The Secret Sister (6 page)

Laney rolled her head back again. “Visiting who?”

“How long will you be staying with your—”

Rafe broke in. “She lives with me.”

“Oh.” Maisey combed her fingers through her hair and encountered several tangles that told her she must look as unkempt as she feared. “Then you should have plenty of chances to camp on the beach.”

“With our blankets,” Laney added.

“You wouldn't want to go without them unless you had to,” Maisey said.

“Why did
you
have to?” Rafe asked.

“I ran into a little...trouble last night, but I'll get everything worked out today.” She started to back away, toward the road that led around to their units. “See you later. Have fun, Laney.”

Raphael's daughter waved. “I like your voice. You seem nice. She's a nice lady, isn't she, Daddy? Do you like our new neighbor?”

Maisey spoke before he could respond. “There's no question that
you're
nice,” she said, then turned and ran.

6

M
aisey tried calling Keith as soon as she got back to the house. He didn't answer, so she left another voice mail and sent another text.

Seriously? You won't answer my calls? Are you okay? I'm not mad. I swear it. I just want to know that you're safe.

She stared at her phone for several seconds. Then she called Coldiron House.

Clarissa answered again.

“Is Keith there?”

This time she didn't need to identify herself. Clarissa recognized her voice. “No, Miss Lazarow. We haven't seen him since yesterday.”

“Really, you can call me Maisey,” she said.

“Yes, Miss... Maisey.”

“There you go. No formality required when dealing with me.” She left all that to her mother, who loved her lofty station in life. “Keith hasn't called?”

“Not that I know of. Maybe Mrs. Lazarow has heard from him. Would you like to speak to her?”

Maisey considered that, but decided against it. If Keith and Josephine had argued, Josephine would be the last person to know where he was. And Maisey didn't want to hear their mother blame this latest setback on her. Josephine would undoubtedly claim it happened because she'd walked out on their tea yesterday and “upset” everyone. “No, thanks,” she said, and disconnected.

After that, she wandered from empty room to empty room, trying to figure out if she'd be smarter to grab her suitcase and ask Rafe to drive her to the ferry so she could return to New York. Maybe yesterday when Keith had suggested she go back, he'd done it because he knew he wouldn't be capable of maintaining the relationship she expected them to have...

In light of his recent actions, that made sense. But it was too late to bail. She'd seen it that way on the ferry, and she saw it that way now. Coming to Fairham had been a last-ditch effort to save herself as well as Keith.

Besides, it wasn't possible—financially or emotionally—to undo everything she'd done to get here. And there were so many memories in Manhattan, memories she'd rather forget. She didn't have work to go back to, anyway, not if she couldn't write
or
illustrate. Even if she was capable of creating more children's books, she could do that here, as her mother had pointed out. There was nothing to bring her back to New York. The life she'd lived there felt as if it had burned to the ground. Only ashes remained.

Closing her eyes, she forced herself to stop her frenzied pacing and thought of her father. His kindness. His smile. His comfort. She liked it on this side of Fairham, where she felt close to him. She should stay here.

But what about her mother and brother? Could she handle living so close to them? They were
both
difficult, for different reasons. Jack used to say her brother was worse than her mother. At least her mother was strong, determined, driven. In Maisey's mind, though, “strong, determined and driven” couldn't make up for being narcissistic and insufferable.

That was what she normally thought, anyway. Right now “weak” and “unable to cope” frustrated and disappointed her just as much.

Opening her eyes, she kicked her suitcase. She must've been remembering Keith in a far more favorable light when she'd raced back to Fairham.

But that didn't mean she could bear to see him hurt...

With a sigh, she checked her phone again. Still nothing. Which meant she couldn't save her brother if he was in trouble again; she had no way to track him down. With the friends he found online, playing interactive video games and gambling, he could be anywhere. No one had guessed he'd wind up in New Orleans the last time. She could only pray he wouldn't do anything like what he'd tried there...

She could also get herself situated, so she wouldn't end up sleeping on the beach again. Last night, after she'd realized she was stranded, she'd gone over to Unit 9 to see what, exactly, was there and found only large furniture, all of it stacked up and too heavy to move alone. That included the mattresses propped up on their sides, squeezed in behind all the furniture.

