One True Secret. Bethany Campbell
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to gather her thoughts. “He’s not supposed to be out here. I was supposed to get everything inside.”
He couldn’t stop looking at her. “Everything?” he echoed.
“All the animals. I couldn’t find him. You know—cats.”
“I know cats. Yes. Independent. I used to be one. I mean, I used to have one. Do you want me to help you? He looks heavy.”
“No. No.” She struggled to rise, but she was trying not to crush the foliage and still balance the cat. She had her arms wrapped round him under his forelegs, so he was staring at Merriman over the great mound of his belly. He looked like King Henry VIII.
The woman almost lost her balance, so Merriman sprang to his feet, putting out a hand to steady her. She went stock-still. “I didn’t know you were out here,” she said. “I looked out and saw Bunbury—”
He kept his hand on her upper arm, just to make sure she was all right and to convey his concern. “Bunbury is?”
“The cat.” She swallowed. “I didn’t see any people. Why were you behind that tree?”
“I never saw a tree like that. I just wanted to look closer.”
“You were squatting down behind it, hiding,” she accused. Her cheeks had flushed an enticing pink.
“There was a flower. A strange flower. That one.” He pointed an accusing finger at it. “I was kneeling to take a picture, that’s all.”
She hugged the cat more tightly to her. It screwed up its face in protest and emitted a sound that was more like a hoarse chirp than a meow. Merriman realized the woman was staring just as intently at him as he was at her. He still had his hand on her arm, but she made no protest, so he was happy to keep touching her.
Her face was gentle, not flamboyantly pretty like her sister’s, but pretty with a natural sweetness that almost hypnotized him. Her hair was brushed in a soft wave away from her face and hung nearly to her shoulders.
“I’m Merriman, the photographer,” he said, extending his free hand. “Please shake hands so I know you forgive me for startling you. I apologize. From the heart.”
From a heart that ached oddly and pleasantly, he realized. She looked doubtful, but then tried to reach for his hand. But that entailed juggling the cat, who protested with another of his weird, grating chirps.
“Let me take him for you,” Merriman said, scrambling to get one arm around the cat. He managed, and Bunbury dangled like a sulky sack of grain in his hold.
Almost shyly, Merriman offered his hand again. She studied it, then, far more shyly, took it. He stared down at her, tongue-tied. Her grasp was light and cool, yet firm.
“I’m Claire Roth,” she said. “I—I saw you walking down on the beach. I didn’t know you’d come back here.”
Merriman reluctantly let her draw her hand away. She was edging back from him, clearly about to make a quick escape. He didn’t want her to go. Desperately, he said, “The flowers—the trees. I’m taking pictures, but I don’t know what I’m taking pictures of. This tree—what is it?”
“A banyan,” she almost whispered.
“It looks like sixteen trees grown together. Those things dropping down, are they roots, or just vines? How big will the thing get?”
“It’s all one tree. Yes, they’re roots. It could grow a hundred feet tall. But it probably won’t.”
Her eyes rose to the sky. “Storms.” She looked worried.
“Hurricanes?” He should have glanced at the sky, too, but he didn’t have to. He could sense the morning darkening and the wind rising. And he couldn’t stop taking in her face.
A gust of wind lifted her hair, revealing a delicate ear that had never been pierced. She nodded. “Hurricanes. Tropical storms. We lose branches.”
Something about her made him feel giddy as a schoolboy. “There’s a watch or a warning. Does it scare you?”
She nodded. “A little. I—I need to go in now.”
“I’ll carry the cat,” he offered.
Her expression went uncomfortable, and hastily he added, “Only to the door. That’s all. Do you have to go in? I’d sure like somebody to tell me the names of all these plants.”
He was pleased to see her hesitate. She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to talk to anybody.”
“I wouldn’t ask you anything personal,” he vowed, forgetting that he owed any loyalty to Eli. “If you could just tell me the names, and I could write them down. Like that thing— I don’t know what it is.”
Still clutching Bunbury in a one-armed hold, he pointed at the peculiar flower of purple and gold. “I’ll get back, develop all this stuff and not know how to look it up.”
She still acted as if she had reservations. But she said, “It’s a bird-of-paradise.” She paused, then said, “Some people say it looks like a bird in flight. It’s unusual, because it’s actually pollinated by birds, not bees.”
“Really,” Merriman said, as if this was the most fascinating fact he’d ever heard. Perhaps it was, coming from her lips, those words about birds and bees.
He rubbed the cat’s stomach so it would stay peaceful. Merriman tilted his head toward a climbing vine with ornate lavender flowers. “And those? Orchids?”
She pushed a wayward lock of hair from her cheek. “No. They’re passionflowers.”
He rubbed the cat harder. “Passionflowers. Why are they called that?”
“Well…” She still seemed torn about lingering, but clearly she loved the plants and wanted him to appreciate them. “It’s kind of a complicated legend…”
“I’d love to hear it,” Merriman told her with so much sincerity that it made him dizzy. He rubbed the cat until it had no choice but to purr in sensual pleasure.
EMERSON KICKED OFF her sandals so she could walk in the damp sand and dodge the surf when it came foaming onto the beach. It was a game she’d played since childhood, and she loved it.
This, she calculated, would force Eli Garner to keep his distance and try to question her against the wind and over the roar of the waves. That, or he’d have to shed his own shoes and a considerable amount of dignity to stay at her side.
She was surprised when he undid his sandals and set them next to hers. He rolled his jeans up to his shins, stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled to the sea’s edge beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
But today the sea was not playful. The waves that came rolling in were rough, and they did not so much collapse in a froth on the sand as throw themselves on it in assault.
The wind was cool and whipped Emerson’s long skirt around her. She had to gather it up and clench its hem in her fist. This left her legs bare to the knee, and Eli gave them a glance that seemed coolly interested. She wished she’d worn capri pants.
The wind blew her hair about, and his, too. He had thick hair, longish and wavy. He reached into his pocket and put on his sunglasses. They gave him a masked look.
She sidestepped a wave more aggressive than the rest and accidentally bumped into him. The water surged around her calves, and she nearly lost her balance when the spent wave pulled seaward again.
His arm shot out to steady her, settling on her waist, bracing her so she didn’t stumble. It seemed a perfunctory gesture, brief and businesslike. His hand fell away almost immediately. She was glad. His touch implied an intimacy she found dangerously intriguing.
“Careful,” he warned.
“I didn’t realize you were that close,” she grumbled.