never knew of the photo's existence.
There was no reason why he should mind. Why he wouldn't want his picture taken. He was exactly who he seemed to be, a weary, wounded man, recovering slowly in the bright Caribbean sunlight, a man with charm and sensitivity, a harmless, gentle man who probably didn't view her in a sexual light at all. Who probably never lay awake at night listening to the sound of the waves outside, to the wind through the trees, to the heat and longing that swept through the house like a mistral, making her dream of skin and sweat and muscle and…
"Penny for your thoughts," he said, watching her. "I do believe you're blushing, Francey. They must be highly erotic thoughts. Is there someone here…?" He glanced around them, at the locals clustered inside at the bar, at the middle-aged couples near the door.
"Not erotic," she said firmly, looking at his hands on the green bottle of Dutch beer. Long-fingered, deft hands. Narrow palms. With scars. "I was thinking about what's on our agenda for this afternoon."
He raised a questioning eyebrow behind the mirrored sunglasses. "Don't you want to go swimming? You've promised me the water is absolutely tepid. If you'd rather not…"
"It's not the water, it's my bathing suit," she said flatly.
He waited patiently for an explanation, his hand still on the beer. That was one of the things she liked most about him. And found the most irritating. His seemingly inexhaustible patience. It always ended up with her saying more than she needed or wanted to.
"I didn't expect to enjoy myself when I came down here," she continued. "So I didn't pack a bathing suit. I bought one once I realized…well, once I realized how nice the water was." She was going to say once she realized she wanted to live after all, but she'd stopped herself in time. After all, Michael Dowd was a virtual stranger. A sympathetic, kindly, attractive stranger, but not one who needed to be privy to the darkest days of her life.
"Then what's the problem?" It was a reasonable enough question, one that required a reasonable answer.
"The only bathing suits they sell on St. Anne are French," she said flatly.
He was sharp; she had to admit it. He didn't ask for an explanation. He simply said, "Oh."
"Oh," she echoed.
He leaned back, taking off his sunglasses and letting them swing lazily in one hand. The sickly pallor of his skin had faded somewhat during his days under the bright sun, and she'd even noticed a dusting of freckles across his strong nose. "I tell you what," he said. "You don't look at my skinny, white, scarred body in baggy drawers, and I won't look at you in your skimpy bikini."
"You've got yourself a deal." She believed him, of course. He'd never done anything to give her the impression that he was as aware of her as she was of him. He probably had a wife and five kids tucked away back in Somerset.
Except that she knew he didn't. He hadn't told her much about his personal life, except to say he'd never been married, though he'd come close a number of times. He figured he was married to his job. And he certainly had enough fathering to do, with the hordes of schoolboys who passed through his care at Willingborough. Everything normal, upper middle class Brit, including his two years in military service when he was younger. He hadn't been stationed in Ireland—she'd made sure of that.
She knew he was thirty-seven, that the car accident hadn't been his fault, that he was expected back in England sometime soon to pick up the pieces of his safe, comfortable life. If he knew what she'd gone through, he would draw back in well-bred horror.
But he didn't know, and there was no reason why he should. As far as he was concerned, she was a motherly, friendly American with few responsibilities and ties, someone spending a few idle months in the Caribbean. And she preferred to leave it that way. Her attraction to him was an aberration, a brief moment of madness in reaction to her earlier
There was no reason why he should mind. Why he wouldn't want his picture taken. He was exactly who he seemed to be, a weary, wounded man, recovering slowly in the bright Caribbean sunlight, a man with charm and sensitivity, a harmless, gentle man who probably didn't view her in a sexual light at all. Who probably never lay awake at night listening to the sound of the waves outside, to the wind through the trees, to the heat and longing that swept through the house like a mistral, making her dream of skin and sweat and muscle and…
"Penny for your thoughts," he said, watching her. "I do believe you're blushing, Francey. They must be highly erotic thoughts. Is there someone here…?" He glanced around them, at the locals clustered inside at the bar, at the middle-aged couples near the door.
"Not erotic," she said firmly, looking at his hands on the green bottle of Dutch beer. Long-fingered, deft hands. Narrow palms. With scars. "I was thinking about what's on our agenda for this afternoon."
He raised a questioning eyebrow behind the mirrored sunglasses. "Don't you want to go swimming? You've promised me the water is absolutely tepid. If you'd rather not…"
"It's not the water, it's my bathing suit," she said flatly.
He waited patiently for an explanation, his hand still on the beer. That was one of the things she liked most about him. And found the most irritating. His seemingly inexhaustible patience. It always ended up with her saying more than she needed or wanted to.
"I didn't expect to enjoy myself when I came down here," she continued. "So I didn't pack a bathing suit. I bought one once I realized…well, once I realized how nice the water was." She was going to say once she realized she wanted to live after all, but she'd stopped herself in time. After all, Michael Dowd was a virtual stranger. A sympathetic, kindly, attractive stranger, but not one who needed to be privy to the darkest days of her life.
"Then what's the problem?" It was a reasonable enough question, one that required a reasonable answer.
"The only bathing suits they sell on St. Anne are French," she said flatly.
He was sharp; she had to admit it. He didn't ask for an explanation. He simply said, "Oh."
"Oh," she echoed.
He leaned back, taking off his sunglasses and letting them swing lazily in one hand. The sickly pallor of his skin had faded somewhat during his days under the bright sun, and she'd even noticed a dusting of freckles across his strong nose. "I tell you what," he said. "You don't look at my skinny, white, scarred body in baggy drawers, and I won't look at you in your skimpy bikini."
"You've got yourself a deal." She believed him, of course. He'd never done anything to give her the impression that he was as aware of her as she was of him. He probably had a wife and five kids tucked away back in Somerset.
Except that she knew he didn't. He hadn't told her much about his personal life, except to say he'd never been married, though he'd come close a number of times. He figured he was married to his job. And he certainly had enough fathering to do, with the hordes of schoolboys who passed through his care at Willingborough. Everything normal, upper middle class Brit, including his two years in military service when he was younger. He hadn't been stationed in Ireland—she'd made sure of that.
She knew he was thirty-seven, that the car accident hadn't been his fault, that he was expected back in England sometime soon to pick up the pieces of his safe, comfortable life. If he knew what she'd gone through, he would draw back in well-bred horror.
But he didn't know, and there was no reason why he should. As far as he was concerned, she was a motherly, friendly American with few responsibilities and ties, someone spending a few idle months in the Caribbean. And she preferred to leave it that way. Her attraction to him was an aberration, a brief moment of madness in reaction to her earlier
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