Night’s Landing

Twenty

Sarah went straight to the sink, turned on the faucet and got out the dented aluminum dishpan, squirting in detergent as she tried to pull herself together. “Come on in,” she called to Conroy. “The door’s open.”

“I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just doing dishes. My parents have never seen fit to invest in a dishwasher.” She manufactured a smile. “But Dad has a state-of-the-art computer upstairs. He loves computers.”

She wondered if her cheerfulness sounded phony, if Conroy would excuse or even notice that she’d been crying. She had no idea how she’d get through the night alone with Nate in the house. She was convinced he was half the reason she’d lost it. Being around him had a way of bringing her emotions to the surface-even ones she wanted to hold at bay. She was usually more reserved around men, always believing she was destined for quiet, civilized relationships.

“I suppose our not having a dishwasher is a tidbit you can use in your book,” she added as Conroy stepped inside.

He stayed close to the back door, not sitting down. Sarah detected a strain in his normally easy manner. “Where’s your deputy?” he asked.

“He was just down on the dock. I imagine he’s right behind me.”

“Sarah-” Conroy narrowed his gaze on her, wincing. “Oh, dear. I see I’ve come at a bad time. Is it Rob? He hasn’t take a turn for the worse, has he?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. He’s okay. Doing much better, in fact.” She dumped dishes into the hot, soapy water. She had to look like a wreck. “And I’m okay. The stress of the past few days just got to me, that’s all.”

“I understand.” He seemed awkward, shoved his hands into the pockets of his loose-fitting khakis. He wore a button-down blue oxford cloth shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a sports watch on his wrist. He looked as if he’d been at his book all day. “Look, I know my timing couldn’t be worse, but I need to talk to you about your property manager.”

“Ethan? Why, what’s up?” She decided to let the dishes soak and grabbed a knife out of a drawer. “Here, sit down. I’ll cut you a piece of prune cake.”

“I can’t stay.” He smiled nervously. “But I’ll take a piece with me.”

Nate materialized in the hall doorway, leaning against it.

“Evening, Deputy,” Conroy said.

“Mr. Fontaine.”

“Oh, just Conroy will be fine. I’m going to sample a piece of Sarah’s prune cake.”

“It came out okay.” She cut the cake, easing the fat slice onto a plate. “So, what’s the story with Ethan?”

“Having the authorities here today must have unnerved him. I don’t want to pry-”

“It’s all right.” Sarah found a square of tinfoil in another drawer and laid the cake slice on it. “My brother’s situation is receiving a lot of media attention. Consequently, I had mail here when I arrived. Some of it was kind of bizarre, and the FBI wanted to take a look.”

“I see. No Secret Service?”

She sensed, more than saw Nate stiffening, but she reminded herself that Conroy was a journalist-and possibly not a very reputable one. She didn’t want him selling the story of her anonymous letter to the tabloids. “I have no idea, there were so many. I know this situation must be upsetting for everyone around here. It certainly is for me.”

“Some of the old-timers around here are saying President Poe would drop everything on your say-so and fly down-”

“I doubt that, Conroy. And I have parents. They’re heading to New York tomorrow.”

He smiled. “The point is, the president is that fond of you.”

“No. That’s what people are telling you. You don’t know it for a fact.”

“Ah, the Ph.D. at work.”

She handed the wrapped cake to him. “President Poe has been like a second father to me. I’m very, very lucky in that regard.”

“I’m sure you are,” Conroy said softly.

Sarah climbed onto a stool at the counter. He was just two feet in front of her, one hand on the screen door. It was dark out now, a cricket chirping loudly nearby. “Are you going to tell me about Ethan?” she asked.

“I will. Look-” He shifted, sighing uncomfortably. “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but the guy’s out of control.”

“Ethan?” Sarah couldn’t conceal her surprise. “What did he do?”

“He barged into my cabin earlier and interrogated me about who I am and what I’m doing here. I think he was just being protective of you, but it was unsettling. I was going to call the police.” He shrugged. “I decided you don’t need that.”

Nate stepped into the kitchen and went over to the sink, lifting a sopping dishrag out of the suds. That seemed to bring Conroy up short. She had an armed federal agent on the premises. But Nate said nothing, and Sarah took a breath and eased off the stool. “What exactly happened?”

Conroy hesitated, then continued. “He kicked in my front door while I was working and asked questions. I was shocked. I’m just doing this simple pop biography of the president.” He gave a ragged smile. “Which is what I told Mr. Brooker.”

“Ethan seems so mild mannered.”

“He wasn’t mild mannered when he slammed me against the refrigerator.”

Nate silently washed dishes, no visible indication he was even listening to her conversation with Conroy. But Sarah knew better. “I apologize. I imagine he’s just rattled by what’s been going on. He was here when I got the call from Rob in Central Park. It was very upsetting, and perhaps he overreacted.” She stopped herself there, because she didn’t really know Ethan Brooker and couldn’t vouch for him. “I’ll speak to him.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather you didn’t bring my name up with him. He makes me nervous. If you could just reassure him that he’s supposed to take care of the property, not you.” Conroy broke off with a shrug. “It might help.”

