Chapter Two
Liz shoved an organic frozen dinner into her microwave at the end of a long, ball-bust day. She’d delivered two babies, seen an afternoon’s worth of patients, and attended a staff meeting at the hospital. It was great to be making a difference in her hometown and she was fortunate to be part of a busy practice. She loved being busy, but sometimes she felt as if her work were taking over her life.
Case in point: her refrigerator was not looking good. An apple, an old carton of half-and-half, and a bottle of wine she’d opened almost a month ago when Brett and Kevin brought takeout for dinner, stared back at her from the otherwise empty shelves. The microwave dinged, and she took her prepared meal into the living room, where she sat in an old beige recliner, the only thing she’d brought from her apartment with her ex because it had been hers before her marriage.
The chair was ratty but comfy. Actually, it was the only comfy thing in her place. It was also the only piece of furniture. But it was hers and that meant something. As she ate, she tried to picture what her place would look like with more things—a pretty couch, some bright pillows. The odds and ends and photos, maybe a plant or two, that make up a real life.
It wasn’t so long ago she’d started a life like that, full of hopes and dreams. Until her husband, the man she’d dated since high school, cheated on her with Daphne Marie Henderson, who owned the pet grooming business in town. At the time, they hadn’t even been married a year. She thought Parker was dropping off his mother’s dog for a shampoo and cut, but he was clearly getting some other services performed as well.
She hadn’t even suspected a thing until she’d come home early one day and found the bedroom door closed. In her mind, she could still hear the creaking of the bed. She’d made herself forget the other sounds she’d heard coming from behind that door.
That was enough for her to leave every single stick of furniture behind. All the wedding china and the pretty crystal wineglasses and the cute gadgets and appliances. As for those pretty throw pillows she’d picked out…well, her ex could shove those somewhere dark and remote. She hadn’t wanted one single thing he’d touched.
So her new life was a bit sparse. That was all right. It was simply the price for purging Parker—and all the attendant stuff—from her life for good.
The banging began sometime around her third bite. Judging by the way the wind had begun tossing tree branches around and the way the room had suddenly become dark as night, a late spring storm was brewing, and it had probably jogged a pesky shutter loose on the house next door.
The house, a big beautiful behemoth of a thing, had gorgeous bones and a fine yard, and gardens that were full of old-fashioned perennials from years gone by. But it was falling into disrepair, leaving her elderly neighbor, Dottie, unable to keep up with all its demands for care. In fact, Dottie planned to put it on the market as soon as she returned from living the life on a European river cruise, before moving to Florida before winter hit. She’d given Liz a key in case anything went wrong, and had asked her to watch over things while she was gone. Liz knew she’d better go and secure the shutter before it ripped right off the house, causing more problems and expense.
Thunder rumbled. Liz ran the short distance between her tiny craftsman bungalow and the large, turreted Queen Anne Victorian, stepping onto the large wraparound porch, noticing that the potted petunias on the steps were wilting—also her problem. She was supposed to be watering them daily. The parched flowers were yet more evidence of her out-of-control work hours.
Big, fat droplets of rain began to fall. She spied the shutter as belonging to a window under cover of the porch. As she secured it to its latch, she noticed something else—a soft meowing, but a look around confirmed there was no cat in sight. Dottie fed all kinds of stray creatures, and one push of her built-in pet door indicated it wasn’t locked. Hardly anyone locked doors or windows in Buckleberry Bend anyway. Liz bent down and swung the pet door until she was able to grab and open it.
“C’mon, kitty,” she called inside the opening. “Come on out. No food supply in there for you the next few weeks.”
A small snow-white kitten emerged from the shadows. By the size, she’d guess it was around six months. The kitten blinked its eyes and stared at her, frozen in fright.
“Come here, sweetie,” she called. Thunder rumbled again in the distance. It was about to freaking pour. At the sound, the kitten jumped and ambled even deeper into the kitchen.
Worried that the thing would never find its way back out, Liz ran back to her house and got Dottie’s key, letting herself in and flicking on the kitchen light. The cat had scurried away somewhere, and after searching the rooms on the lower floor, was nowhere to be found.
A glance at her watch told her it was six thirty. Maybe she’d give the cat a few minutes to show up. Her television wasn’t connected, despite her being back from Doctors Without Borders for almost a year now, so turning it on for a few minutes sounded suddenly appealing.
On impulse, she filled Dottie’s ever-present kettle with water and walked into the living room to flick on the TV. She knew Dottie wouldn’t mind; they’d spent plenty of time chatting over tea made from that kettle. Not that Liz had a lot of time to chat but Dottie was a force. And very persistent, especially at teatime.
A few minutes later, Liz was sitting down with a cup of tea while she’d lured out the kitty with a can of cat food she’d found in a cupboard. It felt good to be watching TV, a simple activity enjoyed by normal people, surrounded by pretty yellow and blue furniture, cheery prints, and soft curtains on the windows. A lived-in home with a history, something she longed to have.
