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Authors: Shannon Hollis
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think about her mouth, either. Besides, how could such reasonable things come out of it one minute and such nutty things the next?
Was that his problem? He couldn’t figure out whether she was a nut, a criminal, or for real. A fair man would give her a chance to prove herself one way or another. And he prided himself on being a fair man. The way he was treating her was out of character for him—had been from the moment he’d remembered who belonged to the voice on the phone.
He didn’t like being out of character. He was comfortable in his own skin these days and didn’t much care for anything that scratched at it—the way this woman seemed to do without even trying.
“Okay,” he said finally. He ambled over to where shestood by Christina’s window, looking out toward the beach. “Truce it is.” He paused, in case she wanted to respond to that, but she didn’t. “What do you see out there?”
“I was just wondering if she could have gone that way.” Her tone was back to being calm, as if she’d accepted his agreement and moved on immediately.
“I thought of that, too. But too much time has gone by. The beach is too public for any one set of tracks to tell us anything. Too many dogs being walked, kids playing, people jogging.”
“She liked the beach.” Her tone was soft, intense, as if she were puzzling her way toward something. “That’s why she insisted on this cottage, I think, instead of staying in the house. So she could feel more a part of it.”
“You can tell this just by touching things. So you’re a psychometrist?”
She shrugged. “If that’s what they call it. I don’t go around labeling myself. When I touch something, the experience is usually intense and realistic. I can get lost in the moment, the way a person does in a really gripping movie, but I stay myself.” She glanced at him. “I use cards, sometimes, too, for direction.”
Cards? Like tarot? Never mind. He didn’t want to know any of these details. “Good call on the clothes thing.” Though God knows how he could use that information. Was this a kidnapping or something else? Could Christina have run away? Where? And with whom?
“It helps to be a woman in another woman’s closet.”
She smiled, and he realized he was standing far too close—close enough to smell some whiff of jasmine he supposed must be shampoo. Hmm. She had pretty hair. So soft that it made you want to brush it away from her face. Cup her chin. Raise her mouth to yours—
Would you stop?
He moved away. “If we’re done here, I think you wanted to have a look at the photos in the upstairs hall, right?” He hardly waited to hear her murmur of agreement before he hotfooted it back to the house.
T ESSA GAVE HER HEAD a shake as if to clear it, then brought her suitcase in, parked it next to the bed, closed the door of the cottage behind her and followed him across the lawn. He was a hard man to figure out. One minute antagonistic, one minute rational, the next minute hightailing it out of there as if his butt was on fire. And for what reason? She hadn’t said anything remotely offensive or scary—in fact, she’d made a considerable personal sacrifice to be civil.
Men. No wonder the cards always said “not yet.” She should be grateful.
There was no one in the hallway when she let herself into the house, but on the left, behind the oak slab of his office door, she heard Singleton’s muffled shouting in what sounded like a mixture of English and Mandarin. The sound followed her upstairs until it was lost at the turn where the hallway began.
Griffin was standing about halfway along, looking the pictures over as if to find a suitable one for her to start with.
“This is Christina’s mother.” He stood aside so she could look at the picture of the dark-haired woman on the sailboat. Her head was thrown back as she gripped one of the sheets, and she was laughing.
“She’s very pretty. Christina looks like her.” The taupe jersey
Was that his problem? He couldn’t figure out whether she was a nut, a criminal, or for real. A fair man would give her a chance to prove herself one way or another. And he prided himself on being a fair man. The way he was treating her was out of character for him—had been from the moment he’d remembered who belonged to the voice on the phone.
He didn’t like being out of character. He was comfortable in his own skin these days and didn’t much care for anything that scratched at it—the way this woman seemed to do without even trying.
“Okay,” he said finally. He ambled over to where shestood by Christina’s window, looking out toward the beach. “Truce it is.” He paused, in case she wanted to respond to that, but she didn’t. “What do you see out there?”
“I was just wondering if she could have gone that way.” Her tone was back to being calm, as if she’d accepted his agreement and moved on immediately.
“I thought of that, too. But too much time has gone by. The beach is too public for any one set of tracks to tell us anything. Too many dogs being walked, kids playing, people jogging.”
“She liked the beach.” Her tone was soft, intense, as if she were puzzling her way toward something. “That’s why she insisted on this cottage, I think, instead of staying in the house. So she could feel more a part of it.”
“You can tell this just by touching things. So you’re a psychometrist?”
She shrugged. “If that’s what they call it. I don’t go around labeling myself. When I touch something, the experience is usually intense and realistic. I can get lost in the moment, the way a person does in a really gripping movie, but I stay myself.” She glanced at him. “I use cards, sometimes, too, for direction.”
Cards? Like tarot? Never mind. He didn’t want to know any of these details. “Good call on the clothes thing.” Though God knows how he could use that information. Was this a kidnapping or something else? Could Christina have run away? Where? And with whom?
“It helps to be a woman in another woman’s closet.”
She smiled, and he realized he was standing far too close—close enough to smell some whiff of jasmine he supposed must be shampoo. Hmm. She had pretty hair. So soft that it made you want to brush it away from her face. Cup her chin. Raise her mouth to yours—
Would you stop?
He moved away. “If we’re done here, I think you wanted to have a look at the photos in the upstairs hall, right?” He hardly waited to hear her murmur of agreement before he hotfooted it back to the house.
T ESSA GAVE HER HEAD a shake as if to clear it, then brought her suitcase in, parked it next to the bed, closed the door of the cottage behind her and followed him across the lawn. He was a hard man to figure out. One minute antagonistic, one minute rational, the next minute hightailing it out of there as if his butt was on fire. And for what reason? She hadn’t said anything remotely offensive or scary—in fact, she’d made a considerable personal sacrifice to be civil.
Men. No wonder the cards always said “not yet.” She should be grateful.
There was no one in the hallway when she let herself into the house, but on the left, behind the oak slab of his office door, she heard Singleton’s muffled shouting in what sounded like a mixture of English and Mandarin. The sound followed her upstairs until it was lost at the turn where the hallway began.
Griffin was standing about halfway along, looking the pictures over as if to find a suitable one for her to start with.
“This is Christina’s mother.” He stood aside so she could look at the picture of the dark-haired woman on the sailboat. Her head was thrown back as she gripped one of the sheets, and she was laughing.
“She’s very pretty. Christina looks like her.” The taupe jersey
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