Promise Forever. Marta Perry

face.

      He reminded himself that he wanted her cooperation, not her enmity. “So you’re helping to run the inn now.”

      “That’s right.” She pinned up another sheet. “My college plans were derailed.”

      She’d been saving money that summer, he remembered, waiting tables at the yacht club so she could attend the community college that fall. Both their lives had gone in an unexpected direction, but hers had obviously been skewed more than his.

      “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it.

      She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded in acceptance. “I don’t regret anything.” A smile blazed across her face. “I have Sammy.”

      He nodded, the photo seeming to burn a hole in his pocket. Maybe he’d better get to the point before he brought up any more touchy subjects. “I’ve been thinking about that picture of him.”

      “I’ve already told you, I didn’t send it.” She snatched the basket and ducked under flapping sheets to the other end of the yard.

      He followed, evading damp linen. He needed her on his side in this. “I know you didn’t send it. Don’t you want to know who did?”

      “Yes, of course.” She stopped, eyes clouded. “I’ve worried and worried, and I still don’t have an idea.”

      “There has to be a way to find out. Why don’t we talk to Sammy about this?”

      “Absolutely not.” She shot the words at him, shoulders suddenly stiff.

      “But he may have noticed who took the picture.”

      “I mean it, Tyler.” Her soft mouth was firm. “I don’t want him questioned about this.”

      “That’s ridiculous. If we can find out—”

      “It’s not ridiculous,” she snapped. It looked as if they were back on opposite sides. “If we talk to Sammy, he’s going to ask how you got a picture of him.”

      “We can say—” He stopped. What would they say?

      “I don’t want him thinking that some stranger is going around taking pictures of him, manipulating his life.” A shiver seemed to run through her. “It’s bad enough thinking that myself.”

      “All right.”

      Miranda looked at him suspiciously, and he raised his hands in surrender.

      “I promise. I won’t say anything to him.”

      The tension went out of her, and she reached up to unpin a dry sheet. He caught the end of it, and she let him help her fold it.

      “Why? That’s what gets me,” she said. “Why would anyone want to interfere in our lives like that?”

      “I wish I knew.” He had to hurry to keep up with the deft way she flipped the corners together. “No one’s said anything to you about it?”

      “Nothing.”

      He finished the last fold, then put the sheet into the basket as Miranda moved on to the next one. She was right—the sheet did smell like sunshine.

      “Stop a minute and look at it again.” He drew the photo from his pocket and handed it to her.

      She studied the picture, absently twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Her gaze lifted, startled, to him. “This looks like—”

      “What?”

      “Come with me.” She dropped a clothespin into the basket and started around the inn at a trot. He had to hurry to keep up with her.

      “Look.” She stopped at the corner of the veranda, pointing.

      He stepped closer, looking over her shoulder at the photo, then at the scene in front of them. An ancient, gnarled live oak filled the corner of the yard, its branches so heavy they touched the ground in places. From this angle, they formed a kind of archway through which he saw a corner of the dock. It was exactly the same in the photograph.

      “Whoever he was, he took the picture here,” he said.

      This time he was so close he felt the shiver that went through her.

      “Here. And sometime within the last six months.” She touched the photo with one fingertip. “I bought that polo shirt for Sammy when school started in September.”

      “Stands to reason it was fairly recent. If he wanted to send it to me, whoever he was, why wait?”

      Miranda’s breath seemed to catch. “Tyler, we have to find out who did this.” She swung around, apparently not realizing how close he was. She was nearly in his arms.

      He caught her arm as she bumped against him. Her smooth skin seemed alive with memories—visions of holding her close, of promising to love her forever. The fresh scent of her surrounded and overpowered him.

      This was bad. This was very bad. He’d never dreamed those feelings still existed, ready to be awakened. It was as if the very cells of his body remembered her.

      He’d wanted Miranda’s cooperation. He’d gotten it, but in the process he’d found out something very unwelcome about himself. He was still attracted to her.