Longest Night (4 page)

Well, he wasn't going to wear any of the suits. He had two pairs of jeans—one black and somewhat dressy, one blue and comfortable. He tossed the blue pair on the bed and left the black ones in the empty dresser drawer he'd found. Other than T-shirts meant for sleep, his PA had packed only button-downs; plain white was the closest thing he had to informal.

Clearly he was going to need to go shopping, assuming there were any stores within a hundred miles. He wasn't holding out much hope for Pinelake, judging by what Cecily had implied. Surely he'd be able to shop online and have his purchases shipped here. She had to have some way to receive mail and packages.

This whole wilderness retreat was starting to feel like a mistake. Granted, there was no chance that reporters would find him. And he was honest enough with himself to admit that New York
would
be a temptation. Sometimes, he was too clever for his own good. As a criminal lawyer, he knew exactly how to get his hands on all sorts of illicit goods; prescription painkillers would be child's play.

So, he'd stay. He'd find a way to make this work. He would beat this addiction, and then he'd go back home, find a way to deal with the press, and rebuild his practice—his whole damned life.

Cecily emerged from the bathroom without warning, clad only in a towel wrapped around her body. Wet, her hair was a dark auburn that brushed her shoulders in a mass of gentle waves. Unable to resist, Ian looked farther down to pale skin dotted with freckles. He felt his chest go cold, his throat tightening to trap his breath.

High on the right side of her chest, just to the side of her collarbone, was a deep pucker of scarring. Years of looking at evidence photos helped him recognize it as a bullet wound. It was surrounded by thin jagged lines that looked too messy to be the result of proper surgery. There were more scars as well, disappearing beneath the edge of the towel.

Almost immediately, she turned her back and went to the closet in the corner. “Sorry,” she muttered over the sound of wire hangers being shoved out of the way.

Ian told himself to leave and allow her to get dressed in privacy, but he couldn't move. The bullet wound was mirrored on her back, a starry web of white lines radiating out from a dull red center, showing the exit path of the bullet.
Shot
in
combat
, he thought. It was the only thing that made sense. But why had it scarred so badly? Years ago, Preston had been shot—and Ian still struggled with the memory of that terrible phone call—but the wound had healed cleanly. So why hadn't hers? Hadn't she been evacuated to a hospital?

Suddenly uncomfortable, he turned away, taking his time to lay out his clothing. Behind him, he heard her approach, open a drawer, rifle through the contents, and then close it. She left for the living room without dressing, though she did close the bedroom door behind her.

Ian let out a breath and sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn't just want to know what had happened to her; he
needed
to unravel the mystery. He'd have to be careful, though. She obviously treasured her privacy. But the more he knew about Cecily Knight, the more he
wanted
to know.

***

Between the quad's loud engine and the rattling cargo trailer, conversation was impossible, which suited Cecily just fine. She'd been tempted to leave as soon as she was dressed, but abandoning Ian for the day would just make things more awkward between them. The shower had relaxed her, and she hadn't considered that Ian would be in the bedroom when she finished.

He'd stared at her scar—of course he had—but then had been polite enough to turn his back and make no comment. In turn, she'd managed not to make an ass of herself by running out of the room.

Besides, better to get the sight out of the way now and save him the embarrassment of making a move on her. She knew his type: rich, powerful, and important. Even if she was interested in him—and she wasn't interested in anyone—there was no place for someone like her in his life, even as a vacation fling.

Telling herself not to think about the past was no help. She was a damned idiot. She should have at least put on a T-shirt before going into the bedroom, but she was so used to living alone, she hadn't even thought about it. Now, he was guaranteed to ask what had happened, and she would avoid the conversation, and soon they wouldn't be speaking at all.

She knew she shouldn't be self-conscious about the scar. She'd been wounded serving her country, and if things had turned out differently, she'd still be over there, risking her life for her beliefs. Even in her earliest memories, she'd wanted to be a Marine, and she'd chosen her specialization to get as close to the front lines as possible.

