Freefall (8 page)

It wasn't quite as bad as Sabrina had feared. Oh, there were the inevitable questions at the market. And at Oscar's Gas and Go, where Oscar himself had insisted on filling the tank of her rental car. And, of course, at the Swann Island Bank and Trust, where she'd opened a personal checking account.

Thankfully, although she could hear the murmured rumors following in her wake, Southern manners kept people from being too rudely inquisitive.

Sabrina also knew that as soon as she left each of those establishments, tongues began wagging and phone calls began flying all over town. Because while politeness may have been instilled into Swann Island infants while they were in the cradle, gossip was bred into Southern bones. It was the currency on which small towns operated. And she was the topic of the month.

Zach was on the roof when she arrived back at Swannsea. He was wearing a baseball cap turned around backward and, in deference to the heat, had stripped off the white T-shirt, revealing a mahogany back gleaming with sweat. A back pocket of the jeans was torn, revealing what appeared to be navy blue knit boxer briefs.

Muscles rippled beneath tight dark skin, and biceps bulged as he lifted the heavy hammer, then, with one solid swing, drove a nail into the heavy slate tile. And repeated the procedure.

Since the always lovely island scenery had turned downright spectacular, Sabrina allowed herself to sit there for a moment and enjoy the view.

He straightened when he heard the car door close. When he turned, she found herself staring at a prime example of raw male power.

A dusting of dark hair arrowed over a rock-hard chest and ripped, corrugated abs, disappearing beneath the waist of those raggedy jeans.

Adding to the drool factor was the tool belt riding gunslinger low on his hips.

When he pulled the cap off and finger-combed those damp, dark waves, Sabrina felt a little flutter in her stomach.

"That didn't take long." His voice was deeper than it had been that summer. Slower. Damn it all to hell, even sexier.

"I've always been a fast shopper," she said mildly, reminding herself as he climbed down the ladder that she was no longer the sixteen-year-old who'd once secretly scribbled "Mrs. Zachariah Tremayne" on the hidden inside of her English literature folder.

She was twenty-seven years old. An adult woman. And adult women did not get all weak in the knees over a sexy-as-hell construction worker, even if he did have a great—make that world-class—butt.

"Now there's an appealing attribute Lucie never mentioned."

Assuring herself that she was not beating a hasty retreat, that she was only hurrying because she didn't want the ice cream she'd bought at the market to melt, she turned to retrieve the box of groceries from the backseat.

"Let me get that for you." Apparently having no concept of personal space, he invaded hers as he reached around her and took hold of the brown cardboard box.

"Thanks, but I can get it myself."

"Of course you can."

He had her effectively caged in. He was also radiating enough heat to melt not only her pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey but the frozen dinner she'd bought to nuke tonight as well.

Deciding that making an issue of it would only reveal how uncomfortable he was making her, thus revealing a vulnerability that she hated feeling, let alone allowing anyone to see, she let go of the sides of the box and ducked beneath his arm.

Damn. He was still close enough that she could see the moisture glistening like diamonds in those dark curls bisecting his chest.

"In case you've forgotten how things work down here, sugar, no Southern gentleman worth his salt would stand by and watch a woman lugging around a heavy box when he's there to do it for her."

"Things may move slower on the island than in the rest of the country, but in case you haven't noticed, the calendar has flipped a few pages beyond the eighteen hundreds."

"Seems I heard something about that." In contrast to her mother's clipped Upper East Side society accent, which she'd pulled out from somewhere deep inside her, his drawl was praline-rich. The tips of his work boots were nearly touching toes bared by her sandals. "But like you said, things move a lot slower down here."

"Interesting that you've been away, what, a dozen years? Yet I'm supposed to believe you fell back into local habits so easily?"

"I was gone eleven years. Give or take a few months. But Swann Island's in the blood. Like this heat." He shifted the box, resting it on a cocked hip. "And the way Southern males, wherever we may end up, maintain a certain fondness for smooth whiskey, fast cars, and hot women."

Now
here
was the wicked bad boy she remembered. The one she'd secretly watched all that long, hot summer. He was radiating the lazy sexuality that back then Sabrina had found both compelling and a little frightening. The weird thing was, she felt pretty much the same way now.

"If we stand out here talking all day, my ice cream's going to melt."

"Wouldn't want that," he said agreeably. His eyes sparkled with what appeared to be amusement. As if he knew what she'd been thinking.

Not that he'd need any superhero mental telepathy skills to read her mind. Sabrina suspected he was accustomed to women looking at him as if he were an all-you-can-eat chocolate buffet.

He backed up and gestured for her to go ahead of him. "Especially since you could use a little more meat on those bones."

She shot him a look over her shoulder and caught him looking at her butt. Which, though she'd jump off the Admiral Somersett Bridge before admitting it, was even skinnier than it had been before the bombing.

"My bones are none of your business."

"I liked your grandmother."

"I doubt you could find anyone on the island who didn't."

