Or maybe it was the way he’d kissed her.
When a middle-aged man joined them on the porch, Jess forced herself to push aside all thought of kissing Brendan O’Malley.
The man introduced himself as John Summers, the Wild Raspberry’s third guest. He had longish graying hair and a full gray beard and was dressed in worn hiking shorts and shirt, with stringy, tanned, well-muscled legs and arms. He looked as if he’d been strolling the nooks and crannies of Nova Scotia for months, if not years. His eyes were a pale blue, and he had deep lines in an angular, friendly face.
But something about him immediately set off O’Malley’s cop radar. Jess could see it happening. He started with the inquisition. “How long have you been here?”
“A month. Gorgeous spot, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. Spend the whole month here alone?”
Summers winced visibly at O’Malley’s aggressive tone, then said coolly, “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Must be relaxing. Hike a lot? Or are you into sailing?”
“Hiking and kayaking, mostly.” He sat on a wicker chair with his plate of goodies and a cup of tea and changed the subject. “What brings you to Nova Scotia? You’re American, aren’t you?”
“From Boston. Just taking a few days off.” O’Malley didn’t take the hint and back off. “Where are you from?”
“Toronto.”
“That’s a ways. You fly here or drive?”
Jess tried to distract O’Malley from the scent by offering him a warm cookie. He didn’t take the hint. Summers, to his credit, just answered the question. “I flew into Halifax.”
“I’ve never been to Halifax,” Jess said.
Summers seized on her comment like a lifeline. “It’s a wonderful city. I hope you’ll have a chance to spend a day there, at least, while you’re here. The entire South Shore is worth seeing. Lunenburg can occupy you for quite some time.”
“What would you recommend I see?”
O’Malley scowled at her as if she’d interfered with a homicide investigation. He said nothing, just downed a final scone in two bites. Jess chatted with their fellow guest about South Shore sites, then got him to recommend hiking trails. O’Malley finally growled under his breath and excused himself.
Summers nodded at his retreating figure. “You two know each other?”
“We work together,” Jess said vaguely. It was close enough to the truth. “He had a bad experience before coming up here.”
“He reminds me of a cop. Are you two in law enforcement?”
Jess sighed, then smiled. “Caught. Brendan’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor.”
He didn’t seem pleased that he’d guessed right. “Have you prosecuted many domestic abuse cases?”
“Too many on the one hand, too few on the other.”
“Meaning domestic violence shouldn’t happen, ever, but it does and you want to get all the perpetrators.” Summers nodded with understanding. “Our hostess left an abusive marriage two years ago. She’s a very courageous woman. She’s come a long way in a relatively short time.”
Jess set her plate down, no longer hungry. “The scar above her eye?”
“Her ex-husband’s handiwork. He was convicted. He’s out of prison now. He was a businessman in Halifax, but he’s relocated to Calgary.” Summers’s expression didn’t change, but Jess could feel his sarcasm. “Apparently he said he needed a fresh start.”
“Not for her sake, I’ll bet.”
“He’s from western Canada originally. His reputation here was in tatters. People didn’t want to believe he was capable of abuse, but the knife cut ended their denial.”
Jess wondered why he was telling her all this. “It looks as if Marianne’s built a new life for herself.”
“She has. It wasn’t easy. She told me she used to worry constantly that he’d come back. On some level, I think she still does.”
“The emotional wounds of abuse can take a long time to heal.”
He looked away. “Sometimes I wonder if they ever do, if someone who’s been through that kind of horror can love and trust someone again—” He broke off, as if he hadn’t meant to go that far, adding sharply, “Marianne has put all she has—her time, her money, her energy, her love—into getting this place up and running, into her life here. She has friends, she volunteers at a local shelter.”
Something about his manner struck Jess as antagonistic, even accusatory. “Mr. Summers, we’re not here to upset anyone—”
“What happened to your friend Detective O’Malley? He’s had a recent brush with violence, hasn’t he?”
“You’re very perceptive. It wasn’t a major incident, fortunately.”
“But it wasn’t the first. Men like him—” Summers paused, seeming to debate the wisdom of what he wanted to say. “They’re magnets for violence.”
“Not O’Malley,” Jess said, although she didn’t know why she felt the need to defend him.
Summers looked past her. “I’ve been her only guest on and off since I arrived, especially during the week. Weekends she’s usually full.” But he had a distant look in his eye, as if he wouldn’t necessarily trust himself—or maybe Jess was reading something into his manner that wasn’t there because of O’Malley’s instant suspicion of him. Summers drifted off a moment, then smiled abruptly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”
“You’re not the one who was rude.”
He almost laughed. “Well, I suppose we want a homicide detective to be of a suspicious nature. Does he give everyone the third-degree like that?”
“Actually, no. I think he’s just on edge.”
“It’s taken a lot of courage and effort for Marianne to build a life for herself that’s free of violence. See to it he keeps himself in check, okay?”
“Mr. Summers, Brendan has never lost control—”
“I’m sure he hasn’t.” He made a face, rubbing the back of his neck as he heaved a sigh. “And I’m sure Marianne would have a fit if she thought I was protecting her. She can take care of herself. She has a great group of friends. She’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever met.”
Jess smiled at him. “Smitten, are you, Mr. Summers?”
His cheeks reddened slightly. “I guess there’s no point in hiding it.”
“She’s not interested?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t—” He frowned suddenly. “You must be a hell of a prosecutor, Ms. Stewart. I didn’t mean to tell you any of this.”
“Call me Jess,” she said. “And, yes, I do okay in my work.”
She joined O’Malley in the English-style garden, filled with pink foxglove, purple Jacob’s ladder, pale pink astilbe, painted daisies, sweet William, lady’s mantle and a range of annuals. He looked as if he could stomp them all into the dirt. Jess inhaled deeply. “I could get into gardening.”
“The guy’s lying about something.”
“Oh, come on. You don’t know that.”
He mock-glared at her. “Your gut’s telling you the same thing.”
“Maybe, but not all untruths are nefarious