Midnight Exposure (2 page)

She drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel. Decisions, decisions.

To the left of the drive sat a stone pillar with a brass call button. Her first option was to ring it and pretend to be lost. Hope to get invited up to the house. Option number two: She could play it safe and head back to the nearby small town, where she had a reservation at a bed-and-breakfast. She could check in and grab dinner. Polite inquiries could be made. Someone was bound to know R. S. Morgan, if he truly lived here. But would the locals blab about one of their own? Probably not.

Number one was her best chance of getting the shot she needed, but that plan required her to lie. Tabloid photographers—and she’d better get used to the label—didn’t get warm and fuzzy welcomes from the subjects they stalked. R. S. Morgan could have rottweilers or a shotgun handy. Number two was the most sensible choice. But safe didn’t pay the bills. Jason, her creep of an editor, had given her one week to get the first-ever pictures of the reclusive sculptor. Juicy details warranted a bonus corresponding to the degree of juiciness. One week. Then Jason was sending another photographer. Her younger brother’s medical care hadn’t come cheap. Her family needed that money. Big-time.

She zipped up her jacket, palmed her smallest camera, and slipped out of the Jeep, shuddering at a blast of arctic wind on the exposed skin of her face. Quiet settled over her like a shroud. Under it, the protestations of her conscience were loud and clear.

You have sunk to a new low.

Ice crunched beneath her furry boots as she approached the gate. All she had to do was snap one picture of an old wood-carver and be on her way. No biggie, right?

She patted her pockets for gloves but came up empty. Her naked and freezing finger depressed the call button. Nothing. She tried again, but the speaker remained stubbornly silent. Which opened up option number three: sneak up to the house for a look-see.

Except for the iron barrier, the property wasn’t fenced. There was plenty of room to slip around the gate post. But she’d never violated anyone’s privacy like this. She’d never admit this to her editor, but those other celebrity pics she’d sold him were freak occurrences, taken while she was shooting pictures of Philadelphia for a travel brochure the same month a major motion picture was being filmed in the Old City section. One actress had literally fallen at Jayne’s feet—and hurled on her shoes. There was a big difference between snapping some drunken Hollywood tartlet’s picture outside a club and spying on someone’s home.

Didn’t matter that Danny’s hospital bills were dragging her family under. Didn’t matter that Jayne and her three brothers were going to lose the family tavern because of said bills. Didn’t even matter that this artist’s privacy was going to be violated whether it was Jayne or another photographer who snapped the pictures. Her feet wouldn’t budge. This was not gonna happen.

Danny was getting better. That’s what really mattered. He was adjusting to the limited use of his hand, and his posttraumatic stress was improving. The whole robbing-Pete-to-pay-off-Paulie thing wasn’t exactly a new experience for her family. They’d always squeaked by in the past. But this time, Jayne wanted to be instrumental in getting her family out of a jam. Her brothers had been dragging her deadwood around for long enough.

She slipped the camera into her pocket. New plan. She’d go to town and attempt to contact the elusive sculptor legitimately. She’d explain that his anonymity was compromised and try to talk him into a picture taken on his terms. Morals were such a pain in the butt.

“Can I help you?”

Jayne spun around at the deep voice behind her. She splayed a hand over her thumping heart. A tall, lean man was climbing out of a giant red SUV. Jayne had been so engrossed in her personal debate she hadn’t even heard it approach.

Her mental head smack was cut short as he stepped into full view. Power radiated from a broad, parka-encased chest and long, jeans-clad legs. The winter tan and muscular throat told her he spent time out of doors, even in this climate. Jayne’s gaze slid higher, over a strong-boned face and shadowed, square jaw that begged her to snap his profile in black-and-white. Military-short, dark brown hair topped green eyes as clear as polished emeralds.

Oh. My
. If this was R. S. Morgan, she would have to change her opinion on eccentric artists.

