“A monster?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows.
“A child molester.” A spade was a spade, even if it was in the hands of a resentful gardener like Graves.
“That’s good, because…” Sean inclined his head toward the front of the house.
Connie groaned. “Pippa? Not again.”
Pippa had still been sleeping when Connie had left the house to meet the early ferry. She’d set out cereal and a note on the kitchen table, instructing the girl not to wander off beyond the Sheffield estate. Since it was a big estate with much for an inquisitive girl to explore, she hadn’t been overly worried when she’d found Pippa gone when she’d returned. For all her curiosity, Pippa was too cautious to get into dangerous situations.
At least, she had been.
While Connie’s mind had raced, she’d also been staring at Sean, cataloging his features and build as if she might need to identify him in a lineup. The shoulders she remembered. Above them, his face was handsome, if gaunt. He had a good, strong nose and jaw. A sprinkle of gray in the clipped hair. His eyes were a solemn gray-blue, not dark the way she’d remembered.
She dropped her gaze, then blinked, appreciation turning to apprehension. “Why are your jeans wet? You’re soaked to the skin!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Pippa’s okay, but she was caught out by the tide. I hauled her in.”
“Pippa…was in the ocean?”
“No, she was on a rock.” He conceded with a nod. “And briefly in the water.”
“Where is she?”
“Sitting on your front step. Seeing as she was following me again when it happened, I think she’s afraid to face you.”
“Afraid?” Connie’s head jerked back. “Because I’m the monster?”
“Maybe a tigress,” Sean said with a small smile.
Connie resisted the urge to let out a low growl. Pippa was safe, that was the important thing. If there was anyone to blame, it wasn’t Sean and it wasn’t Pippa. It was her.
“PIPPA, PIPPA. WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Connie’s hands shook as she pulled a towel off the shelf. She clenched the length of terry cloth taut, then enfolded her daughter’s shivering body. “I said over and over that you were not to go near the ocean without supervision. You’ve never disobeyed me so badly before. When I think what might have happened…”
Don’t think it. She’s safe.
Pippa bleated from the depths of a fervent hug, the third or fourth since her mother had rushed her inside and up to the bathroom for dry towels and a hot shower. “Oh, Mom.”
Connie set Pippa back, knowing that despite her own culpability she must scold the girl. Mete out some sort of punishment. But that could wait.
“I’d rattle your bones if you weren’t already shaking like a drowned kitten.” Connie swept aside the mildewed shower curtain and cranked on the tap. “In you go.”
Pippa stared, the towel clutched under her chin.
“Privacy.” Connie bit her lip, remembering that her daughter was ten and growing up fast. No longer a little girl. But not a big one, either. “Right. Stay in the shower until the hot water runs out. I’ll go brew you a cup of tea.”
“Tea?” Pippa made a face.
“Hot chocolate, then, if I can remember how to make it when I’m so shook up.”
“It’s just chocolate and milk, Mom.”
“Don’t be a smarty-pants. You’re in for it, you know. I’ll have to ground you.” But she already had, in effect, and that hadn’t done any good. Before there could be a punishment, she’d have to find out why Pippa had disobeyed, what she’d hoped to gain.
Sean Rafferty.
He might know. Connie had left him on his own when she’d rushed Pippa inside.
He’s probably gone, she told herself as she descended the cottage’s narrow steps with a couple towels in her arms. A glance out the stairwell’s porthole window revealed no sign of him, but then she found him sitting at the dining table, perched damply on the edge of a ladderback chair, his face pinched white. He looked as though he couldn’t figure out why he was still there.
Suddenly, Connie knew nothing except that seeing him had eased her worry. As wary and edgy as he came across, she was instinctively comforted by his presence. Go figure.
“Towels.” She thrust them at him. “You’re shivering.”
He stood and draped one around his shoulders, ignoring the wet denim clinging to his legs.
“Well,” Connie said, pulling away her gaze. “Pippa’s taking a hot shower. For a minute there, I was worried about hypothermia.”
“She was chilled through, but the walk home warmed her up. I kept her moving. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Sean rubbed his arms vigorously. “Since you’ve got everything under control, I’ll leave.”
“No, please stay. I’d like to talk to you.” Connie put her hand on his arm to urge him down into the chair, then pulled away when the renewed warmth of his skin and the firm muscle beneath it came as a pleasant shock.
She rubbed the prickly hair on her forearms as she headed to the fridge. Holding a half-gallon container of milk and a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, she turned back to Sean. “Will you come to dinner tonight? I’d like to—” Breathe, dammit! “—express my gratitude to you.” Despite the inappropriate timing, there was no denying she was aware of all sorts of things she’d like to do with him.
“That’s not necessary,” he said in a grave tone, and she dearly hoped he hadn’t been reading her mind.
Her laugh sounded rusty. “Hey, c’mon. You rescued my daughter from the briny brink. A home-cooked meal is the least that I owe you.”
He glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. It had dried into short porcupine quills. “It was nothing.”
“It was huge. You’re a hero in my book.”
His face contorted. Only for a millisecond, but she noticed.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” She bent and clattered the pots and pans in the drawer under the electric stove more than she had to, then tossed her hair as she straightened. She shot him a smile over her shoulder. “Are you modest? Shy? Secretly a Mr. Limpet?”
“What’s a Mr. Limpet?”
She poured milk into a saucepan. “A character from The Incredible Mr. Limpet. You don’t know the movie?”
He shook his head.
“We watched a lot of oldies with Pippa when she was little,” Connie explained. “Mr. Limpet was a favorite. Don Knotts played a wimp who turned into a heroic fish wearing glasses. The fish was animated.” She paused, considering. “It was better than it sounds.”
Sean rubbed a finger above his upper lip. “I’m not a wimp or a fish.”
Connie grinned. “Not even a heroic one?”
“No.”
“Seriously, though,” she said and squirted the syrup into the milk. Not the best recipe for hot chocolate, but it’d do in a pinch. “What about dinner?”
He