Wendy Etherington - After Dark

“Fine.”

Straightening, she faced him. “I’m not your enemy, Aidan.”

It was the first time she’d called him by his given name, and the moment sent a pulse of excitement through his veins. A moment he didn’t want and shouldn’t feel.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” she added.

He never knew what to say to this. Thanks? They lived a long and full life? Since neither of those were true, he remained silent.

Hitching her briefcase on her shoulder, she started out. “It’s a nice town. You’ll be—”

“Happy?” He shook his head. “I want to be alone.”

“I was going to say you’ll be accepted,” she said softly. “If you make an effort.”

“I want to be alone.”

“Yeah?” She cocked her head, her eyes bright with challenge. “How’s that workin’ out for you so far?”

He tossed back the rest of his whiskey. “Fine,” he lied.

With a half smile, she nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.” She turned and headed down the hall and toward the front door.

Finally.

And yet some mad, invisible force pulled him after her.

Watching her hips sway as she walked, he reflected on times when he’d been whole and happy. He used to run a successful, international communications company. He used to wear custom-made designer suits and attend all the important events in Atlanta. He used to be sociable. He used to relish the attention of smart, beautiful women like Sloan.

Today, the shell of him that walked through the dark, dusty halls of this ancient house had consumed him.

But wasn’t it right that he was here? Hadn’t his thoughtless attitude put his parents in danger? Hadn’t his failure to see the cold world realistically reminded him in a brutal way that he had to embrace darkness to see it clearly?

Didn’t he deserve to be alone?

She brushed her fingers across his cheek. “Where’d you go?”

Unnerved by her touch, by the tenderness in her expressive blue eyes, he jerked back. “Nowhere pleasant.”

She sighed, as if exasperated by his continual—yet completely failing—efforts at distance. “When was the last time you had a decent meal?”

He thought of the ham sandwich he’d had for dinner. “Define decent.”

“I’ll bring you something from Mabel’s Café for lunch tomorrow. Along with returning your plans,” she added quickly, as if sensing the protest that rose to his lips. “My apology for showing up unannounced tonight. Besides, if you’re going to work yourself into the ground, you need nourishment. If you get sick, you can’t work.”

Since he could think of no immediate argument to that, he nodded. “Fine.”

There was a lot of fineness going on, actually. And none of it on his part.

As they talked, he’d been keeping his gaze focused—deliberately—on her face, but now he let it slip over her curves, her long, seemingly endless legs.

Merciful heaven.

His whole body, already aroused, hardened like steel. He wanted her beyond sense and reason, beyond his self-imposed isolation. Certainly beyond what he deserved.

“Do you get a lot of teenage boys hanging out at the library?”

Since she was halfway down the steps when he spoke, she had to glance over her shoulder to look at him. She smiled, no doubt completely aware of the effect she had on the male population. “They’re my best customers.”

“SORRY TO DRAG all of you down here so early,” Sloan began, glancing around the library’s conference table at her fellow committee members. “But I felt we should get on top of this project immediately.”

It was 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday, the only time everyone could gather before work and school to discuss the all-important restoration of Aidan’s house.

“Batherton Mansion could be a jewel for us,” said Courtney, a fiery redhead who owned the local hair and nail salon.

“If we can get Kendrick to cooperate,” Helen, their local real-estate agent added. “I’ve dealt with him, and only through his attorney, but this guy is tough.”

“But he obviously cares about history,” Penelope pointed out, blinking behind her large steel-framed glasses. “Why else would he buy this house over some posh and trendy beachside resort?”

“We don’t have posh and trendy,” Helen said.

Penelope nodded. “Exactly. He probably wants peace and quiet.” She lowered her voice. “Especially after being chased by reporters for the last few months.”

“And that’s precisely the problem, ladies.” Sister Mary Katherine folded her hands in front of her. “We simply can’t have our reputation gaining at the expense of Mr. Kendrick. He’s been through enough.”

“Still, we have to attract some new members to the committee,” Helen reminded them. “Rich ones, if possible.”

“Or a corporate sponsor,” Courtney said. “We can’t let the few historical properties we have fall into disrepair. Not after all we’ve been through.”

Looking uncertain, Penelope bit her lip.

Sloan, being the lone member who’d actually encountered the prickly former executive, who’d obviously longed to throw her bodily from his precious house, tended to lean toward Helen and Courtney’s side. She sympathized with his grief, but the committee had its own problems.

She was also annoyed that she lusted after the man.

And she was trying desperately to hide it.

“We just want to put his house on our brochure to attract more tourists and new members in the area, not exploit his personal life.” Helen continued, “And wouldn’t it be nice to hold a fund-raiser out there when everything’s finished? Sort of an elegant wine-and-cheese party?”

“Or a tea,” Courtney suggested. “With those sweet little biscuits Mabel makes.”

Sloan frowned. “That’s going to be tricky. I specifically told him we were neither using him for a fund-raiser nor after his money.”

“We’re not using him,” Helen insisted. “We’re using the house.”

“Though if he wanted to make a sizable donation,” Courtney added, “we certainly wouldn’t say no.”

“But isn’t one of our goals more media exposure?” Penelope asked, as always, wise beyond her years. “If we call attention to Batherton Mansion, it will naturally call attention to the owner. I don’t think Mr. Kendrick is interested in any more TV or newspaper coverage.”

“Perhaps after we get to know Mr. Kendrick a bit better,” Sister Mary Katherine offered, “we’ll feel more comfortable asking for his help in raising our profile in the area.”

Sloan didn’t think it was appropriate to share with the nun just how well she wanted to get to know Aidan Kendrick, so she remained silent and let the discussion buzz around her.

She couldn’t imagine losing her father so tragically, then having her life and business practices scrutinized on a daily basis. Maybe Aidan Kendrick could have handled things better—a few well-timed, but brief statements.

Instead, he’d tried to hide, and that only made the reporters more determined to uncover the dirt he was concealing. Did reckless playboy Aidan Kendrick owe money to the mob? Were his parents’ supposed mugging and murders really pay-back? Was he into drugs and had crossed the wrong dealer? Had he dated a woman with a jealous boyfriend—or even a husband?

The police had discounted all these wild theories and called the case a simple mugging, but Kendrick had kept quiet, so they persisted. He’d sold his successful company, disappeared for a month, then, a couple of weeks ago, wound up on tiny Palmer’s Island.

She didn’t want to cause the man more problems, but if the committee didn’t do something quickly, if they couldn’t attract more members and their funds, they’d likely lose the historical properties they owned and maintained.