More Than Words: Stories of Strength Page 3

He noticed the pink towels in the bathroom.

  Pink. It was a grayed pink, but it was still pink.

  He wondered if the guy in the attic got white towels.

  “Your friend from Boston is in the room across the hall.”

  His experience as a detective kept him from choking on his tongue. “Jess?”

  “That’s right. You seem surprised.”

  And she didn’t like his surprise. He could see it in her body language. She straightened, narrowing her eyes on him, and moved to the doorway, ready for flight.

  O’Malley relaxed his manner, not wanting to get his hostess mixed up in whatever he and Jess had going on. “I’m just surprised she beat me here. I thought I had the head start.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Marianne said firmly. “If you don’t want Ms. Stewart here—if she’s stalking you—”

  “Jess? Stalking me? No way. It’s nothing like that.”

  “And you. You’re not—”

  “No, I’m not stalking her.”

  She seemed at least partially relieved. “I hope not.”

  He pointed to his bandaged forehead. “I was in a scrape at work a couple days ago. Jess is worried about me is all. She and I go way back.”

  “You’re a police officer, aren’t you? Were you—”

  “It was nothing.”

  Jess had been talking. O’Malley had known her since she was a recruit. She’d gone through the police academy two years after him and had done a good job on the force, but her heart wasn’t in it, not the way it was in her job as a prosecutor. She absolutely believed that the system could, should and most often did work, and that she was there to get to the truth, not advance her own career, change the world or pander to public opinion.

  O’Malley wasn’t that idealistic. Jess insisted it wasn’t idealism on her part, but a serious, hardheaded understanding of her duties as a representative of the state’s interests. She’d tried to convince him of that over one of their dinners together. But he wasn’t convinced of anything, except she was a bigger workaholic than he was and needed to take a vacation once in a while.

  And he’d wanted to make love to her.

  He’d been very convinced of that.

  After Marianne retreated downstairs, he stood out in the hall and stared at Jess’s shut door. Damn. What was she doing here?

  The three-legged puppy syndrome, he thought.

  She must have been the kind of kid who brought home injured animals, and that was what he was at the moment.

  Except he didn’t see it that way.

  He walked over to the door and stood a few inches from the threshold, wondering if he’d be able to figure out what she was doing in there. Sleeping? Plotting what she’d do once he got there? But he didn’t hear a sound from inside—no radio, no running water, no happy humming.

  No gulping.

  No window creaking open as she tied sheets together to make good her escape.

  She must have heard him talking in the hall with their hostess.

  The door jerked open suddenly, and Jess was there in shorts and a top, barefoot, her hair still damp and her skin still pink from a recent bath or shower.

  “O’Malley,” she said. “What a coincidence.”

  “Like minds and all that?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Sweetheart, there’s nothing ‘like’ about our minds.”

  But she was unflappable—she’d had longer to prepare for this moment. “I saw all those Nova Scotia brochures on your dining-room table and couldn’t resist. Funny we picked the same B and B.”

  “You’re not even trying hard to sound convincing.”

  She ignored him. “It’s adorable, isn’t it? I love the cottage touches and the raspberry theme.”

  He had no idea what she meant by “cottage touches.” He placed one hand on the doorjamb and leaned in toward her, smelling the fragrance of her shampoo. “How’s your room?”

  “Perfect.”

  He tried to peer past her. “I think it’s bigger than mine.”

  She opened the door a bit wider. “See for yourself.”

  In her own way, Jessica Stewart liked to play with fire. O’Malley stepped into her room and saw that it was shaped differently from his, but about the same size. “I didn’t see your car,” he said.

  “Really?”

  All innocence. “Did you hide it?”

  “I engaged in strategic parking. If you’d arrived with a woman friend, I’d have been out of here in a flash.”

  He smiled. “Don’t want any competition?”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass you. You deserve a break, you know, after the shooting. It’s just that you also need to be around friends.” She scrutinized his head as he walked past her. “How’s the wound?”

