“There you go.” The taxi driver flipped his engine into neutral and glanced at Jonas. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine.” Somehow Jonas made it onto the dock. He dragged his heavy pack over his shoulder.
“Want me to wait to take you back to the mainland?”
“No.” Jonas glanced toward the small village. “If I don’t find who I’m looking for, I’ll get a hotel room.”
“Things close down here pretty early even during the tourist season.”
So he’d heard.
“Even if there is a room at one of the hotels or bed-and-breakfasts, you might not find anything open this late.”
Then he’d be sleeping—more likely passing out—in the woods. Although these wet clothes would make for an interesting night, he’d probably survive.
He took a few steps toward the village before he remembered his manners, something he hadn’t had much use of during the past couple of years. Turning back, he handed the man a tip. “Thanks for the ride and the warning, but I’ll be all right.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jonas walked slowly down the pier to the drone of the boat motor behind him indicating the water taxi was heading out of the marina and back to the mainland. Soon even that sound dimmed. A few, thick drops spattered the ground, and the heavy clouds overhead threatened a nasty storm. Without a moon, the only light came from intermittent lampposts along the dock.
Gusts of wind whipped tree branches into a frenzy as he walked toward what appeared to be the central part of town. His shoes made barely a sound on the wet cobblestone. In the distance, a dog barked. He passed a blue-and-white restaurant, the Bayside Café, now closed and hit Main Street. Light from a place called Duffy’s Pub spilled onto the sidewalk.
As he passed the bar, laughter and music emanated from inside, but he closed out the sound. Sometimes it was easier to forget that the world still housed polite, law-abiding people, going about living normal lives, raising normal families, working at normal jobs. Including him, once upon a long time ago.
That’s when he’d met her. At a different bar with different music and different people. Had she changed? Most assuredly. It’d been years, not months. Years. He hesitated. No choice. The woods were sounding mighty cold and wet right about now.
Turning and crossing the street, he slowly climbed the steep hill several blocks off Main. With old, but well-kept single-family homes, this appeared to be the residential section of the tourist town. Instead of the Victorian mansions he’d halfway expected to see, these were average-size dwellings. He should’ve known she’d try to settle anonymously amidst the salt of the earth.
On hitting Oak Street, he turned and monitored the house numbers. Long ago, he’d memorized the address, wanting absolutely no paper trail for this place, and having studied the island map back at the ferry office, he knew he was close.
A few blocks later, he stopped in front of an ancient stone fence and glanced at the white Cape Cod with black shutters and a porch addition off the side. This modest home wasn’t at all what he’d expected. The house was dark other than a stream of weak light glowing from the back. Her bedroom. She was still awake.
What did she look like? His dreams? His memories? Or had she shaken off the past and embraced change?
Time to find out.
Slowly, he trudged up the sidewalk, climbed the front steps and hesitated on reaching her porch as beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Quiet music sounded from inside, mixing with the damp night air as he leaned against a post and caught his breath.
This was a mistake. If she slammed the door in his face he couldn’t blame her. After what he’d done, he unequivocally derserved it. Before he could turn away, the door burst open. A woman’s figure, small but curvy stood in shadow, backlit by pale light. At first, he couldn’t see her face, but then his eyes adjusted and her features cleared.
Oh, man. The air puffed out of his chest and his limbs went numb. When he’d first met her, she’d been only twenty-three to his thirty-two, going on fifty. Somehow, the years had made her even more beautiful than the day he’d spotted her in that hole-in-the-wall bar. She’d put on a little weight, which to his way of thinking only served to heighten the attractiveness of her curves. Her hair was longer and curlier, although the color was still that creamy blonde, promising the softness of down, the scent of heaven.
She said nothing, only stared at him as something akin to recognition dawned.
“Hello, Missy,” he whispered.
She stepped back as if she’d seen a ghost, but then, he figured, she had. “Jonas,” she whispered, putting a hand to her chest. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“Better late than never,” he mumbled as the adrenaline he’d been running on finally fizzled. His legs fell out from under him. He hit the wall, keeled over and collapsed onto the porch floor.
“Jonas? Jonas.” Her hands touched his chest. Nice, soft hands. Hands that spread warmth all the way to his limbs. Hands he’d dreamed of more than he cared to remember. “Oh, my God, you’re bleeding!”
Disoriented, he gazed into her eyes, eyes as startlingly green as a new spring leaf, eyes that had once looked at him as if he were the only spot of clarity in her fuzzy crystal ball. “No doctors, Missy,” he murmured, her face blurring in his vision. He could barely keep his eyes open. “Can’t…no one…can find me.”
Then his world turned black and silent.
CHAPTER TWO
WAS HE REAL OR SOME KIND of spirit?
Missy reached out to see if she could touch the man’s arm and jerked back the instant her senses registered not only cold and wet, but a solid form. How could this be?
Maybe it wasn’t really him.
Quickly, she took in everything about the man lying on her porch. His clothes, damp sweatshirt, faded jeans. Pushing aside the hood shadowing his face, she studied his features. Straight, hawklike nose. Intensely set brows, furrowed even now. Lashes, thick and black and long enough to set any woman’s heart fluttering. So much so familiar, and yet enough that was different to make her wonder.
This man looked like a sleazy drug dealer. He probably hadn’t taken a razor to his cheeks for weeks and his hair was not only long enough to curl it didn’t look very clean. Jonas, always meticulous about his appearance, had kept his midnight-black hair military short and his face shaved as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Then there was the hardness to this man’s jawline that seemed all wrong. A cynical set to the mouth—
His mouth. That was it. The sight of this man’s lips sealed it. How many times had she traced with the tip of her finger that dramatic upper arc? That full lower swell?
It was him. It was Jonas.
Missy snapped off the porch light and glanced around outside. Other than raindrops splattering her porch roof, all was quiet. There were no footsteps. No rustling of bushes. No shadows slinking near the trees. As far as she could tell no one had followed him.
Grabbing his wrist, she felt for a pulse. His skin was cold and clammy, but she located a thready pulse. He’d only lost consciousness. Glancing at his prone form, she barely held herself back from hauling off and kicking him good and hard. “I should let you bleed to death, you bastard.”
The sight of his profile, haggard and worn, gave her pause. His skin was ashy and pale. “I’m going