No one had seen the scar since she'd left the hospital. No one had come close enough to even try. Isolation protected her from the past. Living as she did forced her to concentrate on the present and on planning for the future.

She felt no calmer by the time Mags's house was in sight. The sleek modern building was built at the top of a low hill, with huge glass walls that looked out over the river. Cecily had forgotten to radio ahead, but the quad's engine was loud enough to get Mags's attention. She appeared around the side of the house, parka unzipped to show a bright red Christmas sweater. She grinned and raised a gloved hand, waving.

Marguerite Lavolier was a few years younger than Cecily, a slender, dark-skinned brunette who was surprisingly well-suited for rural living. She was a riparian biologist who'd rented a vacation cabin in Pinelake a few years back to do a study on the ecology of the Pinelake River. She'd liked it so much that she had purchased land—she was from a wealthy New Orleans family, she'd once admitted—and had built a gorgeous modern house overlooking the river. Cecily thought she was the perfect neighbor, respecting her privacy and bartering fairly whenever they visited.

Cecily pulled the quad around the side of the house, just in sight of the outbuilding Mags used as a garage, chicken coop, and laboratory all in one. The chickens had the run of a large enclosed yard that she'd fenced in after her first year of trying to raise the chickens, a year that had been a disaster for everyone but the local predators.

“Isn't this a nice surprise!” Grinning, Mags jogged over to the quad.

Cecily dismounted awkwardly, needing to put some space between herself and Ian. He was moving slowly, sitting back on the passenger seat. Though he had wrapped one of Cecily's scarves around his face, his cheeks had gone red from the cold.

“Sorry I didn't call ahead,” Cecily apologized. She gave Mags a kiss on one cheek as she stripped off her heavy gloves. She left the gloves on the seat of the quad and adjusted the handgun at her hip. The butt tended to dig into her ribs when she drove.

“It's no problem. Good timing, too. I was upriver yesterday, getting water samples.” She smiled at Cecily, though her gaze kept darting to Ian. Her warm brown eyes were full of excitement and curiosity.

Obligingly, Cecily said, “Mags, this is Ian Fairchild. He's…staying with me for a few months. Ian, Dr. Marguerite Lavolier.”

“Please, only my nana calls me Marguerite. Call me Mags,” she invited, pulling off her glove to shake his hand.

He swung a leg over and rose, one hand braced on the seat as though trying to find his balance. Cecily felt a stab of guilt. The bumpy ride on the quad probably hadn't been the best idea for his back.

“Dr. Lavolier.” He pulled off his glove and clasped Mags's hand, smiling with such charm that it stole Cecily's breath. A quick peek showed Mags was just as vulnerable.

“Mags,” she corrected, staring into his wintry blue eyes. “Are you a New Englander, Ian?”

“My family's actually from Virginia, but I've been in Manhattan for years. I can't quite place your accent,” he admitted.

“I grew up in Wisconsin, did my undergrad at U of A, Phoenix, and then finished up in California, all while spending every summer with Nana down N'awlins way,” she finished in a Southern drawl.

Ian laughed along with Mags. “And you complained every year to your friends when you couldn't spend the summers with them, but secretly, you loved it,” he guessed.

The accent disappeared as Mags said, “Aren't you clever, for a city boy?”

Stomach churning, Cecily interrupted the banter by asking, “Usual place for the feed?” She started to unstrap the heavy canvas sack she'd bought in Pinelake. Beside it was a large cardboard box full of packing peanuts.

“Oh. Yes, please,” Mags said.

Immediately, he turned back to Cecily, shoulders stiff. “I'm sorry. I'd offer to help, but…”

“Not a problem.”

“I'll put up some coffee,” Mags offered. “Come on, Ian. I'll show you the house.” After giving Cecily one last look, he nodded to Mags and followed her toward the stone stairs cut into the hillside.

With a slight huff of exertion, she picked up the bag of seed and escaped, feeling a queasy mixture of irritation and relief. She could already see where this was going. Mags would be charming and intelligent, Ian would be interested, and by the end of the month he'd be staying in Mags's far more comfortable house.

