Книга - A Knight In Rusty Armor

A Knight In Rusty Armor
Dixie Browning


MEN of the YEAR MAN of the MONTH"I'm not a family man, but I sure as hell am willing to try." Travis Holiday, former Coast Guard officer When Travis learned he had a son, he'd gone into emergency mode: build a home, become a dad, settle down. No more heroics. But when he came upon the dark-haired goddess stranded in a coastal storm, Trav just had to help.He knew Ruanna Roberts was running from something… but all that mattered now was his son. So why did his arms instinctively open up to Ruanna - and not let go?Some men are made for lovin' - and you'll love our MAN OF THE MONTH, the last of The Lawless Heirs! THE LAWLESS HEIRS







Praise (#u46ebb5c7-a13e-5cd0-b046-763c30857733)Letter to Reader (#u97243107-2923-5c3a-bd12-c208a1bdecf5)About the Author (#ue08ffc76-ad9d-5ed6-a816-21566db39eea)Title Page (#u82146426-6bda-51a1-a48a-faab86ecffbb)Chapter One (#u47354cf9-8826-5009-86b7-8c498cc82bb8)Chapter Two (#u63bb9120-c816-5744-b0a1-46c3a6168fd8)Chapter Three (#ua55998e1-c811-51d2-98e9-1f66f944d984)Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Praise for the first book in Dixie Browning’s

THE LAWLESS HEIRS miniseries, The Passionate G-Man...

“Dixie Browning wonderfully deepens an attraction of opposites into a strong and beautiful love in this freshly appealing romance.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

And praise for Dixie Browning...

“There is no one writing romance today who touches the heart and tickles the ribs like Dixie Browning. The people in her books are as warm and real as a sunbeam and just as lovely.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

“Dixie Browning has given the romance industry years of love and laughter in her wonderful books.”

—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard

“Each of Dixie’s books is a keeper guaranteed to warm the heart and delight the senses.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

“A true pioneer in romantic fiction, the delightful Dixie Browning is a reader’s most precious treasure, a constant source of outstanding entertainment.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“Dixie’s books never disappoint—they always lift your spirit!”

—USA Today bestselling author Mary Lynn Baxter


Dear Reader,

Happy Valentine’s Day! And what better way to celebrate Cupid’s reign than by reading six brand-new Desire novels...?

Putting us in the mood for sensuous love is this February’s MAN OF THE MONTH, with wonderful Dixie Browning offering us the final title in her THE LAWLESS HEIRS miniseries in A Knight in Rusty Armor. This alpha-male hero knows just what to do when faced with a sultry damsel in distress!

Continue to follow the popular Fortune family’s romances in the Desire series FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE BRIDES The newest installment, Society Bride by Elizabeth Bevarly, features a spirited debutante who runs away from a business-deal marriage into the arms of the rugged rancher of her dreams.

Ever-talented Anne Marie Winston delivers the second story in her BUTLER COUNTY BRIDES, with a single mom opening her home and heart to a seductive acquaintance, in Dedicated to Deirdre. Then a modern-day cowboy renounces his footloose ways for love in The Outlaw Jesse James, the final title m Cindy Gerard’s OUTLAW HEARTS miniseries; while a child’s heartwarming wish for a father is granted in Raye Morgan’s Secret Dad. And with Little Miss Innocent? Lori Foster proves that opposites do attract.

This Valentine’s Day, Silhouette Desire’s little red books sizzle with compelling romance and make the perfect gift for the contemporary woman—you! So treat yourself to all six!

Enjoy




Joan Marlow Golan

Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to

Silhouette Reader Service

US · 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian. PO. Box 609, Fort Ene, Ont. L2A 5X3


About the Author

DIXIE BROWNING celebrated her sixtieth book for Silhouette with the publication of Stryker’s Wife in 1996. She has also written a number of historical romances with her sister under the name Bronwyn Williams. A charter member of Romance Writers of America, and a member of Novelists, Inc., Browning has won numerous awards for her work. She divides her time between Winston-Salem and the Outer Banks of North Carolina.


A Knight In Rusty Armor

Dixie Browning














www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


One

Travis Holiday eased off the accelerator as he hit another patch of sand, this one even deeper than the last. He’d hoped to get home before dark. Not that it mattered. He could have stayed away a year and it wouldn’t have mattered. There was a lot to be said for living alone, where a man could go and come with a minimum of hassle.

Waylon and Willie launched into the one about being on the road again, and Trav hummed along, his pleasant baritone only slightly off-key. With his fist, he cleared a circle on the steamy inside of his windshield. It didn’t help much. The outside was clouded with salt and pitted from years of beach driving.

“On the ro-oad again...” Off-key or not, he kept perfect time with the wipers. Waylon and Willie lagged about half a beat behind.

In spite of the worsening weather, the day had gone a lot better than he’d expected. Not that he’d been expecting much, but the cousin he’d never even heard of until a few months ago had turned out to be a pretty decent guy.

Considering the difference in their backgrounds, they’d hit it off surprisingly well. Hell, they even looked alike. Same build. Same general coloring. Same plain, angular features.

Lately, he’d thought a lot about family. About roots. He’d never wasted much time thinking about that sort of thing before. The little he knew about his parents had been more than enough.

But things were different now that he had a son. Once he’d gotten past the shock, he’d started thinking in terms of a heritage. Of what it meant to be a living link between past and future. If his son had children, and those children had children—

“What the bloody—!” He slammed on the brakes, swearing as the pickup slid dangerously close to the edge of the narrow highway and came to a stop. Rolling down the window, he leaned his head out to peer through the mixture of rain, blowing sand and salt spray. Didn’t that damned fool know better than to park in the middle of the road?

But he didn’t yell. Didn’t even hit the horn. If there was one thing twenty years in the Coast Guard taught a man, it was the importance of discipline. Even when some cheese-for-brains idiot parked on the centerline, completely blocking the narrow highway.

He watched for a full minute while a crazy woman launched an all-out attack on the car, a yellow, vinyl-topped clunker. It wasn’t the first time Travis Holiday had seen a tire being kicked. It was, however, the first time he’d seen a car being flogged to death with a ladies’ shoulder bag.

Not that he could blame her, if the thing had conked out on her with no warning in the middle of a storm with night coming on fast.

Pulling his own vehicle as far off the highway as possible, Trav switched off the engine, zipped up his sheepskin-lined leather jacket, battled the wind for possession of the door and climbed out of the high cab. Crazy or not, this was no place for a woman alone Hatteras Island was safer than most places, especially this time of year when there were few strangers around, but even so...

“Ma’am?” Either she didn’t hear him or she chose to ignore him. Squinting against the wet, gale-force winds that screamed in off the Atlantic, he gave it another try.

He was no more than a few yards away when she turned to confront him. He’d seen the look before, having done his share of search-and-rescue missions. Shock, stress, stark terror—he’d seen it all.

What he saw this time was wild, wet hair blowing in the wind, a thin face that was ghost pale except for a pair of big, red-rimmed eyes and a red-tipped nose. She didn’t look too thrilled at being rescued.

