Nora Roberts - Dance Upon the Air

"My head! My head!" Steve slipped and slithered onto the dock, then lay there on his belly, shuddering. "I saw my head in the trap. They were eating my face!"

"Your head's still on your shoulders, son." Zack hunkered down. "Catch your breath. Had yourself a hallucination, that's all. Been drinking a bit, haven't you? That, and some guilt got to you."

"I saw… I saw." He sat up, laid shaking hands on his face to make certain all his parts were there, then began to shake in stupendous relief.

"Fog, dark, water. It's a tricky kind of situation, especially on a couple bottles of beer. You're going to feel a lot better when you give Carl that forty dollars. In fact, why don't we go get you cleaned up, get your wallet, and go by his place now? You'll sleep better for it."

"Yeah. Sure. Right. Okay."

"That's fine." Zack helped him to his feet. "I'll take care of getting the boat back, don't you worry."

That Mia, Zack thought as he led the unprotesting boy away from the water. You had to give her credit for creativity.

It took a while to calm the boy down, then to calm four boys down once he'd taken Steve back to the rental. Then there was Carl to deal with, and the boat. Which was probably why Zack ended up nodding off at the station house just before three A.M.

He woke two hours later, stiff as a board and annoyed with himself. Ripley, he decided as he stumbled out to his cruiser, was taking the first shift.

He meant to drive straight home, but he'd gotten into the habit of swinging past the yellow cottage at the end of his shift. Just to make sure everything was as it should be.

He made the turn before he realized it, and saw the lights in her windows. Concern as much as curiosity made him pull over and get out of the car.

Because the kitchen light was on, he went to the back door. He was lifting his hand to knock when he saw her standing on the other side of the screen, a long, smooth-bladed knife gripped in both hands.

"If I tell you I was just in the neighborhood, you won't gut me with that, will you?"

Her hands began to tremble, and her breath exploded out of her as she dropped the knife on the table with a clatter.

"I'm sorry I scared you. I saw your light as I was… hey, hey." When she swayed, he bolted through the door, gripping both her arms and lowering her into a chair. "Sit. Breathe. Head down. Jesus, Nell. I'm sorry." He stroked her hair, patted her back, and wondered whether she would just keel over on the floor if he jumped up to get her a glass of water.

"It's all right. I'm all right. I heard the footsteps. In the dark. It's so quiet here, you can hear everything, and I heard you coming toward the house."

She'd wanted to run like a rabbit in the other direction and keep going. She didn't remember picking up the knife, hadn't known she could.

"I'm going to get you some water."

"No, I'm all right." Mortified now, she realized, but all right. "I just wasn't expecting anyone to come to the door."

"Guess not. It's still shy of five-thirty." He sat back on his heels when she lifted her head again. Color was coming back, he noted with relief. "What're you doing up?"

"I'm usually up by-" She jumped like a spring as the oven timer buzzed. "God! God!" With a half laugh she pounded a fist on her heart. "I'm going to be lucky to survive till sunrise at this rate. My muffins," she said and got up quickly to take them out of the oven, slide the next batch in.

"I didn't realize you started so early."

He could see, now that he looked around, that she'd been at it a while. There was something simmering on the stove and smelling like glory. A huge bowl of batter sat on the counter. Another bowl, covered with a cloth, was beside the stove. Still one more was on the table, where she'd obviously been mixing something before he'd scared ten years off her life.

Ingredients were lined up, as organized as a marching band.

"I didn't realize you worked so late." She calmed herself by cutting shortening into the flour for her pastry dough.

"I don't usually. I had a little project to finish up last night, and when it was all said and done, dropped off in my office chair. Nell, if you don't give me a cup of that coffee I'm going to start crying. It'll embarrass us both."

"Oh. Sorry. Um."

"You just keep on with what you're doing there. Cups?"

"Cabinet to the right of the sink."

"Want me to top yours off?"

"I suppose."

He poured a cup, filled hers as it sat by the sink. "You know, I don't think these muffins look quite right."

With the bowl tucked in the crook of her arm, she turned. Her face was a study of alarm and insult. "What do you mean?"

"Just don't look quite the thing. Why don't you let me test one for you?" He gave her a quick, boyish grin that had her lips twitching.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Why don't you just ask for one?"

"More fun this way. No, don't bother. I can get it myself." He plucked one out of the pan, burned the tips of his fingers. As he tossed the muffin from hand to hand to cool it, the scent told him it was going to be worth it. "I've sure got a soft spot for your blueberry muffins, Nell."

"Mr. Bigelow, Lancefort Bigelow, prefers my cream puffs. He said if I'd make them for him every day, he'd marry me and we'd move to Bimini."

Still grinning, Zack broke the muffin in half, treated himself to the fragrant steam. "That's pretty stiff competition."

Bigelow, a confirmed bachelor, was ninety.

He watched her stir the dough, form it into a ball. Then she emptied the muffin pan, set them to cool on a rack while she refilled the cups. When the timer buzzed again, she shifted trays, went back to roll out her pastry dough.

"You've got yourself a real system," he commented. "Where'd you learn to bake?"

"My mother-" She broke off, realigned her thoughts. It was too easy in the quiet kitchen, with all these homey smells, to get overly comfortable and reveal too much. "My mother liked to bake," she said. "And I picked up recipes and techniques here and there."

He didn't want her to stiffen up, so he let it pass. "Do you ever make those cinnamon rolls? You know the ones with that sticky white icing?"

"Mmm."

"I make them sometimes."

"Really." She began to cut the dough for tarts and glanced back at him. He looked so… male, she thought, leaning back on the counter with his ankles crossed and a mug of coffee in his hand. "I didn't know you cooked."

"Sure, now and then. You buy these tubes down at the market. Then you take them home, rap them against the counter and peel the bun things out, cook them, and squirt icing on the top. Nothing to it."

It made her laugh. "I'll have to try that sometime." She went to the refrigerator, took out her bowl of filling.

"I'll give you some pointers on it." He drained his cup, set it in the sink. "I guess I'd better get home, and get out of your way. Thanks for the coffee."

"You're welcome."

"And the muffin. It was just fine."

"That's a relief." She stood at the table, methodically spooning filling into the center of her rounds of dough. When he stepped toward her, she tensed a little, but continued to work.

"Nell?"

She looked up, and filling slopped out of her spoon when he put his hand on her cheek.

"I sure hope this doesn't put you off," he said, and leaning down, he laid his lips on hers.

She didn't move a muscle. Couldn't. Her eyes stayed open, locked on his. Watching, as a deer might watch when pinned in the crosshairs.

His lips were warm. She registered that. And softer than they looked. He didn't touch her. She imagined she'd have leaped out of her skin if he'd laid his hands on her now.

But it was only his mouth, light and easy on hers.

He'd prepared himself for her to be annoyed, or disinterested. He hadn't expected her to be scared. That was what he felt from her, a rigid anxiety that could easily bloom into fear. So he didn't touch her as he wanted to, not even a gentle brush of fingers down her arms.