were able to discover that. He intrigued people, that was for certain. Those who were familiar with state politics knew he was the son of Senator Drayton McKnight, who for the past thirty years had represented one of the wealthiest districts in the state. And people would ask why a man born to such a family, a man who could have any life he chose, had ended up in a tiny Catskills town, working for a living just like anyone else.
Jenny knew she had a part in his decision to settle here, though he would never admit it. She had once been engaged to his best friend, Joey Santini. There had been a time when each of them had dreamed of the charms of small-town life, of friendships that would last a lifetime and loyalties that were never breached. Had they really been that naive?
Neither Rourke nor Jenny talked about what had happened, of course. Each worked hard to buy into the assumption that it was best left in the past, undisturbed.
But of course, neither one of them had forgotten. The peculiar awkward tension, the studied avoidance of each other, were proof of that. Jenny was sure that if she lived to be a hundred, she would never forget. There were very few things she knew for certain, but one of them was this. She would always remember that night with Rourke, but she would never understand him.
The shower turned off, and a few minutes later, he came in with a towel slung low around his hips, his damp hair tumbling over his brow. He was unbelievably good-looking: six-foot-something tall, with broad shoulders and lean hips. He had the kind of face that made women forget their boyfriends’ phone numbers. Jenny’s best friend, Nina Romano, always said he was way too good-looking to be a small-town policeman. With that chiseled jaw, dimpled chin and smoldering blue eyes, and that oh-so-memorable scar high on his right cheekbone, he belonged on billboards advertising high-end liquor or the kind of cars no one could afford. Jenny felt a clutch of pure lust, so sudden and blatant that it drew a laugh from her.
“This is funny?” he asked, spreading his arms, palms out.
“Sorry,” she said, but couldn’t seem to sober up. Her situation was just so completely awful that she had to laugh in order to keep from crying.
“I’ll have you know, this bed has been known to bring women to tears,” he said.
“I could have gone all day without hearing that.” She dabbed at her eyes and then studied him closely. She’d never known a man to have so many contradictions. He looked like a Greek god but seemed to be without vanity. He came from one of the wealthiest families in the state, yet he lived like a working-class man. He pretended not to care about anyone or anything, yet he spent all his time serving the community. He found homes for stray dogs and cats. He took injured birds to the wildlife shelter. If something was wounded or weak, he was there, simple as that. He’d been doing it for years. He had lived many lives, from spoiled Upper East Side preppie to penniless student, to public servant, making choices that were unorthodox for someone of his background.
He kept so much of himself hidden. She suspected it had to do with Joey and what had happened with him, with the three of them.
“… staring at me like that?” Rourke was asking.
She realized she’d been lost in thought, and she gave herself a shake. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a long time since we’ve talked. I was thinking about your story.”
He frowned. “My story?”
“Everybody has one. A story. A series of events that brought you to the place you are now.”
The frown eased into a grin. “I like law and order, and I’m good with weapons,” he said. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
“Even the fact that you joke around to cover up the real story is interesting to me.”
“If that’s interesting, then you ought to be a fiction writer.”
Aha. He pretended he wasn’t interesting. “You’re a good distraction,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“My whole life just went up in smoke, and I’m thinking about you.”
That seemed to make him nervous. “What about me?”
“Well, I just wonder—”
“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Don’t wonder about me or my story.”
How can I not? she thought. It’s our story. And something about the fire had changed things between them. They’d gone from avoiding each other to … this. Whatever “this” turned out to be. Was he drawn to her by his urge to protect, or was there a deeper motivation? Could the fire be a catalyst in making them face up to matters they both avoided? Maybe—at long last—they would talk about what happened.
Not now, Jenny thought. She couldn’t do that now, on top of everything else. For the time being, it was easier to engage in meaningless flirtation, skirting the real issues. Over the years, she’d gotten very good at that.
“I’d better hit the shower,” she said. “Where are my clothes?”
“In the wash, but they’re not dry yet.”
“You washed my clothes.”
“What, you wanted them dry-cleaned?”
She didn’t say anything. She knew that everything reeked of smoke and she ought to be grateful for the favor. Still, it was mind-numbing to realize she had exactly one set of clothes in this world.
He opened the bottom bureau drawer, revealing a fat paper parcel marked with a laundry-service label. “There’s a bunch of stuff in here. You can probably find something to fit. Help yourself.”
Frowning with curiosity, she tore open the parcel and inspected the contents, pulling out each piece and holding it up. There was a baby-doll top, a push-up bra, an array of impossibly tiny women’s underwear. She also found designer jeans and cutoffs, knitted tops with plunging necklines.
She straightened up and faced him. “So what are these, prizes of war? Souvenirs of sex? Things left behind by women who have walked out on you?”
“What?” he asked, but the sheepish look on his face indicated that he knew precisely what. “I had them cleaned.”
“And that makes it all right?”
“Look, I’m not a monk.”
“Clearly not.” She held a thong at arm’s length, between her thumb and forefinger. “Would you wear something like this?”
“Now you’re getting kinky on me.”
“I’m keeping the boxers,” she stated. As she headed to the bathroom, she paused, her face just inches from his bare chest. The damp steam that came off him smelled of Ivory soap. “I’d better get going. Like you said, it’s going to be a long day.”
She stepped into the bathroom. The radio, she discovered, had been set on her favorite station. On the counter were three clean, folded towels—the exact number she preferred to use, in the proper sizes—one bath sheet and two hand towels.
Sure, it was flattering to imagine he was attracted to her. But that was all in the past; he hadn’t said a dozen words to her in years. He had barely noticed her until now. Until she was in her most vulnerable state—grieving, homeless, with nowhere to go and no one to turn to. He didn’t notice her until she needed rescuing. Interesting.
Jenny had to lie back on the bed and suck in her gut in order to get the borrowed jeans zipped over the boxer shorts. According to the designer tag in the waistband, the pants were her size. The jeans had probably belonged to someone named Bambi or Fanny, the sort of girl who enjoyed wearing things that looked as though they had been applied by paintbrush.
The bra was a surprisingly good fit, even though the push-up style was hardly her thing. She pulled on a V-neck sweatshirt, also tight, white with crimson trim and the Harvard seal smack-dab over her left boob. Veritas. It was probably as close as she’d ever get to a Harvard education.