“I’ll do that.”

He held up the foil-wrapped prune cake. “Thanks. I’ll let you know how it compares to my granny’s recipe.”

After he left, Sarah didn’t say a word to Nate and marched up the front hall, fully intending to head to Ethan’s cottage and confront him about his behavior.

He was already on the porch.

And Nate was right behind her, drying his hands with a dish towel.

She pulled open the door. “Ethan, Conroy Fontaine was just here-”

“I know, ma’am. I saw him. I’m sorry, ma’am.” He spoke directly to her, ignoring Nate. “I lost my head. Mr. Fontaine has been sneaking around the area, asking everybody questions, and with your brother getting shot and everything, I went over to check him out. He wasn’t very nice.” Ethan shrugged his big shoulders. “Usually it takes more than that for me to lose my temper.”

“We’ve all been under a lot of stress,” Sarah said.

“I’ll apologize to him.”

“I’d stay away from him,” Nate said. “Let him cool off before you end up in a holding cell at the local jail.”

Sarah nodded. “We all need a few days to calm down.”

“All right, Miss Sarah. If you say so.”

He said good-night and shambled back down the porch steps.

Nate stiffly shut the front door, his eyes as intense as she’d seen them yet. But he smiled suddenly, surprising her. “Now, aren’t you glad I’m here?”

“In their own ways, they’re both looking out for me.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Such a cynic. What are you going to do?”

“Finish the dishes. Unpack.” He looked at her, then touched a finger just under her eye, where it was still moist from her crying jag. “You okay?”

She nodded. Just that slight touch had her reeling, but she tried not to let it show. “You know, I think-” She smiled, starting back to the kitchen. “I’m going to make fried pies.”

There had to be dried apricots in the pantry. Fried apricot pies were one of her father’s favorites. Even her mother, who was no cook, had learned the tricky art of making them.

Nate didn’t say a word, just followed Sarah back to the kitchen. She rummaged around the pantry’s open shelves.

There. Dried apricots, unopened.

She reached behind bags of dried beans and pulled out the box of apricots, then returned to the counter. Nate had rolled up his sleeves and was up to his forearms in dishwater.

“Let me do those,” she said. “Your arm-you were shot, you know.”

“I can handle doing dishes.”

The telephone rang, and Sarah froze. She didn’t know why. Did she think it was the bastard who’d sent her the note, calling to tell her he knew she’d blabbed to the feds? She had no idea what she was thinking. Rob. Had something happened to him?

Nate dried off one hand and picked up the kitchen extension. “Dunnemore residence. Yes, sir, she’s right here.” He handed the phone to Sarah, his blue eyes piercing, unyielding, no hint of a smile now. “It’s President Poe.”

Sarah took the phone, delighted-relieved-that it was a friend. “How are you? Thank you for calling.”

“I’m well. How are you? And who was that who answered?”

“That was Nate Winter, the other deputy who was shot with Rob. He flew down here this morning.”

“So I heard. I should have said something to him. Please give him my best, will you?”

“Of course.”

“I was told about the note, Sarah,” Wes Poe said, his tone serious now, not just that of a family friend checking on her. “I’m worried about you. I’d put a Secret Service detail on you-”

“No, please, don’t.”

She could sense his smile. “I knew that’s what you’d say. At least Deputy Winter is there with you. They say he’s one of the best. Rock solid.”

“He’s not really here in an official capacity. He’s just-” She glanced at him watching her. “Here.”

“Well, it’s reassuring that he is there. I understand your parents are heading to New York sometime tomorrow. That’ll do you and Rob good. I know you’re both grown and tough as nails, but, still, it’s always nice to see your folks. Ev and I can’t wait to see you ourselves.”

“Same here.”

He was a natural politician in the best sense, genuine, able to make people feel at ease in his presence but still aware that he was president-and he was straightforward. Nonetheless, he had a gift for embellishment, a flare for story, that sometimes made Sarah wonder if it were more a Night’s Landing trait than just a Dunnemore trait. He didn’t employ it in policy decisions, only in playing the political game. But who could blame him? He was the self-made man who was found on a doorstep as a baby and raised by two maiden sisters. He wasn’t without fault. He’d fight for what he believed in.

“I’ve got to go. Good night, Sarah. Ev and I love you dearly.”

“I love you both, too. Give her my best.”

After she hung up, Nate grunted. “I didn’t expect him to dial his own damn phone.”

“He said he’s heard you’re rock solid.”

Nate didn’t look thrilled. “I didn’t necessarily want to pop up on the president’s radar screen. He must be hoping this situation doesn’t end up biting him in the ass.”

“At this point I don’t think he cares. He’s as worried about Rob as any of us.”