After living alone for over six years, she should have been relieved at the thought of getting her privacy back. Instead, it felt as though the emptiness that had been growing inside her since the war had grown just a little bit bigger.

***

Under normal circumstances, Ian thought that if one were to be trapped in the middle of the wilderness, Dr. Marguerite Lavolier would be an ideal companion. She was educated, beautiful, and a charming, witty hostess. Proudly, she showed him around the first floor of her open-plan house and then ushered him into a comfortable, warm kitchen so she could make coffee.

Unlike Cecily's cabin, Marguerite's house had proper electricity; Ian had seen an electrical pole out front. The house also had a conventional heating system warming the kitchen without the need for a wood-burning stove.

“So, what are you doing out here, Ian? No offense, but you don't exactly seem dressed for Pinelake country,” she said as she filled a glass carafe taken from a proper drip coffee machine. “Are you here for the fishing?”

He made a show of grimacing, hiding his laugh. “My brother's the fisherman in the family. We keep a boat in Miami. Cecily is an old friend of my brother's,” he said, shaking three ibuprofen out of the bottle. He'd done well at taking only two at a time, but the bouncing, painful ride on the quad, only a day after he'd spent so many hours in airplanes, had pushed beyond even his endurance. “I was in a car accident last year. I'm still recovering.”

Mags gave him a sharp-eyed look. “I thought you looked a bit stiff. Would you be more comfortable in the living room? The armchairs are much nicer than the kitchen chairs.”

“If you don't mind, I just need to walk it off for a bit. But thank you,” he said gratefully.

She nodded and went back to preparing the coffee. “So, what kind of car accident gets you shipped out so far into Canadian wilderness that we're not even on most maps?”

It was his turn to study her, surprised by the question that even Cecily hadn't asked. He walked to a sliding glass door that led out to a patio cantilevered off the hillside, overlooking the river.

“I'm a criminal defense attorney,” he said, flexing his shoulders gingerly. “My last client was innocent—actually innocent.” He glanced at her, and she nodded. “My team uncovered evidence of the real perpetrator, and he decided payback was in order. My car went off an overpass; the drop was meant to be fatal. They tried to make it look like an accident, but the police uncovered evidence that it was a hit.”

Mags let out a low whistle over the sound of the coffeepot gurgling to life. “He's still after you, I take it.”

His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “He's actually just started a twenty-year sentence.” He took a deep breath and arched his back as he crossed the kitchen. His steps were a bit more graceful, now that his spine was starting to unknot itself.

“Then why come all the way out to the middle-of-nowhere, Canada?”

“To get away from Manhattan,” Ian said with uncomfortable honesty. He had no excuse for being here—no story he could weave to explain away the extreme change in his lifestyle.

Mags went quiet for a moment, turning her attention to arranging cookies on a plate. A display of cross-stitched tea towels caught his eye. They were framed and mounted carefully behind glass, antiques that looked out of place in the sleek, modern house. He wondered if they were heirlooms.

“I'm trying to find a polite way to ask this, and I'm not coming up with anything,” Mags finally said. She came up beside him and held out the plate of cookies.

“By all means, ask away,” he invited. He picked up a cookie that smelled of ginger and spice and the white chocolate that coated half of it.

“What are you running from?”

A bite of the cookie bought him time, not to think of the words but to get up the courage to say them. “As soon as I was released from the hospital, I went right back to work. Fourteen-hour days, court cases… Painkillers were the only thing that got me through it all. I'm an addict,” he finished, bracing against the look of condemnation—or, worse, pity—that he expected to see in her eyes.

But she was looking at him with a curious sort of interest, lips curved up in a gentle smile. “You don't know me. Why tell me all that?”

Ian shrugged, sending a twinge of pain down his back. “It's the truth.”

One dark brow rose in a perfect arch. “You couldn't think of a believable story, could you?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Drew a blank.”

“An honest lawyer?” she asked, her voice rich with amusement. “You're a guest in my home, so I won't tease you about your profession. But when I come up to Cecily's, you're fair game.”