Swept Away (56 page)

To her surprise, he looked appropriately cowed. She’d never seen that on Brock Denton
before. “You’re right, you do.”

“And you’re not that guy. And I’m not even sure that guy exists, because the truth is—there
aren’t that many great guys out there. Good guys, maybe. But not great ones, who would give
everything. But that’s okay, because I’d rather be alone than be second-best to someone,
especially you.”

“Kitten,” he said, looking sadder than she’d ever seen him, “if I could give you everything you
deserve, I would. I swear.”

“But you can’t. We both know that. So you should go.”

He sighed, didn’t answer. Just gave her a long, hard look, as if maybe he were trying to
engrave her into his memory—then turned and walked out the door.

Which she’d just demanded he do. So why did she suddenly feel so horribly alone without him already? One more thing that never changed.

“You think my mom will like it?”

Kat glanced up from the sink at The Kiln where she stood washing clay from her hands. Ten
year-old Andre stood next to her, cradling in his arms the small bowl he’d been making these
past few weeks.

“Of course she will. It’s beautiful.”

Andre peered down at his creation, a strange color combination of orange, green, and purple
that struck Kat as somewhere between garish and funky. He looked like he was seeing garish.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s ugly.”

Turning off the faucet and drying her hands, Kat lowered herself into a plastic chair from a
nearby table, bringing herself closer to his eye level. “You know, when I made my very first
piece, I was afraid it was ugly. But I gave it to my mom for Christmas and she loved it. It’s still
on display all these years later in her china cabinet. And when I see it now, I realize how
unique it is, and that only I could have made it, and that no other piece in the world is quite like it. I promise your mom will love it. And you want to know a secret?”

Andre leaned slightly closer, eyes curious.

“I’m seriously thinking of stealing your colors for the next piece I make.”
A smile lit up the boy’s face. “Really?”

“Yep. And I don’t steal just anyone’s colors. So don’t tell the other kids, okay?”
He nodded. “Okay.”

As he turned to go, Kat said, “See you next week,” and hoped she really would. Sometimes
kids didn’t show back up—ever. And she never found out why—just knew it was family stuff. Stuff like Brock had probably dealt with as a child. She hoped her kids’ lives weren’t that bad.

It struck her then how well Brock had turned out, despite his past. Rough around the edges at
times, definitely. Unable to have a normal relationship—that was a drawback. But he’d turned
out to be a good man—undeniably so.

Which kind of made her want to cry—yet she reminded herself what she’d figured out last
week, that she was stronger than she used to be, so she held the tears at bay.

Now that the studio was empty, she walked to a table on the far side of the room where just-
finished pieces sat, waiting to go home. She studied her own latest creation, a mottled green
vase adorned with the few bits of glass she and Brock had found on the island. It wasn’t her
most-polished-looking piece, probably not something anyone would pay a high price for, but it
possessed a rustic, genuine quality, something that made her want to touch it, hold it.

When Brock had given her the chunk of stone that completed the pendant, she’d at first wanted
to do what he’d suggested, use the whole pendant in a pot. But she hadn’t done it yet—even
after using the sea glass. And the longer she mulled it over, the more she didn’t think she
would—because it just seemed wrong.

The pieces had been reunited, but love hadn’t grown from it, no matter what he’d said to her on
the night of her opening. For all she knew, he didn’t even know what love was. Maybe she
didn’t believe love was real unless you acted on it, embraced it, let it own you. And maybe that
was what had made her strong enough to send him away that night.

Somehow, after he’d gone, she’d managed to block the whole incident from her mind for a few
hours. Her opening had gone swimmingly—lots of pieces had sold and continued to do so—
and the night had been all she had hoped. She’d known she’d become what she’d always
wanted to be—a true artist. And the pride in her father’s eyes had been the icing on the cake.

Of course, later that night, the encounter with Brock had all come careening back. Along with everything they’d done on the island. It had been tempting to indulge herself and believe in his
profession of love. But the fact was that one “I love you”—as amazing at it had sounded
coming from him—wasn’t enough to negate the facts.

They’d had a whirlwind affair.

It was over.

And he didn’t do relationships.

And the further fact was—she wanted to kill him for saying he loved her.

Listen to me, damn it. I love you. She could still hear the words, his deep voice chiseling them
into her heart.

Her job now was to scrape them away somehow.

Furthermore, she was sorry she’d accepted the stone piece from him. Even if it—incredibly,
almost magically—brought the long-separated pendant back together, she feared that as long as it stayed in her possession, she’d never get over him.