The voice of the nightly news anchor brought her attention to the screen. “Chief foreign correspondent Grant Wilbanks has gotten embroiled in a scandal after smuggling a family of four out of war-torn Kenya, close to the border between Kenya and Somalia.”
Liz choked on her tea. She leaned forward in the floral-upholstered chair. The footage of the man flashing on the screen snatched all her breath away, as images of Grant Wilbanks always did.
His dark hair, cut short and exact, remained controlled even in dust storms or rain, and now stirred ever so slightly in the acrid African wind. He had tanned skin that accentuated his swimming-pool blue eyes, with little crinkles around them that read like an interesting road map on his GQ-worthy face, topped off with a square, manly George Clooney jaw. Tall, well-built, and lean, the man was better than an A-list actor playing the part of an adventurer. He was the real thing.
Grant was a real-life daredevil who had no compunction about joining wartime convoys, dodging land mines, or riding in ATVs in the hundred-degree heat. He would risk anything for the story. A Pulitzer was surely in his future.
He was Hemingway, Indiana Jones, Bond, all rolled into one brave—or crazy—package. She’d fallen for him hard. Oh, how could she not? Nairobi had been a romantic adventure, like something out of a movie. They’d worked unbelievably hard by day—she to fight polio and help deliver basic health care, he to report on the ravages of war—and at night they’d shared a passion unlike anything she’d ever experienced.
“Wilbanks is said to have provided false documents to the border patrol for the family’s passage to a neighboring hospital for their sick child. The Kenyan government is claiming the husband of the family is a rebel spy who had his passport revoked, but Wilbanks claims he only arranged for false documents so the entire family could flee to get access to health care.”
Did it surprise Liz that he was smuggling refugee families out of a country? Yes. Yes, it did. He played by the book, and believed his job was to report, to inform, to bring back the truth. It wasn’t to change the political landscape by being a rebel, by taking action. They’d had passionate discussions about the topic, and she’d always told him she was grateful she was a doctor—her job was simply to treat. So this dramatic feat was unlike him.
He was adventurous, not crazy. He followed the rules. Most of the time.
She’d gotten involved with him despite her better judgment. She’d been newly divorced, vulnerable. He’d looked her up because his aunt had told him Liz was spending a year there as a doctor. She’d already been there nine months when she met him. The attraction had been magnetic, and their affair was turbulent. Tempestuous. Unforgettable.
In the end, he’d chosen his daredevil life over her. Of course he had. He was a world-class reporter at the peak of his career, and she’d been a fool to believe he would ever compromise his job for her.
She’d waited for him at the Nairobi train station far into the middle of the night. When the last train had finally arrived, he’d been nowhere to be found. She’d thought what they’d had for those few months had been so much more than an affair. Clearly, she’d been wrong.
Liz rubbed her chest, where she experienced a sudden pang. Even now, a year later, the pain still pricked. Another reason not to wait for a man and to follow through with her baby plan.
The news went to commercial and Liz let her eyes wander to Dottie’s pleasantly stuffed bookshelves. There were scattered photos of Grant, taken years ago—some from when he was just a boy, when he’d come to live with her after his parents died, others from high school, and one of he and Dottie together at his college graduation, his arm around her, smiling his devilishly handsome smile.
Liz hadn’t known him until their paths had crossed a continent away, because Dottie had only lived here the past ten years, and Liz had been gone getting her schooling by the time she’d moved here. The reminders of Grant, both on TV and surrounding her, felt odd.
She was startled out of her thoughts by someone calling her name. Something flickered in the hall—a shadow. Man-sized. A figure suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Elizabeth,” the intruder said, the smooth tones of his accent curling through the air.
A scream tore from Liz’s throat as the man moved toward her. Instinctively, she took the cup of scalding hot tea she held and tossed it—right at the man’s crotch, just as he reached to flick on a table lamp.
He dodged, the tea barely missing the target.
She gasped as recognition finally dawned. The man on TV…was the same man standing before her. In the flesh. Grant. In the middle of Dottie’s ruffly living room, not against his usual backdrop of bombs, refugees, or even a lion, giraffe, or a rhino or two.
Liz tried to speak, but her throat felt as if it were clogged with Kleenex—and terror. She stood there, speechless, until sense returned. He looked…the same. Still stunningly handsome. Still able to send shivers shooting up her spine and a hot blush rushing to her cheeks.
“Now, now,” he said, his blue eyes full of mischief. “You do remember I always prefer coffee over tea?” This was why the man was still alive after covering war zones for the past ten years in the most dangerous parts of the world. He possessed the reflexes of a cat, plus a lightning-quick wit that had doubtless saved his fine, gorgeous ass many a time.
