Safe Passage. Лорет Энн Уайт
from?”
Scott leaned heavily on his cane. He was supposed to be the one asking questions. He should be controlling the flow of information.
“I’m from…out east.” Damn. He’d thought he’d have plenty of time to go through the file, familiarize himself with his cover, before running into the doctor. But this woman with the silver eyes had him cornered.
“East? As in Ontario? Or farther east?”
Scott attempted a laugh. “Even farther. I’ve been traveling for a while.” A long while.
“Business?”
“Research.”
“You’ve come home then? Back to Canada?”
There was that word again. Home. “I don’t have a home, neighbor.”
“Hey, home is where the heart is. So they say.”
“Yeah. Like I said, I have no home. Now, you tell me something, do you subject all newcomers to Haven with the third degree?”
Something flickered through her eyes. Then it was gone. She smiled a full smile, revealing strong white teeth and a sharp twinkle in her eyes.
“I’m sorry. Naturally curious nature, I suppose. Goes with the territory. I’m a scientist. You?”
He cleared his throat. “Writer.”
“Is that what brings you to Haven?”
“Pretty much. Thought it might be a nice, quiet spot to work on my book. Close to the sea, not too far from the city, lots of space for Honey.”
Skye Van Rijn bent to pet Honey. “You’re a real pretty thing, aren’t you?” She looked up at Scott. “She still a puppy?”
“Pretty much.”
“What kind of book you writing?”
Damn. “Some call me a futurist.” The words did not come easily over his tongue. He felt anything but a futurist. Mostly he thought about the past. “I look for global trends. Economic. Social. That kind of thing.”
“You widely published?”
Hell if he knew. He’d just have to wing it. “Nope. Mostly small university presses, academic journals, that kind of thing.”
She frowned. “You’d enjoy talking to my fiancé then. He’s all into big-picture economic trends and futures. Stock market, import-export business is his thing.”
Her words blindsided him. He blinked.
“Fiancé?”
She smiled a slow smile, looked down at the dog. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was a sad, resigned smile.
“Yes. I’m getting married day after tomorrow.”
Scott couldn’t begin to identify the strange little slip he felt in his chest, the hollowness in his gut. He liked the idea of the doctor being single. Rex hadn’t told him about a fiancé. It was probably also in that damned dossier.
“Congratulations.” The word sounded inane. It hung between them.
She stepped back. “Yeah, well, I should be going. I’m really sorry to have barged in on you like that. There’s been no one in this house for a while. I thought you were the caterers. I’m expecting them. I thought they’d come to the wrong address.”
She turned. Scott watched the sway of her ass as her long legs carried her to the door.
She stopped, spun suddenly back to face him. “By the way, how’d you hurt your leg?”
Images shot through his brain. The bullet smashing his knee. The terrorist group in the Thar. The suspicious disease he’d been investigating. Scorching heat. Pain. The hospital in Mumbai. His old life gone.
“Skiing accident,” he said. “Torqued my knee.”
“Oh.” She ran those exotic eyes over him slowly. “Well, you’ve got an exquisite cane. Don’t think I’ve seen wood like that before.”
“Picked it up in Africa years ago. It’s mukwa wood, a gift from a Venda chief. Never thought I’d end up needing it in this way, though.”
“I’m sorry.” She turned to go, hesitated, turned back. “Would you like to join us for the reception Saturday? We’re having the caterers set something small and simple up at my house for after the church ceremony. I really didn’t want anything fancy.”
There was something about her demeanor that made him ask, “Why not?”
She shrugged. “Jozsef wanted to have the wedding brought forward for a number of reasons. This was the best option at such short notice.”
Scott’s curiosity piqued. “What short notice?”
She laughed. “Now who’s giving the third degree? Good night, Scott McIntyre.”
She slipped out into the dark and the house felt suddenly empty.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Skye Van Rijn,” Scott whispered to the black night that had swallowed her.
Scott spent the rest of the night pouring over the dossier. Suddenly this mission wasn’t looking so lame. The bug doctor was not what she seemed. He sensed it in his gut. She was too quick with her reflexes, primed to react to physical threat in the way of no ordinary citizen.
And behind her smooth, smoky voice, her bold, unflinching gaze, she was guarded, hiding something. He knew it. Scott had spent years reading slight gestures, nuances of movement. He’d lived with tribes who communicated by tuning in to nature. He’d survived only because he was constantly poised for the slightest hint of danger, the mere intuition of imminent attack. Scott had lived the life of both hunter and prey. And there was something about this woman that made him feel she knew exactly what it was to be both. But which was she now?
And which was he?
He flipped over a page in the dossier, new energy humming softly through his system. And he told himself it had nothing at all to do with female curves that invited sin.
Skye pushed a button and her computer screen crackled softly to life. She scanned her e-mail before punching in her code and logging into the Kepplar lab system. She opened her work files, then rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t sleep, either. An edginess zinged through her veins. Maybe it was wedding jitters. But deep down she knew it was more than that. It was the man next door. He’d unnerved her. She didn’t like the knife strapped to his ankle, his gut reaction to surprise.
She didn’t trust him.
There was something wild about him. Something she recognized. Something that had slipped past her guard and made her ask him to her wedding reception.
She stood, paced over to her window and stared out across her yard. The light was on in his kitchen.
His shadow moved momentarily against the shade.
She jerked back in reflex, told herself he couldn’t see her through his closed blinds. She edged forward, studied the shape of his silhouette as he moved around his kitchen.
Scott McIntyre. She tested the name in a whisper over her tongue, found she liked the feel of it.
He dressed like a writer in that knobbly wool sweater with leather patches at the elbows. His body, however, did not belong to a man who spent his life hunched in front of a computer terminal. She’d seen the way his jeans were faded in the most eye-catching places, how the worn fabric strained over the thick muscles of his thighs. She’d noted the power of his wrists, the latent strength in the shape of his broad shoulders, the arrogance in the line of his wide and defined jaw. A jaw that needed a shave. His face was rugged, rough, but with an air of intelligence, a hint of compassion.
And his lips. They hadn’t escaped her notice, either.