abdomen. Smarten up, she told herself. You’re not a teenager anymore and neither is he.
With gloved hands, he reached for the bundle in her arms. “Thanks.”
Kat frowned. Gloves inside the house? “Is the heater not working?” Darn it, she did not need an added expense this time of year. “If there’s a problem with it—”
“The heater’s fine. Thanks for the linens and the cookies.”
He moved to close the door.
“Is there anything you need me to—”
“No.” The doorway narrowed to a slit. “You’ve done enough, Ms. O’Brien.” And then she was alone again.
Kat shook her head. What an odd sort he’d become.
Several seconds passed. No sound came from within. Even the forest had gone silent. She went down the path to her house.
He wore gloves. And black clothes.
A chill skittered across her skin. Was he into drugs? Was he a thief, a mobster on the run? Why wasn’t he staying with his parents on the other side of the island? Or at his sister’s apartment in the village?
Dozens of possibilities rushed through Kat’s mind—and none felt right. Behind that severe Clive Owen facade, Dane Rainhart exuded a soul-deep sadness. His eyes spoke of it whenever he thought she wasn’t paying attention.
At her own door, Kat paused. Through the trees, the cabin appeared the cozy getaway she’d always envisioned. Today, the structure resembled isolation and loneliness, two impressions she recognized better than any since Shaun’s death.
She went inside to continue her day, but her thoughts journeyed a thousand times to the cabin in the woods.
What made Dane Rainhart so unhappy? And why did she care?
And then there were the hot twinges deep in her core—those she didn’t understand at all.
Not when she still dreamed of her late husband.
The following Tuesday morning, the privacy sign no longer hung on the cabin’s doorknob. Did that mean he wasn’t home? Or was it a message for her to visit?
Twice in the past week, she had exchanged his soiled bedding for a laundered stack, hoping at the same time to catch a glimpse of him. So far, nada.
Emboldened by the sign’s absence, she tugged on a ratty blue cardigan hanging at the back door, and headed out.
Purple crocuses, daffodils and a medley of tulips—characteristic of Puget Sound’s mild winters—colored the dark, damp flowerbeds bordering her tiny backyard. On a whim, Kat hurried back into the mudroom and grabbed a pair of pruning shears she kept handy.
She cut a handful of waxy-leafed flowers before slipping the shears into the cardigan’s deep pocket and walking to the cabin. The day had dawned bright and clear, the temperature hovering around fifty-eight. March was entering like a lamb.
She knocked twice.
The door remained closed.
Her face warmed. What was she doing, bringing a man flowers, for God’s sake? Maybe he had allergies. Or hated flowers.
Before she could change her mind, she tried the knob. The door fell open several inches.
“Hello?” she called softly. “It’s me…Kat. I’ve brought you something…” No answer. “Dane?”
She nudged the door with a fingertip. The cabin lay empty. Crossing the threshold, she paused on the welcome mat to scan the great room/kitchenette.
Her guest was a neatnik. No shirt or jacket draped the jungle-green loveseat or the pair of big-cushioned chairs. No socks hid under the round coffee table in front of the river-rock fireplace. Beside her on the mat, footwear marched in military sync: the harness boots he’d worn on the bike, a pair of loafers and a pair of worn gray slippers.
Intrigued, she stepped out of her rubber boots. Didn’t bikers leave cigarette butts and beer cans, girlie magazines and hunting brochures all over? Shouldn’t clothes be strewn haphazardly across the furniture?
Why, Kat? Because Shaun used to toss his clothes around the house? A habit you hated, until that terrible moment when you’d give anything to have it back?
She scanned the rooms a second time. Tidy, neat. Everything had its place.
On the knotted-rag rug near the sofa, two big stones—where had they come from?—supported an array of books. Moving closer, Kat read titles on hiking, computers, philosophy and…. She tipped the lone magazine from its slot. Journal of the American Medical Association?
Something niggled in her mind. Something Lee mentioned years ago…Yes, that was it…Dane Rainhart had joined the service as a doctor. Kat hadn’t kept track; by then she’d been married.
“Can I help you?”
At the sound of his deep voice, she jumped on the spot. “Oh!” Spinning, she pressed her hand against her throat where her heart bounded like a deer in hunting season.
He stood in the doorway, a powerful silhouette against the morning light.
Kat swallowed. “I—I didn’t expect you.”
“Obviously.” Remaining on the threshold, he blocked her flight.
Her gaze darted past his shoulders, to the freedom of the outside world. What did she really know about this man? He’d rented her cabin, yet hadn’t welcomed her attempt at housekeeping. In reality, he could be a man hiding from the law, a killer on the loose.
Yes, she had known him more than twenty years ago, but people change. Life alters. For better and worse.
Shaun’s death proved that.
Looking at Dane Rainhart, she suspected he’d experienced worse as well. Had it changed him? Ignited anger? Prompted a vendetta mission?
Sadness, definitely. She recognized the emotion the moment he looked at her six days ago, amidst snow and rain.
Latching onto that recognition, she thrust out the flowers. “Something from my garden.” When he continued to bar the doorway, she babbled on. “If you’d like, I could put them in a glass…On second thought,” she tried to smile, “why don’t I set them on the coffee table and let you deal with them however you wish.” She laid the bundle down. “Okay, then. I’ll just get out of your way.” Avoiding eye contact, she barreled toward the door. One way or another, he would have to move.
“Kaitlin.”
She stood close enough that if he wanted he could reach out—
“I’m sorry I intruded, Dane. It won’t happen again.” Then with a force that surprised her, “Please, let me pass.” Come hell or high water, she was getting out of this cabin.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you.”
Within his space, she could finally see his face, those indigo eyes full of regret, that shockingly sensuous mouth. He’d been where the wind danced in his hair; locks tufted at his hairline and along the crown of his head. “Who said I’m afraid?” she asked.
A smile quirked. “It’s all over your face. Sometimes my height can intimidate.”
She folded her arms against her stomach. As a teenager, he’d been lean and wiry. At thirty-eight, he carried twenty extra pounds of muscle and sinew, and towered at least ten inches above Kat. Yet, gut instinct said he wasn’t a bad guy.
“Look,” he said. “I don’t know anything about flowers, but I’d hate for that nice bunch,” he nodded to the coffee table, “to wilt before the day is done. Would you show me what to do?”
Again his mouth tweaked, and a tremor of heat shot through her. What would it be like to have him kiss—