Long Summer Nights (3 page)

Airily she waved her knife with as much skill as flair. “Of course, darling. Whatever you want.”

“A
QUIET
T
UESDAY NIGHT
in Harmony Springs. Day One in this reporter’s quest to find something interesting in this picturesque town where absolutely nothing ever happens. Did Quinn need to send me on this assignment? Do I have
sucker
stamped on my head? Do I need to keep asking these stupid rhetorical questions?”

Jenn clicked off the phone’s voice recorder, and leaned back on the hard surface of the giant boulder. Above her was the night-dark sky. And stars. She’d heard the rumors of their existence. She’d seen pictures in books, but as a lifelong resident of New York, she’d never observed them in their natural habitat.

Out here in the solitary woods, there were other creatures in their natural habitat. She could hear them scuttling and slithering, and she told herself not to panic. Cute, furry things scuttled. Mouselike things. Mickey. Minnie. Mighty.

And then of course, there were the not-so-nice ones with devil-red eyes that glowed like the fires of hell. With large teeth that could chew on human flesh…and she could almost feel something crawling on her.

Instantly she brushed at her jeans and came away with
nothing but embarrassment. Sometimes an overactive imagination was a plus, and sometimes, like now, it was a definite problem. Taking a deep, focusing breath, she stood up, and held her phone to the moon like Excalibur.

Two bars. Almost enough to make a connection.

Standing on tiptoe, she reached for the stars.

At the sight of three magical bars, she squealed with delight, nearly dislodging her feet from terra firma.

Still, the near-death experience was worth it.

Her phone’s display finally lit up, showing a map of the constellations above her head. Virgo and Centaurus. These were the twinkling constellations that were normally obliterated by the bright lights of the city. They seemed so low, so deceptively close, as if you could throw out your arms and touch them. It seemed that stars, much like New York politicians, were born to deceive.

She repeated the line in her head, liked it, and recorded it, a mental reminder of her literary prowess. And they thought journalists couldn’t write.

Below her notes, the day’s headlines crawled across the screen. All the things that happened in New York without her. A humbling experience, which proved that yes, the world did not revolve around Jenn.

But, her reporter’s brain argued, wasn’t that the whole point of being out here, at one with nature? It was a giant
screw you
to the concept of being at the center of everything. To say that you don’t care. To say you don’t need the rest of the world. To proclaim—a bit too loudly—that you’re satisfied with only the company of me, myself and I.

Deciding the philosophical overtones weren’t newsworthy, she sat down on the rock, reading over the day’s headlines, getting distracted by the goat-rodeo they called Albany politics. She was deep into an op-ed piece on the
latest budget referendum when she heard a new noise. Not scuttling, rustling. A large rustling, then a quiet oomph.

Not alone anymore.
Quickly she closed her eyes in case the creatures had returned.

“Hello,” drawled an annoyed voice. Not a mouse, she thought with relief, and opened her eyes, blinking twice in case her imagination had kicked in again.

No, not imagination. It was the uncooperative man from the inn. The same man who had dazzled her loins and piqued her curiosity. Yet no matter the pique or the dazzle, Jenn knew at a gut-deep level that this man would be another mistake.

His black hair was worn long, a man who didn’t care about the opinion of the world. Tonight the cool blue eyes were arrogant and detached, missing the burning intensity of this afternoon. His nose was Romanesque, the profile of dictators and emperors and rulers. Nothing sensitive there. It was only the slight dimple in the center of his chin that made her wonder about the accuracy of her assessment.

But all those warning signs didn’t mean she couldn’t have fantasies, didn’t remember the shot of excitement that chased through her this afternoon. The marvelous thing about dreams was that they were harmless, as long as you remembered they were only dreams.

Mr. Habitual Scowler sat down next to her, long legs stretched out in front of him, and she told herself there was nothing remotely dreamy about him.

“Your phone is very distracting,” he said in a completely undreamy voice.

Surprised, Jenn looked at the innocent device in her hand. Yes, cell phone users were capable of many sins. Since she was intolerant of most of them, Jenn knew that both she was and her phone were being unjustly accused. “My phone?”

“I was trying to work, and I kept seeing this flash from my window. I told myself to ignore it, but I couldn’t. So I walked over, looked out onto the normally darkened night sky, and I saw you sitting up here, performing some odd ritual.”