“Listen, lady, you can‘t—” She took a tighter grip on her purse. Good God, did she think he was after her money? “Ma’am, nobody’s going to hurt you.” He held up his hands, palms out, to let her knew he wasn’t armed. Hell, she was more dangerous than he was, the way she was swinging that leather sack of hers. “Ma’am, you don’t need to be out here in this mess. You’re getting soaked.”

She was not only soaking wet, she was crying. Either that or she’d got sand in her eyes. She sucked in air and swallowed hard. Trav could actually see her throat working. There was an emergency blanket under the seat of his truck, but he wasn’t too eager to turn his back on her. She might even take a notion to walk off into the ocean. He’d seen crazier reactions from people in a severe state of shock.

She continued to stare at him. He stared right back, trying to infuse the look with reassurance. Trying to look benign, harmless, helpful.

It obviously wasn’t working. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

Stupid question. Her bottom lip trembled, and he swore under his breath. Lady, don’t do this to me. He retreated a step, then stood his ground, braced in case she hurled herself into his arms. It was a dumb idea, one that came and went in a split second—something about the way she was looking at him.

But she didn’t budge, and neither did he. What with all the crap blowing in the air, he told himself he must have misinterpreted the fleeting look on her face. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d misread a woman’s intentions.

“Ma’am, you shouldn’t stop in the middle of the highway. With dark coming on, you could get rammed.”

She went right on staring at him. Didn’t say a word, didn’t even blink.

“One way or another,” he said, feigning patience, “we’re going to have to get your car off the road. Do you think you can steer if I push?”

Finally, something got through. He let out a gust of relief as she cautiously lowered the purse she’d been holding as if it were part shield, part weapon. “Of course I can steer. Will you use your truck?”

“Probably be the best way,” he said, careful not to sound sarcastic. What did she think he was going to do, break his back trying to shove a ton and a half of junk metal off the road manually? “We’re going to have a problem with the bumpers. I’ll try to go easy, but you might end up with a dent on your rear end.”

As if one more scar on that battered old carcass would make any difference in her blue-book value, which would be about a buck ninety-nine, tops.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get in, take her out of gear, and once you feel me engage your backside, steer as far over to the right as you can without going off onto the shoulder. You can’t see it now, but there’s about three feet of paved bicycle path underneath the sand. Try your best to stay on it, okay?”

She nodded, but didn’t make a move. Trav shrugged, stepped past her to open the door. Once she got in, he scooped the long, flapping tail of her wet coat out of the way and slammed the door shut.

Cashmere, he thought. He was no expert, but he’d lay odds the coat she was wearing was cashmere. He hoped to hell it was warmer than it looked. The temperature was in the high thirties, but with the rain and the wind-chill factor, it must be somewhere near zilch.

His bumper made contact about halfway up her trunk. It was going to do some damage, but a car coming over the dune at high speed would do considerably more. Even if he got her off the road, there was no guarantee her car would be here by the time a tow truck could get up the beach, what with the wind, the tide and the drifting sand.

Gently he pushed the elderly, banana-colored four-door far enough over to the edge that another vehicle could pass. He waited, and when the woman didn’t climb out again he went and opened her door. “Ma’am, you can’t stay here. Tide’s on the way in. With the wind out of the northeast, I can’t let you risk it. I’ll drive you wherever you’re headed and call the garage for your car.”

Not that he held out much hope of getting a tow truck out before morning, but if he was any judge, the sooner she reached her destination, got out of those wet clothes and into something warm and dry, the better off she’d be, he thought as he helped her into his passenger seat.

Unless he was very much mistaken, she was one sick puppy. She kept swallowing. From the way she winced, Trav figured it was a pretty painful process.

Tooling south along the narrow stretch of beach, he shot her a worried glance from time to time. There wasn’t enough light to take in many details, but he didn’t need to. Having recently retired after a twenty-year career, he had filed his last report. Still, some habits were hard to break, so he mentally filed away a few particulars.

Age? Probably somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five. Eyes, gray. Or possibly a dull shade of blue or green—it was hard to tell in this light. Definitely redrimmed, though. As for her nose, it was short, straight, narrow, red and shiny. Prominent cheekbones, but that might be just the shadowy hollows underneath.

She was thin. Skinny, in fact. He was no expert on the female form, but she reminded him of the way a high-fashion model might look after a weeklong binge of dieting.

He had a feeling there was more to her story than that.

He also had a feeling he didn’t want to hear it.

Trav was Coast Guard. Retirement couldn’t change a lifetime of tradition, not to mention conditioning. If he came across someone who needed rescuing, he did the job. But that didn’t mean he had to take on their personal problems. He had enough of those himself.

“Where’re you headed?” She must be a local. This time of year, tourists were a rare species. Or in this case, an endangered species.

She named a restaurant in Hatteras village on the far end of the island. He’d never eaten there, but he’d heard it was pretty good.

“I’m not sure,” he said cautiously, “but I think it might be shut down for the winter.”

“I’ve been offered a job there.”

A job. Right. He didn’t know who she was, much less what she was doing here, but he did know that waitresses didn’t usually turn up out of season wearing cashmere coats, looking feverish and hungry and lost. “You’re sure about that? Not much business down here this time of year.”

“Just take me there. If it’s not out of the way. Please.”

Oh, hell. If he had good sense he’d drop her off at the doctor’s office—only the island’s doctor was down with the flu, as he’d found out yesterday when he’d driven an elderly neighbor to his office for a routine checkup.

“Who’s your contact at the restaurant?” From the look she gave him, he might as well have been speaking Mandarin. “I mean, who hired you? Are they expecting you? I can give ’em a call.”

She was hoarse. What he’d taken as a soft, sexy drawl sounded painful to him now that he’d had time to size her up better. She had one hell of a cold, if that’s all it was.

He’d better hope that’s all it was. He’d put off having a flu shot this year until he figured it was too late to do any good. The last thing he needed now was one more hitch in his plans.

She pulled an address book from her purse and read off a number. He punched it in his cell phone, and they both heard the message on the other end. “Sorry, we’re closed for the season. See you in April.”

“Oh,” she said plaintively, and he resisted the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. These days, a man couldn’t be too careful. She thumbed through her book. “Could you try this number?”

He tried it, only to be rewarded with another recording. An irritatingly cheerful woman’s voice came on with, “Leave a message, hon—I’ll get back to you sooner or later. Surf’s up.”

Yeah, sure it was. God, he hated flippant messages.

By then they’d entered Buxton village and were within a quarter of a mile of his house. The last thing he wanted was to take her home with him. His house wasn’t even finished, much less furnished. He’d been more or less camping out there while he put up paneling in what would be Matthew’s room once he could get his ex-wife to let the boy come east.

The lady was shivering again. He had his heater cranked up to the max. He’d already shed his coat, and sweat was trickling down his throat, but he’d figured she’d be chilled—what with the wet clothes and all. No telling how long she’d been standing out in the rain, beating a dead horse.