She tried to make sense of the non sequitur but couldn't. And, dammit, as he followed her into the kitchen, it appeared he wasn't going to help her out.

"So what does you liking Lucie have to do with my bones?"

He put the box onto the butcher-block counter. "Since she's no longer here to share some home truths, I have the feeling she'd want someone to be honest enough to tell you that you look like hell."

"Well, thank you." She snatched a carton of orange juice from the box, flung open the refrigerator door with more force than necessary, and slammed it down onto a glass shelf. "But for your information, I've already heard that today."

"From Titania."

"And Sissy at the market." She began putting the eggs into the compartment in the door. "And Oscar at the filling station. And Doro Hemphill at the bank. And let's not forget Betty Lovejoy at the pharmacy," she said between clenched teeth.

Though, granted, only Titania had been as blunt as Zach.

"Damn." She glared down at the bright yellow yolk and gooey egg white streaming over her hand.

"No wonder it broke, the way you were slamming those poor eggs down like you've got a personal grudge against the chicken who laid them."

He pulled a roll of paper towels from the box, tore off a handful, stuck them beneath the faucet, and took hold of her hand.

She snatched it back. "I can do that."

"Fine." He held up both
his
hands and backed off. "And at the risk of getting my head bit off here, may I suggest that maybe it might be a good idea if you sat down and let me finish putting the rest of this stuff away?"

"I don't need your help. Believe it or not, there are people—important people all over the world—who consider me more than a little competent."

"From what Lucie told me about your comet ride through the Wingate Hotel chain, I've not a single doubt of that. But in case you haven't noticed, sweetheart, you seem to have misplaced your magic bracelets."

She was too thin and too pale, and way too on edge. But obviously struggling her damnedest for control, a feeling Zach knew all too well.

Emotions he couldn't quite pin down stirred. Deeper than lust, and, he feared, more dangerous than desire, they were something he'd have to think about later.

"Look." He took hold of her shoulders and used his superior strength to walk her over to one of the kitchen chairs. "Believe it or not, I know what you're feeling."

She tossed up her chin. "You do not."

Interesting. Pink flags were suddenly flying in her cheeks, suggesting that they might not be talking about the same thing. He wondered if she was remembering back to another time when he'd taken hold of her shoulders. To gently push her away.

"Actually, I do."

After practically shoving her down onto the woven cane seat, he picked up the cardboard carton from the counter where she'd put it while scrubbing the egg gunk off her hands. Her raggedy nails didn't fit with her slender but competent-looking hands. He wondered if they'd been broken off in the bombing.

Or if she'd bitten them that way afterward.

"I've been in that place where you are now," he said mildly. "After your world suddenly falls out from under you, and up becomes down, down up, and you're not sure if your life's ever going to be normal again." He finished putting the rest of the unbroken eggs away. "Whether
you're
ever going to be normal again."

He could tell she was surprised by that announcement. Even more surprised that he'd shared it with her.

And hell, didn't that make two of them?

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Fine. Not that keeping it bottled up seems to be working real well for you."

"It's hard."

"Sure it is. But there's a saying drilled into us SEALs during BUD/S training. 'The only easy day was yesterday.' "

Her eyes had that wounded look again as they reluctantly lifted to his in a way designed to make any guy with blood still stirring in his veins want to leap tall buildings for her. The irony was, there'd been a time when he would have tried to do exactly that without a second thought.

But that was in another life.

"So, if you know how it feels, how did you get past it?"

"Beats me."

Okay, this was now getting
way
too personal for comfort.

He turned away and shoved a box of Rice Krispies onto a pantry shelf. "I'll let you know if and when I do."

He could sense her trying to decide whether or not she wanted to continue this conversation, which, he suspected, might be as difficult for her as it was for him.

The thing to do, he decided, was to shut up, get the rest of her damn groceries put away, then get the hell out of here before he ended up spilling his guts.

Which he hadn't done to anyone.

Not his shrink, not his dad, not even Quinn or Shane, whose lives had also been inexorably changed by that debacle on the mountaintop.

He picked up the trio of little plastic boxes. "What are these for?"

"I heard mice in the attic last night."

"Not so unusual, given that you're right on the swamp. So, I guess you've decided to make pets out of them? Maybe put them in a little cage with a wheel to run on?"

"No." She folded her arms, looking less fragile than she had a moment ago. "I intend to capture them with that peanut butter I bought, then move them to the marsh."

"After which they'll probably beat you back to the house."

"That's my problem. I don't want to kill them if I don't have to."

"Then maybe you ought to think about getting yourself a cat. Let him do the job."

She shuddered at that idea. "I don't want to kill them," she repeated.

Which, Zach figured, made sense. She'd undoubtedly had more experience with death than most civilians.

"Your choice."

"Exactly," she agreed. "May I ask a question?"

Fucking terrific. Wouldn't you know she wasn't going to let the damn subject drop?

Zach's mind was scrambling to come up with an escape route when the front doorbell chimed.

Saved by the bell
, he thought as a cooling wave of relief swept over him.