“You could have ignored me,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but then I kept telling myself that you might be some pagen worshipper, and might get naked and things went downhill from there. I couldn’t work, and I needed to work, so I climbed up here to ask you to return to your cabin where you belong.”

Immediately she realized who he was, and her heart bumped happily. Never a good sign. “You’re in cabin number three, aren’t you?”

“You’ve been spying on me?” he asked, sounding not as disturbed by that thought as most normal people would be.

“I don’t spy,” she said, defending herself. “I was warned not to disturb you.”

“Too late. You’ve disturbed me.” He pushed a hand through his hair, disturbing that, as well. It only added to his sexy quotient, and Jenn tried not to smile.

“I’m sure many mental health professionals would tell you that you were already disturbed long before I wandered onto this rock. And by the way, innocent rock-wandering would
not
be considered a disturbance by the population at large.”

“At this campground, I’m the sole population at large. It’s not a busy place.”

“And now there’s me. I’m looking at the stars, and I’m going to continue gazing at the stars, so if I’m disturbing you, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to stop.”

“You’re not gazing at the stars. You’re gazing at your
phone. There’s a perfectly good sky up there. You should try it.”

“I don’t know all the constellations. I’m learning. I suppose you know them all,” she asked carefully. He didn’t look like a romantic stargazer, she thought, not wanting anything else to add to his sexy quotient.

“No,” he answered, and she sighed with relief. Although secretly she admitted that she liked the lack of fog in his eyes.

She pointed to the stars on her phone. “If you had a star app, you could learn them.”

“Spoken like the commercially brainwashed American consumer that you are. Obsessed with convenience, purveyor of a thousand bits of minutia to manage an already hurried world. Devices that fool you into believing that you can rule time and have some control over your life. And in the end, those very things only make you a slave instead of the master.”

Instinctively she knew it wouldn’t be smart to laugh. If he hadn’t sounded so completely sure of himself, she might have felt sorry for him. Instead, because perhaps there was a shred of uncomfortable truth, she crossed her arms over her chest and raised her brows in her best imitation of smug superiority. “This coming from a man who left his solitary cabin and climbed up on a rock, solely in hopes of a little gratuitous nudity? You’re in no position to cast stones.”

Sadly he didn’t look the least bit ashamed. “I’m a mere man. Tethered to the weakness of the flesh and damned to experience life at its worst.”

That was the problem with weakening flesh, she thought, wishing that
this time
her body could be a little smarter. Instead she was noticing the long, length of his thighs, the rangy breadth of his shoulders and the sexy way he
looked at her when he didn’t want to look at her. She’d never realized conflicted men could be so arousing.

“Who said that?” she asked.

“It’s no one you’d ever heard of.”

“He sounds overwrought.”

“That’s the polite term,” he said, his teeth flashing in the dark, and she was shocked at how normal he looked. How appealing. How completely unromantic and yet still hot.

“Why are you here?” she asked, now completely overwrought herself.

“Because I thought you were going to take off your clothes. I thought you would look nice without them.”

Her eyes narrowed only because if he asked nicely, she might have considered. “You think that line will fool me? Leisure Suit Lothario doesn’t come easy for you. In fact, you probably had to scrape the dregs of your social vocabulary to come up with that one. Ergo, the actual answer to my question is even worse than being branded a mere man.”

As insults went, it was convoluted and scattered, mainly because her mind was still stuck back at taking off her clothes.

He looked at her sideways, his eyes amused. “What are you? Psychologist, or just nosy?”

“I’m a reporter.”

At her words, the change in him was visible. The humor in his eyes faded, and his mouth tightened to a forbidding line. “Bottom-feeder.”

Jenn was used to the lack of respect. As a journalist, she had trained herself to be immune. “You are a charmer. I bet your complimentary ways go over well with all the ladies. What do you have against reporters?”

“Do you want specifics, or are the broad, generalized sins of the species enough?”

“Specifics. I like dealing in truths.”

“There is no truth, only whatever is convenient to whomever is speaking.”

She didn’t like his words, didn’t like his bitterness, didn’t like that he was correct. Since she was a kid she’d wanted to be a reporter, but she wasn’t blind to the narrow line that a journalist had to walk. Integrity versus news.

