CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After work, I change clothes and hit the trail, running past the white stone markers I’ve hidden in plants off the trail. My legs ache and my heart is about to burst out of my chest, but the three-mile boulder is getting closer all the time. One day soon I’ll reach it without stopping.
I keep jogging toward the second curve in the trail. My chest seizes. I come to a slow, gasping stop. Just catching my breath is painful.
Still… progress.
Satisfied, I turn and start back toward the hill to the cliff’s plateau. The waves crash and spray over the rocks. A gleam of pale blue shows on the gray horizon.
A man wearing a hooded red sweatshirt jogs up the adjoining path from the direction of the woodlands.
Apprehension pinches my nerves. I’ve never felt unsafe out here, usually because there are other people walking or jogging, but today a quick glance around tells me the trail and hill are deserted. Fisting my hands, I edge to the side of the path. Hopefully he’ll turn in the direction of the lighthouse.
No. He turns left and heads directly toward me.
More than likely he’s just a harmless runner, but I lost any courage for taking chances a long time ago. Unfortunately, there’s nowhere else I can go out here. I steel my spine and start to run again. I tell myself to avoid eye contact, to run past him as fast as I can.
He’s getting closer. Is he slowing down?
Closer…
My sneakers slam against the dirt. My lungs tighten painfully. Keep running, keep…
He passes me in a rush of salty air, his gasps of exertion the only sound.
I keep going, glancing behind me once. He’s heading toward the boulder, his footfalls rhythmic and steady.
Blowing out a relieved breath, I run toward the hill, ignoring the pain in my muscles and chest until I’m certain he’s no longer in sight. Then I slow and struggle to catch my breath again.
Goddammit. I’m letting David’s call get to me. I need to be careful, yes, but I lived in fear long enough during the investigation. And though my move to Castille had a rocky start, my job, routine, and research are giving me a new sense of security.
Not that that’s affecting my common sense as, thanks to Flynn’s advance on my paycheck, I’ve already made an appointment to have an alarm system installed at Ramshackle Manor.
“Miss Perrin.”
I startle, half-expecting to see the hooded jogger. William King is climbing the hill from the direction of the woodlands, wearing a brown sawtooth parka with binoculars dangling around his neck. I manage to smile at him, though my guard is still up.
“Out for a hike?” I ask casually.
“Bird watching.” He indicates the binoculars with a derisive roll of his eyes. “I know, what a geriatric hobby, right? But I’ve been bird watching since I was a kid, so I figure why stop now?” He peers toward the cliff. “I could never get Jeremy interested in it, though. He preferred shooting birds with his BB gun instead of studying them. Look, there’s a black guillemot. Have a look.”
He takes off the binoculars and hands them to me. I look through the lenses at a glossy black bird with white patches on its wings.
“Pretty.” I return the binoculars and step back.
“You come out here often?” He squints at another couple of birds pecking at the shoreline grasses.
“Sometimes.” A wave crashes against the rocks, sending a damp chill through the air. Goosebumps prickle my arms. “Just for a run.”
“Find anything new about that artist you were looking for?” He lifts the binoculars to his eyes. “I think that’s a red-throated loon.”
“I’m still looking.” I take another step away, disliking my lingering wariness.
“Jeremy tells me you’re an art historian.” William lowers the binoculars and looks at me again. “Impressive. Allegra and I have been fortunate to see major museums all over the world. Everyone raves about the Louvre, but frankly I prefer the Prado. Hard to beat all those Picassos. Do you have a favorite museum?”
“Not really, but I like the Met.” I point my thumb toward the lighthouse. “I’m going to head home. It was nice seeing you again. Good luck with the birding.”
He nods, tilting his head back to peer at a V of birds cresting over the sky. I hurry back up the hill toward the lighthouse. The tower windows are dark.
Disappointment flickers in me. I almost wish I could knock on the door, see if Flynn wants to have dinner or to… sit at the kitchen table without talking. Just being around him right now would be soothing.
Strange how I know nothing about him, and yet of all the people I’ve met, he’s the one with whom I’m becoming the most comfortable.
I shake off my uneasy feelings and head home, glad to see Ghost waiting for me on the porch. After feeding him, I take a shower and go to the library to finish revising my Maria Wood paper before sending a copy to Graham.
Despite my lack of concrete information, the analysis and speculation about the Red Riding Hood drawing flies from my fingertips. It’s been so long since I’ve written anything scholarly that it’s as if a dam has broken open in my brain.
I describe and analyze the drawing, compare it to the works of other fairy tale artists, discuss the social and historical context. The writing brings me back to the reason I love my field of study—because art is such a fascinating lens through which to examine history, societies, culture.
And in the case of Maria Wood, to bring to light an exceptional and shocking artist who used her creativity to subvert the constraints imposed upon women. To exact revenge against those who had hurt her and likely others.
Whoever Maria Wood was, she’s my new hero.
My nerves are jittery and tense when I arrive at the lighthouse on Tuesday morning. The boundaries between me and Flynn are loosening, but our last encounter ended in anger and a slammed door. Instigated by both David’s call and a hot kiss.
For the first time, Flynn isn’t in the workroom to greet me. Dread pools in my stomach. I push open the unlocked door and set my satchel on the desk. Right next to the computer, there’s a large, red stainless steel thermos, so shiny and brand-new that light reflects off the surface.
Before I can process the meaning of it, the cottage door opens. Flynn enters, dressed in a clean but wrinkled T-shirt and worn jeans, his hair damp.