“I’m sorry. I’m blocking your driveway. I’m lost.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire
. “My cell won’t work and I’m really low on gas.” She shushed her conscience. Those other things were true. “I’m on my way to the Black Bear Inn in Huntsville.”

“You missed the turnoff for County Line Road. It’s about ten miles back.” A Southern accent laced his voice, smooth as warm caramel.

“Oh.”

He stepped closer. Despite her five feet ten inches, Jayne looked up at him.
Nice.

“It’s another ten miles into town from the turn,” he said. “Will your Jeep make it that far?”

It would, but just driving off wouldn’t give her any more information. “I’m not sure.” Sheesh. The next time she went to confession, she was going to be saying Hail Marys for a week straight.

“I’ll get you a gallon of gas.” No offer to accompany him to the house.
Drat
. And he was being awfully, inconveniently nice. Her job would be a lot easier if he were as rude as the puking diva.

“Thanks so much.” She offered her hand and a grateful smile. “I’m Jayne Sullivan.”

He hesitated, staring down at her extended hand for a few seconds before accepting. His long, elegant fingers were marred by numerous small scars, and his callused grasp was burning hot as it engulfed Jayne’s frozen fingers. She felt like something inside her was softening, slowly melting like an M&M on her tongue.

“I’m Reed Kimball. If you’ll just move your Jeep, I’ll get that gas.” He tugged his hand free, and Jayne realized how hard she’d been holding it.

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Face hot, Jayne hurried back to her vehicle and pulled forward. The gate opened and Reed Kimball drove through. A few minutes later, the truck reappeared. He tilted the nozzle of a fuel can into her Jeep without a word.

Jayne bounced on her toes, forcing blood into her frozen feet. “Nice piece of property.”

“Mm.” He made a vague sound of agreement and focused on the gas can.

“Have you lived here long?”

“A while.”

“You don’t sound like a Maine native.” Jayne pressed on. “Where are you from originally?”

He removed the can and screwed on the fuel cap. “There you go. That should get you to town.”

A sudden gust of wind ripped through the pines at her back. Needles trembled. His polite dismissal made her suddenly aware of her remote surroundings and of the size of the quiet man standing so close to her. Despite all her self-defense training, he looked like he could overpower her in seconds. She didn’t get a threatening vibe from him, but their isolation felt acute. As did her vulnerability.

Relax. If he had sinister intentions, he wouldn’t send you away
. But her subconscious ignored reason, and a familiar ache sprung into her well-knitted jawbone. She forced a smile and hoped he attributed the slight trembling of her voice to the cold. “Thanks again.”

He stepped back as she opened her door. “Big storm headed this way. Be careful.”

“I will. You have a Merry Christmas.” Jayne glanced over her shoulder. Those clear green eyes dropped to the ground. Was that a blush? Had he been checking her out? A quick flush of warmth spread through her belly, a surprise and a sharp contrast to her icy hands and feet. She reached for the camera in her pocket. Could she snap a quick, unobtrusive picture of him? His gaze was level again, sharp and clear and not missing a thing. Probably not. He stepped back into a shadow, and her chance was gone.

She cranked the heat to full blast before executing a tight U-turn. Jayne watched the gate close in her rearview mirror. Kimball stood behind the iron barrier, still as the forest around him. As he faded into the twilight, her fingertips traced the circular scar on her cheek.

She jerked her hand down and gripped the steering wheel hard.

Reed Kimball had nothing to do with the threat she’d left behind in Philadelphia. If she allowed herself to be afraid of every
man she met, she was still a victim. Not acceptable. She didn’t drag her sorry butt to all those years of counseling for nothing. She was moving forward, becoming a productive member of society. Besides, her brothers had been there when
she
needed
them
. Now it was her turn to help her family. She had the opportunity to get them all out from under the debt Danny’s Iraq War injuries had rung up. Time to woman up and get the job done.

But whispered lies repeated in her head as if caught in an endless loop. Her throat tightened. The imaginary forearm pressed against her windpipe felt real as it had that summer night.