Or in this case, a dead sedan.

“Look, I’m going to take you to my house until we can track down your friend, okay? By the way, my name’s Travis Holiday.” She looked at him dully, so he tacked on a few credentials, figuring it might reassure her. “Lieutenant Commander, retired, U.S. Coast Guard. Uh...I could call somebody to stay with you if it would make you feel more comfortable ”

Right His nearest neighbor was Miss Cal, who was arthritic, pushing ninety and had a tongue like a whipsaw. Except for a stone-deaf sheepdog named Skye and a few yard chickens, she lived alone.

He didn’t think either Skye or his mistress were going to be much help in this situation.

“Do you have any aspirin?” the woman croaked.

Aspirin. He had a feeling she needed more than that. Like maybe a full brain transplant. “Yeah, sure—at home. I’ll make you something hot to drink when we get there, and then we’ll try again to contact your friend ”

Ruanna had probably felt worse, but at the moment she couldn’t remember when. She’d been driving since yesterday, feeling sicker with every mile. If she could have afforded a longer stay in the cheap motel where she’d spent last night, she’d have slept until she either recovered—or didn’t. The alternative had been to get to Moselle’s place before she collapsed, only her car had collapsed first.

Once she’d crossed Oregon Inlet, traffic had all but disappeared. Even before that she’d begun to suspect that whatever bug she’d picked up, her car had caught it, too, but by then there was nothing to do but keep going, hoping they’d both last a few more miles.

She’d filled up the tank in Manteo. Not even her old guzzler could guzzle that fast, but when it had started to cough in a way that suggested it wasn’t getting enough fuel, she’d slowed down and watched for a service station. The first two stations she’d passed had been closed, and she’d foolishly gambled on making it to the next village.

And then her car had coughed twice and died, right there in the middle of the highway. With the wind howling and the mixture of rain and sand beating against her, she hadn’t even heard the truck approach. By the time Sir Galahad of the gray hair and the granite jaw had loomed up beside her, it was all she could do not to hurl herself into his arms and bawl her eyes out.

Which was so totally out of character she knew she must be even sicker than she’d thought. Every bone in her body ached, including her head. Her throat was so sore she could hardly swallow, and her legs felt about as sturdy as wet linguini. All that on top of a whole mountain range of stress and desperation, and it was no wonder she was irrational. A rational woman would have given up long ago.

He was taking her home with him. She didn’t know him from Adam, yet she’d meekly crawled up onto his horse and galloped off into the sunset, bound for heaven only knew where. Or what.

Ru, even more than most people, had reason to be wary of strangers. By tomorrow her sense of survival would probably have resurfaced, but at the moment she was simply too tired, too discouraged and too utterly miserable to care.

They turned off the highway and followed a crooked sand road. Headlights picked out moss-hung live oaks and ghostly dead pines and glints of water. The house, when they finally reached it, was no more inspired than the landscaping. Of the shoebox school of architecture, it sat on a row of naked posts along a low ridge. There was no welcoming light in the window, no smoke from a chimney. The place looked bleak and deserted.

Oh, Lordy, what have I got myself into now?

Ru thought fleetingly of the house where she’d spent half her life. Two sprawling stories of whitewashed brick, set off with magnolias, camellias and banks of azaleas. There was a paved circular drive where Colley, the butler, had taught her to rollerskate and nde a bicycle.

The apartment she’d left the day before yesterday consisted of two furnished rooms, complete with mice and cockroaches. Come to think of it, a shoebox perched on a row of naked pilings looked pretty good, even without a lamp in the window and a roaring fire on the hearth. As long as there was a spare bed inside.

“I’ll bring in your suitcase so you can change into dry clothes.”

Her suitcase. She had three more, plus several boxes, a few framed pictures and two file drawers she’d as soon see consigned to the bottom of the ocean. They were all in the trunk of her car.

“Thank you,” she rasped, trying to remember what was in her carry-on bag besides shoes. Nothing of value. She’d become so paranoid she wouldn’t dream of leaving anything valuable where it could be seen and stolen, which was why she’d crammed all but the smallest bag into the trunk of her car. And forgotten it.

“I’ll deal with your car later, but right now we’d better get you into something warm and dry. I’ll make us a pot of coffee—I think I might even have a can or two of soup. Bathroom’s through there. Help yourself to anything you need.”

She nodded. Even that small exertion was too much. Aspirin, a bed and a dozen blankets, that was what she needed. That and a functioning brain.

“I didn’t catch your name.” Her host glanced at her expectantly.

It didn’t matter, Ru told herself. He couldn’t be the one. She’d left all that business behind. Once when Ruanna’s father, an ardent sports fisherman, had wanted to buy a place out here on the Outer Banks, her mother had described it as the ends of the earth.

The ends of the earth had sounded like Heaven. Or at least a haven.

“It’s Ru,” she said, sounding more like a bullfrog than ever.

“Beg pardon?”

“Ru. Short for Ruanna.” She’d been named for her two grandmothers, Ruth and Anna, but the less he knew about her, the safer she would feel.

“Ru. Right. Well, Ru, like I said, the bathroom’s that way, there’s aspirin in the medicine cabinet and plenty of hot water if you want a bath. What I mean is—well, you’re bound to be cold, and a hot bath might be the quickest way to warm you up again. I’ll heat us some soup.”

She didn’t look much better, Trav concluded some twenty minutes later. She was wearing the same clothes, but different shoes. At least her feet and her hair were dry. Her hair, straight, thick and shoulder length, was some smoky color that wasn’t exactly brown and wasn’t exactly blond. At least she was no longer shivering.

“Find the aspirin?”

“Yes, thanks,” she croaked. “Sorry to be such a nuisance.”

“No problem,” he said as he dished up two bowls of vegetable soup and dug out a tube of saltines. “A bad cold’s nothing to sneeze at.”

Trav waited as she stared at him for about six seconds, and then she groaned. Either her health had taken a sudden turn for the worse or she had a low tolerance for bad puns.

Over the light supper he had a chance to study her. She was younger than he’d first thought. He’d been right about her eyes, though. They were gray, with a hint of green, like Spanish moss after a rain.

He had a funny feeling those clear eyes of hers weren’t quite as transparent as they looked, though. He could read her only up to a point. Enough to know she was hurting. Enough to know she was scared. Enough to know she was hiding something, but as to what it was, he didn’t even want to know.

He did know she was wilting fast. Probably used the last of her strength beating the hell out of her old clunker—for all the good it had done.

“By the way, I called the garage. They can’t get to your car until morning. Washout just below Frisco has everything south of here blocked, and there’s a cut just north of where we left her that’s blocking traffic until they can get a road plow in.”

“Her?”

“Your, uh—car?”

“Oh. That her.” She nodded and winced, as if even that small action put a drain on her resources.

“I’m not sure how much you know about the lay of the land, but Frisco’s the village just south of where we are now. Hatteras is the next one down the line,” he explained. “Technically it’s more west than south, but most people think north and south when they picture the Banks.”

