Saving Joe. Laura Altom Marie
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her?
Who was he? he thought, storming across the room.
The owner of this freakin’ island, that’s who.
By God, he had a right to his privacy.
He looked up from his rage to catch a glint of light from the kitchen reflecting off the framed photos lining the fireplace mantel.
Sighing, hastily turning away, Joe swallowed bile-tainted shame.
He had a right to privacy just like Willow had a right to justice. Like Meggie had a right to live a normal life, as opposed to being surrounded by bodyguards 24-7.
What if this time, that murdering low life stayed behind bars? Didn’t Joe owe it to the memory of his wife and the future of their daughter to at least cooperate with the woman trying to right the wrong of Willow’s death?
He leaned both elbows against the wood plank mantel, landing his gaze on the photo not five inches from his face.
Willow with Meggie.
Sunset on Greystone Beach.
His little girl had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms after the three of them had been on a long walk. At the time Joe snapped the picture, he’d found the sight of mother and child enchanting. He still did.
Gazing at the image of them, he found it didn’t seem real that Willow was gone. The very idea was a bad dream. As if the reason he hadn’t seen her in so long was that he’d been away on extended business.
Business. Had it been a drug lord who’d killed his wife, or in essence was it Joe’s own fault? If he hadn’t been working that Sunday morning…
Bile again rose in his throat.
How many times was he going to ask himself the same unanswerable questions?
The past was gone, but the future…
He dreamed of one day having this nightmare behind him. Of bringing Meggie here to see the island. The sea cave with its hundreds of starfish lining the rocks at low tide. The pine forest with its tumbling boulders and moss and ferns. She’d love it here—his girl.
But what about the new girl in his life? Was she loving it here? Roughing it in the rain?
Joe groaned. If only he knew what to do.
Oh sure, the proper thing would be to invite the woman inside, share a meal, then listen while she briefed him on the upcoming trial. But the truth of the matter was that the past few years had turned him into a head case.
He didn’t used to be like this.
Indecisive.
Standoffish.
Downright rude.
He used to be normal—at least by society’s definition. He’d been a successful entrepreneur, having made a fortune for himself and his investors in the import game. He’d owned a fancy house, a Jag, a Mercedes and a Hummer, even a vacation home in Cabo. So why, when he’d so diligently followed the rules of success, had tragedy stolen everything he’d loved?
As afternoon faded to night, the question refused to leave his head.
Joe tried passing time without thinking of either the past or his future. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he’d ever done before the nosy female marshal arrived. He’d walked the island of course, but now, to get out of the cabin, he’d have to stroll past her tent.
What if when he was passing, she started to talk?
Even worse, what if like earlier, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to listen?
Ditching the idea of taking a stroll, he went to the small galley kitchen to scrounge up a meal.
Did he have a taste for something simple? Soup? Or was he craving a more substantial meal? Jarred spaghetti? Canned ham?
What was she having? Those scrambled eggs of hers?
French toast swimming in warm, buttery syrup?
The last time he’d eaten French toast he’d been on vacation in Maui with Willow and her parents. Willow had been six months pregnant, and her belly had been a constant source of fascination. He’d loved rubbing it, kissing it, feeding it and the growing girl tucked safely inside.
Needing to shut out the acute pain that usually followed particularly pleasant memories, Joe yanked open the nearest cabinet door.
In a messy parade along the shelves were canned, boxed and dry goods. Soups, chili, pork and beans, macaroni and cheese, pasta in a couple of shapes and sizes.
Finally figuring he was making too big a deal out of what should have been nothing more than a routine chore, he reached for a can of chicken noodle soup and a roll of stale crackers.
After eating his fill, Joe reflexively set the bowl on the floor for Bud to finish, only the dog wasn’t there.
Was he still with their supposed protector?
Anger flashed through him. Of all the places Joe had run, this island was the one where he felt most safe. He didn’t need or want her here.
He slipped on the hiking boots he kept by the door, and marched outside. A sliver of yellow moon peeked through a break in the fog. The rain had stopped and the wind had lessened, yet the damp air somehow felt wetter in his lungs than it had before.
Folding his arms across his chest, Joe gazed out at the restless sea, refusing to even glance in the tent’s direction.
He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bud! Come here, boy!”
About twenty yards into the dark, Bud barked, then scurried into the woods, hot on the trail of some small rodent. Ordinarily, Joe gave him the run of the island, but nothing about this night was ordinary and he didn’t like the idea of his dog wandering off. He wanted Bud close, safe.
Just in case.
Of what? He didn’t know. Just in case. For now, that was reason enough.
“Yo, Bud!” Joe’s cry fell flat against the fog. “Bud! Come on, boy, get back here!”
The dog barked, but judging from the sound, he’d traveled a good distance in the short time between calls.
“Damn dog,” Joe mumbled, stepping off the porch, and—
Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!
He winced, brought his hands to his ears, blocking the electronic racket.
The annoyance was turned off, only to be followed by the even more grating sound of a tent zipper opening, then a sleepy, “Hmm…looks like I caught something.” Gillian grinned at him.
Joe groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. You put a perimeter alarm around my cabin?”
She shrugged, ran her fingers through sleep-tousled hair. She’d changed from her jeans, navy T-shirt and jacket into an all black number hugging her curves like porn star long johns. Swallowing hard, Joe looked away.
The woman was a damn nuisance.
“Was there anything in particular you needed?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence.
“My dog. Seen him?”
“Up to about an hour ago, he was sleeping next to me. I heard rustling outside the tent, got up to check it out, then the next thing I knew, Bud took off, bouncing like a bunny through the weeds.”
During the last part of her explanation, she’d done a little hop that—no. No, the below the belt movement hadn’t happened. Even if it had, he could ignore it. He’d been on his own for years.
He was a man.
She was a woman.
It wasn’t attraction, but an animalistic urge. An urge he’d damn well fight, out of respect for Willow and Meggie.
Damn