But she had more time, energy and sunlight today. She could pick out exactly what she wanted and then see if Rafe would help her move it, even though she'd told him she didn't need his assistance.

She planned to use the internet on her cell phone to look up the number for Smitty's in Keys Crossing. The store sold groceries, fishing paraphernalia and sundries, and the goods they carried were eclectic enough that she'd probably find bedding, towels and washcloths. Maybe she could order what she needed and pay one of Smitty's baggers to deliver it—if they still had baggers and those baggers had vehicles. Not everyone on the island drove cars. Most preferred scooters.

One way or the other, there were solutions. She just had to be determined and creative.

But...first things first. After sleeping on the beach, she desperately wanted a shower.

She was standing under the spray, reveling in the simple luxury of hot water, when she heard someone banging on the front door. Hoping it was her brother, she rinsed the soap from her hair and jumped out.

She had to use one of her skirts to dry off. She didn't have any towels, which gave her a new appreciation for terry cloth. Her skin was still damp, making it a challenge to pull on a pair of cutoffs and the tank top she normally reserved for yoga class. But if Keith had come back, she didn't want to miss him.

“Let it be him,” she mumbled, and hurried to the door.

It wasn't Keith; it was Rafe. He kept turning up—but then that was to be expected. They were living next door to each other and were currently the only occupants of Smuggler's Cove. There was bound to be some interaction. Besides, she couldn't consider his appearance a
bad
thing. Since she'd have to humble herself and ask for a hand with the furniture, this would give her the perfect opportunity. She just wished he'd come fifteen or twenty minutes later. She'd scrambled out of the shower so fast she hadn't put on a bra
or
combed her hair, which was sopping wet.

Cracking open the door, she stood in the gap. “Hello.”

He was freshly showered, too—but further along in the process. Although his hair was still wet, it was combed, he was fully dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a T-shirt and work boots and, once again, he smelled as good as he looked.

“You never returned my key last night,” he said.

“Oh, my gosh! I'm sorry!” Because she'd been afraid he'd catch her on his porch and come out, she'd decided to wait until he was more likely to be asleep. She hadn't wanted to talk to him for fear he'd ask how the move went, didn't want him to know that Keith had left her in such an impossible situation. Then she'd become so absorbed in her own misery she'd forgotten. And, as luck would have it, he'd caught her sleeping on the beach, anyway.

“Here, I'll get it.” She opened the door wider and started to turn, then hesitated. If she was planning to ask for his help, she had nothing to gain by putting it off. “Actually, if you're on your way there now, would you mind if I tagged along?”

He scowled as he looked past her, into the house. “You don't have any furniture yet?”

“No, not yet.”

When she didn't elaborate, he said, “Don't tell me you're planning to get it by yourself...” She could hear the skepticism in his voice.

“Maybe, if you have the time, you and I could lift the heavier stuff into your truck?”

A bemused expression appeared on his face. “Didn't I offer to do that yesterday?”

“Yes. And it was very nice of you.”

“Even though my offer was rejected, along with my invitation to dinner.”

She ignored the dinner part. “Something came up for Keith that...unexpectedly took him away.”

He scratched his head. “Must've been pretty important, since he left you stranded.”

“Oh, it was. He wouldn't have abandoned me unless...unless he had to. Anyway, I appreciate you helping me out. I'll try not to hold you up.”

“No problem.”

“Great.” She wished she had time to dry her hair, but she hated to make him wait. He had to be on his way to work, or he wouldn't have needed the key she'd forgotten to return. “I'll just grab my shoes.”

He took hold of her wrist and, when she frowned up at him, lowered his gaze to her chest. “Unless you want me to drive into a tree or something, you might want to change your shirt, too.”

She looked down at where her hair had soaked her tank and realized why he'd made that suggestion. “Oh. Of course.”

He'd let go almost as soon as he touched her, but he didn't glance away, and he didn't try to hide the fact that he liked what he saw.

A sexy smile curved his lips as Maisey quickly folded her arms to cover herself. Apparently he enjoyed throwing her off balance. “I can't believe you'd point that out and embarrass us both,” she said.

He raised his eyes to meet hers. “I'm not sure
embarrassed
would be the right word for me.”