She nodded again, but he could tell he wasn’t getting through. In fact she looked just about ready to fall face first into her soup bowl.

“Ma’am—Ru—why not turn in? They say sleep’s the best medicine for a cold. While you’re sacked out I’ll go retrieve whatever else you need from your car. With my four-wheel-drive, I ought to be able to get through.”

While he was at it, he’d clean the thing out in case it didn’t make it through the night. It wouldn’t be the first time a vehicle had disappeared without a trace.

“Keys in my purse,” she said, her voice momentarily improved by the hot soup and coffee. “May I try to call Moselle again?”

“Be my guest.” He didn’t think much of her chances. Even if she made contact, it wasn’t going to do her much good with the road washed out.

She stood and gathered up her bowl and cup, looking lost and helpless. Against every grain of common sense he possessed, Trav found himself wanting to take them out of her hands, wanting to take her in his arms and promise her that everything would be all right. He held back, partly because he was in no position to promise her anything, partly because, like every other serviceman, he’d been trained to avoid anything that could possibly be construed as sexual harassment.

But mostly because the temptation to hold her, to reach out to her, was so strong. He didn’t trust his instincts where women were concerned.

He looked her over and reached the conclusion that she was a lot stronger than she looked, despite appearances. There might be shadows under her eyes and a droop to her pale lips, but somewhere underneath that fragile exterior he had a feeling there was a solid core of steel.

“I think you’d better hit the sack, ma’am. I changed the sheets this morning. If you need more covers, look in the locker at the foot of the bed.”

Personally, he liked to sleep with the windows open year round. Under the circumstances that might not be a good idea.

For the next two days Trav found himself playing reluctant host to a stubborn, close-mouthed, suspicious woman in a small, bare house with only one finished bedroom and a few mismatched pieces of furniture. It was not a comfortable situation, but he didn’t see what choice he had. If his guest had a single social grace, she must have left it hidden under the floormat of her car, which by now was probably buried under a few tons of sand and salt water.

At last report, one tow truck was stuck in the washout south of Frisco, another one had been caught on the wrong side of the S-curve, north of Chicamacomico until the road crews could scrape the highway. And that would take a while because a section of the Oregon Inlet bridge, which had been damaged and rebuilt a few years ago after a barge slammed into it in a storm, was showing signs of sinking again. Heavy equipment was being held back until they could get a ferry up and running.

Life on the Outer Banks wasn’t always easy, but of all the places Trav had been stationed in his twenty-year career—Alaska, Hawaii, Connecticut, the U.S. Virgin Islands, not to mention all the places he’d lived as a kid, following his old man—he’d never found one that suited him better.

Mostly the woman, whose full name was Ruanna Roberts according to the registration on her car, slept. It was just as well. Trav had things to do, and he didn’t need any more delays.

He stopped by the exchange and picked up extra milk, extra coffee, a few more cans of soup and a supply of aspirin, just in case. While he was out he bought some groceries for Miss Cal, fed her chickens and walked her dog. After listening to her comments, mostly unflattering, about the government, old bones and cable TV, he loaded her porch with firewood and drove home.

Ru was still sleeping, but the coffeepot he’d left half-full was empty and unplugged. Evidently she hadn’t slept all day. It felt odd, having someone else in the house. Not necessarily bad, just odd.

Get used to it, Holiday. With any luck at all, you’ll be sharing quarters on a permanent basis.

Feeling a familiar tug of emotion, he put through another call, reached Sharon, took a deep, steadying breath and asked to speak to his son.

“Matt’s in school.”

He’d forgotten the time difference. There was a long silence, and then, “How come whenever I call, he’s never available. If it’s not school it’s soccer practice. If it’s not that, he’s sleeping over with a friend. Give me a break, Sharon. He’s my son, dammit.”

“I see you haven’t changed. If you don’t get your way, you resort to swearing. Maybe it’s better if I don’t let you meet him at all. I don’t think you’d be a very good influence.”

“Oh, and I suppose Saint Andrew is a great influence,” he jeered. Trav had never even met the man. For all he knew, Andrew Rollins was an ideal role model, but dammit, Matthew was his son, not Rollins’s. Trav had never even spoken to the boy, much less seen him. He still found it hard to believe that for the past twelve years he’d had a son, and until eleven months ago he hadn’t even known about him.

Damned if he wasn’t tempted to threaten her again with a lawyer, but if he knew Sharon—and he did, having been married to her for a few miserable years a long time ago—that would only get her back up. As she’d been quick to point out the first time he’d mentioned joint custody, the law would side with her. At the time he’d been a bachelor living in rented rooms, and she was able to provide a home and a stable family. “Three guesses which side social services will come down on,” she’d taunted.

Trav had bitten his tongue and reminded himself that she’d been the one to get in touch with him after all this time, to tell him he had a son. She’d hardly have done that if she meant to keep them apart.

Trav had never claimed to be a family man. What he was, was a duty-bound, by-the-books career serviceman. He’d been called a loner. If so, it was only because he didn’t know how to be anything else. He was no better at relationships than his own father had been, as Sharon had pointed out more than a few times. But sixteen years ago, head over heels in lust, if not in love, he’d been willing to learn.

Evidently he hadn’t learned fast enough or well enough. Now, at the advanced age of thirty-nine, he might not know much about families and forming close ties, but he was determined to give it his best shot. Matthew was his own flesh and blood.

Trav’s first impulse on learning that he had a twelve-year-old son was to fly out to the West Coast where Sharon now lived with her second husband, their two daughters and Matthew. But she’d told him to wait. To give her time to prepare the boy for the fact that Andrew Rollins was not his real father.

So he’d waited, and then waited some more. While he was waiting, he’d bought a few acres and started building a house. Next he’d looked around for someone to help him create some semblance of a stable family, to tip the scales in his favor in case it was needed. Meanwhile, he’d sent money and arranged for child support to be taken from his paycheck, and he’d started writing to the boy. He’d sent pictures. He’d sent a baseball glove, soccer gear, a football and a spinning rod, complete with a fully equipped tackle box.

He’d written a bunch of stuff he probably shouldn’t have, all about how his own father had been career Coast Guard, and how one of Trav’s mother’s ancestors had owned thousands of acres in northeast North Carolina, but by the time her descendents had found out about it, it had dwindled to a few hundred acres of swamp that was now part of a wildlife refuge. He’d promised that one day they’d explore it together, canoeing, backpacking—whatever it took.

Oh boy, he’d gone way out on a limb. Trying to establish some kind of a relationship, he’d barged in without waiting to be invited. Being able to size up a situation quickly and act on it was an advantage in his line of work. It could mean the difference between success and failure. But in personal matters it could lead to a situation he didn’t know how to handle.

Matthew had never written back, but Sharon had assured him that it was only because he was ashamed of his poor handwriting and was working hard on improving it. She’d said something about one of those learning disabilities that had been discovered recently. A lot of bright kids had it. Some of them even took pills for it.

