed window. The break had been short-lived, with the rain starting up again just after dark. The low was supposed to move offshore tomorrow or the next day, but until then, he was tied down as securely as the Baron. The fishing tournament was officially over, but most of the teams were still trapped here. Besides, he wasn’t going to be around long enough to go to the trouble of moving, even if he could find a vacancy.

  He tried to think of another question to ask, not that he was particularly interested, but he liked the sound of her voice. It was slower than he was used to hearing, but not quite a drawl. Husky, but not artificially so. He’d had a brief fling with a woman once who affected a husky drawl that had driven him right up the wall. Evidently she’d thought it sounded sexy. It didn’t.

  “So…what do you do in your spare time?”

  “Nothing you’d find particularly interesting, I’m sure,” she said dryly.

  “I’m easily entertained.”

  Lifting her cup, she inhaled the lingering aroma of rich coffee and Irish whiskey. “I help with shopping and wrapping gifts for some of the women, and write letters for others and take care of house plants and help fill photo albums for those whose fingers aren’t quite as nimble as they used to be. In a way it’s almost like having a big family.”

  A big family. Ironically, Rafe thought, he actually had one, for all the good it did him. Maybe he’d look up another sibling or two once he got back. He’d met one of his father’s brood once and felt no connection at all. The kid had been a spoiled brat.

  “It’s getting about that time again,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. Rainy days were perfect for sleeping in, and for afternoon naps…all with the right partner, of course. “I’d better think about cooking us up something to eat. Unless you’d rather go out?”

  “Mercy, no, not until the sun shines again. Let’s eat leftovers tonight.”

  “Great. I’ll have the asparagus salad and you can clean up the candied yams, spoonbread and Crab Alfredo.”

  She tossed a pillow at him. “You’re a wicked man.” She smiled, and in the light of two low-wattage lamps, she looked almost pretty.

  Pretty? Hell, she looked almost beautiful!

  Almost…

  She reached for the stack of junk mail she’d tossed onto the table when they’d come in from the beach. “Let me sift out the catalogs and then you can put this in your room on the desk. Annamarie said chances are there won’t be anything that can’t wait until they get back.”

  Rafe watched her hands as she dealt with a stack of circulars, solicitations and catalogs. Nice hands. Small, shapely, with short, unpolished nails and dimpled knuckles. Belle had long, bony hands with long, metallic red nails. She was forever complaining that they didn’t make artificial nails like they used to.

  A soft gasp drew his attention from her hands to her face. “Molly? What’s wrong?”

  She looked up, and he tried to interpret the expression in her large, honey-brown eyes. Dismay? Fear?

  Five

  “Molly?” Rafe’s voice, rough with concern, broke through her concentration and she managed to smile.

  “It’s nothing. Did you mention coff
ee?”

  He hadn’t. They’d just had coffee, but obviously the effects of the Bushmill’s had worn off. She needed to think, though, and she could hardly do that with him looming over her. “Cream and two sugars, no whiskey,” she said with a smile that probably looked as forced as it felt.

  Kenny had tracked her down.

  Wrong. The post office had tracked her down. Kenny had addressed the letter to her old apartment, where she’d lived after they had separated, and the post office had done the rest. From Grover’s Hollow to Morgantown to Elizabeth City, and then on to Ocracoke after Mrs. James at Holly Hills scribbled in Annamarie’s box number and zip code. It didn’t necessarily mean that Kenny knew where she was now. According to the original postmark, he was still back in West Virginia. And even if he’d had the skill to track her down again, there was no reason why he should want to. Her modest salary covered her own needs only because those were equally modest. The trouble with Kenny was that he couldn’t stand having his toys taken away, even when he grew tired of playing with them.

  Rafe was still there, stretched out in the easy chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He ignored her request for coffee with two sugars and one cream, which was probably just as well. She preferred it that way, but took it black and bitter. Penance for lost cheekbones.

  He’d left his shoes on the front porch alongside her borrowed boots, as both pairs were too sandy to bring inside. Molly had found a surprising sense of intimacy in the mutual shedding of shoes and the barefooted sipping of Irish coffee. Not exactly sexy, but…intimate.

  “Want to tell me about it?” he suggested casually.

  “What? Tell you about what?”

  “What hit you so hard. You went about three shades paler just then.”

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake, I did not.” She shuffled the stack of junk mail off onto the floor, still clutching the forwarded legal-size envelope.