Swept Away (41 page)

Only was Spencer involved or not? He wouldn’t put it past the guy. But Spencer just plain shouldn’t need money if he was smuggling Mayan artifacts.

Behind him, the toaster popped, and he ßinched. The scent of warm pastry and blueberries
filled the air. Kat would be out in a minute to eat.

Glancing down, Brock’s eyes fell on an intricate little piece of smooth gray stone with some
carvings on it. Small enough to fit in his pocket, along with the key—and a tidy piece of
evidence to take with him. He didn’t really need evidence, but something made him pick it up.
He wished he could take more—all of it—in case someone arrived to collect this stuff before he could get a federal boat out here, but this would have to do for now. He quietly closed the door,
quick to relock it, then dropped the stone and the key into the pocket of his shorts, still on the
chair, just as the bathroom door opened.

She looked playfully perturbed. “I was expecting to be greeted with my Pop-Tart at the door.”
“You should pack.”

She looked a bit stunned—understandably, he supposed. But he wanted them to be ready to go
the moment someone came to pick them up. “What?”

“You can eat first, but after that, you should get packed.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Anxious to get off the island and away from me?”
He sighed, then took her hands in his. “No, actually.”

“Then why were you cute, sexy Brock when I went into the bathroom only to be weird, bossy Brock when I came out?”

“Weird, bossy Brock is also known as Federal Agent Brock, and as of today, I’m back on the
job. The second we get off this island, I have some serious stuff to do, people to call, that sort
of thing. And that reminds me,” he said, this just hitting him, “presuming your father is on the
boat that comes to get us, you’re to let me do all the talking—got it?”

She just gaped at him, but he didn’t care. What he’d just found in the closet had thrust him back
into mission mode, big-time.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m not allowed to talk to my dad?”

“You can hug him and tell him you’re okay, sure. But when it comes to questions about what
I’m doing here and what happened to your boat, you let me handle it—understand?”

“Sure,” she said in a short, clipped, clearly angry tone. Then she stomped to the toaster, yanked
up a Pop-Tart, and started to march away.

He cut her off as she rounded the table. “Don’t be mad.”

“Why are you suddenly acting like a jerk?”

Because this is important, kitten, so damn important, and I can’t explain why. I can’t explain
that your dad might be a smuggler who’s about to go to prison once we get back to the
mainland and get this sorted out. “I’m sorry,” he said, letting his arms close warm around her.

She didn’t look appeased, and he wondered if she had any idea how rare it was for him to care
if a girl was pissed at him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever apologized to anyone just for being a little gruff. But he did it again anyway. “I’m sorry, kitten. I’m just thinking about the case I was
working on when I got here. But I didn’t mean to take my troubles out on you.” He tilted his
head and peered into her eyes. “Forgive me?”

She looked aloof, then said, “A kiss might help.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Where would you like it?”
She tilted her head to one side and pointed to her neck.

“I was hoping for lower, but okay,” he said, then delivered a soft kiss just beneath her ear,
pleased when it made her shiver.

“I might let you go lower later,” she offered, sounding a little less mad.
“Might, huh?” He arched one brow.

“If you’re nice.”

“I hate to break this to you, but I’m not a very nice guy, kitten. Ask anyone.”

“You can be,” she reminded him, starting past, toward the door. Yeah, he supposed she kind of brought that out in him. At the strangest times.

Slipping into his trunks, then grabbing up his own Pop-Tart, he followed her out to the picnic table. He really hated to turn things back to work so quickly after their spat, but she wouldn’t
realize this was about work, and there was something he needed to know. “When your dad
made the big bucks, back when he was young, how’d he do it? What kind of stuff did he deal in? I mean, what changed between then and now?”

She turned to face him, looking a little confused, and he realized he’d neglected a segue. Thankfully, she let it go, and answered. “Well, he dabbled in some old art and rare collector’s
items then, but mainly, he imported Mayan artifacts and sold them to collectors and museums. He bought them in Central America, then brokered deals up here. They were very valuable, and
it was easy to make a lot of money, but then in 1983 laws were passed making it illegal to bring artifacts into the country. So after that, he switched his focus to showcasing local artists, like he
still does now—but that’s just not remotely as profitable.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about that law,” Brock said. And his heart broke a little for Kat—since it
looked like Daddy dearest was going to be in very big trouble before this was over.

Debra should have been worrying about twenty different things. Confirming all the girls’ manicure and pedicure appointments for tomorrow, as well as the bridesmaids’ luncheon
afterward. Her own hair appointment for Saturday. Making sure Ian’s best man, who’d always
struck her as a little scatterbrained, especially to be Ian’s friend, remembered to pick up the
tuxes on time. And whether or not Kat was all right.

