Chapter Seven
Once Darcy confirmed the dark clouds were moving off—she would not have one of her ridiculous post-traumatic stress episodes in front of Micah—she spun in a slow circle on the dock, taking it all in. Rock lined the shore of the island, aside from a few places where it had given way to sand. Windswept pines and maples allowed only a dappled glimpse through to the cottage at the other end of the stone stairway that began at the edge of the trees beyond the dock.
“You mentioned others to Manny,” she said when he took her bags and started toward the stairs. Mostly, she wanted to know who Cynthia was and why she was here without him.
“Patience.” Oh yes, he was enjoying himself a little too much for her liking, despite the brief periods where he seemed lost in dark thoughts during the ride. “Though, it seems that’s not one of your strong suits, which is to my advantage, I think. As for the others, you’ll meet them soon enough.”
So, maybe there would be others staying behind with them. The tightness in her stomach could have been relief or disappointment. Maybe both. It wouldn’t be the strangest thought she’d have today, no doubt.
As they ascended the steps that appeared hand-placed, the cottage finally came into view, nestled in a clearing on the highest point on the island. It was a large log cabin with gorgeous tall windows and red trim. Giant timbers provided support for the small roof that covered the entryway, and a wooden deck wrapped around the entire building.
“Wow, this isn’t what I was expecting,” she said.
“And what were you expecting?”
She took a moment to think about it before saying, “I don’t know. You live in a penthouse and drive a Mercedes. Something posh and cold and clean, with modern decor. This looks homey and cozy.” Not that it was small or even average by any means, but it wasn’t one of the mansions they’d passed on the way here. The cabin invited her inside to kick her shoes off and flop down on the furniture, to open a book and sip wine by a fireplace, or play naughty card games by candlelight with her scrumptious guy.
God, really? Even if she was interested in romance, men like him didn’t do love; they did fucking and leaving. This was purely business.
“Is that how you see me?” he asked pointedly. “‘Posh and cold’?”
Giving him a once-over, she considered the basis for her assumption. “The guy you used to be, yeah, pretty much. The guy standing with me now, though…this is the second time you’ve surprised me today, and that doesn’t happen often.”
The one eye visible around his hair shield studied her. He didn’t have a chance to respond before a redheaded woman stormed out of the front door wearing a low-cut white dress, marched down the steps, and stuck a finger into his chest. “I can’t believe you’re not only kicking me out early, but you made me stock the damn place and prep for you, too. Why do I put up with you? Seriously, why?”
Micah grabbed her up in a hug, right off her sandaled feet, squeezing until she started laughing and begging him to stop. Definitely a girlfriend. Or a casual lover, of which he’d probably had many in the past week alone.
Darcy feigned interest in the red tin roof, confused at the strange stirrings in her belly. Awkward.
“Cynthia, this is Darcy Delacorte,” Micah said. “Be polite, and I might let you have another week or two in August.”
Darcy plastered a smile on her face and extended her hand as the other woman inspected her up and down. “The reporter. I thought you were kidding.” Silent communication passed between them, and Micah seemed to be begging her with his eyes not to make a scene.
Darcy cleared her throat. “Have I interrupted some sort of romantic week for you, here? This was entirely Micah’s idea, but I can leave if it’s a problem.”
They shared another strange look, and then the two of them broke into hysterics. Okay, so maybe they weren’t lovers? They didn’t appear to be siblings.
When Cynthia’s laughter died down enough for her to talk, she stepped in close and offered her hand.
Darcy shook it and almost stumbled into the shorter woman when Cynthia yanked her forward. “Write anything bad about him, and I will break your fucking face.” As she tromped off toward the dock, she flashed an innocent smile over her shoulder to Darcy, and when Micah glared at her, she waved.
Another man came out the front door, carrying enough luggage for twelve people, and hurried after her with stars in his eyes. If Darcy had to guess, the redhead had put those stars there moments before.
Darcy grinned at the man struggling down the steps and at Cynthia, who’d begun chattering at him about denting her cases, her red hair swinging across her back like curled fire. “She’s a spitfire,” Darcy said. “I think that guy’d have a hard time walking even without bags weighing him down.”
“You don’t miss a thing, do you? She’s my partner in the foundation, and she can talk just about anyone into anything. Don’t know what I’d do without her.” Micah started up the wooden steps that would take them into the cottage. Where they’d be alone, with bedrooms, and kitchen counters, and solid walls and…
“Are they the only two here?” Darcy blurted. “I mean, they could stay. I don’t mind.”
“But I do.” He opened the door and held his arm toward it, waiting until she ascended to join him. “I’m going to have you all to myself.”
“I’m not available to be had.”
His lips quirked. “That’s not the first time you’ve read something racy in an innocent comment. I’m beginning to think you have a dirtier mind than me.”