  “I’ve cut myself worse shaving.” He peered into her bathroom. “Do you have pink towels?”

  “They’re a shade of raspberry. Don’t think of it as a feminine color.”

  “It’s a cheerful place. I’ll say that.” He stopped in front of Jess’s bed and turned to her, noticing the color in her cheeks. It was more than the aftereffects of her shower. “Now that you see me, do you feel like a dope for following me?”

  “It’d take a lot for you to make me feel like a dope, O’Malley. Everyone’s worried about you. What did you think would happen when you snuck off like that?”

  He shrugged. “I thought I’d get to spend a few quiet days on my own in Nova Scotia.”

  “No, you didn’t. You thought I’d follow you. That’s why you circled the name of the B and B—”

  “You didn’t have a key to my place.”

  “You knew I’d ask your brother. I’ll bet he okayed it with you to give me the key. Am I right?”

  “Hey, hey. I’m not on the witness stand, prosecutor.”

  She sighed, shoving her hands into her shorts’ pockets. “O’Malley—” She broke off with a small groan. “You’re impossible. I don’t know why I ever slept with you. My first day at the academy ten years ago, I was warned about you.”

  He feigned indignation. “Warned in what way?”

  “Every way.”

  “What, that they don’t come any smarter, sexier, more hell-bent on catching bad guys—”

  “More full of himself, more hell on women, more cynical—”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t cynical in those days.”

  “You are now.”

  “Only a little.”

  He approached her, slipping his arms around her as she pulled her hands out of her pockets. She didn’t stiffen. She didn’t tell him to back off or go soak his head. Instead she met his eye and smiled. “You’re more than a little cynical, O’Malley.”

  “It’s to protect a soft heart.”

  “Ha.”

  But she had to know he had a soft heart—he’d exposed it to her when they’d made love. He’d never done anything like that before and wasn’t sure he wanted to again. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable—emotionally or physically.

  She was still smiling when his mouth found hers, and he could taste the salt air on her lips, her tongue. She draped her arms around his neck and responded with an urgency that told him she’d at least thought about this happening on her trip up here. He lifted her off her feet. Why hadn’t he asked her to come with him? Maybe she was right and it was some kind of test, some kind of sexy game between them.

  “O’Malley.” She drew away from him and caught her breath. “Brendan. Oh, my. I didn’t mean—” She didn’t finish. “Maybe we should take a walk.”

  “A walk?”

  “It’s a gorgeous day.”

  “Right.”

  He set her down and backed up a step, raking one hand through his close-cropped hair. She licked her lips and adjusted her shirt, which had come awry during their kiss.

  “I’m on a rescue mission,” she said. “I shouldn’t be taking advantage of your situation.”

  “Why the hell not?”

 
But the moment had passed. She had something else on her mind besides falling into bed with him—not that it was easy for her, he decided. She just had a lot of self-discipline.

  “I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said. “We can take a walk, then do afternoon tea.”

  That was it.

  Jess made her way to the door and held it open for him as he strode past her back out into the hall. “Think Marianne Wells would have a ham sandwich or something at tea time?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Little scones, probably, huh?”

  Jess smiled, looking more at ease, less as if she was afraid he’d go off the deep end at any moment. “I’d count on something with raspberries.”

  The afternoon stayed warm and sunny, and Marianne served tea on the back porch, laying out an assortment of miniature lemon scones with raspberry jam, tiny triangles of homemade bread, fresh local butter and watercress, and warm oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies that one of her friends had dropped by that morning.

  Jess couldn’t have been happier, but O’Malley looked a little out of place sitting on a white wicker rocker with a watermelon-colored cushion as he negotiated a Beatrix Potter teacup and plate of goodies.

  He’d gotten rid of the bandage on his forehead. His bullet graze looked more like a nasty cat scratch. Probably no one would guess what it really was, or even bother to ask. He’d had no trouble negotiating their hike along a stunning stretch of the rugged granite coastline. Whenever the afternoon sun hit his dark hair, his clear blue eyes, Jess was struck again by how really good-looking and madly sexy he was. She hadn’t thought about his mental state—the possibility he was suffering from post-traumatic stress symptoms—at all.

