She’d wanted him, and she chipped away at his defenses until she won that battle. Now the stakes had gone up, considerably higher than she’d ever gambled on before.
She’d been very careful to do the picking and choosing in personal relationships. And she’d chosen Brian Hathaway. But somewhere along the way the angle had changed on her.
He wouldn’t speak of love lightly, not Brian. She could. But not with Brian, she realized. If she said those words, she would have to mean them. And if she meant them, she would have to build on them. Words were only the foundation.
Home, family. Permanence. She would have to decide if she wanted those things at all, and if she wanted them with him. Then she would have to convince him that he wanted them with her.
It wouldn’t be simple. The bruises and scars from his childhood kept anything about Brian from being simple.
She lifted her face to the wind. Hadn’t she already decided? Hadn’t she known in that split second when she saw him bleeding, when fear swept all professional calm aside, that her feelings for him had gone well beyond lust?
It scared her. She was afraid she would indeed trip over that step. And more, she was afraid to commit to taking it. Better to take it slow, she decided. To be sure of her footing. She handled things better if she was calm and clear-sighted. Certainly something as important as this should be approached with caution and a cool head.
She ignored the little voice snickering inside her head and turned back to walk home. The glint far across the dunes made her frown. The second time it flashed, she realized it was the setting sun’s reflection off glass. Binoculars, she thought with a shiver. With a hand shielding her eyes, she could just make out a figure. The distance made it impossible to tell whether it was male or female. She began to walk more quickly, wanting to be inside again, behind closed doors.
It was foolish, she knew. It was just someone watching the beach at sunset, and she simply happened to be on the beach. But the sensation of being watched, of being studied, stayed with her and hurried her steps toward home.
***
SHE’D spotted him, and that only made it more exciting. He’d frightened her, just by being there. Chuckling softly, he continued to frame Kirby in the telephoto lens, snapping methodically as she rushed along the beach.
She had a beautiful body. It had been a pleasure to watch the wind plaster her shirt and slacks to it, outline the curves. The sunlight had glowed on her hair, turning it a rich, burning gold. As the sun had dipped lower at his back, all the tones and hues had deepened, softened. He was pleased that he’d used color film this time.
Oh, and that look in her eyes when she’d realized someone was there. The lens had brought her so close, he’d nearly been able to see her pupils dilate.
Such pretty green eyes, he thought. They suited her. Just as the swing of blond hair suited her, and that soft, soothing voice.
He wondered what her breasts would taste like.
She’d be a hot one in the sack, he decided, snapping quickly before she disappeared around the dunes. The small, delicate types usually were, once you got them revving. He imagined she thought she knew all there was to know about anatomy. But he figured he could show her some tricks. Oh, yes, he could show the lady doctor a few things.
He remembered an excerpt from the journal that seemed to fit the moment and his mood. The rape of Annabelle.
I experimented, allowing myself full range to do things to her that I have never done to another woman. She wept, tears streaming down her cheeks and dampening the gag. I had her again, again. It was beyond me to stop. It wasn’t sex, was no longer rape.
It was unbearable power.
Yes, it was the power he wanted, the full scope of it, which he had not achieved with Ginny. Because Ginny had been defective, he reminded himself. She had been whore instead of angel, and a poor choice.
If he decided to—if he decided he needed just a little more practice before the main event—Kirby, with her pretty eyes and angel hands, would be a fine subject. She would work out just fine.
Something to think about, he mused. Something to consider. But for now he thought he’d wander toward Sanctuary and see if Jo Ellen was out and about.
It was nearly time to remind her he was thinking about her.
EIGHTEEN
AS Giff drove up the road to Sanctuary, he saw Lexy. She stood on the second-floor terrace, her long legs prettily displayed in cuffed cotton shorts, her hair bundled messily on top of her head. She was washing windows, which he was sure would have her in one of her less hospitable moods.
As appealing a picture as she made, she would have to wait. He needed to talk to Brian.
She saw Giff park his pickup but barely spared him a glance. Her smile was smug as she polished off the mixture of vinegar and water with newspaper until the windowpane shone. She’d known he would come around, though it had taken him longer than she’d expected.
But she decided to forgive him—after he crawled just a little.
She bent to soak her rag again, turning her head a bit, slanting her eyes over and down. Then sprang straight up when she saw Giff was heading not toward the house and her but toward the old smokehouse, where Brian was painting porch furniture.
Why, that rattlesnake, she thought, slapping the cleaning solution on the next window. If he was waiting for her to come to him, he was going to be sorely disappointed. She’d never forgive him now. Not if she lived to be a thousand years old. He could crawl over hot coals, she thought, furiously polishing the window. He could beg and plead and call her name on his deathbed and she would laugh gaily and walk on.