What the hell was she supposed to say to that? There was nothing innocent about him. Rolling her eyes, she went inside and stopped in a large room that contained the kitchen and living area. It was a true log structure with white chinking between the giant timbers that formed the walls, but it could never be called a simple cabin.
Vaulted ceilings went up fifteen feet. Dark floors and rich red fabrics gave it a masculine air, tasteful and charming. It might have been heavy and dark, but the enormous windows let in enough light that it was warm.
More pictures lined the walls like the ones in his office. She wandered the perimeter, touching everything she could get her hands on—which told her little about the man himself, except that he had an eye for interesting architecture and composition. After he set her bags by the kitchen island, he became her shadow, looming close enough that his crisp scent kept filling her nose.
It was a scent she wouldn’t soon forget, unique and robust, like the man himself. She fought an urge to press her face against his throat and inhale him, to roll his taste around on her tongue like a creamy caramel.
Every time she turned, he was there like a wall of hot-blooded man, as if afraid she’d steal something. Or he wanted her to keep bumping her body into his, hoping she’d be so deliriously horny, she’d jump into bed with him. Either theory fit his behavior at the moment.
Something caught her eye on the table between the soft leather sofa and matching chair. Careful to give him a wide berth, she made a beeline for it. “If you’re trying to intimidate me,” she said, “it’s not working. Hey, who’s that in the picture with you? She’s stunning.”
Rushing by her, he snatched up the gold frame and held it to his chest, but not before she saw two faces bright with joy on a beach, staring down at a blond child sitting on their bare feet. His lowered gaze suggested the woman had been dear to him. “My mother,” he said, finally.
All thought stalled. “Really? But you look the same age as you do now, and I thought she died…you were only fourteen.” The woman had a darker complexion than Micah, of Latin descent, maybe.
“It isn’t me.” Peeling the frame away from his chest, he passed his thumb over her face before replacing it on the side table. “I’m the child.”
If not for strong joints, Darcy’s jaw bone might have fallen to the floor as she studied the picture again, not daring to move closer to it again. “I can’t believe how much you look like your father.” She brought her hand to her mouth, startled by the threat of tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “You all look so happy. I don’t blame you for being protective of that treasure.” Dammit, five seconds inside his place, and her heart was already getting mixed up in his life.
Had their joy been a show for the camera? No, happiness that lit up a person’s eyes couldn’t be faked. What had Micah’s life been before they’d died? Before now, she assumed he’d been a spoiled rich kid, but for some reason, the image of his parents together changed her entire perception, increasing her wonder tenfold.
How did a child who’d grown up in loving arms get to be the drunken brat plastered all over the internet?
Micah led her on a tour of the rest of the amenities, including the lovely bedroom she’d be staying in—clearly Cynthia had just vacated it because it smelled of perfume. “The closet and dresser are full of clothes,” he said, “so feel free to wear anything you want. Cynthia won’t mind.”
Darcy wasn’t sure she believed him after meeting the woman, but it didn’t matter. “Thanks, I’ve packed everything I need.” T-shirts and shorts for all occasions.
The bathroom was as welcoming as the rest of the place. It had a giant claw-foot tub and a glassed-in shower. Lastly, he presented his bedroom, of which Darcy hastened past without seeing much more than a dark blue room with a king-sized bed and another leather sofa. That was as close as she’d dare, especially with the concentration of his delicious scent wafting from within.
Back in the kitchen, he opened the fridge. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving!” she exclaimed with more enthusiasm than necessary.
“Cynthia started the charcoal for me, so I’ll get the steaks on.”
The mention of charcoal worked like Pavlov’s bell, starting a flood of drool in her mouth. Gramps had grilled that way all summer long when Darcy visited them, and she hadn’t eaten as well since. How had Micah guessed that she was close to her grandparents, and they’d lived in the area? She’d always sucked at lying. How many nonverbal tells did she have? She was about to play a psychological version of strip poker with the guy, and he had game. Damn.
While Micah puttered around the stainless-steel appliances and maple cabinets, she took her grumbling stomach and went out the patio door to the back of the cottage. The deck was larger on this side, facing the west where the sun hung low in the sky. Lush gardens full of meticulously trimmed bushes and splashes of colorful annuals surrounded the deck and dotted the edges of a path that probably led to the water through the trees.
A set of wooden stairs led down to a pool lined with stone, making it blend into the natural landscape like a piece of art glittering in the sunlight. Fragrant rose bushes around the perimeter perfumed the damp evening air, and flowering vines sent ribbons of deep purple up the side of the house.
