don’t know. Five thousand dollars’ worth of tests to tell me that they’re not sure if I’ll see again. No more Jet Skis, for sure. Either way.”
She paused beside him. “I thought Jet Skis were dangerous,” she began.
“They are. I like dangerous things,” he said curtly. “Skydiving, race cars, testing planes, Jet Skis,” he added with a faint smile. “I had my housekeeper lead me down here. I’ll have to find my own way back. As I said,” he added whimsically, “I like dangerous things.”
“Why?”
Both thick eyebrows went up. He turned toward her voice. “What the hell do you mean, why?”
“Life is precious,” she said.
“Life is tedious, monotonous, maddening and joyless,” he shot back. “It’s hard, and then you die.”
“You stole that line from a retro television show,” she accused involuntarily, with a muffled laugh, and then flushed.
But he chuckled, surprised. “Yes, I did. Dempsey and Makepeace; you can find reruns of it on YouTube.”
Then he frowned. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
She had to think fast. Confession was good for the soul, she thought, but not yet. “I’m staying with a girlfriend for a couple of weeks. I’m sort of in between jobs. I got lost. I thought her cabin was this way, but nothing looks familiar here.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Brain surgery,” she said pertly. “I took this mail-order course...”
He burst out laughing.
She was surprised, because he was a man who hardly knew how to laugh.
“Pull the other one,” he invited.
She grinned. “Okay. In my spare time, I make custom harnesses for frogs. So you can walk them.”
He let out a breath, and grinned. “What do you do?” he persisted.
She shrugged. “I’m a copy typist for a law firm. Or I was.”
“Why?”
“I was made redundant. Laid off sounds better, though.” She glanced at him. “It’s getting dark. Should you be out here by yourself when you can’t see? The lake is very deep.”
“Should you be out by yourself when you’re lost?” he shot back.
“No, I shouldn’t,” she said. “But you shouldn’t, either.”
“Want to lead me to my door?” he invited.
“I might as well. At least you’re not lost,” she added.
He held out his hand.
Odd, how it felt to hold his hand, to feel the warm strength of that big, beautiful hand against her skin. She had to fight to keep her confusion from showing.
“Where do you live?” she asked, because she wasn’t supposed to know.
“Pine Cottage. There’s a sign.”
She let out a breath. “Oh, it’s there. I see it.”
He hesitated. She tugged, just gently.
“It’s this way,” she said softly, letting him catch up without making an issue of it. She walked very slowly, very carefully, so that he was on the path and didn’t walk into obstacles like rocks that could throw him off balance. “Three steps,” she said. “This is the first one.”
He went up them with no seeming difficulty and stopped. “You’re quite good at this.”
“I practice on little old ladies who can’t find their glasses,” she returned, tongue in cheek.
He smiled. It wasn’t a cold, formal or social smile, either. And he hadn’t let go of her hand.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“The Energizer Bunny?” she suggested.
“Try again.”
“I’m Emma,” she said, having fought the impulse not to lie to him. But there had to be a zillion women named Emma. He wouldn’t connect her. He probably didn’t even know her name. He’d have no reason to want to know it. He’d connected her with the near-miss on the Jet Ski before Mamie’s party, when she’d been driving the boat, but that was just physical recognition. Mamie had said that he didn’t know Emma except as her assistant. He hadn’t asked for her name.
“Emma what?” he asked.
“Copeland,” she replied.
His lips pursed. “Think you could find your way back here?”
She hesitated. “I found it because I was lost.”
“I’m having Barnes drive you home,” he said surprisingly. “He can pick you up where he drops you off, yes?”
Her heart was racing. “Why would I want to be picked up?”
“Breakfast,” he said simply.
“Breakfast?”
“Eggs, bacon, pancakes...strong black coffee,” he added.
“My friend has Pop-Tarts.” She groaned.
He grinned. “Eggs, bacon, pancakes—”
“Don’t! You’re torturing me! What time?”
“Eight a.m.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t sleep late?”
“I go to bed at nine,” she said. “Eight a.m. is late to me.”
He chuckled. “Fair enough. I’ll see you soon, Emma.”
“Who are you?” she asked, because she couldn’t give herself away. Not yet.
“Connor.”
“Connor. It’s nice.”
“I’m not,” he cautioned, his silver eyes flashing at her.
“Pop-Tarts might not be so bad...” she began.
He grinned. “I’ll try to be nice. Just for breakfast.”
“Okay.”
“Barnes!” he called.
A short, older man came in, smiling. “Yes, sir?”
“Take Emma back to her roommate,” he said, indicating Emma. “And make sure you remember where you drop her, so you can pick her up in the morning and bring her back for breakfast.”
“Yes, sir. Are you ready to go, Miss Emma?” he asked in his slow, sweet Georgia drawl.
“I am.”
“Good night, Emma,” Connor said with a smile.
“Good night.”
* * *
She had Barnes drop her off at the Frenchwoman’s house. She waved him off and then asked Jeanne Marie if it was all right that she pretended to live there. She couldn’t explain, she added, but she promised it was nothing illegal or immoral.
Jeanne laughed and said of course it was all right. When Emma told her about the next morning’s appointment, Jeanne said that was fine, as well. She was curious. Emma just blushed, and Jeanne asked no more questions.
* * *
All night, Emma agonized about going to breakfast at Connor’s. It seemed like a sound idea, to get to know him, just a little, and then confess what she’d done. If he knew her, he might not jump to conclusions that she’d hit him on purpose.
But