Things had changed since he was a kid. Trav was just beginning to realize how much he didn’t know about being a parent.

After giving up on another fruitless attempt to reach his son, he dialed the number of Ru’s friend, Moselle Sawyer, and got the same irritating message. He yawned, then sneezed and then turned as his houseguest shuffled into the living room.

“Someone named Kelli called while you were out. She said she’d call back. I left a note in the kitchen.”

“You sound better.”

“I’ve decided to live ”

“Glad to hear it.” She looked better. In fact, she looked a hell of a lot better, even with her hair in a shaggy braid down her back and a limp black sweater that did nothing at all for her looks.

“Who’s Kelli?” She handed him a note she’d written on the back of an envelope.

Trav glanced at the note, then looked over at the woman who’d spent the past forty-eight hours in his bed The thought that ran through his mind was not only inappropriate, it was impractical. She was a lot better looking than he’d first thought, if a man happened to like his women long, lean and chilly.

Personally, he liked them warm, with a little more meat on the bone. Plus a lot more animation. But then, he’d traveled down that road before and had no intention of repeating the mistake. “She’s my fiancée. My ex-fiancée, that is. We’re, uh—still on friendly terms.”

Kelli was nothing if not friendly. It was one of the things he’d liked best about her—she was always up. Bright, chipper, talkative. If, after a while it had begun to get on his nerves, he figured that was his problem, not hers. “Did she say why she was calling?”

“No. She sounded sort of surprised when I answered. She asked if I was Sharon. Who’s Sharon?”

Somewhere between boot camp and being commissioned, Trav had picked up a few manners. Hell, he’d even graduated from knife-and-fork class, like every other mustang trying to become an officer and a gentleman.

So he politely refrained from telling her that it was none of her business. “Sharon is my ex-wife, Ms. Roberts, currently happily remarried and living on the West Coast. Now, is there anything else you’d like to know?”

So much for gentlemanly manners. If he’d tossed a lit firecracker in her lap, she couldn’t have looked more startled.

Startled?

Make that frightened.


Two

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, Ms. Roberts.”

“How did you know my name?”

He frowned. “Your name?”

“You called me Ms. Roberts. I didn’t tell you that.”

If there’d been any color at all in her face before, it was gone now, except for the shadows under her eyes. “It’s on your registration. Ruanna Roberts? That is you, isn’t it?”

The lady was a walking minefield. “Look, I’m sorry. If you’re a spook on assignment, or in the witness protection program, I don’t want to know about it. It’s none of my business. I just thought it might be a good idea to clean out the trunk of your car before it—Anyway, I grabbed the papers from the glove compartment while I was at it, and I happened to see the name.”

Her shoulders lifted and fell, making him aware for the first time that she wasn’t quite as skinny as he’d first thought. At least, not all over.

“I’m the one who should apologize. I’m not—not either of those things you mentioned. It’s just that—well, I have this thing about privacy,” she finished weakly.

“That makes two of us.”

“I’m sorry. I’m being silly about this, I know—it’s just that I don’t really know anything about you, yet you’ve taken me in and fed me, given me your bed—given me the shirt off your back. Literally.” Her voice was still husky, but it no longer sounded quite so painful.

“No big deal. Anyone would’ve done the same thing.” As the bag he’d brought along the first night had held mostly shoes, he’d lent her a pair of his old sweats to sleep in, and because her sweater was still damp, he’d lent her a flannel shirt.

“Maybe not to you. I don’t know what I would’ve done if—” She rolled her eyes. “I talk too much. I always do when I’m uncomfortable. Why don’t I just go change your bed and pop the linens and sweats into the washer before I leave? I appreciate all you’ve done, I really do.” She stood up, all five feet six or seven inches of her. All hundred fifteen or so pounds, nicely—if somewhat too sparsely—distributed.

“Don’t bother,” he said, his gaze following her as she walked away. Her hips swayed, they didn’t twitch. It was a subtle distinction, one he didn’t normally notice and didn’t even know why he was noticing now. “I’ll wash ’em next time I get up a load.”

Pausing in the doorway, she glanced over her shoulder. “It’s the least I can do before I leave.”

He shrugged. If she wanted to do his laundry, who was he to stop her? She wouldn’t be going anywhere today, though Too many bad stretches of road that weren’t going to get much better until the scrapers could get down here and uncover any highway that was left under all that sand.

Besides which, her car was a total loss. One of the linesmen had taken a look at it while he was out checking poles. They might be able to use it to help fill up any washout, but that was about all it was good for. He hoped she had insurance on the thing.

She dragged her luggage into the living room, and then she looked at him expectantly. He pretended not to notice. Whether or not she realized it, she was in no condition to go off on her own, even if she had a means of transportation. Whatever bug she’d had had knocked the starch out of her.

This situation was getting pretty dicey. Unfortunately he couldn’t come up with a single regulation that covered it. “I’ve got work to do,” he muttered.

“But—”

“Road might be clear by this afternoon. I’ll check it out in a couple of hours.”

While he laid out another wall of paneling in the room that would be Matt’s, Trav tried to come up with a solution. The woman was sick. She was without transportation and Hatteras Island didn’t run to streetcars and taxis. The friend she was expecting to visit was currently unavailable, and as for the job...

Dicey situation. About all he could say for it was that it took his mind off the frustration he’d felt ever since he’d learned about his son.

Trav had always considered himself a patient man. He worked hard at cultivating the trait. His father hadn’t had the patience to deal with a wife and a son. His cousin Harrison had ended up in the coronary care unit before he’d learned that a man had to accept certain limitations and shape his life around them the best way he could, if he wanted to survive.

He held up another board and reached for his hammer. Working outside on a pair of sawbucks, he’d measured and cut all the paneling to size before the weather closed in. His carpentry skills were on a par with his housekeeping skills. Adequate, with room for improvement.

Most of the work had been contracted, but he’d wanted to do as much as possible with his own hands, not only to save money. There was a lot of satisfaction in building a home for his son with his own hands.

“Do you want coffee?” Ruanna Roberts called out from the kitchen. Evidently she’d given up on waiting for him to offer to drive her wherever she was going.

He should have offered to drive her to the nearest motel or, at least, the nearest one that was open this time of year. Rescuing survivors was second nature to a man with his training. Rescuing, offering shelter. That much he’d done without hesitation, only what now? He had an uneasy feeling the job wasn’t done yet.

“Travis? Coffee?”

“Yeah, sure—thanks.”

Come to think of it, he could use something hot to drink. His chest ached, probably from trying to sleep on his stomach on the sofa with his feet hanging off the edge. His throat felt kind of dry and scratchy, too, from all this talking. He wasn’t used to having company.

She made good coffee. “What’s this stuff?” He eyed the plate she set before him suspiciously.