Instinctively she changed the subject to something safer. Like sex. “Is this your idea of seduction? It’s not working,” she muttered, relieved when the tight smile appeared again.

“No. It’s my idea of trying to get you off this rock.”

He looked strangely content for a man who was disturbed, but she understood. He provoked her, but she could feel the answering thrum in her blood, the tightening of her skin, the brooding pulse between her thighs.

Frowning, she crossed her legs and his eyes followed the movement with a knowing awareness that didn’t help the situation. “That didn’t work with the pilgrims at Plymouth. It’s not going to work with me. I have an assignment. I’m going to do my assignment, and I’m sorry if my presence disturbs your man-in-the-bubble existence. Actually, no, I’m not sorry. It’s a lot of fun to irritate you.”

He looked at her, his eyes a little too stunned. “Do you clip the wings off butterflies, as well?”

It was fascinating the way he drifted into insults so easily, using them like a shield, parrying anything that cut too close. “A butterfly, are we?” she said, raising a faux superior brow.

“I like to think in objectifying metaphors, dehumanizing as much as possible. It makes dealing with people much easier. Generally I like to avoid most people.”

Not quite sure how to answer that one, not quite sure why he seemed content to sit with her on the rock, Jenn elected to remain silent, her legs firmly locked.

It was a beautiful night not to be thinking about sex. The sounds of nature weren’t quite so forbidding when he was beside her. Somewhere an owl was hooting, and she realized she’d never heard the hoot of an owl. Crickets played and the stars shimmered in a velvet sky. When he didn’t think she was looking, he would glance at the display on her phone, matching the constellation to the one’s overhead. But she was always secretly looking, always watching him.

She liked him, she admitted. He was the best sort of man. Brutally honest and unafraid to speak his mind, dark and twisted such as it was. But it was that honesty that was refreshing.

He leaned back on the uneven surface of the stone, his chest rising steadily, his face turned up to the sky. He had a nice chest. He chose to hide it, much like he seemed to hide everything, a complete opposite of most of the other men she met who wanted to drone on about every aspect of their existence as if she couldn’t wait to hang on each and every second of their day. Frankly a little mystery could be very sexy.

Maybe she should do this. Maybe she should have an affair. Maybe she should lean over four inches and kiss him. Feel that sharp mouth on hers. Slide her hands under the buttons of his shirt, and see if his heart would beat faster. At the moment, so deep into her own dreams, she thought that it would.

“What’s your assignment?” he asked, which was the very worst question to ask while she was contemplating seduction.

Turning back to the matters at hand, which weren’t
nearly as exciting as her current thoughts, she wiped sweaty palms on her jeans. “Harmony Springs. The Summer Nights Festival. The city-goers’ annual mecca to a quiet upstate community that offers very little in comparison to the myriad wonders of the five boroughs, so why the heck do all these people come here?”

Perhaps he noted the snark in her voice. “Which do you work for? Fear-mongering scandal-chaser with a penchant for yellow journalism or overpriced glossies perpetuating an idea of beauty or wealth that no ordinary person could achieve?”

She looked at him sharply, surprised by the anger. These days people were cynical about government, business and international diplomacy. But the media had been defanged long ago.

“I work for a newspaper. Large. Manhattan-based. Many Pulitzers among the staff. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Beneath the sarcasm, she still felt the thrill, the fierce pride in her job, which warred with her marginalized female propensity to remain humble. Usually the pride won out.

His mouth curved, and not in a happy way. “They give the Pulitzer to every journalistic rabble-rouser who spent their college years watching
All the President’s Men.
”

After all her bragging—completely deserved in her eyes—the man didn’t look nearly as impressed as she’d hoped. Secretly she wanted to make that disdainful gaze flash with admiration and respect. Some of it was her own defensiveness, her own not quite deserved pride in her career. And some of it was because he belonged to the world of the intelligentsia and the literati. It was a nut she wanted to crack, a place she wanted to belong. At the paper, the halls were filled with people who dropped rhetorical
devices at the drop of a hat. Instinctively she knew he lived in that high-brow existence, as well. His careful assessment of his surroundings, his use of language, his absolute moral certainty. So, who was he?