My body reacts instantly to the sight of him—pulse racing, heat filling my chest. It’s even more intense now that I remember the possessive crush of his mouth, the glide of his sloped muscles under my palm…
“Good morning.” He stops in front of the desk and clears his throat. A warm, soapy scent drifts from him. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.”
Our gazes touch. He was in the shower. A drop of water slips from his hair down the side of his neck. I want to lick it away.
Desire flashes in my blood. A damp patch colors part of his T-shirt, as if he didn’t dry himself off completely before dressing. As if he were in a hurry.
And…
Oh my. His gray eyes are dark with satiation, his muscles more relaxed than I’ve ever seen them. I recognize the look of self-administered carnal satisfaction all too well. Bringing myself to orgasm is how I get myself to sleep every night.
Did he just masturbate in the shower? And was he thinking about me while he did?
My pussy clenches. Even if I’m letting my imagination get the better of me, the idea of it is enough to spiral me with lust. I can see it too—a vivid picture as explicitly detailed as my own nocturnal fantasies.
Flynn standing in the shower, water cascading over his naked body, rivulets following the slopes and lines of his chest. Strong, powerful legs planted apart, hair plastered to his forehead, muscles tense with urgency. His cock sticking straight out, thick and so long he could bury it deep inside me and reach places I don’t even know exist.
I see him grasping the veined shaft, stroking from base to tip while working his hips back and forth. Heavy testicles pulled tight underneath. Fucking his own fist. His own fantasy flashing behind his closed eyelids—me lying naked in front of him, my breasts topped with stiff nipples, my trembling legs spread wide apart.
His hand cupping my pussy, stimulating my sensitive clit with his thumb while he positions his cock at my opening. Sliding inside me, slow and firm, letting my body adjust to take him. Our breath rasping through the air, our eyes locking with unspoken messages.
Mine: Yes, oh please, fill me… His: So tight, so good…
Then our words dissolve into groans and sighs as he sinks fully into me and starts to fuck. Plunging deep… so deep… my inner flesh clenching around his shaft, my hot pleas filling his ears, my body bouncing under the increasing force of his thrusts.
He envisions it all, everything stripped raw as the hot shower pours onto him and he strokes his pulsing shaft. And I see him—his body working back and forth with mounting urgency, the swollen head of his cock appearing and disappearing within the vise of his fist, his muscles straining and tensing before… oh, fuck, an orgasm explodes through him, come spraying against the shower wall, a deep, heavy groan rumbling from his chest.
“…for original tales versus retellings,” he says.
Er… what now?
With effort, I pull myself reluctantly out of the fantasy. My skin is hot, my clit tingling.
He heaves in a breath and rests one hand against the wall, lowering his head to let the hot water pound against his neck.
Eve, focus!
I busy myself opening my organizer and taking out a pen, hoping my face isn’t too flushed. “Excuse me, I didn’t catch that?”
“The database. How do I know if a book is an original tale or a retelling?”
“I can show you.” I turn on the computer and bring up the database.
He slips his gaze over me. Again it’s his look—the hot appraising one that brings heat to his eyes. But this time, it’s not like he’s thinking about kissing or touching me. He’s remembering.
“You see, I cataloged each title in a three-level system.”
I type Briar Rose into the title field. He moves around the desk to stand beside me, and his proximity floods my senses with all the good things—the warmth of his body heat, his strong, protective presence. If he were to stand at my side forever, I’d feel like I could do anything.
I pull my attention away from that thought and point to the search results. “The first level is the original work or a translation, with the author as the primary access point. You’ll also find collections there. The second level is adaptations and retellings, and the third is spin-offs involving the same characters.”
His breath stirs my hair. I overslept this morning and hadn’t had time to slather on the apple-lavender body lotion. Can he tell?
“Does that make sense?” I glance at him.
“Yeah.” He steps back. “Any questions?”
I gesture to the thermos. “Is that yours?”
“It’s for you.” He starts toward the door, his posture straightening into the closed off demeanor I’ve come to know so well. “Figured you could use a new one when you’re out somewhere.”
I pick up the thermos, running my hand over the glossy surface. He bought me a thermos. He remembered mine is too old to keep my tea hot for very long.
For me, it’s a better gift than flowers and sparkly jewelry.
“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”
He shrugs off my gratitude and leaves the room.
Probably no other woman in the world would be so ridiculously pleased by the gift of a stainless steel canister, but I’m the only one who knows Flynn. I’m the one who’s developing possessive, intense feelings for him. I’m the one who recognizes this as an effort to make amends.
At least… I think I’m the only woman. God knows I’ve been deceived before.
I set the thermos down and shake that doubt out of my head. Even after David’s threatening call, I won’t let him ruin my attraction to Flynn.
I work through the morning, pausing once when my phone pings with a text from Graham:
Eve, your paper is phenomenal. I’m attaching it with my notes. Truly excellent work. Wish I’d discovered Maria Wood!
The message floods me with pride. Much as I’ve lost recently, I’ve always had my scholarly talent. I’ve also always had Graham.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a call from an unknown number. My stomach knots with anxiety. 408 area code, both Graham and my mother’s location but not either of their numbers.
Warily, I answer the call. “Hello?”
Silence.
Apprehension slithers into my blood. I sense someone on the other end. David’s horrid, crude words fire into my head. Destroy you… tits and cunt… passable fuck.
“Hello?”
More silence. The line goes dead.
Shaking, I end the call and block the number. Tossing the phone aside, I turn back to the computer. Not until tears fall onto the keyboard do I realize I’m crying.