“Sugar toast. Haven’t you ever had sugar toast?” The look on his face told Ruanna all she needed to know. He’d never heard of sugar toast. “If I could’ve found your cinnamon, it would have been cinnamon toast. You know—butter, sugar and spice?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The way he said it made her think he’d never even heard of cinnamon toast. Not that it was important one way or the other. All the same, she had to wonder what his childhood had been like. Cinnamon toast had been one of her favorite treats as a child. Maybe it was a girl thing.

“It’s beginning to clear up,” she observed. Sooner or later it had to. She’d been here three days and had yet to see the sun.

Of course, she’d slept through the first two days. Whatever had ailed her, it had been no mere cold. Flu, more than likely.

As for the depression she’d been fighting off, she couldn’t really blame it on a virus. A person would have to be crazy not to be depressed when, one right after another, like a row of dominoes, her marriage had fallen apart, her family had been rocked by scandal and death, her identity was stolen, her credit rating ruined, her job lost. Let’s not forget the crank caller who had insisted on making her life hell. And then, on top of all that, her car had broken down, which forced her to throw herself on the mercy of a stranger.

Being depressed only proved she was sane.

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

It was all she could do not to laugh. As if she’d had any other kind of news for the past few years. About the best thing that had happened to her lately was finding the owner of a stray cat that had shown up on her doorstep back in November. The last thing she’d needed was a cat.

But then, after it was gone, she’d cried for half a day. “Bad news? No thanks, I don’t care to hear it.”

He shrugged. “Your choice. Look, I’ve got to run out to check on a neighbor. Is there anything you need while I’m out?”

Only my car. Only my friend. Only my job and my life back. “I can’t think of a single thing, but thanks. If you’ll just give me the name of the garage where you had my car towed, I’ll see if it’s ready. It was probably only a clogged fuel line. It acted like it was out of gas, but I’m pretty sure...”

Her voice trailed off. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her, not quite meeting her eyes. “You’re going to tell me it’s not a clogged fuel line, aren’t you? It’s something more serious. Something expensive.”

Ru tried to remember how much money she had left after filling up the gas tank. Three twenties. One fifty. A few fives and several ones. It would have to last her until she was working again. She didn’t owe anyone anything, thank goodness. She would never trust credit cards again; thankfully, she’d learned to get by on practically nothing.

The car had been a necessity. An expensive one, as it turned out—but she could hardly have walked from Atlanta to the Outer Banks. It had been the cheapest thing on the lot, and the dealer had assured her that aside from peeling vinyl and a few dents, it was basically sound. When she’d asked if he thought it would get her to the Outer Banks, he had assured her that it was just what she needed for a long trip. Plenty of trunk space and a comfortable ride.

“They tried to pull it out,” Trav was saying. “Your car? I’m talking about your car.” He had an earth-to-Ru look in his eyes, so she stopped silently damning the used-car dealer and mentally counting her money, and tried to look attentive.

“Like I said, they hooked her up. and tried to haul her out, but she started coming apart They tried digging, but you know how quicksand is.”

“No, I don’t. I’m not interested in learning about quicksand, I just want my car back. In good running condition. There was nothing wrong with it when we left it except that it wasn’t running.”

He said something about a yellow blob rising above the dunes that didn’t register. She stared at his hair. It was cut too short and turning gray. Prematurely, judging from the rest of him. He was weathered, whipcord tough, but he wasn’t old. She was still studying his irregular features when his words sunk in.

“That’s not possible,” she said flatly. “I left it parked on the highway. You were there—you saw where I left it. It couldn’t possibly sink right through the pavement.”

“Yeah, well—these things have a way of happening. First one wave cuts through the dunes, and then a few more pile in behind it, widening the gap. First thing you know, the road’s undermined and whatever happens to be there gets dislodged and starts sinking when the sand traps more water than it can absorb ”

“Well, do something! Cars can’t just disappear!”

“It didn’t disappear. Like I said, it’s still there, only it’s buried up to the rearview mirror. They’ll probably bulldoze it out once they start repairing the road. I’m sorry, Ru. I’ll be glad to drive you to Manteo to look for a new one once the road’s open again. Or you can wait and go with your friend. She might even be able to find you something down here, but I’d have it checked out by a mechanic first. This climate’s not too good on cars.”

Ru swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to panic. She’d already lost practically everything in the world she had to lose. What was one noisy, smelly, gas-swilling old junker in the grand scheme of things? At least she had her health back.

Trav watched the parade of emotions pass through those rainwater clear eyes of hers. The rims weren’t red now, they were only slightly pink. Her nose was no longer red, either. Pretty damned elegant, in fact, as noses went. As were the cheekbones. Sharon would have killed for cheekbones like that.

“You all right?” he ventured, after giving her tune to absorb the bad news.

She smiled. Actually smiled. He felt something shift inside him and chalked it up to the sugar toast. He wasn’t much for sweets. Now and then he might buy himself a cake or a pie when the ladies had a bake sale, but only to help out the cause. Basically he was a meat-and-potatoes man.

“It looks as if I’ll have to ask you for one more favor. Could you possibly drive me to wherever Moselle lives? If she’s still not there, I’ll camp out on her doorstep until she shows up. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to rain anymore.”

He wouldn’t bet on it. He wouldn’t bet on her hooking up with her friend anytime soon, either. With tourist season expanding at both ends, February was about the only month the business community had to take a break.

“What’d you say your friend did at the restaurant? She owns it?”

“Not yet, but she hopes to. Right now she’s only the assistant manager.”

Before he could comment on that, the phone rang. He happened to be looking at her at the time. She covered it well, but he’d seen panic before. That was pure panic he saw in her eyes before her lids came down and she took a deep breath.

He reached for the phone, never taking his eyes off the woman sitting tensely on the edge of one of his three chairs. “Holiday,” he said. “Yeah. Sure, I don’t mind. No, it’s no trouble. Who? Kelli, what difference does it make? No, it has nothing to do with Matthew. Look, I’ll take care of it for you, all right?”

He hung up the phone, waiting for the questions to begin. Women. Were they all like this? Curious as cats, wanting to know everything about a man’s private life?

He’d liked to think it was due to jealousy, but any illusions he’d had along those lines had evaporated a long time ago. Before she could be jealous, a woman had to care. The only thing Sharon had ever been jealous of was what other women had that she couldn’t afford.

As for Kelli, she was too pretty to be jealous of anyone. His ego had taken more of a beating than he’d expected when she’d dumped him a week before the wedding date. Not that he’d let on. He’d never been one to show his feelings. It had been a mistake right from the first, thinking a wife might make it easier to stake his claim on his son.

He’d told her right up front about Matthew, but he’d told her that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to marry her. He liked her. Who wouldn’t? She was bright and pretty, popular with everyone who knew her. He couldn’t believe she’d even gone out with him, much less agreed to marry him, but she had. He’d just started on the house, and she’d been excited about moving into a brand-new house, although she’d have preferred something bigger, showier—preferably on the beach.

He could still see her, walking around the foundation, going on and on about rosebushes and stuff like that. She’d said she wanted white walls, so he told her he’d paint the paneling he’d already bought. Hell, she’d even picked out the countertop color in the kitchen. He’d figured gray, now he was stuck with pink. Pink, of all damn things.

