Moon Shadows (2 page)

Maine
Eleven years later

A
S
she did once a month, Simone loaded her truck with what she thought of as her lotions and potions. She whistled for her dog, waiting until Amico bounded out of the woods where he'd been treeing squirrels—a favorite pastime—and raced over the lawn to leap into the cab of the truck.

As he always did, he sat on his end of the bench seat and stuck his big brown head out the window in anticipation of the ride.

She flipped on the stereo, shoved the truck into gear, and started the nine-and-a-half-mile drive into town. The distance was deliberate—not too far from town, for her own convenience. And not too close, for her own preference. Just as the town of Eden Springs was a deliberate choice.

Small, but not so small that everyone knew everyone's business. Picturesque enough to draw tourists, so her enterprise could, and did, profit by them.

She had her solitude, the woods, the cliffs and work that satisfied her. She'd seen as much of the world as she wanted to see.

She headed for the coast, windows open, the September breeze pouring in while Coldplay poured out. Her hair, sun-kissed blond, danced. She wore it straight, so that the blunt tips stopped just above her shoulderblades. A convenient length she could leave loose or pull back, could play with if she was in the mood, or forget if she was busy.

Her eyes were a gold-flecked green that suited the diamond points of her chin and cheekbones. Her jeans, boots, leather jacket were all comfortably worn and covered a body that was ruthlessly disciplined. As was her mind.

Discipline, Simone knew, was the key to survival.

She enjoyed the ride, a small pleasure, with the smell of the sea salting the air, the scent of her dog warming it. The sky was bold blue and brilliantly clear. But she scented rain, far off, over the water.

It would come by moonrise.

Houses grew more plentiful and closer together as she passed the halfway point between her place and town. Charming Cape Cods, tidy ranchers, old-fashioned saltboxes. People were starting to spread out, edging closer to her isolation.

Nothing to be done about it.

She checked her watch. She had an appointment at the vet's—a little detail she was keeping from Amico as long as possible. But there was plenty of time to make the delivery, deal with whatever needed her attention, before walking Amico down to the office for his exam and shots.

Traffic thickened, such as it was. Beside her, Amico let out a little yip of joy. She knew he loved watching the other cars, the people inside them, the movement, nearly as much as he loved romping through the woods at home and harassing the wildlife.

She turned down a side street, then another, easing down the narrow roads before turning into the miserly back lot of her little store.

She'd called it Luna and had selected its location as precisely as she did everything else. This part of town boasted plenty of pedestrian traffic—local and tourist.

She was deliberately early, before either her manager or her part-time clerk would arrive. It would give her time to
unload, to check her inventory, make any adjustments she wished.

After she'd parked, she let Amico out, gave him the command to sit, to stay. He'd no more break command than he'd sprout wings and fly.

Carting boxes, she opened the back door, then whistled for him. He darted past her as she carried cartons into the shop. She drew in the scents of rosemary and chamomile, subtle hints of tansy and hawthorn. Dozens of fragrances ran through her senses as she set the newest stock on the counter.

Clear, square bottles of varying sizes were full of lotions and creams, bath salts and gels. Their colors, soft or bright, illuminated the dim light.

There were soaps and balms, perfumes and tonics. All made by her own hand, from her own recipes, from her own herbs.

That would be changing soon, she thought, switching on the lights. Couldn't stop progress. Her on-line service was beginning to boom, and she would need to hire more help, pass some of the production on to others.

There was money to be made, and she needed to make it.

She went out for more stock, piling boxes up. Then began to unload them.

The skin care products always sold well, she noted. And the bath products were buzzing out the door. She'd been smart to add a few drops of food coloring to the Irish moss shower gel. Customers liked those deep colors.

Candles were so popular she was thinking of starting another line of them.

She spent a happy hour replacing or adding to stock and allowed herself a glow of pride and satisfaction. Failure, she told herself, had led to success.

And sooner or later, she promised herself, she'd find what she needed most.

“Okay, baby.” With considerable regret, she pulled the leash out of her bag. Amico looked at it, looked at her, then lowered his head as if she'd threatened him with a bat.

“I'm sorry, I know it's insulting, but rules are rules.” She
crouched down to clip it to his bright red collar. “It's not that I don't trust you.” Her eyes stayed on his as she leaned in, nose to snout. “But there's a leash law, and we don't want any trouble. Soon as we get back,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his fur, “it comes off.”

She crossed to the door, slipping her sunglasses on against the sparkling light. “This is going to be a tough day for you,” she said as they began to walk along the sidewalk. “But you've got to keep healthy, right? Fit and trim? Dr. Greene just wants to take care of you.”

She took the two and a half blocks slowly, to give Amico time to prepare for what was, for him, a very unhappy experience. And she walked slowly for herself, to prolong this rare stroll along a sidewalk where there were people going about their business and their lives.

“I'll scramble you eggs when we get home. You know how you love eggs. I'll put cheese in them, and this will be just a memory. Then we—”

Her head came up with a snap, and Amico heeled automatically. She caught a scent, elemental and male, that had her system on quiver. The tickle low in her belly became an ache.

And he rushed around the corner, dark hair flying, worn canvas high-tops slapping pavement in a sound that to her ears was like gunshots.

He skidded to a halt, avoiding a collision, then grinned. A slow, lazy, sort of how-ya'-doing grin.

She saw his face—could see nothing else. Dusky skin over strong bones, haloed by a waving mass of damp black hair. His mouth looked as though it had been etched on his face, sculpted there. His eyes were brown, a deep, sumptuous brown. She could see them through the dark lenses he wore.

She knew them.

