Christine Flynn - Forbidden Love

“Who else is going to be there?” he asked.

“Where?”

Beneath his hand he felt the tensing of smooth, supple muscle. Her warmth seeped into his palm, the softness of her skin registering somewhere deep in his consciousness.

“At your grandmother’s house. I’m not up for any more surprises today.” He had enough to deal with as it was. Between a delivery problem with materials, an associate in New York who wanted his drafts yesterday and butting heads this morning with his uncle over the need for the man to slow down, his patience was precariously close to nonexistent. “I want to know who’s there. Any more of your family?”

She shook her head, feeling wary, trying not to sound it. “There’s no one.”

“Your sister isn’t waiting out there?”

“I said there’s no one.” Amy eased from his grip, fighting the urge to cover the spot where the heat of his hand still lingered. “I’m staying alone at the house.”

She thought he might look relieved by the assurance. If anything, the furrows in his brow only deepened as he stepped back. The muscle in his jaw wasn’t jerking anymore, though. It had simply gone rigid.

He must have decided he had no choice but to believe her. His guard firmly in place, he turned toward the nearly empty parking lot. “Do you have a car here?”

“It’s right over there.” Reaching into her tote for her sunglasses and her keys, she nodded toward the crayon-yellow Volkswagen sitting alone by the tree-lined curb. Her mother thought the thing looked like a windup toy. Her students loved it.

“I’ll follow you,” he muttered.

Nick could have sworn he saw relief flash in her eyes an instant before she slipped on the dark glasses and told him that would be fine. She was clearly no crazier than he was with the idea of having to make small talk if they took the same vehicle. But he didn’t want to think about his ex-fiancée’s little sister. Amy was just doing what her grandmother had asked her to do. It seemed far more prudent to consider the motives of the elderly woman inside the long, low building they’d just left.

He hadn’t seen Bea Gardner since the night before he’d left town after breaking up with her older granddaughter. That had been ten years ago. The decade had taken its toll on her, too, put more wear on a face that had probably once been quite beautiful, made her aging body that much more fragile. She wasn’t a big woman. He doubted she’d ever been taller than Amy’s five-three. But she’d always had a presence that more than made up for her diminutive size.

That presence had never been more impressive than when she’d come across him on the highway that long-ago evening and stopped to give him a ride. He’d had way too much to drink after he’d left Paige’s house, but he’d had enough sense left to walk home rather than risk plowing the first new car he’d ever owned into a pole. Somewhere out on the highway between the Twin Pine Tavern and his uncle’s house on the opposite side of town, Bea had come sailing by in the old boat of a Cadillac she’d driven since 1966.

She’d opened her window, told him he should be ashamed of himself and to get in before he wound up like the deer that crossed the highway to the lake and some sleepy trucker turned him into roadkill. Beyond that, what he remembered most was that she’d mercilessly prodded him with questions about why he’d broken up with her granddaughter—and that after he’d wound up spilling his guts to her, she had agreed that he’d had no choice but to do what he’d done, and to leave.

As uneasy as he’d felt facing the old woman again, his caution had doubled the instant he’d laid eyes on the slender young woman with the doe-soft brown eyes and the short dark hair. Amy had been the polar opposite of her bubbly blond older sister. She’d possessed a natural vitality, but it had been more innocent, more unassuming. He’d recognized her instantly, though. He just hadn’t been prepared for how truly lovely she’d become.

A rain shower, so typical to the area in summer, had moved through that morning. The quick, heavy cloudburst had left the air heavy with the scents of damp earth and blooming wildflowers. Amy normally would have taken pleasure in the way the wetness intensified the deep green of pines, the shimmering sage of aspen, the emerald of oak and maple. She loved the nuances of shade and color. But she barely noticed any of what surrounded her. As she pulled off the narrow road that looped around one of the area’s secluded lakes and headed down the shaded lane that led to her grandmother’s house, her only thoughts were of the man turning onto the lane behind her.

Nick was nothing at all like her memory of him. The man who’d endeared himself to her family had possessed a congenial manner, a quick smile and a kind of charm that put everyone around him at ease. He seemed far more imposing now, more dominant and infinitely more disturbing. Never in her life had she met a man like him whose tension knotted her own nerves, or who stole the breath from her lungs simply by touching her.

Remembering how she’d responded to him had her hands tightening on the wheel. Nick Culhane was the last man on earth who should elicit such reactions from her. She could still recall her sister sobbing in her room the night he’d broken up with her and the frantic dash over the next couple of days to undo plans that had been taking shape for months. While Paige had remained behind her locked door, their mom and Grandma Bea had canceled the church, the reception hall and the caterers. They’d called the florist, the photographer, the bakery and Marleen’s Hair Affair, where they’d all had appointments for shampoos, blow-drys and manicures the morning of the big event.

Grandma Bea had been the only person gutsy enough to defend the enemy by pointing out that Nick had at least possessed the decency to call everything off the day before the invitations had gone into the mail. He and Paige were to have taken them to the post office together the next morning. But right after that, she’d said she was glad he was gone because he’d just have hurt Paige more if he’d stayed. Then she’d taken the billowing gown of satin and pearls from where Paige had hung it outside her bedroom door and given it to Amy to hang in the attic.

The fabulous creation had stayed there until her sister had sold it at a consignment shop a few years later, and when Paige had married Dr. Darren Hunt six years ago, the gown she’d worn, along with the ceremony and reception, had been simplicity itself. Even years after the fact, she’d obviously wanted no reminders of the elaborate affair she and Nick had once planned.

Amy pulled the car to a stop under the sweeping arms of an ancient maple and glanced at the rearview mirror. As she watched the dark blue truck rumble to a stop behind her, she wondered if Paige knew Nick was back.

The slam of his door reverberated like a gunshot in the stillness surrounding her grandmother’s venerable old house. Her own door echoed the sound a second later, birds scattering from the high pitch of the gabled cedar roof to settle in the trees and along the telephone line running in from the road.

Wishing she could bolt, too, she watched him walk toward her in the dappled sunlight. Pine needles and gravel crunched heavily beneath his boots as he looked from the pristine white house with its butterscotch-yellow trim to the rippling blue water of the deep glacial lake.

A wooden dock, its boards weathered to silver gray and edged with lichen, jutted alongside a boathouse painted with the same cheery trim as the main house. Except for the broad expanse of lawn carpeting the land to the bare earth near the water’s edge, the property was surrounded by woods.