Sanctuary (33 page)

“Mmm-hmm.” Enjoying dancing on the edge, and leading her sister to it, Lexy bit into the apple. “I was passing by the cottage, and there he was, sitting out on the screened porch having some iced coffee. He invited me up.”

“You don't like iced coffee.”

Lexy tucked her tongue in her cheek. “Tastes do change. He showed me some floor plans he's working on. A Mexican villa.”

“I wouldn't think you'd be interested in floor plans.”

“Oh, I'm interested in all kinds of things.” The devil in her eyes, Lexy took another crunchy bite of apple. “Especially good-looking men. That one's prime beef.”

“I'm sure he'd be flattered you think so,” Jo said dryly and slapped the lid down on the hamper. “I thought you were going to see Giff.”

“I saw him too.”

“You've been busy.” Jo hefted the hamper, slung her camera bag over her shoulder. “I've got to get going or I'll lose the light.”

“Toddle on along then and have a nice picnic. Oh, and Jo? Give Nathan my best, won't you?”

When the door slammed, Lexy wrapped an arm around her stomach and howled with laughter. Another tip, Nathan, she thought—rile up that green-eyed monster a bit, then reap the rewards.

 

 

SHE wasn't going to mention it. She would absolutely not lower herself to bring it up in even the most casual manner. Jo shifted her tripod, then bent to look through the viewfinder to perfect the angle she wanted.

The sea beat more violently here, whipping and lashing at the rough beach below the jutting bluff. Gulls wheeled and screamed, white wings slashing across the sky.

Heat and humidity were soaring, making the air shimmer.

The south wall of the old monastery was still standing. The lintel over the narrow doorway had held. Through it, light and shadow tangled and wild vines flourished. She wanted that abandoned look—the tufts of high grass, the hillocks of sand the wind built, then destroyed.

She wanted no movement and had to wait, judge the instants of stillness between gusts of wind. A broad depth of field, she thought, everything in sharp focus—the textures of the stone, the vines, the sand, all the varying shades of gray.

To accomplish it, she had to stop down, decreasing the aperture, slowing the shutter speed. Tilting her lens slightly more toward horizontal, she framed in, careful to block out the ruin of the remaining walls. She wanted it to look as though the building could be whole, yet was still empty and deserted.

Alone.

She took her shots, then carried tripod and camera to the east corner. The texture was excellent there, the pits and scars that wind and sand and time had dug into the stones. This time she used the tumbled walls, capturing desolation and loss.

When she heard a quiet click, she straightened. Nathan stood just to her left, lowering his camera.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking your picture.” He'd managed three before she caught him at it. “You had a nice intense look about you.”

Her stomach shuddered. Pictures of her, without her being aware. But she forced her lips to curve. “Here, let me have the camera. I'll take yours.”

“Better—set the timer on yours and take both of us. In front of the ruins.”

“This type of view camera, this light, they aren't made for portraits.”

“So, we won't mat it for your next show. It doesn't have to be perfect, Jo.” He set his camera down. “It just has to be us.”

“If I had a diffuser ...” Turning her head, she squinted into the sun, then, muttering, changed the camera's viewpoint to cut back on shadows, calculated the aperture, adjusted shutter speed. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Jo.” It was a struggle not to laugh. “Think of it as a snapshot.”

“I will not. Go stand to the left of the opening in the front wall. About two feet over.”

She waited until he'd walked to the spot she'd pointed out. Through the viewfinder she watched him grin at her. She could do so much better, she thought, if she had some control, had the necessary equipment to manipulate the light and shadows. She'd have been able to highlight his windblown hair, bring out all those different shades of light and dark.

The light was hard, she decided. It should have been softer, just a little romantic to show off those wonderful eyes, that strong bone structure. With a reflector, some backfill, a diffuser, she could have made this shot sing.

God, he was attractive. Standing against that worn and pitted stone, he looked so strong and alive. So male and capable. So sexy with that plain gray T-shirt over a broad chest, those faded and worn jeans snug over narrow hips.