  Maybe it was being away from Boston—violence and his work seemed so far removed from Nova Scotia.

  Or maybe it was the way he’d kissed her.

  When a middle-aged man joined them on the porch, Jess forced herself to push aside all thought of kissing Brendan O’Malley.

  The man introduced himself as John Summers, the Wild Raspberry’s third guest. He had longish graying hair and a full gray beard and was dressed in worn hiking shorts and shirt, with stringy, tanned, well-muscled legs and arms. He looked as if he’d been strolling the nooks and crannies of Nova Scotia for months, if not years. His eyes were a pale blue, and he had deep lines in an angular, friendly face.

  But something about him immediately set off O’Malley’s cop radar. Jess could see it happening. He started with the inquisition. “How long have you been here?”

  “A month. Gorgeous spot, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is. Spend the whole month here alone?”

  Summers winced visibly at O’Malley’s aggressive tone, then said coolly, “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Must be relaxing. Hike a lot? Or are you into sailing?”

  “Hiking and kayaking, mostly.” He sat on a wicker chair with his plate of goodies and a cup of tea and changed the subject. “What brings you to Nova Scotia? You’re American, aren’t you?”

  “From Boston. Just taking a few days off.” O’Malley didn’t take the hint and back off. “Where are you from?”

  “Toronto.”

  “That’s a ways. You fly here or drive?”

  Jess tried to distract O’Malley from the scent by offering him a warm cookie. He didn’t take the hint. Summers, to his credit, just answered the question. “I flew into Halifax.”

  “I’ve never been to Halifax,” Jess said.

  Summers seized on her comment like a lifeline. “It’s a wonderful city. I hope you’ll have a chance to spend a day there, at least, while you’re here. The entire South Shore is worth seeing. Lunenburg can occupy you for quite some time.”

  “What would you recommend I see?”

  O’Malley scowled at her as if she’d interfered with a homicide investigation. He said nothing, just downed a final scone in two bites. Jess chatted with their fellow guest about South Shore sites, then got him to recommend hiking trails. O’Malley finally growled under his breath and excused himself.

  Summers nodded at his retreating figure. “You two know each other?”

  “We work together,” Jess said vaguely. It was close enough to the truth. “He had a bad experience before coming up here.”

  “He reminds me of a cop. Are you two in law enforcement?”

  Jess sighed, then smiled. “Caught. Brendan’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor.”

  He didn’t seem pleased that he’d guessed right. “Have you prosecuted many domestic abuse cases?”

  “Too many on the one hand, too few on the other.”

  “Meaning domestic violence shouldn’t happen, ever, but it does and you want to get all the perpetrators.” Summers nodded with understanding. “Our hostess left an abusive marriage two years ago. She’s a very courageous woman. She’s come a long way in a relatively short time.”

  Jess set her plate down, no longer hungry. “The scar above her eye?”

  “Her ex-husband’s handiwork. He was convicted. He’s out of prison now. He was a businessman in Halifax, but he’s relocated to Calgary.” Summers’s expression didn’t change, but Jess could feel his sarcasm. “Apparently he said he needed a fresh start.”

  “Not for her sake, I’ll bet.”

  “He’s from western Canada originally. His reputation here was in tatters. People didn’t want to believe he was capable of abuse, but the knife cut ended their denial.”

  Jess wondered why he was telling her all this. “It looks as if Marianne’s built a new life for herself.”

  “She has. It wasn’t easy. She told me she used to worry constantly that he’d come back. On some level, I think she still does.”

  “The emotional wounds of abuse can take a long time to heal.”

