Twilight Man. Karen Leabo
leave without her. So she grabbed her tote bag and video camera case from the disabled dinghy and scampered around to the back of the house to douse herself with the hose.
As soon as Jones entered the boat house, safe for the moment from Faith Kimball’s sharp blue eyes and even sharper ears, he consciously took three deep breaths until his heartbeat returned to normal. She’d almost scared him to death back there. He’d thought she’d actually recognized him.
It could happen. Dallas was a huge city, but he’d once been fairly visible, appearing in dozens of courtrooms in front of hundreds of jury members. Once, he’d even gotten his picture in the Morning News when he’d been the defense attorney in a high-profile bank fraud case.
But Faith hadn’t recognized his face—only doubted his accent. Since moving here he’d deliberately cultivated a slower Southern drawl so he wouldn’t stand out. His efforts fooled most people. No one had ever questioned his origins before. Only Faith.
She was a persistent little thing, he mused. And a beauty, no doubt about that, with a round, angelic face framed by a cloud of blond curls that spiraled halfway down her back. Even the thin, still-healing scar on her forehead didn’t detract from her appeal. In fact, he hadn’t noticed it at first, so drawn was he to the intelligence behind those vivid sky blue eyes and the implied promise of her cupid’s bow of a mouth.
The angry red scar on her slender thigh was a little harder to ignore, but it was fresh yet. In time it would heal, just as his had, until it was no more than a slight pucker in the smooth, touchable skin. He imagined how it would feel—
Immediately he recognized the pang of sexual awareness, and guilt slapped his conscience. How could he even think of another woman? Perhaps he didn’t love Mary-Lynn, not the way a prospective husband ought to, but he was fond of her. She had been so loyal throughout his ordeal, hardly ever leaving his side. Although he couldn’t be with her and would never see her again, she didn’t deserve betrayal, even in his thoughts.
When the boathouse door opened and Faith reappeared, soaked to the skin but clean of the sticky swamp mud, thoughts of Mary-Lynn were relegated to the back of his mind. Damn, but a man would have to be dead and buried not to respond to the way Faith’s pale blue T-shirt clung to every curve of her full, rounded breasts.
What a package she was—a body to tempt a saint, or in his case a Good Samaritan, and a smile as innocent as that of a kid on her first day at summer camp.
He had to get rid of her, and fast, before she beguiled him any further.
With the balance of an experienced sailor she climbed onto his bass boat and stowed her tote bag and a mysterious-looking plastic case in the back. “Nice boat,” she said as she cast off the line in back and pulled in the cylindrical bumper pad. “What are you fishing for today, crappie or bass?”
“I’ll take either,” he said. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he could tell the difference. He’d only taken up fishing a month ago, when the weather had started to turn warm. He’d been itching for something to do and, spotting the cabin owner’s fishing gear, had decided to give it a try.
His success was only marginal. He did, however, know that he could learn to love the sport. He had never experienced anything so relaxing as watching the beautiful arch of the lure sailing above the water, then slowly reeling it in as the boat swayed gently and the sun warmed his back. Actually getting a strike or catching a fish was only icing on the cake.
“Do you fish?” he asked casually, backing the boat out of its shelter and turning toward the channel.
“Mmm, yeah. Haven’t gone in a while, though. Not since my dad died.”
Funny how quickly priorities change sometimes, he thought. Initially he’d felt panicked by the idea of an outsider invading his space, asking questions. All he could think about was getting rid of her. But really, Faith wasn’t such a threat. Even as his body responded to hers, his mind leapt at the prospect of a few minutes’ feminine companionship. How long had it been since he’d carried on a conversation with any woman besides Hildy?
He would drive slowly to the marina, he decided. Even if they didn’t exchange another word, he would enjoy Faith’s proximity. Just this once he would take a break from his self-imposed isolation. It wouldn’t do any harm, so long as she didn’t ask any more questions.
Two
Faith watched Jones, intensely fascinated with him. He might not be a native, but he was comfortable in his world.
He ignored the seat intended for the driver and stood before the steering wheel, keeping a keen eye ahead of the boat while navigating the narrow, snaking channel. Although not as torturous as the one through which Faith had reached Jones’s island, this one was still tricky. Several times the boat shuddered when the motor kissed something underwater, causing Faith to hold her breath.
Jones hardly blinked.
As they passed a triangle formed by three huge cypress trees, a fish jumped out of the water, flashing silver in the dappled sunlight.
Jones shoved the throttle into neutral. “Did you see that?”
“Yes, I did. I hear there are some huge bass in this lake since they stocked it several years ago.”
Jones stared at the spot where the fish had disappeared. Faith could see him battling with temptation. Finally he cut the engine and dropped anchor. “You don’t mind if we stop for five or ten minutes, do you? I just want to cast a couple of times.”
She nodded. “Okay with me.” Faith liked the peaceful atmosphere of this sheltered spot. There was a certain primeval feel to this part of the bayou, as if no human had ever touched it.
“I brought an extra pole,” he said. “You’re welcome to throw out a line.”
“Okay, thanks.” She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted to fish until he’d invited her.
With a minimum of fuss Jones opened the tackle box, chose a purple worm lure, and started to cast. Faith found a yellow spinner for herself, attached it to the end of her line and moved to the opposite end of the boat.
Her father had taught her that fishing was a quiet sport. And since Jones didn’t appear eager to chat, she kept her mouth closed, although there were hundreds of questions she wanted to ask him. She was particularly anxious to know why he was letting her fish with him at all. It seemed odd, given his initial animosity toward her.
As the minutes passed in silence, Faith’s awareness of the man increased. She tried to concentrate on her casting, but how could she not notice that body of his when he ran around half-naked? He had a helluva tan for this early in the year, she thought, watching the bronzed muscles of his back bunch and stretch as he made a long, lazy cast.
He caught her staring at him. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What?” Self-consciously she started reeling in her forgotten lure, which was probably dragging the bottom by now.
“My casting. The way you were looking, I thought maybe my form was bad or something.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your form,” she said, far more sincere than he would ever know.
They didn’t speak again for a long time. The only sounds were the chatter of birds in the trees, the insects buzzing and the occasional whir, plop and click as she and Jones cast their lines. But Faith had the odd sensation that a bond was forming. Sharing a boat and a patch of sunlit water with a man was a curiously intimate experience.
The sun rose higher and the temperature climbed with it. Jones paused to take the green bandanna out of his pocket and mop his forehead. He then twisted the cloth into a rope and tied it around his head.
With that dark, shaggy hair and the tan, he could have been a savage, Faith mused. Mentally she replaced his threadbare cut-offs with a loincloth, then turned away so he wouldn’t sense the heat