Surely she was, and Debra wasn’t really worried—actually, Clark had seemed more concerned
the last couple of days than she’d felt. The only real niggling fear in the back of Debra’s mind
was that maybe Kat was incommunicado because she was having doubts. But her plane would
arrive in a few hours and then surely all of Debra’s questions would be put to rest. She’d find out Kat had simply been too busy having fun to call, or that she’d just wanted some time

completely away from thinking about the wedding. Everything would be fine.

So instead of worrying about any of that, she was off to lunch with Michael. And had just located the street number he’d given her and pulled into his driveway.

Her heart beat too hard and her palms were sweaty and the sad, shameful truth was, she’d
fallen asleep last night—alone in bed because Clark was down the hall working in his office—
imagining what it would be like to let Michael seduce her.

Of course, it was only a fantasy. And there was no harm in that—was there?

She let out the breath she’d been holding. She’d probably feel less guilty if she weren’t about to see him right now.

It’s only lunch. Calm down.

The house wasn’t nearly as elaborate as her own—and that was probably why she found it so charming. The bright white trim and pointed gables on the yellow stucco made the classic
Florida style uniquely quaint and inviting. Although the flower beds looked a bit neglected and
she supposed that had been a chore that had fallen to his wife.

He opened the door before she even knocked, and as usual, the kindness in his eyes nearly
paralyzed her. “Debra, I’m glad you’re here. Come in.”

He stood back to let her enter, but she failed to notice much about the interior other than a
general feeling of pleasant styles and tidiness—too nervous.

“Find the place okay?” His smile melted her.

“Yes—your directions were great.”

“Wedding plans under control so far?”

She nodded, watching as he passed through to the kitchen.

“Need to check my sauce,” he said, and she followed to find the white-on-white kitchen teeming with sweet, spicy, Italian aromas. He stirred a red sauce on the back burner, then
reached to turn on the front one, holding his hand over a skillet, waiting for heat to rise.

“Chicken parmigiana, right?” she asked.

“Yes, but starting with a crisp Caesar salad,” he answered like a guy who knew his way
around the kitchen.

“Sounds delightful,” she said. Then wondered for a moment what she was doing here, why she
felt so awkward, and if he noticed how stiff and stilted she probably seemed.

But then he reached for the small wooden spoon in the saucepan and held his hand under her
chin for drips as he motioned for her to taste. Just like the scent, it was spicy yet sweet—and
she realized that in all her years of marriage, Clark had never once done something so simply intimate as feed her. The unpretentious act reminded her how much she honestly liked Michael
and that he liked her, too, and her nerves began to fade.

An hour later, they were finishing their meal on the deck behind the house, at the most darling little wrought-iron table for two she’d ever seen. Actually, the whole yard was darling. Wind chimes tinkled in the breeze and small, painted birdhouses dangled from tree limbs. A circular
wooden bench curved all the way around an old oak whose boughs provided shade that
stretched all the way over their table.

“More wine?” he asked.

“I shouldn’t.” She’d already had two glasses, and that seemed enough at lunch.
He looked amused. “Is that a yes or a no?”

She sighed and thought—Live a little. “Oh hell, pour the wine.”

His rich laughter trickled down through her chest, warm as a drink of alcohol.

A moment after he refilled both their glasses, Michael stood without warning and walked
around to pull out her chair. “Come with me—I want to show you something.”

She followed him down the wooden stairs to a rock walk winding through the fairy-tale yard that felt a lot more like Snow White’s cottage than south Florida. Leaving the stone path, he
took her hand and she let him, amazed at the mere feel of it—the touch of a man she didn’t
really know, and yet it felt safe, right, comfortable. She wondered as they traversed the soft, shaded grass if he felt it as keenly as she did. He wasn’t a typical male. He was an artist. He noticed things. About her. She’d seen it through their meals together—seen him studying her
hands, her lips, the tiny details that were her.

Approaching one of the low-hanging birdhouses—this one painted deep blue and looking like
a tiny Swiss chalet in shape and trim—he looked around as if on a covert mission, then pointed
inside the oval opening. It was only then that she saw bits of straw sticking out and realized
there was a nest inside.

“If the mama bird sees me looking in here, she goes crazy,” Michael said, “but I think she’s off
hunting for worms right now.”

Debra peered in to spy three baby birds, looking rather unkempt, their heads no bigger than the
end of her thumb. “Oh my.”

“You probably think this is stupid,” he said, but when she looked up, he was smiling, as if he
weren’t embarrassed even if she did think that. She liked his easy confidence in who he was.
“Of course not—why would I?”

He gave his head a light shake, peeking back into the birdhouse. “I suppose this is the sort of
thing most people discover as kids. But I never did. So when Rhonda left, I started spending more time out here, just trying to notice little things more, appreciate nature or something, I
guess, and I found the nest. These guys were still in eggs then, but I made a project of
watching for them to hatch, and now watching them get strong enough to fly.”