“Oh my God.” For once, her cool surgeon’s composure failed her, but at least speech had returned. He stood there looking amused, dressed impeccably, as always, even though he wore old faded jeans that caressed all his muscle and a plain black T-shirt, which highlighted his dark, wavy hair and his black, black soul.
His gaze raked her up and down in a way that suddenly made her aware of every muscle fiber in her body. He was taller than she remembered, larger. His eyes were still so piercingly blue and intense, those eyes that had seen so much tragedy, so much of the ugliest parts of life. No wonder they held such a cynical bent. Yet at one time they’d devoured her, and apparently, one glance from him was still capable of raising goose bumps all over her arms.
Sense slowly returned, Liz’s own gaze flicking in horror from him to her teacup. “I’m sorry, I-I was startled and—” She paused for a breath. “Are you all right?” she asked. She was pretty sure the hot water missed his crotch, but part of her wished it hadn’t.
“After dodging second-degree burns? Couldn’t be better.” His fine, full mouth curved up in an irresistible half smile.
Oh, that accent! It was so…charming, vibrating down deep to places that had lay dormant far too long. She crossed her arms, unwilling to allow that. “What the hell are you doing here? You scared the crap out of me.”
“I fell asleep in the study, but perhaps I should ask you the same thing?”
“The shutter was making a terrible racket. And I’ve been here talking to a cat, watching TV. How could you not have heard me?”
“I must’ve been sleeping like the dead. Forgive me. I haven’t slept much for the past few days.”
Forgive me. Words she’d once longed to hear.
“How are you, Liz?” he asked softly. “I’ve often wondered how you’ve gotten on.”
She stared at him. He acted like a friend, like he cared. And she could not allow that to mess with her mind. A bevy of emotions tumbled through her. Confusion on seeing him after a whole year had gone by. Sadness that they’d actually planned to be together, and he’d never showed up. He’d simply texted her two words: I’m sorry.
She’d gotten the text as she was boarding the plane back home, a week after they were supposed to meet for a trip to Mombasa. A week to sightsee and just be together before they each headed off to their separate lives. During their months working in Nairobi, they’d stolen every spare moment to be together and their imminent separation had been gut wrenching.
For her, anyway.
She’d foolishly told him she loved him. Embarrassment flooded her now. She should have known then that he simply didn’t have it in him to settle down. He was too…independent. Powerful. Good at his job. She could picture him among war and disaster and on safari and in jungles…but sitting at a kitchen table, wiping peas off a baby’s chin? No. She should have known. After all, he’d never said I love you back.
She’d gotten over him. Blamed it on all the confusion and loneliness after her divorce, when she’d gone overseas to clear her head. That had probably been the reason she’d fallen so hard and so fast. He’d been a diversion from her own pain. She’d just gotten a little carried away, that was all. That was how she’d come to think of their time together—intense, passionate, but really, just a fling. She could put it in its place and move on.
“I’m here, on assignment,” he said. His voice was still low, and his gaze seemed tentative, full of emotion—but with him, she could never be certain what he was feeling, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to imagine he’d felt something for her. “Frankly, I’m a bit banished.”
“I just heard,” she said, gesturing to the TV. “You’re staying here until things blow over?”
He waved his fine hand elegantly in the air. He was a man who spent days and nights in dugouts, yet hadn’t lost those damn aristocratic manners. “I’ll be staying in your little town for the next month or two. On assignment, actually. And to help fix up this place before my aunt puts it on the market.”
Oh, couldn’t he have chosen to hide out elsewhere? He was a man who could be at home anywhere around the world. Why of all places had he come to the tiny town of Buckleberry Bend, North Carolina?
Liz closed her eyes, hoping that maybe he—and the sudden hot and cold sensations rolling through her, the weakness in her knees, the pulse pounding in her ears—would magically be gone when she opened them, that this was all just a hallucination brought on by a sudden spring storm and a very stressful day. Either that or she’d just entered early menopause and was having hot flashes. Another reason she had to put her baby plan into action as soon as possible.
Grant Wilbanks had always been a stunning man. Tall, commanding, and better with age. Time had been kind to him. She was glad to see he looked hale and hearty, not an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. But this time she was not going to fall under his spell. The fact that his jeans were splashed a little made him seem more human somehow. It reminded her that he was just a man, an imperfect man who had hurt her because they had wanted different things. Her pride was stung but she’d survive that. This would be a positive experience, having him next door. She’d learn that she’d been in a difficult place in Nairobi, figuring things out after her divorce, and now with her head so much clearer she’d realize he wasn’t all that fabulous. So there.
A flash of lightning was followed by a crack of thunder so fierce it sounded like the chimney was splitting. Rain suddenly beat down machine-gun-fire style on the roof. Out the kitchen window, Liz could see it pouring in sheets off the sun porch, where a rusted piece of spouting hung off like a dangling limb.
