Sanctuary (18 page)

He stopped, turned, looked at her. “Isn't this just about where you fell into the water that summer?”

She lifted a brow. “No, actually, it was quite a bit farther downriver that you
pushed
me into the water. And if you've got a notion to repeat yourself, I'd think again.”

“You know, one of the reasons I'm here is to revisit some of those days, and nights.” He took a step forward, she took a step back. “Are you sure it wasn't here that you went in?”

“Yes, I'm sure.” He backed her up another step. She slapped a hand on his chest but found herself maneuvered nearer the bank. “Just like I'm sure I'm not going in again.”

“Don't be too sure.” As her feet skidded on the wet grass, he hauled her back and against him. “Oops.” And grinning, locked his arms comfortably around her waist. “Not much to you, is there?”

She gripped his arms firmly, just in case. “There's enough.”

“I guess I'll have to take your word for that ... and anticipate finding out for myself. Anticipation's half the fun.”

“What?” She felt her blood drain down to the soles of her feet.
I'm a big fan of anticipation.
“What did you say?”

“That I'd take your word for it. Hey.” He shifted his weight, pulled her closer as she struggled against him. “Watch out, or we're both going to be taking a morning dip.”

He managed to pull her back from the edge. Her face had gone sheet-white, and tremors jerked from her so that her skin seemed to bump against his palms.

“Steady,” he murmured and gathered her against him. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“No.” The fear had come and gone rapidly, and left her feeling like a fool. Because her heart was still thumping, she let herself be held—wondered how long it had been since anyone had put arms around her and let her rest there. “No, it was nothing. Stupid. There was a guy at the campground a couple of nights ago. He said something similar. He scared me.”

“I'm sorry.”

She let out a long sigh. “Not your fault, really. My nerves are a little close to the surface these days.”

“He didn't hurt you?”

“No, no, he never touched me. It was just creepy.”

She left her head against his shoulder, started to close her eyes. It would have been so easy to stay there. Being held. Being safe. But easy wasn't always the right way. Or the smart way.

“I'm not going to sleep with you, Nathan.”

He waited a moment, letting himself enjoy the feel of her snug against him, the texture of her hair against his cheek. “Well, then, I may as well drown myself in the river right now. You've just shattered my lifelong dream.”

He made her want to laugh, and she squelched down the bubble in her throat. “I'm trying to be up front with you.”

“Why don't you lie to me for a while instead? Soothe my ego.” He gave her ponytail a little tug, and she lifted her head. “In fact, why don't we start with something simple and work our way up to complications?”

She watched his gaze dip down to her mouth, linger, then slide slowly back up to her eyes. She could almost taste the kiss, feel the hum of it on her lips. It would be simple to close her eyes and let his mouth close over hers. It would be easy to lean forward and meet him halfway.

Instead, she lifted a hand, pressed her fingers to his mouth. “Don't.”

He sighed, took her wrist and skimmed his lips over her knuckles. “Jo, you sure know how to make a man work for his pleasures.”

“I'm not going to be one of your pleasures.”

“You already are.” He kept her hand in his and turned to walk to Sanctuary. “Don't ask me why.”

Since he didn't seem to expect her to comment on that, or to make small talk, Jo walked in silence. She was going to have to think about this ... situation, she decided. She wasn't foolish enough to deny that she'd had a reaction to him. That physical, gut-level click any woman recognized as basic lust. It was normal enough to be almost soothing.

She might be losing her mind, but her body was still functioning on all the elemental circuits.

She hadn't felt the click often enough in her life to take it for granted. And when it was so obviously echoed in the man who caused it . . . that was something to think about.

For now, at least, this was something she could control, something she could understand, analyze, and list clear choices about. But she suspected that the trouble with clicks was that they caused itches. And the trouble with itches was that they nagged until she just gave the hell up and scratched.

“We'll have to make this quick,” she told Nathan and headed toward the side door.

“I know. You're on bed-making detail. I won't keep you long. I'm planning on sniffing around Brian until he feeds me.”

“If you're not busy, you might talk him into getting out afterward. Going to the beach, doing some fishing. He spends too much time here.”

“He loves it here.”

“I know.” She turned into a long hallway where a mural of forest and river flowed over the wall. “That doesn't mean he has to serve Sanctuary every hour of every day.” She pressed a hinge, and a section of the mural opened.

“That's an odd way to put it,” Nathan commented, following her through the opening and up the stairs into what had once been the servants' quarters and was now the private entrance to the family wing. “Serving Sanctuary.”

“It's what he does. I suppose it's what all of us do when we're here.”

She turned left at the top of the stairs. As she passed the first open door, she glanced into Lexy's room. The huge old canopy bed was empty. Unmade, naturally. Clothes were scattered everywhere—on the Aubusson carpet, the polished floor, the dainty Queen Anne chairs. The scents of lotions and perfumes and powders hung on the air in female celebration.

“Well, maybe not all of us,” Jo muttered and kept walking.

Taking a key out of her pocket, she unlocked a narrow door. Nathan's brows lifted in surprise when he walked in. It was a fully equipped and ruthlessly organized darkroom.

An ancient and threadbare rug protected the random-width-pine floor; thick shades were drawn down and snugly fastened to stay that way over twin windows. Shelves of practical gray metal were lined with bottles of chemicals, plastic tubs. On others were boxes of thick black cardboard, which he assumed held her paper, contact sheets, and prints. There was a long wooden worktable, a high stool.

“I didn't realize you had a darkroom here.”

“It used to be a bath and dressing room.” Jo hit the white light, then moved around the prints she'd developed the night before that were still hanging on the drying line. “I hounded Cousin Kate until she let me take out the wall and the fixtures and turn it into my darkroom. I'd been saving for three years so I could buy the equipment.”

