So I held his gaze until he turned and strode confidently toward the house.By the time he passed the front window, I was on my way to meet him.Confidence demanded confidence; so I’d been taught as a child, and though I’d spurned others of those childhood teachings, this one survived.Peter Hathaway barely had time to cross the small, sheltered porch and lift a hand to knock when I opened the old oak door.
Very slowly that hand lowered, but I was already looking beyond it to his face.I had to look up; he stood at least six foot two.His broad shoulders and lean hips suggested man at his best.Nothing I saw in his features dispelled that notion.
His hair wasn’t just brown, it was a rich mahogany and unfairly thick.Its texture appealed to the artist in me, though it didn’t take anartist to realize that the tossing the wind had given it simply improved on the work of a skilled stylist.
He wasn’t tanned.I wasn’t sure if I’d expected him to be, and in any case, it didn’t matter because his skin had a healthy glow.It, too, was textured—rougher where he shaved, creased where he squinted, laughed or frowned—and there was a small scar on his cheekbone that gave him a mysterious air.
But it was his eyes that grabbed me.They were pale green, almost to the point of luminescence.I’d never seen any like them.On the one hand they were eerie, on the other enticing.They probed with an intensity that frightened me, then soothed in the next blink.I tried to look away, but couldn’t.Nor could I control the sudden, wild beating of my heart.
“Jill Moncrieff?”
His deep voice cut through the thunder of the sea and the echo of the wind to say my name, and I’ve never been more grateful for anything in my life.For, God help me, in those few short moments when I’d been bound by his gaze, I’d forgotten who I was.
A single, hard swallow brought me back.“Yes,” I said with all the composure I could muster in a matter of seconds.I extended my hand.“You must be Peter Hathaway.”
His hand was large and warm, enveloping mine with the same confidence that surrounded the rest of him, but I didn’t have long to dwellon it when he did something that drove all other thoughts from my mind.
He smiled.
Actually it was more of a half smile, a lopsided curve of his mouth.It held surprise, smug pleasure and utter maleness, reflecting the thoughts I assumed to be swirling through his head.It was a dangerous smile if ever there was one, but for the life of me I couldn’t look away.
“So you’re Judge Madigan’s daughter,” he announced in a soft, self-satisfied tone of voice.Still holding my hand, he made a slow sweep of my body, and while his gaze was more curious than insolent, I had to work not to squirm.He was a man with far greater experience than I possessed, and I felt vulnerable.
Reacting against that, I retrieved my hand, steadied my chin in a self-assured manner and said quietly, “That’s right.”
“You don’t look the way I expected you would.”His eyes caught mine again, this time in mild challenge.
“What had you expected?”
“A dog.”
I couldn’t believe he’d said that.“Excuse me?”
“I figured that being a Madigan heiress, there’d have to be something desperately wrong with your looks for you to be stashed away up here.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my looks.”
The lazy half smile came again, along with an appreciative, “So I see.”Then the smile faded.“I’d also expected someone a little older.I met your brother at a party not long ago.It turned out he went to Penn with a high school buddy of mine.You must be fifteen years younger than us.”
Slowly I shook my head.“If that was meant as a compliment, you missed.I wouldn’t want to be twenty-five again for the world.”
“Why not?”
“When I was twenty-five, my husband died.My career was in limbo.I went through a rough time.”In a chilly reminder of those dark days, the wind chose that moment to gust through the door.“That, was six years ago, Mr.Hathaway,” I said, holding back the hair that wanted to blow into my eyes.“I’ve come a long way since then.I’m quite happy with my life now, except for this little problem with Cooper.”I stood back.“It’s chilly.Why don’t you come in and let me close the door?”
I wasn’t sure whether I’d shocked him with my blunt revelation about Adam.I hoped so.It bothered me that he should think me an innocent, when I wasn’t.While I wouldn’t call my life in Maine as sophisticated as the one I’d once known, I’d probably seen more hardship and pain—and more joy—in the past ten years than any ofmyclassmates at Penn.
Keeping his feelings well to himself now, much as I would have expected from a smooth city boy, Peter Hathaway stepped over my threshold and into the living room.Instantly theroom seemed smaller than usual, which was absurd, I told myself.Cooper was every bit as tall as Peter Hathaway, perhaps even broader.When a little voice inside me whispered something about an aura of virility surrounding Peter, I tuned it out.
“Have a seat,” I suggested, hoping that if his body were folded I wouldn’t feel as threatened.
But he started to wander around the room, pausing before a table here, a shelf there, to study my work.“Your mother said you were a potter.”He examined a pair of candlesticks that were irrevocably entwined.“She said that your things are shown in some of the best galleries in New York, but that you choose to work here for the sake of concentration.”
“Mother would say that,” I remarked, though not unkindly.I’d mellowed enough over the years to allow my family its excuses for what they considered to be my bizarre behavior.
“Is it untrue?”he asked.His back was to me, but I could see him touch a small vase that looked all the more delicate in contrast to his long, blunt-tipped fingers.
“To some extent.Life here is simpler than it is in the city, and in that sense it’s easier to concentrate.Then again, there are many artists who work in city garrets and do just fine.Where one lives is a matter of personal choice.I’ve chosen to live here for reasons that have nothing to do with concentration.”