Of course he had a pool. She considered asking him who did his landscaping, but every question would cost her something in return, so she scrapped the idea. He wanted to poke his fingers into the bruises she carried. They weren’t as deep as she imagined his were, but they still hurt. All the good she could do from the top shelf would be worth it.
The man of mystery emerged with two thick rib eye steaks dripping with some sort of marinade that was close to spilling over the plate. The smell hit her nose, instantly transporting her to happier days full of summer breezes, piano music, and Gramps telling stories around a campfire.
“Judging by your wide eyes and wet lips, I’m guessing you approve of my meal choice? If steak gets you off this much, wait until you taste the mousse.” He flashed a grin as he set the plate on a round table beside the egg-shaped grill and opened it up. Smoke wafted into his face, and he shoved at his hair, but it kept falling forward.
Unable to stand it a moment longer, she closed the distance and raised her hand to his face.
His hand was suddenly there, clamped around hers so hard her bones creaked. “What are you doing?” he said through set teeth, his hair cascading forward as he leaned over her.
“You said this is your sanctuary, and we’re going to be here together for a whole week, so let’s deal with the elephant in the room so you can relax. I know you don’t know me yet, but I understand. You don’t have to hide from me.”
Eventually, his grip relaxed. His body had hardened to stone, and his breathing had become short and shallow. Moving slowly, she spread her fingers into his hair that had driven her to near insanity since the moment they’d met. It was soft and thick, but it kept spilling over her makeshift dam with the tilt of his head.
Taking him by the hand, she led him to a chair by the glass table and urged him to sit. Lids crimped shut, he did, resisting when she stepped in between his knees and tried to lift his closely shaven chin. “Please, Micah,” she said. “It’s just you and me and the trees. Let me see so you can tie your hair back and cook us some steaks without setting your stubborn head on fire.” Why was she being so bold? She didn’t go around touching people uninvited, at least not anymore.
He gave a clipped laugh and eventually stopped fighting her. The blond waterfall fell backward, revealing what he’d been so desperate to hide. Knowing he must have been waiting in agony for a gasp or sign of her horror, she wasted no time raising a fingertip and placing it gently at the top of the pink line that zigzagged near his left eye, down his cheek to his mouth, and then tapered off halfway down his throat.
When he sucked in a breath, she stopped. “Did I hurt you?” She leaned out enough she could see his entire face. “Or are you just sensitive and not used to people prodding you?” The area around her scar was sensitive, too.
He opened his eyes, and the raw fear in them hit her like a fist. She’d seen that look before, on Gramps during one of his bad days. In her own eyes in the mirror from time to time.
Forgetting everything except the need to erase that fear, she leaned in again and traced the scar at the corner of his mouth with her fingertip.
“I’ve always been fascinated by the body’s ability to heal itself,” she went on when he sat there, his breathing returning to normal and maybe even slower, as if he was close to sleep. “My gran would have called this a warrior’s birthmark. She said it’s a sign that a person faced something horrifying, and instead of running, a warrior emerged and fought to survive.”
Darcy smiled as she let her hands drop to his shoulders, vaguely aware that his hands had come up to her waist. “Gramps had scars far worse than yours, and Gran always told me, ‘You have to kiss the warrior before the man, or he’ll get testy that you haven’t let him know you see him in there,’ and then she’d kiss his scars until he laughed.”
“Pretty words for something so ugly.” Micah dropped his hands and shoved his chair back, staring at her as if she’d conjured a sword out of her ass, half impressed and half horrified. It appeared as if he was about to ask her who she was again.
“Ugly, is that what you think? I see strength and perseverance, and you should, too.” Lost to memory, she stepped into him again and brushed her lips against the scar on his temple, pausing when his breath caught. “From the first time I heard Gran say that about the warrior, I always kissed Gramps that way. It made him smile every time, and he hugged me for long periods, which made me wonder if he was tearing up and didn’t want me to see. I spent every summer with them. If I came inside and Gran was playing the piano, I knew Gramps was having a bad day. He called her his nightingale. I was never really sure if it was after the nurse or the bird, maybe both.”
Micah lifted his chin, peering at her through his hair again.
“She took care of him in every way that mattered,” Darcy continued, “and he took even better care of her. Not buying her jewelry or meaningless stuff, but making sure there was always wood on the fire, and her beloved gardens were well tilled, and he lavished her with enough affection to make a teddy bear jealous. He adored her utterly and completely.”
Her smile widened, but it felt sad and heavy with the loss of them both. “I grew up thinking that’s what love was. ‘If love is easy, you’re not doing it right,’ Gran used to say. It’s sad that our generation will probably never know bonds like that.”
Choked up, she waved away the thought and went to the barbecue, shutting down the memories. Something about Micah disarmed her, and the setting stirred up feelings she thought were lost. If she kept spilling her guts, she’d have nothing left to pay for his secrets.