“I’m not angry,” she said through gritted teeth in a tone that, even to her own ears, sounded angry. Kat let out a puff of air. “Okay, I am angry. I’ve been looking forward to this vacation for a long time. I’m sorry that Carl promised it to you, but he’s dead. My aunt owns this house. I’m a blood relative, so I should get the house.”
He raised one eyebrow. “That’s your argument? I take it you’re not a lawyer,” he said lightly.
If she was a cartoon character, steam would have been whistling out of her ears. He must have sensed it because he put his hands out as if to ward her off. “This is a difficult situation, and we’re not going to resolve it tonight.” He put on what looked like a fake smile and clapped his hands together like a person who’s used to being obeyed without question.
“I’ve resolved it,” Kat said stubbornly.
He set his jaw. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave in the morning. I won’t be so callous as to send you out alone at night. I’m certain you’ll find other accommodations on the island.”
“If I can, so can you.”
He looked at her as if she were a strange species, something he didn’t quite understand. “The house is mine,” he said, slightly exasperated. “I’ve been living here for nearly two weeks already. You’re going to have to leave in the morning.” He really was an awfully intimidating-looking guy with all that beef and dark hair—a cultured mountain man.
Kat quickly weighed her options, factoring in the fact he was a big guy, probably more than six feet, who didn’t look very happy at the moment, and decided, foolishly she was sure, that she wasn’t going anywhere. “Make me,” she said, crossing her arms over her own chest and not meaning a single syllable.
He stared at her for a moment, then let out a laugh so sudden and violent it nearly frightened her. His booming laughter filled the silent house, and Kat watched through narrowed eyes as he bent at the waist as if unable to stand due to his state of utter glee. “Oh, God,” he said when he’d gotten control of himself. “You are funny. I have a feeling you’re trying to look fierce, but I’m afraid you’re failing miserably.” He wiped at his eyes, and when he was finally able to focus on her, Kat tried very hard not to let him see she was fighting a smile.
He looked sheepish and charming all of a sudden, and in that moment, Kat realized that maybe he wasn’t pretty but he certainly was handsome. In a scruffy, charming, English way. If he were cast in a movie, he’d be the villain, the gorgeous evil guy that you hope turns out to be a good guy in the end. But who usually didn’t. “We’ll resolve this in the morning. Maybe one of us will have a change of heart.”
“Listen, Larry…”
“I prefer Lawrence,” he said, smiling politely.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving. Morning is not going to change my mind.”
“Morning may not, but perhaps I can persuade you.” He opened the refrigerator and pulled open the vegetable bin to retrieve what looked like one of those supermarket prepackaged sandwiches. She hadn’t noticed it when she was putting her few items in the fridge because she’d been planning to go to the small farmer’s market to get fresh vegetables and hadn’t opened the bin.
“I’m dining in this evening,” he said, shaking the sandwich toward her. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she mumbled. Then, “Wait a minute. If you’ve been here two weeks, why did the place look deserted? And why wasn’t there any food in the fridge?”
“I eat out ninety percent of the time, and I haven’t used the main floor. I’ve spent my time in the tower room and didn’t see the point in uncovering the furniture down here. Anything else, madam?”
“I’ll let you know,” she said, smiling good-naturedly. When he disappeared up the stairs, Kat sagged to the kitchen floor. “Damn, damn, double damn,” she said softly. Kat was pretty good at acting tough, even at telling herself she was tough, but she knew deep down inside she was a big ol’ wimp. Standing up to Sir Larry had not come easy, though he’d never know it. All her life she’d heard people tell her she was tough, resilient, that she could take what life dished out. No one knew how scared she was half the time. Hell, most of the time.
Kat pushed herself up, sliding her back against the wall. She was not going to have this taken away. Kat pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes so hard it hurt. “Do not cry,” she said low and fierce. “Don’t you cry.” When she pulled her hands down, she smiled because there wasn’t a salty tear on them. Not even one.
Lawrence closed the door to his room with a soft snick. “Bloody, bloody hell,” he said. All he needed was a woman skulking about the house, disturbing him, interrupting his work.
He stopped at that thought and stared at his laptop, a machine the devil himself had taken over. Work, he thought. What work? He hadn’t written more than a few paragraphs in months. He’d heard of so-called writer’s block and had always figured it was for other poor slobs, those writers who weren’t very good and never would be. His editor said to write through it, that his gift would come back. But it hadn’t, and Lawrence was terrified that it never would.
“There are no stories in my head,” he’d told William Goodall, his editor at Thorpes Publishing, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “I don’t know where the hell they went because I never know where the hell they come from.”
“They’ll come back, Lawrence. Trust me.”
That had been when he’d still been in England, when Carl had still been alive. Carl was one of his father’s favorite people…and one of Lawrence’s, too. He hadn’t thought much about his marrying a woman far less than half his age, and he’d never met the woman. His mother had called her trash, her nose so high in the air even Lawrence, a confirmed and self-proclaimed snob, had to laugh.
“If the old man got lucky enough to find a young wife, then good for him.”
“Oh, really, Lawrence, he’s making a fool of himself. I wish your father could have talked some sense into him.”
Lawrence had bit his tongue, for he was fairly certain his father not only approved of the marriage, but he was also likely a bit envious. The old dog.
He’d talked to Carl about his difficulties getting started with his next novel, and the old man had offered him the cottage. A change of scenery might be just what he needed, he’d said.
Lawrence looked out the window and grimaced. Martha’s Vineyard—at least this part of the island—was not what he had been expecting at all. He was expecting the Bill Clinton secret hideaway Martha’s Vineyard where cultured people discussed world events and the literary scene and had charming lawn parties and enlightened conversation. Instead, he’d found himself in the middle of a tourist Mecca where fine art consisted of a painting of a lighthouse on a seashell and culture was watching men gut large sharks.
He hadn’t realized he was such a snob until he came to this island. These Americans seemed to be fascinated by the strangest things. He’d actually become part of a large crowd of people gathered around a fisherman gutting fish. Their faces were rapt, as if they were watching great art or something thrilling that had never been done before. Frankly, the knife slicing into the fish’s white belly had nearly made him ill, but for reasons he even refused to acknowledge. It was almost comical that watching a fish being gutted should bring back the moment of his worst failing.
Instead of escaping his life in this foreign place, he found himself with too much time to relive it, every agonizing, humiliating moment. Because he couldn’t write, he could hardly even think. He couldn’t return to England empty-handed, with nothing to show for the past weeks but a pathetic story about how he couldn’t write. He’d already asked his