Heart Of The Hunter. Bj James
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a semblance of reason returned. She couldn’t tell him that after spending a weekend hiding from herself and from him, she’d discovered with one glance that hiding was futile. She couldn’t tell him that he’d been the love of her young life, and when he left, he’d taken her heart with him. She couldn’t in a lifetime tell him how much she’d hurt, and how long.
She couldn’t tell him. She’d thought for years that it was all behind her, but now, she wasn’t sure. She knew now what she’d been afraid of. What frightened her still—that she would love him again, or that she’d never stopped, and might not survive losing him again.
She couldn’t tell him she was glad when she saw him at her gate, because hiding was truly not her way. She was a fighter. No matter how fierce or how frightening, she’d learned to face her problems. Those she couldn’t conquer, she lived with in peace.
She couldn’t tell him that when he smiled at her, she wondered if there would ever be peace in her life again.
No, she couldn’t tell him.
Drawing a long breath, with a wobbly smile, she took his hand. “I’m glad you’re here, because you were the best friend I ever had, and I’ve missed you.”
She didn’t wait for a reply as she led him down the walk.
With his hand in hers, Jeb went warily with her to her home. Hoping she was as innocent as she seemed, but brutally conscious it could mean his life, if she weren’t.
There was caution in every guarded step he took, his darting gaze probing, seeking, finding nothing. The courtyard was small and open and, even filled with plants, it offered no place to hide. Like the courtyard, the piazza was capable of no surprises. The house, a Charleston single, so called because its rooms were arranged in a single row with one opening into the next, was a different matter.
Guardedly, hand itching for the pistol holstered at his ankle, he stepped into the welcoming cool of the first room. The door, another creation of wood and leaded glass, and as striking as that of the gallery, closed at his back with a muted thud. At that moment, as if minding its manners and waiting for a cue, the storm broke with the pent-up fury of a rabid animal.
Ready to move if he must, however he must, Jeb stood barely inside, eyes searching corners of the room and peering through an open door to the next. Watching for shadows that were more than shadow. Listening for sounds of treachery masked by the clatter of rain on the copper clad roof.
Body taut, shoulders rigid, he waited for an attack that never came.
At her look of askance at his stillness, his strange silence, he shrugged and tried to ignore the sweat on his palm, the burning spot in the center of his chest. “Sorry.” His lips quirked in a lazy grin, his eyes were flat, watchful. “I was admiring the room. I don’t know what I expected, but I like it. It’s pleasing, comfortable. You must enjoy it.”
That much was true. Nicole had blended antique furnishings with modern, light woods with dark. Another time, under different circumstances, the effect would’ve, indeed, been pleasing, a comfort when one needed it. Only someone who loved it could have made it so perfect.
“I’ve read about the Charleston single, its history, the practicality of its architecture, but I’ve never seen one.” He lifted an apologetic brow, as if he were hesitant to ask. But one way or another, he would see the rest of the house. He had to be certain Tony Callison did not lie in wait for either of them. “May I?”
Nicole was bewildered by the request. Jeb’s field in college had been history, but he’d been an indifferent student, far more interested in the height of the surf than his studies. But that was a long time ago, a lot had changed, and she knew very little about him now. What he’d done with his life. What profession he’d finally chosen, and what circumstances brought him to the Carolina coast and Charleston.
“Of course.” She heard the hint of surprise in her voice, and chided herself that, indifferent or not, history had been his interest, and what place was more deeply steeped in it than Charleston? “This is a typical single, though a bit small if one considers the number of rooms, rather than their size. At the moment there are only three in use. This one, the bedroom, beyond it a study with bath and dressing room incorporated. The upstairs is storage for the gallery.”
As she spoke, she led him through the house, explaining the lack of closets, the towering ceiling. One room after another, upstairs and down, never more than a pace behind, Jeb rifled her home with his searing gaze.
When the tour was ended, he knew she hadn’t lied. She was alone. Tony Callison had not hidden in a murky corner, beneath stacks of stored paintings, nor in the crowded antique chifforobe. Only a mouse could have hidden in the uncomplicated house, and from the gleaming orderliness, he doubted a sensible mouse would be tempted.
“As you’ve probably discovered, the Charleston single was primarily situated so the doors could be opened to the ocean, to let its breezes pass directly through. In our era of air-conditioning, position wouldn’t matter so much.” Nicole faltered in her stilted, impromptu lecture. Throughout the tour she suspected he wasn’t listening. That his mind was on something else, not the house in which he’d professed such interest. “Jeb, are you sure you really wanted to see and hear all this?”
He smiled down at her, aware that she’d led him back to her bedroom, and that it smelled of jasmine. “I really wanted to see and hear all of it.”
Nicole shook her head. This grew more and more curious. He wanted to see, yet he’d been distracted, less intent on historical characteristic than personal. She could almost think he wanted to see the house simply because it was hers. And that made even less sense.
“Why?” She asked the question she hadn’t intended. “I mean, I don’t understand your interest.”
“Don’t you, Nicole?” He took her hand in his. Her fingers were slender and smooth. When he had expected nails like rapiers, hers were short and practical. Nails that belonged on busy, useful hands. Hands that toiled.
He wondered if the plants that bloomed in summer’s profusion about the house were as much the fruition of her labor as this room. Her bedroom. A woman’s room, yet one that would welcome a man and give him comfort.
He wondered, and when he looked into her clear, lovely gaze, he wondered more.
“Does it surprise you that I would want to discover all there is to know about an old friend? What you’ve done with your life, and why. What you want for the future.” His voice sank to a murmur. “When I came to Kiawah, I didn’t expect to find such a beautiful woman there. Now that I have, I want to know everything.”
“Kiawah?” Her hand convulsed in his. “How did you know I live on Kiawah? In fact, how did you know that I was here?” By here she meant the single tucked so perfectly and unobtrusively in its quiet little alley. He’d walked only by chance into her gallery, yet he knew so much about her.
A slip, Jeb realized grimly. The sort he rarely made, but not as bad as it could have been. Next time he might not be so lucky. Next time he might lose himself completely in that exquisite gaze.
But there wouldn’t be a next time. There couldn’t.
“I know because I asked,” he answered with a casualness he didn’t feel. A deceptively straightforward answer that left out who and why. “How better to find you?”
Nicole laughed then. A lot was still unexplained, but for the first time, he sounded almost like the old Jeb. Direct, to the point, never taking refuge in social convention. Truthful to a fault.
She still wasn’t sure how she should deal with this handsome fantasy from her past. But, for the moment, she wouldn’t deal, she would simply enjoy.
A shutter caught by the wind ripped free and banged against a window. In a whirl of skirts Nicole rushed to the great room in time to see it tumble across the lawn. “Oh, dear. Annabelle will never let me forget this. She’d been reminding me for weeks that I needed to repair that shutter. But with the sale and all it entailed,