Out of Sight. Michelle Celmer
Susie gave Mr. Bishop one last suspicious look before she picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the kitchen.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bishop,” Abi said and started for the door. “If you need anything else, any member of the staff can help you.”
“Call me Will,” he said, falling in step beside her. “You said you’re the children’s activities director?”
“That’s right. Do you have children?”
“Unfortunately no. Or fortunately, depending on how you look at it. Both my divorces were pretty nasty. It would have been a shame to drag a child through that.”
Well, he was conscientious—or that was what he wanted her to believe. Not that she had any reason to suspect he would try to deceive her, but old habits died hard. She was only now learning to trust again, to believe not everyone had ulterior motives.
They walked out into the common area. The main building as well as the smaller cabins were constructed entirely of logs, and their furnishings—knotted pine or Early American—reflected the same rustic theme. A former dude ranch, the atmosphere was much more laid-back than your average upscale resort. It didn’t put on airs, and for Abi, that was its charm.
The meeting had ended and some of the guests had broken off into small groups while others left to explore the grounds. The children’s orientation was scheduled to start in ten minutes, and the official activities kickoff began that night at dusk, when everyone gathered on the beach for a bonfire.
“Well,” she said, turning to Mr. Bishop. “I have a lot of work to do. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
He smiled and shook her hand, gripping it firmly and holding on just a fraction of a second longer than she deemed appropriate.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll be running into each other again.”
There was something about him that bothered her, she realized as she headed for the children’s activities center. Not that he’d been rude or unfriendly. Maybe it was that he’d been too friendly. Or maybe it was the distinct skip of her heart when he smiled at her.
Even if he did find her attractive—which she found pretty hard to swallow in the first place—a divorce retreat was certainly not the place to pick up men. There were strict rules forbidding the staff from becoming romantically involved with the guests. Likewise, the guests were discouraged from forming intimate relationships with each other. Not that it didn’t occasionally occur.
As she pulled open the door, a feeling, something like a warm shiver, danced its way up the length of her spine, and she looked back in the direction from which she’d come. Mr. Bishop stood right where she’d left him, hands tucked in his shorts pockets, leaning casually against the wall.
And he was watching her.
Will saw Abi glance his way, give him a funny look, then disappear out the door. She was about as plain as they came—her drab brown hair hung straight and limp around a heart-shaped face completely devoid of makeup. Her shorts were baggy, her red faculty T-shirt oversize, hiding whatever figure she had—which, from what he could see, wasn’t much. She wasn’t unattractive, just…nondescript. And about as timid as a mouse. But there was something about her eyes—something remarkable. They were plain old brown and a little on the large side, which at first had given her a look of youthful innocence. Until he looked deeper and realized she could have been a hundred years old for all the wisdom and experience he saw lurking there.
He also saw distrust.
But, if she was having dinner with the owner, they must be friends. Though it would be hard-won, gaining her friendship—gaining her trust—might be the key to meeting to the elusive Maureen Kelly. And for that he would go to any lengths. Even if that meant deceiving a woman who, if the pain buried deep in her eyes was any indication, had clearly been deceived before.
Chapter 2
Abi sat alone at a table in the dining room that evening, picking at her dinner. Though she had planned to eat in her cabin with Adam, she’d wanted a chance to observe Eric. As she’d expected, he hadn’t said a word during orientation and had begrudgingly participated in as few activities as he could get away with today. He hadn’t made any effort to meet the other kids and now he sat by himself at the rear of the dining room. He was so alone, her heart ached for him. And as badly as she’d wanted to approach him—and possibly throw her arms around the poor kid and hug him—she had to be very careful with this one. One wrong move and he would completely shut her out.
From what she’d learned from his file, he was an only child who’d had the misfortune of being born to two parents who were more interested in their social status and careers than raising their son. He’d spent most of his life in boarding school or away at camp. It made a person wonder why his parents had become ensnared in a bitter custody battle. And as was usually the case, he’d landed right in the middle.
Now he was so closed off, so afraid to trust, she feared it might be too late to salvage what little self-esteem he might have had left. Four weeks wasn’t nearly long enough to undo years of neglect and heartache, but she and the staff were going to give it a valiant effort.
“Mind if I join you?”
Abi looked up to find Will Bishop standing beside her table. Before she could even open her mouth to answer, he set down his plate and slid into the seat across from her. Even if she had intended to say no, he didn’t give her the option. She couldn’t help wondering why, of all the people in the retreat, he chose to sit with her.
Several times that day, during outdoor activities with the children, she’d had the odd sensation that someone was watching her and looked up to find him close by. He’d been engrossed in some activity and hadn’t appeared to notice her, and for some baffling reason, she found herself watching him. A few times he looked up, caught her staring, and she’d quickly looked away. She had no idea what it was about him that made her feel so…aware. She only knew that when he was around, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from looking at him, studying him.
A startling thought occurred to her. Maybe he’d sat down at her table because he thought she was interested in him.
“Busy day?” he asked, draping his napkin in his lap.
“The first week is always a little hectic,” she said, keeping her eyes glued to her plate. Why did she feel so nervous? She’d once defined her life by her ability to manipulate men. Now it unnerved her to sit three feet from one.
Maybe she was just out of practice. Although, never in her three years there had being around a male guest made her the least bit edgy.
“Are you enjoying your stay so far?” she asked, feigning great interest in the chicken on her plate.
“Is it my face?”
She was so startled by his words, her head shot up. “Your face?”
“My scars. Is that why you won’t look at me?” He said it casually, as if he’d just asked her about the weather, but something dark simmered in his eyes.
“No, of course not,” she said.
“It bothers some people. As if when they look directly at me, all they see are the scars.” He ran one large, tanned hand down the side of his face. “I guess they don’t know how to act. If they look too long, they’re staring, if they look away, they’re avoiding.”
She surprised herself by asking, “How did it happen?”
A smile lifted the left side of his mouth. “The direct approach. That’s different.”
She couldn’t tell if he was serious or being sarcastic. It wasn’t like her to be so direct—not anymore—and it set off a siren of warning in her head. “I’m sorry. If I’m being nosy—”
“Not at all,” he said. “It was a car accident—it caught fire. I’m