His heartbeat picked up. His mind skittered for purchase.
She was too young, too skinny. Her hips were no wider than a boy’s, and the hand she pulled out of one pocket was long and narrow. He wasn’t attracted to tiny, fragile-looking women a decade younger than he was.
What color were her eyes? In the fading light he couldn’t tell.
Then those uncertain-colored eyes met his. And his thoughts spilled out, leaving his mind blank.
“Is Ben here?” she asked. “Benjamin McClain?” When he stared dumbly at her, her eyebrows pulled together.
Dear God.
“I have come to the right house, haven’t I?”
What is this? What just happened? He licked dry lips. “Ben will be home soon. I’m his brother, Duncan. Duncan McClain.” After a long moment it occurred to him to step aside. “Come in.”
Gwen stepped across the threshold. It was, thankfully, a good deal warmer inside. Somewhere spices were simmering in tomato sauce. It was a homey smell…a homey place, she thought, glancing around. The entry hall was large, with a door opening off it to the right—probably a coat closet—and a staircase diagonally across from the front door. An open arch on the left led to the living room. The wooden floor was clean enough, but dull, as if it had been a very long time since it had received more than perfunctory care.
There was a coatrack next to the door. It held a black ski cap and two jackets—a dark green parka with a hood and a denim jacket. Both obviously belonged to large men—to Ben and this man, she supposed. Duncan McClain, Ben’s brother.
Her hands were balled into fists in her pockets. She’d known Ben wasn’t married or living with a woman. If he had been, she would have approached him differently. But she hadn’t asked the detective to find out if he was living with anyone else—like a brother. This was a complication she hadn’t allowed for.
When in doubt, fall back on manners. That was one lesson her mother had taught her that Gwen often found useful. “I’m Gwendolyn Van Allen.”
He nodded without speaking. Obviously the name meant nothing to him. What odd eyes he had—very pale gray, rather striking with the dark hair and those straight, slashing eyebrows. Something about his eyes made her uneasy and she looked away.
A pair of muddy boots sat next to the coatrack—work boots, the brown leather much scuffed and discolored. They were huge. She glanced from them to the running shoes on Duncan McClain’s feet. The boots were bigger. They must belong to Ben.
“May I take your sweater?” Ben’s brother asked.
“No, thanks. I’m a little chilly.” Training enabled her to find a social smile and a topic, but her cheeks felt stiff. “I thought I was prepared for the weather here, but I’m a Florida girl. Your version of spring isn’t what I’m used to.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look much like Ben—at least, not like the photograph the detective had enclosed with his report. For a long time Gwen hadn’t wanted to remember Zach’s other parent, and she’d succeeded all too well at forgetting. Now she couldn’t summon a clear image of Ben’s face. Other things, yes, but not his face.
A flash of shame slid the smile from her face. “You did say you expected Ben soon?”
“Yes.”
That was it—just yes, no elaboration. And he was looking at her so intently… Nervously she sought for a topic that might drag more than a monosyllable from him. “I hadn’t thought he’d be working late at this time of year. Construction work is seasonal, surely?”
“Some of it is. You don’t want to pour concrete when it’s below freezing, for example, but if we waited for good weather to put up a building, Highpoint would be a very small town.”
“Do you work with your brother, then?”
“No. Your eyes are green, aren’t they?” He turned and started for the arched opening to the left. “You can wait for Ben in the living room.”
What an odd, abrupt man, she thought. Perhaps he was shy. He moved smoothly, though, like a man who was at home in his body and knew he could depend on it. He was taller than she was—well, almost everyone was taller than she was—but not as tall as his brother. Or as brawny. She did remember that much. Ben was an outdoors type. He’d seemed to bring a breath of mountains and open spaces into the trendy little club in Florida where they’d met.
The living room was large and old-fashioned, with moldings framing the ceiling and a carved wooden mantel that looked older than the house itself. The floor was wooden here, too, but mostly covered by a large gold area rug with brown borders. Two armchairs upholstered in a nubby beige fabric flanked a chocolate brown couch. Throw pillows in flame colors littered the long couch and one of the chairs; an orange pillow sat on the floor next to the other chair. The coffee table and end tables were cluttered and didn’t match, but the effect was comfortable rather than careless.
He turned on a lamp beside the couch. Though it was only five o’clock, it was dreary outside, dim inside. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
She shook her head and sat, though she would rather have paced. Her insides felt jittery, as if she’d had too much caffeine. He sat in the chair at right angles to the couch, his long body loose and apparently at ease. Then he just looked at her, those curious eyes intent, as if she posed a puzzle he meant to solve before he spoke again. She curled her toes up inside her sneakers, resenting him. “Do I have a piece of broccoli between my teeth or something?”
He smiled slightly. “Am I staring? Sorry. You must be used to it, though.”
“No,” she said, startled, then she flushed. “That didn’t come out right. I wasn’t angling for compliments.”
“Of course not. Why would you?” He crossed his legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. He was wearing baggy carpenter pants and a black sweatshirt. “How old are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. I take it your business with Ben is personal.”
“Yes.” She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them and hoping to distract herself from the urge to jump up and pace. “I can’t explain. I’m sorry.” This man is Zach’s uncle. She was talking to her son’s uncle and he didn’t know it, and she couldn’t tell him. Not until she’d told Ben.
He studied her face a moment. “I’m not clever with small talk, but there’s always weather. Folks around here never get tired of talking about that, so I can probably hold up my end. Of course, we’re not as good at it as the English. They’ve elevated the discussion of weather to a fine art.”
“Have you been to England, then?”
“Briefly, a few years ago. Beastly weather,” he said, shifting flawlessly into upper-crust English. “Rained the whole bloody time.”
Surprise curled in the pit of her stomach. Why, he’s good-looking, she thought. His face was thin, but the strong cheekbones and eyebrows gave it character. As she saw him for the first time as a person instead of a hitch in her plans, her face relaxed into a more genuine smile. “I’m not sure how long I can talk about the weather, not being as well trained as you are. In Florida we don’t take much note of rain unless it’s horizontal and tree limbs are whipping by at seventy miles an hour.”
“I’d take note of that, too. Have you ever been through a hurricane?”
He’d claimed to lack skill at small talk, but he was very good at