“I see why you don't do portraits as a rule.”

She blinked, straightened. “What?”

“Your model would lapse into a coma waiting for you to set the shot.” Smiling, he stretched out his arm, giving her a come-ahead curl with his fingers. “It doesn't have to be art.”

“It always has to be art,” she corrected. She fussed for another moment, then set the timer and went to stand beside him. “Ten seconds. Hey!”

He shifted, pulled her in front of him and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I like this pose. Relax and smile.”

She did, leaning back against him as the shutter clicked. When she started to move, he nuzzled her hair.

“I still like this pose.” He turned her around, arms sliding and continuing to circle as he lowered his mouth to hers. “And this one even more.”

“I have to put my equipment away.”

“Okay.” He simply moved his mouth from hers and skimmed it down her throat.

Nerves and desire did a pitch and roll inside her. “I—the light's changed. It's not right anymore.” Because her knees were going to shake, she drew back. “I didn't mean to take so long.”

“It's all right. I liked watching you work. I'll help you stow your gear.”

“No, I'll do it. I get edgy when anyone fools with my equipment.”

“Then I'll open the wine.”

“Yeah, that'd be nice.” She walked back to her tripod, easing out a long, quiet breath. She was going to have to make up her mind, and very soon, she thought, as to whether she was going to advance or retreat.

She unhooked her camera, carefully packed it away. “Lexy said she'd been with you this morning.”

“What?” He could only hope the pop of the cork masked part of the shock in his voice.

“She said she went by your cottage.” Jo was already cursing herself for bringing it up, and kept her eyes firmly on her work.

Nathan cleared his throat and suddenly wanted a glass of wine very badly. “Ah, yeah, she did. For a minute. Why?”

“No reason.” Jo collapsed the tripod. “She said you'd shown her some plans you were working on.”

Maybe he'd underestimated Lexy after all, he mused, and poured two hefty portions of wine. “The Mexico job. I was doing some fine-tuning on it when she . . . dropped in.”

Jo carried her equipment over, stacked it neatly at the far edge of the blanket he'd spread over the ground. “You sound a little nervous, Nathan.”

“No, just hungry.” He handed her the wine, took a deep gulp of his own before sitting down and diving into the basket. “So, what do you have to eat?”

Jo's muscles tensed. “Did something happen with Lexy?”

“Something? Happen?” Nathan pulled out a plastic container of cold fried chicken. “I don't know what you mean.”

Her eyes narrowed at the all-too-innocent look on his face. “Oh, don't you?”

“What are you thinking?” When you didn't want to defend, he decided, attack. “You think I ... with your sister?” Insult coated his voice, all the more effective from the desperation that pushed it there.

“She's a beautiful woman.” Jo slapped a covered bowl of sliced fruit down on the blanket.

“She certainly is, so of course that means I jumped her at the first opportunity. What the hell kind of man do you take me for?” Temper snapped out, some of it real and, Nathan felt, all of it justified. “I go after one sister in the morning and switch to the other for the afternoon? Maybe I'll give your cousin Kate a roll before nightfall and make my points off the whole family.”

“I didn't mean—I was only asking—”

“Just what were you asking?”

“I . . .” His eyes were dark and hot, fury streaking out of them. The jitter of alarm came first, which surprised her, then it was smothered quickly by self-disgust. “Nothing. I'm sorry. She was baiting me.” Annoyed with herself, Jo dragged a hand through her hair. “I knew she was baiting me. She knew I was coming up here with you, and that I've been seeing you, more or less, and she wanted to get a rise out of me.”

She blew out a breath, cursed herself again for not keeping her mouth shut. “I wasn't going to mention it,” she went on when Nathan said nothing. “I don't know why I did. It just slipped out.”

He cocked his head. “Jealous?”

She would have been relieved that the heat had died out of his eyes, but the question tightened her up all over again. “No. I was just ... I don't know. I'm sorry.” She reached for his hand, closing the distance. “I really am.”

