work, he’d discovered his half brother’s duplicity. And the visit had nearly ended up costing his life.
He’d also discovered Meg.
And got himself a wife.
A wife he now had to un-get.
A movement on the path leading up from the lake toward his house caught his eye. His wife. Meg. Not Meg Maitland. But Meg…he couldn’t even remember her surname. Wearing sweats and a form-fitting, long-sleeved top, with her hair tied into a high, swinging ponytail, she jogged along the path toward him, her breath making small puffs of mist in the air. Caesar trotted at her side, a stick in his mouth. His dog at least had known him last night, even if he now seemed more than happy with his allegiance to her.
She glanced up, saw him, then averted her gaze. Was he-? Luke looked down. He wore boxers-one of his few purchases on the way home. So, what was her problem? Whatever it was, she definitely wasn’t looking back his way. She tossed the stick for Caesar and when he returned with it, she bent over and fussed with him for a while before disappearing round the side of the house.
Fifteen minutes later, Luke, showered and fully dressed, rummaged through his kitchen cupboards looking for something to eat. The pantry was better stocked than he ever remembered it being.
At the sound of footsteps, he turned. She, too, had showered and now wore appealingly snug jeans and a red- and-white sweater. She looked fresh and innocent, like she ought to still believe in Santa Claus. But looks could be deceiving. He had a lot of questions for her. Questions he intended to get answers to today.
He hadn’t exactly behaved with his trademark calm detachment last night. A fact he regretted. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret kissing her. It might have been his only opportunity. Soon she would be out of his house and out of his life. That’s what they’d agreed should happen if-when, she’d insisted-he came back. Though they hadn’t discussed time frames.
“Do you want me to make you lunch?” she asked.
“Lunch? I usually start with breakfast.”
A smile twitched at her lips. “After midday, I usually call it lunch.”
He remembered that smile, how easily and often it played about her mouth, how it made her blue eyes sparkle like sunlight on water, reminding him of the lake he loved. Making her smile had been one of his few pleasures when he’d been laid low. “You’re kidding me.” He knew he’d been tired, but…he searched the kitchen. The clock on the microwave read one-forty. And he knew that wasn’t a.m.
“You must have been exhausted.” She watched him warily.
He nodded.
“Sit down. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
Was she was trying to soften him up, being all sweet and obliging, this woman installed in his house, his life? Did she want something from him? Of late, it seemed everyone-friends, enemies, officials-wanted something.
His cynicism must have shown because her hands went to her hips. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, sit down.” She pointed, straight-armed, at one of the bar stools behind the breakfast bar. “I’m not going to try and poison you and I don’t want anything from you. I’m offering-and it’s a one-time-only offer-to make you lunch. While you look infinitely better than you did back on the island and much better than you did last night even, to be honest, you still don’t look great. And as from now, I’m going to refuse to care.”
Luke smiled as he strolled to take the seat he’d been ordered to. So, his Florence Nightingale wasn’t all sweetness and light. He liked her better for it. It made her more real. He watched her moving about his kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards and the fridge with what he deemed unnecessary force. She didn’t bother asking him what he did or didn’t want on his sandwich, which didn’t bother him, because he was so ravenous he didn’t care.
He’d never sat here and watched a woman in his own kitchen before. He wasn’t sure he liked it.
Gradually, her movements slowed and gentled to some thing practiced and efficient as she set about putting the sandwich together for him. He watched her deft hands with their delicate fingers, watched the sway of her hips and the curve of her rear as she crossed the kitchen for this or that, and decided that a woman in his kitchen wasn’t entirely a bad thing. A few minutes later, she slid the plate across the breakfast bar toward him. “Thank you.”
The simple courtesy seemed to surprise her, which shouldn’t surprise him. He hadn’t exactly been Mr. Charming last night. Or this morning.
Luke turned his attention to the sandwich. He was halfway through it when a cup of coffee materialized beside his plate. He looked up and met her gaze. Her earlier stony expression had softened. “Thank you,” he said again.
And was rewarded with a soft smile and felt again a glimmer of the brief connection they’d once shared. “You’re welcome. You still drink it black?”
He nodded. Not that there’d been the option of having it any other way of late. She turned her back on him and adjusted the radio till she found a station playing Christmas carols. She wore her hair out and the soft curls brushed just past her shoulders. He’d never seen it out before. On the island, for practicality’s sake, it had always been tied up. And last night, apart from that single tendril she’d allowed to curl beside her throat, it had been twisted into something fancy at the back of her head. He hadn’t realized that it was quite so long or silky and his fingers itched to touch it, to know the feel of it. He clenched his fists and his jaw. Hair was hair. He did
And that did not include having a wife in it.
She’d made herself a coffee, too, and picked up her cup, cradling it with two hands as she leaned back against the counter on the far side of the kitchen.
Luke returned his attention to his sandwich and didn’t look at her again until he was finished. But when he did he found her gaze still steady on him.
“You were hungry?”
“Apparently.”
“I can make you another one. Or get you some fruit.”
“It’s my house, Meg. I can look after myself.”
She bit her bottom lip.
“So, tell me-” They both spoke at once.
“You first,” she said.
“Tell me about the last three months.”
She shrugged. “I left the island, came back here. It took a while to convince Mark of the truth of my story and that your letter to him hadn’t been signed under duress. Putting in the tree house incident was what clinched it. He figured you wouldn’t have told that story to anyone you didn’t trust. Even at gunpoint.” Her eyes danced.
“And you’re now the only person in the world apart from Mark and me who knows.”
“My lips are sealed.” She pressed the lips in question together.
But they hadn’t always been sealed like that. They’d parted for him last night. Let him into her warmth.
“Mark was great. He went along with everything, helping explain my presence to your friends. Apparently, you’re so deeply private that no one was surprised they hadn’t heard of me. Only pleased to meet me. And Mark helped me look for you.”
How hard had they looked and how much had Mark-his attorney and his friend-helped her?
Kind, intelligent Mark. In those moments Luke had tried to be altruistic, he’d thought that if he didn’t make it back, Meg and Mark might be good for each other. He wasn’t feeling altruistic now. Far from it.
A too-familiar tension started to build. It was getting old, the second-guessing, the not knowing who to trust. “Do you want to walk?” He needed to get outside, to get moving.
And he needed to remember who his friends were. They weren’t many but they were true. And Mark was one of them. Luke had no need or right to doubt him.
As for Meg, he wanted to trust her, but the jury was still out on that one. In reality, he’d known her only a few days in Indonesia and he’d been perilously ill most of that time. His judgment couldn’t possibly have been sound. He’d been betrayed before by people he’d thought he knew. And he didn’t truly know why she’d agreed to marry him.
“Sure.” Gentle, trusting. She gathered up their few dishes, put them in the dishwasher, then followed him to the front door.
He opened the closet wondering whether his jacket would still be there. It was. On the same peg he always