If you’re quiet, I won’t hurt you.

Standing behind the closed gate, Reed unzipped his parka and watched the woman drive away. The bitter wind was a welcome snap-out-of-it slap.

Now
that
was a woman. A warrior goddess. Tall and curvy, with legs up to her chin and curly red hair down to her butt. All she needed was a flowing emerald robe and a jeweled broadsword. Despite her urban fashionable clothing, he’d had the most ridiculous urge to kneel at her feet. The odd scar on her face didn’t detract from her beauty, but Reed couldn’t help speculating about its origin.

With a shake of his head he drove to the house and parked. A strange woman’s scar was none of his business. Their Siberian husky mix, Sheba, raced across the front yard and circled his legs with a happy bark. He leaned down to greet the dog. His son was at the open front door, all long and lean and seventeen. Green Day, cranked to maximum volume, pulsed from the doorway. “Who was that?”

“Just a lost motorist.” Reed stepped down to the frozen ground. The modern design of his house looked bare, just straight lines and glass. Normally he liked its minimalist design, but right now it looked colorless and, well, blah. He should’ve put some Christmas lights on the shrubs or something. “I could use some help with this wood.”

“Sure.” Scott ducked back into the house and emerged a minute later in boots and a jacket. He closed the door behind him, but the bass-drum vibrations seeped through. “What was she doing up here?”

“I didn’t ask.” Reed opened the rear of the Yukon. “I gave her directions and some gas, and she went on her way.”

“Where was she going?”

“She said Huntsville.” Reed grasped the long section of tree trunk and pulled it toward him.

“Really?” Scott grabbed the other end as soon as it was within reach. “Why?”

“I’ve no idea.” A dull ache gathered in Reed’s temple. He could’ve asked, but Miss Sullivan had had enough questions for both of them. Reed didn’t like personal conversations any more than he liked strangers.

“Odd, though, don’t you think?” Scott asked.

“No.”
A little
. “And none of our business.” Keeping to himself was a long-ingrained habit that kept Reed and his son firmly under anyone’s radar. Just where they needed to stay. He would never allow his son to suffer another media barrage.

“Has to be visiting someone. You can count the number of cars that drive down this road a day on one hand.”

“She just missed the turnoff for town, Scott. End of story.”

Scott had a point, though. Just what was Jayne Sullivan doing in the middle of nowhere? Huntsville didn’t attract winter tourists.
Together, he and Scott carried the hunk of white birch into his workshop, through the front room and into the specially designed space in the rear half of the building. Large skylights and adjustable track lighting allowed him to keep the blinds tightly closed. They heaved the wood onto the worktable. Sheba followed at their heels.

Scott patted a dark bulge in the trunk. “Nice burl.”

“Yeah.” Reed stroked the large knot that protruded from one side. This spot would have a unique grain, intricate swirls, once stripped of its flaking bark.

“You need any more help?”

“No. I’m good. Thanks.”

“I’m going back to the house, then. Got some homework to finish up.” Scott headed for the doorway. “Oh, you got two calls. Mae needs something fixed, and Chief Bailey wants you to stop by the station tomorrow.”

Reed’s headache spiked. “Christ, I’ve turned him down a hundred times—”

Scott held out both hands in mock surrender. “He said to tell you it isn’t about the job. He just wants to pick your brain.”

“Oh. Sorry.”
What could the police chief want
? Reed pressed two fingers to his temple. Had to be police business, or Hugh would’ve just stopped by.

“Dad?”

Reed looked up. Scott studied the floorboards.

“You ever think about dating Brandon’s mom?”

Shit
. “Mrs. Griffin’s a nice lady, Scott, but there’s just no chemistry between us.” Scott’s best friend, Brandon, had a very attractive mother, but Reed had zero interest in Becca Griffin.

Scott scuffed a toe on the cement. “You mean you don’t like her
that
way.”