“Let's forget it.” Since he had her hand, he brought it to his lips. “It never happened.”

When she smiled, leaned over and kissed him lightly on the mouth, he rolled his eyes skyward, wondering if he should thank Lexy or throttle her.

K
IRBY checked Yancy Brodie's temperature while his mother looked on anxiously.

“He was up most of the night, Doc Kirby. I gave him Tylenol, but the fever was right back up this morning. Jerry had to leave before dawn to go out on the shrimp boat, and he was just worried sick.”

“I don't feel good,” Yancy said fretfully and looked up into Kirby's eyes. “My mama said you were gonna make me feel better.”

“We'll see what we can do about that.” Kirby ran a hand over four-year-old Yancy's straw-colored tuft of hair. “Did you go to Betsy Pendleton's birthday party a couple of weeks ago, Yancy?”

“She had ice cream and cake, and I pinned the tail on the jackass.”

“Donkey,” his mother corrected.

“Daddy calls it a jackass.” Yancy grinned, then laid his head on Kirby's arm. “I don't feel good.”

“I know, sweetie. And you know what else, Betsy doesn't feel good today either, and neither do Brandon and Peggy Lee. What we've got here is an outbreak of chicken pox.”

“Chicken pox? But he doesn't have any spots.”

“He will.” She'd already noted the rash starting under his arms. “And you've got to try really hard not to scratch when it starts to itch, honey. I'm going to give your mom some lotion to put on you that will help. Annie, do you know if you and Jerry ever had the chicken pox?”

“We both did.” Annie let out a long sigh. “Fact is, Jerry gave it to me when we were kids.”

“Then it's likely you won't get it again. Yancy's incubating now, so you want to keep his exposure to other kids and adults who haven't had it to a minimum. You're quarantined, buster,” she said, tapping Yancy on the nose. “Tepid baths with a little cornstarch will help once it breaks out, and I'm going to give you both topical and oral medications. I've only got samples here, so you'll have to get Jerry to fill some prescriptions over on the mainland. Tylenol for the fever's fine,” she added, laying a cool hand on Yancy's cheek. “I'll drop by your place in a few days to take a look at him.”

Noting the look of distress on Annie's face, Kirby smiled, touched her arm. “He'll be fine, Annie. The three of you are in for a couple of tough weeks, but I don't foresee any complications. I'll go over everything with you before you take him home.”

“I just . . . could I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. Hey, Yancy.” Kirby removed the stethoscope from around her neck and slipped it around his. “You want to hear your heart go thump?” She eased the earpieces in place, guided his hand. His tired eyes went big and bright. “You listen to that for a minute while I talk to your mom.”

She led Annie into the hallway, leaving the door open. “Yancy's a strong, healthy, completely normal four-year-old boy,” she began. “You have nothing to worry about. Chicken pox is inconvenient, irritating, but it's very rarely complicated. I have some literature if you'd like.”

“It's not . . .” She bit her lip. “I took one of those home pregnancy tests a couple of days ago. It was positive.”

“I see. Are you happy about that, Annie?”

“Yeah. Jerry and me, we've been trying to make another baby for the best part of a year now. But ... is it going to be all right? Is it going to get sick?”

Exposure to the virus during the first trimester carried a slight risk. “You had chicken pox when you were a child?”

“Yeah, my mother put cotton gloves on me to stop me from scratching and scarring.”

“It's really unlikely you'd contract it again.” If she did, Kirby thought with a tug of worry, they would deal with that when it happened. “Even if you did contract the virus, the odds are the baby will be fine. Why don't you let me run a backup pregnancy test now, just to confirm? And give you a quick look. We'll see how far along you are. And go from there.”

“It'd make me feel a lot better.”

“Then that's just what we'll do. Who's your regular OB?”

“I went to a clinic over to the mainland for Yancy. But I was hoping you could take care of things this time.”