Deadly Reunion. Lauren Nichols
between a man and woman was a powerful thing, but it didn’t change the fact that he’d ignored all the pleading and warnings and now her brother was dead.
Once again, memories rushed forward, poignant then wonderful, then terrible and bittersweet. And though she tried her best to push those images aside, they just kept coming. But every warm, laughing, touching scene with Ike was always superimposed over Ricky’s trapped expression the day Ike took him away. And it hurt. Heaven help her, it hurt so much.
Thoroughly frustrated with herself for backsliding, Lindsay wiped her tears and strode quickly into the hallway off her living room, through her kitchen and to her back porch. There was work to be done, and she would do it. But within minutes, she was sealing the varnish can, cleaning her paintbrush in the mudroom and sobbing so hard she could barely see what she was doing.
Damn him. How could she let him do this to her? How could she long for his arms and his warmth so desperately, and at the same time, resent him for bringing back memories she didn’t want to face? If he’d just let Tank take Ricky in, if he’d just listened to her, and respected that family was a tender, fragile thing, maybe she’d be varnishing woodwork for their home, not hers. Maybe Ricky would have arrived at the jail hours later, and the man who’d taken his life would already have been processed and sent to another facility.
Except…now Ike believed that Ricky’s murder wasn’t a random killing. He believed her brother’s death was inevitable.
Suddenly something Ike had said came back to her, and Lindsay’s thoughts sped off in a new direction. He’d said he’d find another way to accomplish his search. What had he meant by that? Would he go to her mother on his own? Get her all churned up again, too? More than he had already?
That thought sparked a related one and Lindsay’s heart shot into her throat. Dropping the brush in the sink and wiping her hands on the front of her shorts, she rushed to her empty dining room where her computer was set up. Her mother hadn’t called to warn her that Ike was on the way—and she would have phoned if she was able.
Seconds later, she sighed in relief when she heard the monotonous beeping coming from the phone on the hutch and saw the receiver tilted in the cradle. Earlier, a telemarketer had called, and in her eagerness to get back to work, she’d been careless hanging it up.
She’d scarcely bumped the receiver back into position, when the phone shrilled. Wiping her eyes again, then noisily clearing the tears from her throat, she picked it up and said hello.
Arlene Hollis’s usually loving voice was irritated when she replied, but Lindsay was still glad to hear it because she knew her mother wasn’t ill.
“Lindsay?”
“Yes, Mom, it’s me.”
“Oh. You sound funny.” Suddenly, concern entered her voice and she murmured, “Honey, are you crying?”
Holding back a sigh, Lindsay sent her gaze skyward and prayed for help from above. She didn’t want to get into any of this with her mother. Not tonight. Not anytime. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“I hope so. Because I’ve been speed-dialing you for the past fifteen minutes, and all I’ve been getting is a busy signal.”
“I’m sorry. My phone was off the hook. I just now hung it back up.”
A heavy silence stretched between them, then continued for so long, Lindsay wondered what was going on. She got her answer when her mother spoke again in a suspicious, far-from-gracious tone.
“Why was your phone off the hook?” she asked. “And whose idea was that?”
Chapter 2
Ike walked in the darkness to his courtyard room, and in the glow of a moth-covered porch light, let himself in. After clicking on the lamps, he shut the door and tossed his duffel on a nearby chair.
His head was pounding like a freaking kettledrum. Digging some aspirin from his pack, he strode into the tiny bathroom for water to wash them down, bending to drink directly from the tap. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Now he had other images banging around in his head—not just Ricky and a boatload of hope and guilt. Now…now she was there, and she was there with a vengeance, strangling him with memories that were best shoved aside.
Dammit, he should have phoned her instead of driving up here. Even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have hung up. She had too much class for that. But the little pot-stirring troublemaker in his head had insisted that his chances for success would be better eye-to-eye, and idiot that he was, he’d listened.
Ike yanked off his cowboy boots and let them clunk to the floor, then stripped off his shirt, jeans and socks and added them to the pile. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he stilled. He took a tentative step closer and stared gravely at his reflection.
Did he look older than his thirty-six years? Or just…grimmer? His hair was still dark brown—no gray ones yet—and the sun creases beside his eyes were barely noticeable in his tanned face.
Still, he hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, his beard stubble had reappeared and his dark eyes looked as haunted as some of the skips he picked up. Add the bumpy scar on his hip from an old bullet wound, he decided sarcastically, and he made one hell of an appealing package.
So why did he even give a damn how he looked tonight?
You know the answer to that one, hotshot.
Ike yanked his gaze from the mirror, bristling defensively and telling himself that he didn’t give a damn. He hadn’t driven up here to impress her. His “beauty” regimen was as simple as it got. No frills, no thrills. He showered, shaved and wore clean socks. That was it. Anyone who expected more could stuff it.
Cursing beneath his breath, he shed his underwear, then turned on the shower spray and snatched up the soap and tiny bottle of shampoo that housekeeping had placed on the vanity.
He was grateful for the amenities. He hadn’t packed much more than a change of clothes, his laptop, files and a razor, and the last thing he wanted to do was shop for the things he’d left behind.
Stepping inside the shower, he yanked the curtain closed, shut his eyes and let the water beat his face and shoulders. Let it pound his chest. These days he was thankful for the little things.
Because if there was one thing he’d learned in the last two years, it was that the big things—the important things—had gotten away from him.
Lindsay had barely said goodbye to her mother and returned to the mudroom to finish cleaning her paintbrush when the phone rang again. She sighed. She couldn’t take another bitter dissertation on the evils of Ike Walker, not tonight. Not with Ike’s troubling request still nagging at her. Not with her heavy heart still aching after seeing him again.
Quickly wiping her hands on a paper towel, she returned to the dining room. It was a relief when she checked the phone’s caller ID window and saw a local, though unfamiliar number. After her mother’s tirade, even another phone solicitor would be a welcome break tonight.
But it wasn’t a telemarketer looking to sell her more magazines.
John Fielding’s mellow voice had a smile in it when he identified himself. The bookstore’s courtly new owner was a recent arrival from Boothbay, and a decade older than Lindsay’s thirty-two years. When she’d met him at his shop’s grand reopening, she’d liked him on the spot, and it must have been mutual because he’d asked her out the very next day. She’d had her first date with him last weekend when they’d driven to Portland for dinner and the theater, then afterward, lingered over lattes and biscotti at a cute little coffee shop to discuss their love of books.
“Hello, John,” she said, glad for a reminder that she was making some changes in her pitifully out-of-balance life. Since she and Ike had parted, she’d filled her days with work, time with her mother and the occasional outing with friends. “How are you?”