Saving Joe. Laura Altom Marie
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okay. That’s bright, isn’t it?”
“Sure. Thanks to you.” She felt him lean forward, heard him sigh. “Sorry to be such rotten company. I really do owe you for helping my pal, here, but…” Joe stopped talking to rub the scruff on the animal’s neck. She knew, not because she could see him, but because her own hand rested on the dog’s head. Her fingers tingled from Joe’s radiated heat. “…it’s just that this is hard for me.”
“What?”
“Small talk. Pretending we have anything even remotely in common.”
“Oh, I’ll bet between us we could come up with something. What’d you think of the last Brad Pitt movie?”
“Didn’t see it.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Black.”
She made a face. Kind of morose, but she supposed apropos, considering where he’d been emotionally.
“Used to be green,” he surprisingly volunteered. “So?
“What?”
“Your favorite color? It’s been awhile since I had a polite conversation, but isn’t that how it goes? I talk, then you talk?”
“Yeah. I was just thinking about your green.”
“What about it?”
“Which one? There are only about a zillion. Kelly green and bamboo. Forest and teal—which is really more of a blue, but—”
“Money green. I used to spend a lot of time worrying about making it. Then, once I had more than I could spend in a lifetime, I worried about keeping it.” He rubbed his chin. “I should’ve spent more time on my wife and kid. Maybe then I wouldn’t have been checking out that new warehouse. I would’ve been home with them, playing a game of Candyland or grilling by the pool.”
“What happened to Willow—it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“We’ll agree to disagree on that. As for me worrying about keeping money…” Gillian laughed. “I’ve never had any. Probably wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did.”
“It’s true, you know. That old saying about money not buying happiness. I always thought it was a lie, but hell, I’ve got millions sitting in an L.A. bank. Fat lot of good it’s doing me.”
“Ever think about going back? You know, back to L.A. to be with Meghan permanently?”
“I thought we weren’t going there.”
“We’re not. Just answer me that one thing.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Because it’s dark, and I’m cold and…” She wanted to believe her reasons for being there went beyond just doing her job. That maybe once all of this was over, he’d go get his little girl. Gillian knew what it felt like to lose her mother. The last thing she wished for Meghan was for her to lose her father, too. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she said, “You’re right. It’s none of my business. Sorry I asked. I won’t again.”
Intending to keep her word, Gillian turned her attention to food, meaning it was time to wriggle their only snack from her pocket.
“What’re you doing?” Joe asked.
“Cooking supper. Hold out your hand.”
He did, and she placed something cold, hard, and at the same time soft on his palm. “What is it?” he asked.
“Taste.”
He closed his eyes and all but moaned at the incredible sensation of chocolate melting on his tongue. The Snickers she’d brought him. She must’ve taken it from the side table after he’d gone. “Thanks,” he said. “But back at the cabin, I was a jerk about it. You eat it all.”
“No way.”
After they’d taken a few minutes to eat, Joe steeled himself for Gillian to once again bring up the topic of Meghan, but she surprised him by staying quiet.
Odd. He hadn’t expected her to gracefully drop the subject of Meggie any more than he expected the flash of disappointment he felt—almost as if he’d wanted to talk about his daughter. Needed to, only he never gave himself permission. But here, in the dark, beside this slip of a woman…
Never had he been closer to a confessional. Never had he wanted more to confess.
Everything.
His pain. Grief. Anger. Most of all, guilt.
Somewhere along the line, after Willow’s death, after the trial, after saying goodbye to his little girl, he’d stopped believing in the whole concept of good. For him, the word didn’t exist.
Life sucked.
Period.
What else was there to consider?
But that had been before this whole mess with Bud. That had been before he’d almost lost his only tangible link with his wife and child. Now that Gillian had mentioned it, Bud’s still being not only alive, but in reasonably good shape, was a wonderful thing, and dammit, Joe wanted to talk about it.
He looked her way, but found only inky shadows and the warmth of soft feminine curves. Since he couldn’t see her, he imagined her, curled on her side in a comfortable position. Cheek resting on her forearm. All that whiskey-blond hair spilling onto the sand. She’d look inviting. Approachable. Like someone he’d be able to talk to. Not at all like the all-business marshal he knew her to be.
Not even in his single days had he met a woman quite like her. In whatever relationship he’d ever been part of, he’d held the indisputable position of power. It wasn’t that he’d had to have it that way, it was just how it’d been. Willow had sometimes teased him about being king of his castle, and he was, or at least used to be. Yet with just a few carefully worded sentences, this Gillian had knocked him on his ass—figuratively speaking, seeing how he’d already been there.
This morning, if someone had told him he’d actually be sorry a woman no longer wanted to hear his sad story, he’d have laughed them off the island. But then his relationship with Gillian had been odd from the start—if what they shared could even be called a relationship.
Bud groaned. He lifted his head from Joe’s knee, and Joe took the opportunity to stretch.
The dog stood, then circled, landing his butt on Joe and his head on Gillian. For a second, jealousy pricked Joe’s gut. The dog was his, so why was he lounging all over this woman? Worse yet, why did Joe care? Come first light, he’d see about getting her off his island and out of his life.
Sure about that?
For the first time since her arrival, no, Joe wasn’t sure. In the darkness, his sense of smell was heightened. Rising above the scents of the sea was her fruity shampoo. He used whatever generic brand the guy he’d hired to stock the place upon his arrival had provided. It smelled like lye. It was a bad smell. One he didn’t mind because now that Willow was dead, he wasn’t supposed to enjoy any part of his life. Yet even recognizing all of that, he couldn’t stop himself from taking another whiff.
Without knowing it, he’d craved human companionship. Maybe if he could explain to someone about his guilt, it’d somehow make it easier to bear. Unfortunately, judging by her slow, metered breaths, he was too late for any more talk tonight. Little Miss Chit-Chat had drifted off to sleep.
“MORNIN’, SKIPPER.” The kid looked up from the gloppy mess he was making of the last jar of peanut butter.
Kavorski grunted.
“Have a good night’s sleep?”
“I’ve had better rest on a horse than on this boat.” Kavorski eased himself into the dinette’s too narrow booth. Damn