She was more flattered than offended, and that took Maisey by surprise. So did the warmth pouring through her. She hadn't been aroused since before Ellie died. Not that she was willing to admit to being aroused. Surely it couldn't happen that fast or that easily with someone she barely knew, not after she'd struggled for months to fulfill her husband's sexual needs without feeling so much as a twinge of desire. “I mean...most men would simply pretend they didn't notice.”

“Have you ever tested that theory?” he asked dryly. “Because I'm guessing those would be men who've made love to a woman far more recently than I have.”

She hadn't managed to shame him, which told her she should drop the subject and go change. But she couldn't resist a comeback. “What's it been—a whole week?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” He reached down and picked up a box of cereal, what was left of a gallon of milk, a bowl and spoon he must've set on her porch before knocking. “Anyway, hate me for having a sex drive if you want, but I brought you breakfast.”

She was tempted to refuse the food and figure out some other way to get her furniture. She didn't think it would be wise to continue to associate with Rafe. As nice as he'd been—to carry her luggage, offer to help her move, bring her food—there was something about him she found threatening. And it wasn't hard to guess why. After what had happened before, when they were younger, they were too sexually aware of each other. There was no forgetting the past, regardless of any pact they might have agreed to along those lines—perhaps because that incident had been so unsatisfying. Rafe hadn't been interested enough to make it anything more.

But the last thing she needed was to spoil her fresh start by sleeping with her neighbor, especially if it was only to prove she could finally capture his full attention—or that she
was
attractive and desirable and her husband should never have thrown her over for someone else.

“Really? You have to think about whether you'll accept my food?” He shook the jug to cause the milk to slosh. “That says something, doesn't it? Since you're obviously not in the best of circumstances.”

“No, I want it.” She
couldn't
refuse. She was too hungry. She hadn't eaten since the oatmeal she'd cooked early yesterday morning before leaving for the airport, and that cup of tea at Coldiron House. She'd been too tense to choke down a sandwich. “I should be more leery of you, though,” she added to show that her acceptance was a grudging one.

“Trust me, you're leery enough,” he said.

“Merely trying to learn from my past mistakes.”

He tucked the cereal box under his arm, as if he might not give it to her, after all. “Did I hear you correctly? You're insulting your only source of help? Is that what happened yesterday with Keith?”

“You're tough. You can take it.” She felt a smile tug at her lips as she jerked her head to invite him in. “Any chance you could carry that into the kitchen while I change?”

After putting on a bra and a dry shirt and combing her hair, she found him leaning against the wall. “It'd be nice if there were somewhere to sit in here,” he said.

She handed him the key she'd retrieved when she changed. “Yes, it would.”

“So...why isn't there? What could be more important to your brother than making sure you have a bed to sleep in and the other stuff you need?”

She released an exaggerated sigh. “It's a
long
story.”

“Which is the short way of telling me you're not going to explain.”

“Wouldn't want to bore you,” she said as she opened the Frosted Flakes and poured them into her bowl.

He lowered his voice. “I get that you're a proud person. I'm even beginning to think you might be the kind of proud that drives everyone nuts for no good reason. But...”

“
Excuse
me?” A slight quirk to his mouth told her he was teasing, but no one wanted to be thought of as being “the kind of proud” that drove everyone nuts. That made her sound like her mother. “You don't know anything about me!”

“I know you're a Lazarow,” he said.

She hesitated before adding milk to her bowl. “What does that mean?”

“Who else would sleep out on the beach rather than go to a neighbor for help? If you weren't so determined to keep up appearances, you could've slept on my couch. Saved yourself a lot of needless misery. We
are
old friends—sort of.”

“One sexual encounter—a long time ago—doesn't make us friends,” she pointed out. “And you should be thankful I didn't come knocking at your door. You don't want a needy neighbor.”

“Is that so?” he said. “Because it looks like I've got one whether I want it or not.” He opened several of the cupboards and left them that way. “You have no furniture, no blankets, no food. What's going on? I can see why you might not want to come to me. But what I don't understand is why you didn't stay at the house where you were raised. Where you could eat to your heart's content. You could've slept in a nice, warm, expensive bed,
Princess
Lazarow, instead of huddling alone, out on the beach, where anything could've happened to you.”