Another crack of thunder, and the lights flickered and went out.
Oh, what was the universe telling her? She did not want to be within a fifty-mile radius of this man, let alone under the same roof. In the dark. Sealed in by the beating rain. She’d just decided to make a run for home, that getting drenched would be a small price to pay, when they heard a ping, ping, ping coming from the kitchen. Followed by a drip, drip, drip.
Grant switched on his phone light. “Perhaps you might know where my aunt keeps her candles?”
He followed her into the kitchen, where she opened Dottie’s junk drawer and pulled out several small vanilla-scented candles and a box of matches. She groped around for some small saucers, placed the candles on them, and lit them.
He’d picked up one of the saucers to shine some light on the ceiling. Liz barely noticed the leaks. She was too busy staring at his lean torso, the muscles of his arms as he stretched to hold the candle high to assess the problem.
He was still a fine, fine looking man.
“Have you a pail?” he asked.
“They’re in the garage,” she said. Too far away. The garage was detached and clear past the house.
He began opening cabinets, pulling out pots and pans, moving with a certain elegance of motion even in the mini-crisis. Together they worked furiously to collect all the water, dodging the drips to set out the pots.
“This place is a bloody disaster,” he said, but his mouth was turned up in a little smile. And he was looking at her so oddly, in a way that sent waves of heat flashing all through her.
Liz held a pot at arm’s length, collecting the water, which pinged loudly as it hit the bottom. “It’s a beautiful house, but a bit of a catastrophe, yes. And it’s getting to be too much for Dottie.”
He took the pot from her, their fingers grazing. Their eyes met, reluctantly it seemed, but something sudden and shocking snapped between them, and it became impossible to look away. For a second, time stood still. Those dark eyes seared through her, as if he could see everything, all her secrets, every feeling she hid so well from the rest of the world. Every nerve ending remembered him, what it was like for him to touch her in the quiet of those warm, velvet nights, to run his hands over her hot skin. They’d been together for a brief time in such crazy, uncertain circumstances. Everything they’d done had been with an intensity of passion she’d never experienced before—or since.
She reminded herself it had been a fantasy. Nothing more.
He at last broke eye contact and carried the candle stub to the cupboard, where he opened a cabinet door and rummaged through, pulling out a bottle of wine.
“Now that the crisis is contained—for now—would you care to join me for dinner? I brought some food from Mario’s.”
Of course the food came from the best restaurant in town. Italian. Her favorite. In response, Liz’s stomach rumbled, protesting over the lack of food all day. The three bites of the frozen dinner she’d managed to inhale weren’t holding her well.
She hesitated. She should go home, but it was fricking avalanche-pouring. Even the brief run next door would soak her to the bone.
“Come on, Liz,” he cajoled. “After all, we’re going to be neighbors.”
She tried to ignore how the simple syllable of her name rolled easily off his tongue in that rich-as-chocolate British baritone.
He removed a Styrofoam container from the fridge and cracked it open under her nose. Pasta. Red sauce and meatballs.
“I see you’re getting your daily dose of animal product,” she said. “Thanks, but I’m a vegetarian.” The fact that he’d forgotten something so elemental to her personality disappointed her unreasonably.
He rummaged in the dark fridge for another container.
The smell of garlic and cheese wafted out. In the dim light, she couldn’t really tell what kind of pasta it was but it smelled amazing. And there was a giant piece of garlic bread on the side, her own personal crack. Her mouth watered. Oh God.
“Artichoke penne,” he said, still waving it under her nose. “I remembered.”
Liz stepped back and nearly fell over a stockpot in the middle of the floor. She hadn’t been in his presence more than ten minutes and he was already tempting her with his gorgeous body and with his food. And surely Mr. Carnivore hadn’t ordered that meal for her. Of course not. Maybe his tastes in food had changed, although when she knew him, “vegetable” wasn’t part of his vocabulary.
“No thanks,” she said in a neutral voice. “I really need to get home.”
“Oh,” he said, looking disappointed. “I was hoping to have a talk.”
She frowned. “A talk? Are you dying? Did you have a religious conversion? Did your aunt tell you to do it?”
He’d set the plates on the table and began spooning the food onto them, but now he stopped and looked at her. “None of the above. I’d simply like a chance to make things right between us.”
She met his intense blue gaze. Never would she let him know how she’d waited all night for him to show at the train station, hours after the last train had pulled in. She knew what kind of man he was—one who was used to women salivating all over him, and she’d never give him the satisfaction of knowing how much she’d cared. How she’d thought what they had was different.
“Please,” he said, pulling out her chair as if this were a five-star restaurant instead of Dottie’s outdated bright-yellow kitchen. “Stay and eat.”
She did sit, and gave into her hunger. But as far as he was concerned, that was all she was giving in to, no matter how appealing he might be.