“Hi. Sorry.”

His voice was like a stroke on bare flesh and had her blood swimming into her head.

“Running late. You one of mine?”

The dizziness was passing into something else, some deep and painful need. “Yours?”

“You my eight o'clock? Ah . . . Simone and Amico?”

“Dr. Greene is . . .” She could feel a sound, primal and desperate, clawing at the back of her throat.

“Ah, didn't get the notice?” With a shake of his head, he opened the door to the vet's office. “We had some problems with that. I took over a couple of weeks ago. Uncle Pete—Dr. Greene—had a bout of angina about a month ago. Aunt Mary put her foot down about retirement. He still consults, but I moved up from Portland. Been wanting to anyway. Gabe,” he said, offering a hand. “Gabe Kirby.”

She couldn't touch him, didn't dare, and had the wits to give Amico a hand signal. The dog sat and politely offered his paw.

With a laugh, Gabe accepted. “Nice to meet you. Come on in.”

He stepped inside the waiting room and spoke directly to the woman manning the desk. “I'm not late. My patient's early, and we've been outside getting acquainted.”

“You
are
late. Four minutes. Hello, Simone. Amico!” She had a wide face, crowned by a curly mop of hair in a shade of red never seen in nature. “How you doing, handsome?”

Simone gave him the release sign so he could prance around the desk to be petted.

“ 'Morning, Eileen.” Discipline, Simone reminded herself. Discipline meant survival. Her voice was cool and calm. “I'm sorry to hear about Dr. Greene.”

“Oh, he's fine. Time for fishing and sitting in his hammock. Only downside for him is Mary's watching his diet like a hawk. And she's threatening to make him sign up for a yoga class.”

“When you see him, tell him I said to take care of himself.”

“Will do. I see you met this one.”

“She talks about me like that because I got under her feet every time I visited when I was a kid.” He was leaning against the desk, casual, all the time in the world, but his eyes stayed on hers, and she saw the alertness, the intellect, and the interest.

“Are we set up for Amico?”

“All set.” The phone on Eileen's desk began to ring. “Don't worry, Simone. He's young, and has trouble getting moving in the morning, but he's a good vet.”

“I was not late,” Gabe said again, turning toward the exam room. “Come on back. So, tell me, Amico, how've you been feeling? Any complaints?”

“He's fine.” She concentrated on regulating her breathing, on focusing on her dog, who began to quiver when they entered the exam room. “He gets nervous before an exam.”

“That's okay. Me, too. Especially when it involves s-h-o-t-s.”

She managed a smile. “He doesn't like them.”

“That's 'cause he's not crazy, right, boy?” He crouched again, running his hands over Amico's face, his body, down his legs, giving him a playful rub, while—she noted—those long-fingered hands checked his frame, his bones.

“Handsome dog. Good healthy coat, clear eyes. Beautiful eyes,” he amended, smiling into them. “Somebody loves you.”

There was a rock on her chest, pressing on her heart so that it tattooed like a trapped bird. But her voice was cool and clear. “Yes, I do.”

“Let's get your weight, pal.”

Before Gabe could lead the dog to the scale, Simone snapped her fingers, pointed. Amico stepped onto the scale.

“Smart dog. And in fighting trim.” He took the chart, made some notes. And was humming some tune under his breath.

What was it? “Pretty Woman,” she realized and couldn't decide if she was flattered or embarrassed.

“We'll get him up on the table. Will he give me any trouble when I check his teeth, his ears?”

“No. Amico,
su
.”

Obediently, the dog bunched down, then jumped onto the table. “
Sedersi. Restare
.”

“Cool,” Gabe said when Amico sat. He was grinning again, straight at her, all interest. “Is that Italian?”

“Yeah.”

Gabe picked up his otoscope, shone the light in Amico's ears. “You Italian?”

“Part of me.”

“Me, too, somewhere back on my mother's side. You guys lived here long?”

“Almost three years.”

“Nice place. I used to come up and hang out with my uncle when I was a kid. Loved being around the animals. Still do. Good boy, you're a good boy.” He offered Amico a couple of doggie treats.

The dog looked at Simone, then gobbled them when she gave the go-ahead command.

“Healthy, too. We're going to make this part as quick as we can. You want to take his head, talk to him?”

She stepped forward, concentrating on the scent of her dog, on the scent of the cat and the human who'd just come into the waiting room. On the smell of antiseptic, on the aromas from the back room where pets recovered from surgery.

Anything but the scent of the man.

She murmured in Italian, in English, stroking Amico's ears, telling him to be brave. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Gabe pinch some of the dog's skin and slide the needle in.

Amico blinked, quivered a little, but made no sound.

“There now, worst is over. You're some dog, Amico. Some good dog.” He pulled out more treats, and both man and dog looked at Simone for approval.

“Go ahead, Amico.”

“So, he's bilingual,” Gabe said as Amico delicately nipped the treats out of his palm. “Did you train him yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Do you—”

“Sorry, we really have to go. Amico.” She gestured to the floor, clipped his leash back on his collar. “Thank you.”

Simone hurried out of the office, calling a good-bye to Eileen. “I'll have Shelley bring down a check for the exam and shots. I've got to go.”

“No problem. Just—” Eileen pursed her lips as the door slammed behind Simone. “Well, she was in a rush.”

“Yeah.” Gabe crossed to the desk, shot a smile at his next patients. “Be with you in just a minute.” Then he leaned down
close to Eileen, spoke under his breath. “I want you to tell me everything about her, as soon as we're clear in here. No detail is too small to escape my interest. But just tell me this for now. Is she married, engaged, involved?”