She ran a hand over the enlarger, remembering how carefully she'd priced them, counted her pennies. “Kate bought this for me for my sixteenth birthday. Brian gave me the shelves and the workbench. Lex got me paper and developing fluid. They surprised me with them before I could spend my savings. It was the best birthday I've ever had.”

“Family comes through,” Nathan said, and noted she hadn't mentioned her father.

“Yes, sometimes they do.” She inclined her head at his unspoken question. “He gave me the room. After all, it wasn't easy for my father to give up a wall.” She turned away to reach up for a box above her matting machine. “I'm compiling prints for a book I'm contracted for. These are probably the best of the lot, though I still have some culling to do.”

“You're doing a book? That's great.”

“That remains to be seen. Right now it's just something to be worried about.” She stepped back as he walked up to the box, then tucked her thumbs in her back pockets.

It took only the first print for him to see that she was well beyond competent. His father had been competent, Nathan mused, at times inspired. But if she considered herself David Delaney's pupil, she had far outreached her mentor.

The black-and-white print shimmered with drama, the lines so clean, so crisp they might have been carved with a scalpel. It was a study of a bridge soaring over churning water—the white bridge empty, the dark water restless, and the sun just breaking the far horizon.

Another showed a single tree, branches wide and spreading and empty of leaves over a deserted, freshly plowed field. He could have counted the furrows. He went through them slowly, saying nothing, struck time after time at what she could see, and freeze and take away with her.

He came to a night shot, a brick building, windows dark but for the top three, which glowed startlingly bright. He could see the dampness on the brick, the faint mist swirling above black puddles. And could all but feel the chilly, moist air on his skin.

“They're wonderful. You know that. You'd have to be ridiculously neurotic and humble not to know how much talent you have.”

“I wouldn't say I'm humble.” She smiled a little. “Neurotic, probably. Art demands neuroses.”

“I wouldn't say neurotic.” Curious, he lowered the last print so that he could study her face. “But lonely. Why are you so lonely?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. My work—”

“Is brilliant,” he interrupted. “And heartbreaking. In every one of these it's as if someone's just walked away and there's no one there but you.”

Uneasy, she took the print from him, put it back in the box. “I'm not terribly interested in portrait photography. It's not what I do.”

“Jo.” He touched his fingertips to her cheek, saw by the flicker in her eye that the simple gesture had startled her. “You close people out. It makes your work visually stunning and emotional. But what does it do to the rest of your life?”

“My work is the rest of my life.” With a sharp slap, she set the box back on the shelf. “Now, as I said, I've got a full morning.”

“I won't take up much more of it.” But he turned idly and began to examine the prints on the drying line. When he laughed, Jo hunched her shoulders and prepared to snarl. “For someone who claims to have no interest in portrait photography, you sure hit it dead on.”

Scowling, she walked over and saw that he'd homed in on one of the shots she'd taken at the campground. “That's hardly work, it's—”

“Terrific,” he finished. “Fun, even intimate. That's the doc with her arm slung around your sister. Who's the woman with the acre of smile?”

“Ginny Pendleton,” Jo muttered, trying not to be amused. Ginny's smile was just that, an acre wide, fertile and full of promise. “She's a friend.”

“They're all friends. It shows—the affection and that female connection. And it shows that the photographer's connected, not in the picture maybe, but of it.”

Jo shifted uncomfortably. “We were drunk, or getting there.”

“Good for you. This is undoubtedly wrong for the theme of the book you're doing now, but you ought to keep it in mind if you do another. Never hurts to mix a little fun in with your angst.”

“You just like looking at attractive, half-plowed females.”

“Why not?” He tipped a hand under her chin, lifting it higher when she would have jerked away. “I'd love to see what you do with a self-portrait the next time you're feeling that loose.”

His eyes were warm and friendly, so damned attractive in the way they looked direct and deep into hers. She felt that little click again, sharper this time.

“Go away, Nathan.”

“Okay.” Before either of them could think about it, he dipped his head and touched his lips lightly to hers. Then touched them there again, a little longer, a little more firmly. Warmer than he'd expected, he thought, and more arousing, as she'd kept her eyes open and unblinking on his throughout. “You shivered,” he said quietly.

“No, I didn't.”

He skimmed his thumb over her jawline before he dropped his hands. “Well, one of us did.”

And she was mortally afraid she would do so again. “You're not going away.”

“I guess not—at least not the way you mean.” He pressed his lips to her forehead this time. She didn't shiver, but her heart lurched. “No, definitely not the way you mean.”

When he left her, she turned to the window, hurriedly unfastening the shade to throw it up and the window behind it. She wanted air, air to cool her blood and clear her mind. Even as she gulped it in, she saw the figure standing near the edge of the dune swale with the wind breezing through his hair, fluttering his shirt.

Alone, as her father was always alone, with every person who would reach out closed off behind that thin, invisible wall of his own making. With a vicious pull, she slammed the window shut again, shot the shade down.

Damn it, she wasn't her father. She wasn't her mother. She was herself. And maybe that was why there were times when she felt as if she was no one at all.

G
IFF was whistling again. Nathan tried to identify the tune as he tackled his French toast at the breakfast counter, but this one eluded him. He could only assume Giff had wandered too deep into country-western territory for Nathan's limited education to follow.

The man was certainly a cheerful worker, Nathan mused. And apparently he could fix anything. Nathan was certain it had taken absolute faith for Brian to ask Giff to take apart the restaurant's dishwasher in the middle of the breakfast shift.

Now Brian was frying and grilling and stirring, Giff was whistling and tinkering with dishwasher guts, and Nathan was downing a second helping of golden French toast and apple chutney.