“He offered to put a Secret Service detail on you?”

“I turned him down.” She smiled. “I’ve got you.”

She didn’t know why she said it, why she said it the way she did, so quietly, with her eyes on him. Before he could react, she tore open her box of dried apricots.

Dump them into a pan, add a little water, cook them until soft.

Then mash them.

Add spices.

Which spices? Cinnamon. For sure, cinnamon.

I can’t think…

She grabbed her apron, realized her hands were shaking.

Nate slipped in behind her and took the apron from her hands, setting it on the counter, then catching her fingers into his and pulling her toward him. “If I’m complicating your life…”

“You are. But I don’t mind.” She smiled, relishing the feel of his hands in hers. “I can’t be doing a whole lot for your life.”

“More than you know. I thought your brother was dead the other day. I’d never met you. I’d never seen you cry. If I’d imagined you here when he called you, I don’t know if I’d have made it through that day.”

“You would have. You did your job.”

“I’m not doing it now.” He scooped one hand up her bare arm. “I’m breaking all the rules.”

“But you’re not here officially. You’re recuperating.”

He gave her a dubious smile. “Recuperating. Right.”

She didn’t want to hear more and placed her hands on his shoulders. He was tall, and she almost had to stand on her tiptoes to reach him. Stretching upward, she found his mouth with hers, felt his instant response-she hadn’t surprised him as much as she might have thought. She wondered if he could see into her and recognize her desire for what it was, a physical yearning, an unresolved tension, a need she’d felt building from the moment she’d spotted him in the hospital, maybe even from the moment he’d picked up Rob’s cell phone after he’d collapsed, after they’d both been shot.

Their kiss deepened, eliminating any thought she might have had that he’d want to hold back. He dropped his right arm-his uninjured arm-to her hips and lifted her onto him, pressing her against the counter, her shirt lifting. She could feel his arm hot against her bare skin.

The lights were off in the kitchen. It was fully dark now.

He drew back from their kiss and raised her shirt, easing it off, exposing her to the cool night air.

“Sarah…”

His fingertips skimmed over her breasts, her nipples hard inside her flimsy bra.

She tried to undo the buttons on his shirt, but she didn’t get very far. Her movements were awkward, fumbling. Too much, she thought. She’d done too much today.

He kissed one breast, lingering there as he unbuttoned his own shirt, pulling it off, casting it to the floor. She marveled at his skill even as she went breathless at the feel of his tongue.

His chest and shoulders were muscular, his stomach flat. His arm was still bandaged, but there was no sign of blood.

He shifted to her other breast, and she heard his belt unbuckle, his pants unzip, and her head spun with the reality of what they were about to do. But she wanted the release, had never been so desperate for sex. That was all this was, she warned herself. Sex. A physical release.

She didn’t care.

Somehow, he got her pants off, and she was impatient now, panting, a little shocked at her own behavior. “We can’t-are we going to make love on the kitchen floor?”

Without answering, he lifted her off the counter, oblivious to any pain he might be feeling in his arm, and lowered her onto him. She gasped, falling back against the counter, but he didn’t let go, plunged himself deeper into her.

She’d never in her life done anything like it.

A half-dozen hard thrusts, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She came in one great wave, moaning as he kept thrusting, going limp, spent, as he kept pulsing into her, until he shuddered, his body tensing, then going still.

He remained inside her, holding her. She could feel his heart beating. They both were sweating. “Never on the kitchen floor,” he whispered, then kissed her softly and set her back down.

He had the grace to gather up her clothes and hand them to her before scooping up his own, pulling on his pants.

“Your arm?” she asked.

“Throbbing.” He smiled back at her. “But it’s a good kind of throb.”

She felt herself blushing, but tried to stop it. She was thirty-two years old, a Ph.D., a woman not completely inexperienced in relationships.

But Nate was different, and it wasn’t just the headiness of the moment at work. He was hard-edged, impatient, no-nonsense-it was easy to find him sexy. A hard-ass federal agent. A Yankee mountainman.

Yet she’d seen his concern, his kindness, his humor. With Rob, with his family. With her.

Don’t fall for him. You’re in no state of mind.

He left the kitchen without another word or a backward glance. She took it to mean he was giving her privacy, not that he wanted to go hang himself for having had sex with an injured deputy’s twin sister.

But how did she know what he was thinking?

She slipped into her clothes and washed her hands and face in the kitchen sink-she could hear Granny Dunnemore clucking with disapproval, nothing, of course, compared to what she’d have thought of her granddaughter screwing herself blind against the counters.

Oh, God…

Drying her hands, Sarah flipped on a light. She was exhausted. Spent. But she’d just toss and turn if she tried to go up to bed. She tore off the top of the apricots and dumped them into a saucepan. Flour-she’d need flour for the turnover-like crust. And oil for frying the pies. Brown paper sacks for letting them drain and cool.

She and Nate could have fried apricot pies for breakfast.