It had been shortly after that, that things had started to slide downhill. Little things, at first. She claimed headaches. His calls went unreturned. There were quarrels about stuff that didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

Trav had never kidded himself about his attractiveness to women. When it came to looks, he was your basic, utility model male. He was healthy. He still had all his teeth. He had the standard allotment of features in approximately the right place, but they weren’t anything to get excited about.

On the other hand, kids liked him. Dogs liked him. When a date was required for a service-related function, he’d never had trouble rounding one up. He might have two left feet when it came to dancing—he might not be much of a partying man—but he could have learned if that was what Kelli wanted. She should have told him so.

Instead, she’d trumped up a quarrel and accused him of insensitivity. Of not being romantic. Of not being any fun. He would have tried his hand at being all of the above if she’d leveled with him about what she was looking for in a husband. He thought women wanted security in a marriage. Someone who would be there for them when the going got rough. That he could have done. He might not be much on frills, but he was good for the long haul.

For the next couple of hours, while Trav measured for window trim, his houseguest stayed holed up in the bedroom. He wondered if she was all right. The news about her car had hit her hard.

But then, that wasn’t the only thing bugging her. He’d had time to study her, even more time to think about her odd reactions. Something didn’t quite add up. He had the distinct impression she was afraid of something. Or someone. And while he didn’t profess to be the world’s greatest host, he didn’t think she was actually afraid of him.

He nailed up a board and reached for the next one, his mind busy thinking over his options. Did he pry a few answers out of her and try his hand at fixing whatever was wrong? Or did he pretend not to notice the occasional flare of panic in her eyes?

Who was she running from? What was she afraid of? Why had she come down here in the dead of winter, when she obviously wasn’t expected?

Not your problem, Holiday, he told himself. You saw your duty and you did it—now back off.

By suppertime Trav had made up his mind to stay out of it. While the casserole—beans and hotdogs, his specialty—heated in the oven and Ru spread his bed with clean linens, he placed a few more calls, trying to track down her absent friend.

In the end he almost wished he hadn’t bothered. Then he could have tossed her bags and boxes into the back of the truck, driven her to Hatteras as soon as the road was clear and dropped her off on the woman’s doorstep.

Now, his conscience wouldn’t let him take the easy way out.

“Um...applesauce? Salad greens?” she said hopefully, watching him remove the pan from the oven and set it on a block of wood on the table.

“Sorry, I should have thought of it. I’m not much on vegetables, but there might be some canned fruit in the pantry. I’ll look.”

“No, that’s all right, this is fine. It looks... tasty.”

Yeah, right. He probably shouldn’t have added all that hot sauce. Not everyone was blessed with an asbestos palate. She was more the type for rare roast beef and dainty little salads and things poached in wine, with a side order of sugar toast.

It occurred to him that she might prefer music to the tide data at the Frisco pier that was currently playing on the weather radio.

So he got up and switched off the local weather and turned on his favorite country music station. Judging from the carefully blank look on her face, that didn’t quite suit her, either.

“You want music or no music? I’ve got some tapes out in the truck.”

“No, thanks, I’m just fine. I tried Moselle’s number again, though, and she still doesn’t answer. I’m starting to get worried about her.”

Speaking of music, it was time to face it. He’d put it off too long as it was. “About your friend...I happened to be talking to a neighbor of hers this afternoon, and she said Miss Sawyer is somewhere in the Bahamas. The neighbor says she’ll be back in about three weeks. The restaurant’s closed for the next couple of months.”

Trav couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes, knowing what he’d see there. Dammit, he didn’t want to feel sorry for her. He was the one with the problems. When it came to tough luck, a friend in the Bahamas couldn’t compare with a son he’d never even met. Her friend would be back in a few weeks, but as for him, Matt might be grown before they ever managed to get together.

So he kept his eyes on her hands. She had nice hands. Long and slender, with smooth white skin and pretty nails. No polish, no rings. White knuckles, though. That was a bad sign.

“Ru, level with me. Did your friend know you were coming? If she did, she probably left a key with a neighbor, or maybe she left a note telling you how to reach her.”

“I—it was going to be a surprise. I sort of...left home in a hurry. I tried to call along the way, but...”

That was about what he’d figured. She must have taken off with no real plan, which pretty much guaranteed disaster. “Let’s think this through before we jump to any conclusions.”

“Frankly, I don’t much feel like thinking.”

Frankly, he didn’t, either. Besides, he had a feeling no amount of thinking was going to change the basic facts. At the moment she had no place to go and no means of getting there, short of hiring a beach buggy from one of the sports centers. Somehow he couldn’t quite see her hitting the road with all her bags and boxes in a four-by-four bristling with rod holders.

Another thing had occurred to him, something he didn’t know quite how to approach. Her finances might not be quite as healthy as her classy tweeds and cashmere coat and sweaters indicated. Even in the off season, rooms down here cost more than a few bucks.

Bottom line: he was stuck with her. Or rather, they were stuck with each other until one of them came up with a solution.

Morosely she forked up three beans and a chunk of wiener. He watched her lips part, showing a set of even white teeth that had probably sent some orthodontist’s kid to college.

And then he watched her eyes widen as steam all but came from her ears.

She lunged for the sink at the same time he reached out to open the refrigerator. “Milk’s better—fat coats the tastebuds. Water just spreads the fire.”

She drank from the carton before he could grab her a glass. And then she lowered the carton, fanned her face, and gulped down some more. “Oh, my heavenly days, that’s incendiary!” she gasped.

“I forgot.”

“Forgot what, the fire extinguisher?” She was breathing heavily though her mouth, her breasts heaving as if she’d been running hard.

“I’ve been cooking for years, but I guess my repertoire’s pretty limited. Are you going to be all right?”

“If I had any lingering germs, they’re dead now. Nothing could possibly live in that environment. Don’t you even care about your stomach lining?”

“Never gave it much thought. I guess it’s pretty well cauterized by now.”

“Yes, well...I think I’ll have cold cereal, if it’s all right.”

“Be my guest. There’s the pink stuff and some of that kind with brown sugar and nuts. You might as well finish the milk—I’ll get more in the morning.”

All thought of the missing Moselle and the interred car was forgotten for the moment. She wasn’t going anywhere right away, and they both knew it.

“This time I’ll take the sofa,” she offered, rising to help him rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher. That, too, had been Kelli’s idea. He never used it. It would take him a week to get up a load.

“Keep the bed,” he offered generously. His chest was beginning to feel as if it had been buried under a few tons of wet sand, along with her car. “I don’t mind bunking in the living room. Another couple of days and I’ll have the spare room finished ”

“Don’t hurry on my account. I have no intention of abusing your hospitality any longer than I have to.”

“You’re not abusing anything, there’s plenty of room.”

