Нора Робертс - Hideaway

Here was family—real family—and the chance to create the rest of her life. No one would drag her away from it again, no one could force her to cut and run again.

So she walked back to her house, did what made her happy.

She made bread dough, set it to rise. While it did, she closed herself in her studio to work for an hour, to do what actors did—become someone else for an hour.

She dealt with the dough, set it for a second rising, set her phone alarm to remind her before walking to the main house and enlisting Consuela.

If she was making dinner for a man she’d just slept with, it was going to be a damn good dinner. And that was no time to attempt to make tiramisu for the first time, on her own.

She ended up with a happy hour with Consuela in the guesthouse kitchen with Consuela instructing, approving (or clucking her tongue), and guiding her through a process that didn’t seem nearly as anxiety-ridden as she’d expected.

Consuela nodded (approval) at the loaves of bread cooling on the rack. “You do well making your own. It’s…” She paused to think. “Therapeutic. That’s a good word.”

“It is for me.”

“Next time, you make the tiramisu the night before. It’s even better. Now, be sure you set a pretty table. He will bring you flowers.”

“I’m not sure about that. It was a casual invitation.” Before I really woke up, she thought.

Consuela folded her arms. “He will bring you flowers if he is worthy. If they’re short, you put them on your pretty table. If they’re tall, you put them there.”

“I was going to go out and get some.” At Consuela’s fierce stare, Cate felt her shoulders hunch. “But I won’t.”

“Good. When he makes you dinner, you take wine. When you make for him, he brings flowers. It’s correct. You have sex with him?”

“Consuela!”

The housekeeper waved away Cate’s laughing exclamation. “He’s a good man. And muy guapo , sí ?”

Cate couldn’t deny Dillon was very handsome. “Sí.”

“So I’ll put clean sheets on your bed, and there you can put your own flowers. Pequeña ,” she added, using her hands to indicate small size. “ Bonita y fragante . You go cut from the gardens while I change the sheets.”

Experience told Cate that arguing with Consuela wasted time and breath and never resulted in a win. She went out to the gardens with her directive of pretty and fragrant for a small bedroom arrangement.

Baby roses, freesia, some sprigs of rosemary seemed to hit the mark—and met with Consuela’s approval. And Cate pleased her by wrapping a loaf of fresh bread in a cloth and making it a gift of appreciation.

By the time she had her sauce simmering, Cate realized she’d spent the bulk of the day not thinking about the bombshell Michaela had dropped that morning.

So a good day, she decided as she set that pretty table. A good day at home, a good day just being Cate. She put some music on, opened some red wine to let it breathe.

Looking around, she caught herself nodding like Consuela. It made her laugh at herself as she went up to fulfill the housekeeper’s last directive. She needed to change into something pretty, but not fancy, to make herself very attractive, but not too sexy.

She opted for a blue shirt, soft in both color and texture, stone-gray pants that cropped just above the ankle. She added dangles to her ears for pretty, and Darlie’s bracelet for luck.

As she braided her hair—low, loose—she went over the conversation she needed to have with Dillon. The honest, she thought, the practical, and the realistic.

Because he was a good man, she mused as she went down, slipped on an apron. And she had lousy luck with men—good and not-so-good.

The knock came promptly at seven. When she opened the door she saw he held flowers. Sunny yellow tulips.

“I see you’re worthy.”

“Of what?”

“Of the dinner invitation, according to Consuela’s standards. The flowers,” she explained. “And they’re just perfect. Thanks.”

When she took them, he surprised her by framing her face with his hands, by kissing her first on the forehead, like a friend. That simple choice stirred her heart even more than the warm and lingering kiss that followed.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be up for this. Making dinner,” he added as she walked away to get a vase for the tulips. “But by the way it smells in here, I guess you were.”

“I’m fine. How’s Red?”

“Pissed. Mostly pissed. I can’t tell you how much of a relief that is.”

“You don’t have to. More pissed than hurt’s a big relief.”

“Yeah, and still.” Restless, he wandered to the glass wall, back again. “I was around when Gram changed the bandage, so remind me to avoid getting grazed by a bullet. It’s damn nasty.”

“Has he seen his doctor?”

“Gram didn’t give him much choice there, so yeah. It actually is just a graze. His truck wasn’t so lucky. It’s toast. So more pissed off there.”

“And he didn’t know the man they identified.”

“No. None of us did.” He looked at her, into her eyes in that steady way he had. “How are you?”

To give herself a minute, she set the flowers on the island as Consuela had directed. “Wine?”

“Sure.”

“How am I?” She considered as she poured for both of them. “Pissed, not mostly, but definitely pissed. First at what happened—worse, what could have happened to Red. And knowing it might have happened—a strong maybe—because of what he did for me years ago. For me, for my family. Add in frustrated, uneasy, and just plain baffled that anyone could and would carry such … is it hate? Resentment? Just a deep-seated need to, what, even the score?”

She handed him the wine. “It’s not my mother.” He just looked at her—that way of his again—said nothing, so she shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t think she’s capable of hate or all the rest. It’s just it’s not her way of evening the score. Running me and the family down, finding subtle ways to do that while putting herself in the limelight. That’s her way.”

“And this doesn’t do just that?”

“I— Oh. Wait. Hadn’t gone there.” Taking the wine with her, she walked over to—unnecessarily—stir the sauce. “No, I don’t think so. It’s possible, of course, what Michaela believes will leak, and then it’s all splashing everywhere again. She could get some miles out of that. But Denby was killed months ago. It’s too long for her to draw things out. She needs quick gratification.”

“You don’t really know her though. You haven’t seen or spoken to her in years.”

“But I do.” She turned back to him. “Know your enemy, and trust me, I understand that’s what she is. So I’ve made a study of her over the years. She’s a narcissist, innately selfish and self-serving, has a child’s need for immediacy and, well, shiny things. And has a complete lack of self-awareness, which is only one reason she’s a mediocre actor. She’s vain, she’s grasping, she’s a lot of unattractive things, but she’s not violent.

“If I’d died during the kidnapping, she’d have played the grieving mother, but she wouldn’t have felt it. She’d have believed she felt it, and that it wasn’t her fault. She believed none of that would hurt me, or not enough to matter. She can’t see past her own needs. Killing people doesn’t serve her needs, and takes too many risks, takes too much time and effort.”

“Okay.”

She tilted her head. “Just like that?”

“I’m going to say this, then maybe we table it so it doesn’t suck all the air out of the night.”

Lightly, he laid a hand over the one she used to rub her bracelet for calm.