  He looked away. “Sometimes I wonder if they ever do, if someone who’s been through that kind of horror can love and trust someone again—” He broke off, as if he hadn’t meant to go that far, adding sharply, “Marianne has put all she has—her time, her money, her energy, her love—into getting this place up and running, into her life here. She has friends, she volunteers at a local shelter.”

  Something about his manner struck Jess as antagonistic, even accusatory. “Mr. Summers, we’re not here to upset anyone—”

  “What happened to your friend Detective O’Malley? He’s had a recent brush with violence, hasn’t he?”

  “You’re very perceptive. It wasn’t a major incident, fortunately.”

  “But it wasn’t the first. Men like him—” Summers paused, seeming to debate the wisdom of what he wanted to say. “They’re magnets for violence.”

  “Not O’Malley,” Jess said, although she didn’t know why she felt the need to defend him.

  Summers looked past her. “I’ve been her only guest on and off since I arrived, especially during the week. Weekends she’s usually full.” But he had a distant look in his eye, as if he wouldn’t necessarily trust himself—or maybe Jess was reading something into his manner that wasn’t there because of O’Malley’s instant suspicion of him. Summers drifted off a moment, then smiled abruptly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “You’re not the one who was rude.”

  He almost laughed. “Well, I suppose we want a homicide detective to be of a suspicious nature. Does he give everyone the third-degree like that?”

  “Actually, no. I think he’s just on edge.”

  “It’s taken a lot of courage and effort for Marianne to build a life for herself that’s free of violence. See to it he keeps himself in check, okay?”

  “Mr. Summers, Brendan has never lost control—”

  “I’m sure he hasn’t.” He made a face, rubbing the back of his neck as he heaved a sigh. “And I’m sure Marianne would have a fit if she thought I was protecting her. She can take care of herself. She has a great group of friends. She’s one of the most positive people I’ve ever met.”

  Jess smiled at him. “Smitten, are you, Mr
. Summers?”

  His cheeks reddened slightly. “I guess there’s no point in hiding it.”

  “She’s not interested?”

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t—” He frowned suddenly. “You must be a hell of a prosecutor, Ms. Stewart. I didn’t mean to tell you any of this.”

  “Call me Jess,” she said. “And, yes, I do okay in my work.”

  She joined O’Malley in the English-style garden, filled with pink foxglove, purple Jacob’s ladder, pale pink astilbe, painted daisies, sweet William, lady’s mantle and a range of annuals. He looked as if he could stomp them all into the dirt. Jess inhaled deeply. “I could get into gardening.”

  “The guy’s lying about something.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t know that.”

  He mock-glared at her. “Your gut’s telling you the same thing.”

  “Maybe, but not all untruths are nefarious untruths. What set you off?”

  “He’s been here a month, shows up looking like he could scale the Himalayas. This isn’t your ‘outdoors guy’ kind of place.”

  Jess smiled, amused. “Because of the pink towels?”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “No, I don’t. You’re here—”

  “That’s karma or something. I can’t explain it.” He grimaced, as if the thought of trying to explain how he’d ended up at the Wild Raspberry made him miserable. “Whatever Summers is hiding, it’s more than a social lie.”

  “Like telling me you’re staying home in bed when you’re actually packing for Nova Scotia?”

  “That was a strategic lie. I knew you wouldn’t leave me alone otherwise.” He had a sexy glint in his eyes that he seemed able to produce at will. “You didn’t, anyway.”

  “You can be alone after you’re over the shooting.”

  “I was over the shooting once I knew the bullet missed.”

  Jess didn’t argue with him and instead related her conversation with their fellow guest. O’Malley looked disgusted. “I hate wife-beaters. I knew a guy my first year on the force who beat up his wife and kids. He was a good cop. No one wanted to believe it, but it was true.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He went through anger management—after his wife packed up herself and the kids and got out of there before he could do more damage. He lost his job. He screwed up a lot of lives, including his own, before he figured out he was the one who had to change. Most guys don’t ever figure that out. It was an eye-opener for the rest of us, seeing that a guy we respected was capable of beating up on his wife and kids.”