He watched her take in the cramped quarters, and it struck him that she was no more impressed with the house he was building than Kelli had been. He’d designed it himself, and been damned proud of it It was compact and efficient, with no wasted space or exposed pipes. So what if you had to go through the kitchen to get to the bathroom? At least the plumbing was all in one wall.

“Once I finish furnishing the place, it’ll look better. The room on the end’s going to be an office. The one I’m paneling now is for my boy. I thought maybe twin bunks. Kids like bunks.”

“Your boy?”

He hadn’t meant to mention Matthew. Didn’t particularly want to have to explain the situation to anyone else. Kelli had sounded sympathetic at first. At twenty-five, he’d figured she’d be the perfect age to bridge the gap between a twelve-year-old boy and a thirty-nine-year-old man who’d never spent much time around kids.

“I didn’t realize you had children,” Ru ventured.

Trav- was searching around for a change of subject when Lady Luck beat him to it.

The power went off.


Three

In the sudden darkness, the silence was pronounced. Gradually, small sounds began to emerge. The all-but-inaudible whisper of the gas furnace. A branch brushing against a corner of the house. An acorn striking the roof sounded unnaturally loud. Ru held her breath. Neither of them spoke, waiting to see if the lights would come back on. If they were still off after several minutes, Trav knew that, odds were, it would take a while.

“These things happen,” he observed, his quiet baritone sounding husky, almost hoarse. “I’ll light a lamp and go switch on the generator. I haven’t wired it in yet.”

“Oh,” Ru replied, just as if she knew what he was talking about.

A little while later they were sipping hot cocoa made from a mix. Ru would have preferred tea. She had an idea Trav would rather have had coffee, but the occasion seemed to call for something out of the ordinary.

With the noise of the generator in the background, they discussed the vagaries of living on the Outer Banks, subject to nature’s whims and the limitations inherent on a barrier island. “Why did you settle here? It’s a long way from Oklahoma City.” Ru had two ways of dealing with stress. She either talked too much or not at all. This was going to be one of those too-much nights.

He sighed as if he didn’t want to answer but was too polite to refuse. Which he probably was. Sick or not, she’d learned a lot about Lieutenant Commander Travis, Holiday, USCG, retired, in these past few days. Not that he was talkative, because he wasn’t, but a remark here, a comment there, had been enough to go on. With nothing else to do but lie around and recuperate, she’d focused on the man because she hadn’t wanted to dwell on her own problems.

She did know that he was genuinely kind. And that he was second-generation Coast Guard and had been born in Oklahoma City, which struck her as a strange place for the Coast Guard. But then, she’d never been farther west than Mississippi.

She knew, too, that he had an overdeveloped sense of duty and an underdeveloped ego, which was surprising in anyone, especially a man. Especially a ruggedly attractive man who didn’t pay homage to every mirror he passed, the way Hubert had done. Her ex had taken narcissism to new heights.

Travis Holiday seemed totally unaware of his own rugged appeal. Even she, who had sworn off men—she, who had more problems than Godiva had chocolates—had done a double take at the sight of his lean, denim-clad backside bending over a stack of lumber that morning.

He was appealing, all right. She could have sworn, if she’d even thought about it, that she hadn’t a viable hormone left in her body. Stress had a way of doing that to a woman.

At least it had done it to her. Mentally and emotionally, if not physically, she’d been curled up in the fetal position for so long she’d stopped thinking of herself as a woman. She was a victim.

Correction. She had been a victim. Past tense. Her divorce had been rough enough, coming on top of the thing with her father. But half the women she knew had gone through at least one divorce.

Unfortunately that had been only the beginning. She’d begun to feel like a centipede, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then the other one, and then the other one, ad infinitum. Finally, after filling out enough forms to start her own country in order to officially regain her identity—a process that had taken more than two years—she had begun to build herself a new life.

Except for the phone calls. Evidently, crank calls were a common occurrence. As no actual threats had been made, the overworked, understaffed police force hadn’t taken her complaint too seriously. So she’d handled it the only way she knew how, by walking away. By that time there’d been nothing left to stay for.

Trav sneezed, and she slid the box of tissues across the coffee table. “Sorry. That’s what you get for being a Good Samaritan.

“Allergies,” he muttered.

She smiled knowingly. “I don’t think so,” she said, but before she could add that hoarseness, flushed cheeks and glittery eyes weren’t standard allergy symptoms, the phone rang. As an indication of how far she’d come, both literally and figuratively, she hardly even flinched.

Trav reached for it, stretching his long, lean torso so that his shirt parted company with his jeans on one side. Ru stared at the section of naked, exposed flesh. The man wasn’t even wearing an undershirt. She knew very well that flu was caused by a virus and not by the weather. All the same, there was such a thing as being too macho.

“Miss Cal?” He cleared his throat. “No, I haven’t heard anything yet, I’ll let you know as soon as—He’s really bugging you, huh? Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring a few sticks of wood and some kerosene while I’m at it, okay? Sure, no trouble—I’ll be glad to take him out . for you.”

Trav hung up the phone, stretched again, liberating the rest of his shirttail, and then turned to Ru. “I’ve got to go out for a little while, will you be all right?” She was staring at him with that tight-eyed look again. “What?” he prompted.

“Nothing. Nothing at all,” she said hurriedly.

“Come on, Ru, something’s wrong. Are you afraid of the dark? Afraid to stay here alone? I can cut off the freezer and let you have more lights.”

“No, please, you go right ahead with...”

He watched her knuckles whiten again as she got a good grip on her mug. The sixty-watt bulb he allowed himself, in order to leave enough power for the freezer, refrigerator and water pump, didn’t put out a whole lot of light, but it was enough to see that she’d crawled back into her cocoon. “Dammit, Ruanna, talk to me. I can’t help you if you’re going to clam up.”

She took a deep breath. He knew something about control. Hers didn’t come easy. “I’m not afraid of a power failure. I don’t need any help. You just go on and do whatever it is you’re going to do and don’t worry about me. I might just—um, go out and look around while you’re gone.”

“Right It’s pitch-dark out there, the wind’s blowing a gale, and you want to go sight-seeing. You go right ahead, lady, don’t let a little thing like that stop you. But it’s only about twenty-eight degrees, so you might want to put on your coat. You’re just getting over the flu, remember?”

And then he had to go and spoil his I-know-what’s-good-for-you stance by sneezing three times in a row.

Snatching his leather jacket off the back of a kitchen chair, he slammed out the back door. A few minutes later he was back, a coil of rope over one shoulder and a red metal can in one hand. “Forgot my flashlight,” he muttered.

Ru sat there after he left until the mug in her hand lost its heat. Then she got up and dumped the contents into the sink. She wasn’t going anywhere, and he knew it.

Dammit, just when she thought she had everything under control, it happened again. Evidently she’d been premature with her self-congratulations. The phone rang, and just like Pavlov’s dog she reacted. Hearing all over again the soft laughter, the filthy whispered words, the implied threats that weren’t actually threats at all. At least, nothing to interest the police when she’d shown them the words she’d copied down verbatim.





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