There was so much to be happy about right now. Her work was being noticed, Ian was out of
her hair, and certain aspects of life—like coming in to work with the kids today—were starting
to feel almost normal again. But she knew that before she could truly move on, she needed to
get Brock Denton out of her system once and for all.

Just then, her purse trilled, and she jogged back across the room to grab up the cell phone from
inside. “Hello?”

“Hey, what time tonight?” It was Nina.

Kat glanced at the clock on the wall—4:15. She needed to go home, shower and change—and then run an errand that might help her begin to get Brock out of her mind, even if only
symbolically. The idea had just occurred to her, and there was no time like the present. Then
she could meet up with Nina and their girlfriends, and they could go to dinner for Kat’s
birthday. “Let’s say eight at Tommy Bahama’s.”

“Eight?” Her friend sounded disappointed. “That means we won’t even get to the first club ’til after ten.” Birthdays for Kat traditionally included lots of barhopping. And Nina seemed
determined that Crazy Kat would make an appearance tonight, even if she had to pour shots of

schnapps down Kat’s throat herself.

Kat, on the other hand, wasn’t particularly anxious for that portion of the evening to
commence, and was half-considering claiming exhaustion after dinner and bowing out. “Quit
complaining—they have big drinks at Tommy’s, so you’ll survive. I have some stuff to do
first.”

Like rid myself of a certain pirate and his treasure.

“Here’s ‘Fooled Around and Fell in Love’ by Elvin Bishop,” said the DJ on the seventies
station Brock had, for no particular reason, kept right on listening to ever since he and Kat had
left the island.

“Shit!” he yelled when he dropped a heavy wrench on his hand at the first notes of the slow,
bluesy song.

His whole day had been going like this. No, his whole week.

Hell, if he was honest, nothing had been right since he’d last seen Kat. He’d left the gallery in a
bad mood, and it had gotten steadily worse from that point on. The improvements on his
grandpa’s house were going well enough, but no matter what he did, he just wasn’t happy.

Truth was, he had no idea where the hell that I love you had come from. Especially given that
those weren’t words that had ever fallen from his lips before. Since he had no intention of acting on them, it had been a stupid thing to say.

The further truth was, he now feared that they hadn’t been just words, that he really did love her. She was all he could think about. And work on the house was proving less of a distraction all the time. Hell, right now his whole hand was throbbing like a son of a bitch and what was
he thinking about? Kat.

Another disturbing revelation: His mandatory vacation time was almost over, yet he didn’t feel
the slightest inclination to return to work. Maybe killing Carlos had killed something inside
him. Or maybe he was just plain tired of the job, like he’d told Bruno.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to leave Kat. Even though he wasn’t with her, as long as he
stayed here he also wasn’t exactly away from her—and for some reason, he couldn’t quite
bring himself to get any farther away.

Not that the last part made any sense. Because if he was here—why couldn’t he just be with
her?

Picking the wrench back up as the pain in his hand started to subside, he couldn’t deny the
overwhelming sadness that washed over him. He couldn’t be with her because he didn’t know how. To love somebody. A woman. Or anyone.

That simple.

Damn, that was sobering. He set the wrench back down, then plopped his ass on the hardwood floor he’d just laid yesterday, resting his arms on bent knees.

He’d always thought he’d overcome his past. He’d thought it was all just a clump of distant
memories. He’d even had the nerve to feel proud of himself on occasion.

But this was the first time he’d ever faced the one wound that hadn’t ever healed. Hell, maybe
his FBI work had just been a big Band-Aid covering it up all this time.

He swallowed, hard. What kind of a man didn’t even know how to love a woman? And despite
having told her he did, having said that word, he knew deep down that all he’d done was hurt her. Going to the gallery had been purely selfish—because he’d just plain needed to see her,
even if only for a few minutes.

He thought of his grandpa, even glanced up at a photo of the two of them together that he’d recently pulled from an old album and put in a frame. If his grandfather were here now, what would he advise? What would make his grandpa proud, show him that Brock had become a
worthy man? Not just a federal agent who could bring down the bad guys—but a truly worthy
man inside?

Letting out a sigh, he decided he was done working for the day. In fact, he needed a beer. Pushing to his feet, he headed for the fridge and pulled out a cold one, then headed outside,
toward the old swamp, where maybe he could think a little more clearly.

Chapter Twenty-one

Kit at drove up the gravel drive that led to the swamp, nearly wrecking the car when she saw
Brock sitting next to the water in that same exact bucket seat from ten years ago. My God, how
was that thing still here? Then again, given that his grandpa had died not long after he’d left and
no one had been back since, she imagined not much had changed. Probably someone had stuck it in a shed or something, and Brock had pulled it back out.