Leif kicked the swing into motion. The clunk of the bottle hitting the porch was the last sound she heard before the night tucked them into quiet contemplation.
After several minutes, Abigail released a sigh.
“Ah, there you go. A good Scotch cures a lot of things.”
“Tonight sucked.”
“I know. Feels like getting sideswiped,” he said, his voice soft.
“Yeah, sideswiped,” she breathed, looking out into the inky darkness as if it could provide a solution to Cal showing up...a solution to her wanting to rest her head on Leif’s shoulder. “You know, you’re a decent guy for a lothario.”
“Lothario?”
“I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Just because women hurl themselves at you...”
He stuck a finger to his cheek. “It’s the dimple.”
She felt her lips twitch before she could stop herself. “Magic, huh?”
His eyes grew flirty. “Is it working on you?”
Inside, she stilled much like the darkness around them. Should she laugh it off or tell him the truth? Roll the dice or hold her cards close? “Eh, kind of.”
“Perfect.”
He settled back, kicking them into motion again, seeming content to do nothing more than sit beside her, sip liquor and enjoy the intimacy of not having to say a thing.
An owl hooted and the squeak of the swing created a soothing lullaby as the warm liquor made Abigail feel languid and heavy. After they’d been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour, Abigail stopped the swing. “I should go inside.”
“It’s late,” he agreed, rising and extending a hand. She took it, almost sighing at the warmth of his skin against her cold hand. God help her, but she wanted to feel his arms around her, to give him what she’d denied Cal earlier.
“Thank you,” she said.
His eyes stayed soft as he whispered, “That’s what neighbors are for.”
“Neighbors?”
“And friends.”
“Oh.” She glanced away, trying not to feel crushing disappointment. Stupid woman. Leif had been doing what he did best—charming anything in a skirt. Not that she wore a skirt. Too cold for that. But he probably flirted with grocery store cashiers, phlebotomists and anyone he came in contact with—including lonely, pathetic neighbors.
“And women I want to kiss.”
Abigail blinked. “You want to kiss me?”
He brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss on the back of it. His whiskey breath fanned her skin, causing heat to shimmer in her stomach. “Another time, pretty Abigail.”
Abigail stared at the hand he released before snapping out of the trance he’d put her in. “Oh.”
“Night.”
“Good night, Leif. Thank you.”
He picked up the bottle and lifted a hand as he walked down the steps. “My pleasure.”
Then he left her with a smile...and a hunger she knew would keep her awake long into the night.
THE NEXT MORNING Leif skirted the woods behind his house. Laurel Woods sprawled in the middle of twenty acres of pine, hardwoods and scrubby brush that harbored deer, raccoons and pesky squirrels who cut pinecones into his lap pool. Technically, he was trespassing, but since he’d taken Abigail a drink last night, he was sure he could get a pass for traipsing through her woods on an early-morning hike.
Of course, his real intent was to poke around the abandoned cabins that sat to the left of the huge white house.
His mother had lived in one of them.
Hell, he may have even been conceived in one of them.
All along he’d intended to get to know the owner of Laurel Woods. But he hadn’t realized the owner was the fusspot PTA president, the kind of woman who made a guy’s fellows shrink to the size of blueberries. His neighbors had told him that Abigail had petitioned against the subdivision, even going as far as to solicit the aid of the Historical Society. She’d lost. And she hadn’t been happy about it, erecting a huge fence to block the development from her sight.
Leif had practiced patience hoping to eventually befriend the woman. And finally opportunity had plopped in his lap by way of Birdie.
He glanced at the large Greek revival house standing proud and rebellious in the face of the elements determined to wear away the centuries-old edifice. It was just like its owner—defiant and guarded.
As he pushed through the bushes that encroached on the trail, he wondered if anything his mother had created remained in the former slave cabins that had been modified forty-five years ago to house traveling artists. He had little hope since the cabins had been shut up for years, but he’d wanted to see where his mother had lived. Perhaps something remained of her, some hint of who she’d been...of whom she’d fallen in love with.
At the coffeehouse where he sometimes played on Friday nights he’d run into Royal Desadier, the grandson of Simeon Harvey’s former groundskeeper. Royal lived with his grandfather Cletus, who suffered poor health but whose mind was still sharp. Leif asked to visit Cletus because the man had been around when artists populated the grounds.
Simeon Harvey had brought in artists from all over the world, including Leif’s mother, who had journeyed from her Colorado commune to a studio in one of the cabins. She’d left four short months after arriving amidst allegations of murder, taking with her what she called her one true masterpiece—Leif.
On his birth certificate, there was a suspicious blank. His mother had refused to discuss the man who’d fathered him anytime Leif brought up the subject. He’d received the last name Lively from a small Colorado town his mother had once visited. For thirty-four years, Leif had made do without a father.
And for those same thirty-four years, Leif had pretended he didn’t need to know the man who had impregnated his mother. It had been easier to pretend there wasn’t a void in his life. But underneath the happy-go-lucky hippie veneer was a small boy who longed to know who his father was.
Calliope had died holding fast to his name.
So Leif had no clue who his biological father was.
And no one in the small community of Magnolia Bend knew Leif was the son of a murderess.
Leif emerged into a clearing and saw an older woman pulling weeds in front of the first in a string of cabins.
Quickly, so as not to be seen, he ducked behind the huge magnolia tree blooming on the edge of the woods. He had no idea who the woman was, but he didn’t feel like explaining why he trespassed.
Soon he’d have to confide in someone with regard to the search for his roots. Southerners were definitely hospitable but they closed ranks fast if they knew you weren’t one of them. And it had been obvious from his first day in Magnolia Bend that he wasn’t one of them. Maybe Abigail would be the perfect person to reveal his true purpose for being here to. Her family had lived in this area forever and she could provide him with some history and help locate someone who might remember his mother.
Abigail.
She was the antithesis of overblown and easy. Her willowy frame harkened back to Jane Austen and buttoned-up dresses. That stubborn chin, dark hair and intellect were reasons to move away from her rather than inch closer. Yet he’d