Sighs Matter (9 page)

Detonate
What Deton did at dinner.

Claire reminded herself—for the umpteenth time—that intense sexual attraction had nothing to do with long-term compatibility. But, oh, the short-term benefits could sure cure what ailed you.

As she brushed her hair and applied blusher and lipstick, she thought about how simple it would be to slide into a physical relationship with Taylor. She’d tried to convince herself—and him—that the night they’d spent together had simply been sex, but in reality, it had been the closest thing to contentment she’d known since her parents had died. And it had terrified her.

Dammit, she thought as she tossed the brush onto the dressing table. Why did he have to be a cop?
Why
a cop?

In the mirror’s reflection, she stared into her own eyes. Did she see truth there, or only excuses? What did he see when he looked into her eyes? Confusion? Determination? Fear?

Dammit, she should never have slept with him. But, oh, how she had wanted him that night.
Him
. Not just sex, but
him
, Taylor McKennitt with his blue eyes and broad shoulders, his charming grin, smart-ass comebacks. He could be a royal pain, but when she was with him, every nerve tingled as though she were standing on a live wire. All her senses became aware of him at once. She could taste him on her lips, simply by catching his scent. She could feel his fingers on her skin, just by the look in his eyes, or hear the thrum of his heart by touching his hand.

Sleeping with him again, being that intimate, would mean betraying her parents’ memory, and Zach as well, and opening herself to more pain. Loving him physically could only lead to loving him emotionally, and she knew it.

Once had been enough, and she’d spent the last eight months trying to get her stubborn heart to move on . . .

Shifting her thoughts, she shoved Taylor aside with a mental nudge of her hip, and ushered Adam into her mind.

Walking to the closet, she tugged her ivory silk dress off its hanger. Sleeveless, scoop-neck, slim skirt, the dress was perfect for a summer evening. As she zipped it up, she stepped into her matching heels. Choosing a simple gold bracelet, she struggled to single-handedly fasten the clasp on her left wrist.

Now for the best part of getting dressed—choosing which pair of earrings to wear. The gold dangles were cool and classy, and they moved when she walked, almost brushing her shoulders. Elegant, sophisticated, just right for a platonic dinner with the Olympic Peninsula’s handsomest soon-to-be-licensed orthopedic surgeon.

Abruptly, an image of the Northwest’s handsomest detective edged its way into her mind, drop-kicking poor Adam right off a cliff.

She tapped her foot. How like Taylor, even in her imagination, to be so arrogant.

As she neared thirty-five, she was coming more and more to the conclusion she’d like to find a great guy and get married.

What if that guy was Taylor? What if . . .

An image of her mother’s face at Dad’s funeral stung her brain. A year later, another funeral. Mom’s. And a few years after that, Zach coming out of surgery, torn to pieces, barely hanging on to life. The memories pressed themselves into Claire’s skull like a doubled fist.

Bad luck, they’d said. Father and son, both cops. Such bad luck.

You make your own luck
, Claire thought.
Some places just aren’t safe to go
.

She blinked at her image in the mirror as her dour thoughts were interrupted by the screech of a bird. Then Aunt Sadie’s soothing voice drifted up the stairs and through Claire’s open door, grounding her once more in reality. Over Sadie’s words, Hitch squawked again.

“. . . farm . . . had a farm . . .”

“What did you have, Hitch?” Aunt Sadie asked. “Tell me what you had.”

“. . . had a farm in . . . Africa,” Hitch muttered in parrot monotone. “. . . a farm in . . . Africa.”

“Good boy, Hitch,” Aunt Sadie praised. Then, louder, “Claire, dear?”

Aunt Sadie’s sweet voice trilled up the stairs like musical notes carried on the wings of a butterfly.

“Yes?” she answered, switching off her bathroom light.

“Your Dr. Thursby is here.”

As soon as Aunt Sadie spoke those words, Claire felt herself react.

Not mine. Not interested. Nice guy, but that’s all
.

Well, at least her truthful inner voice was still working.

“I’ll be right down,” she called, making a grab for her handbag.

With a silent vow to enjoy herself this evening, she closed her bedroom door and pasted a polite smile on her lips.

Adam was waiting at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the banister.

“You look great,” he said, appreciation glowing in his eyes. “Claire—”

“. . . excuse me while I whip this out . . .”

Adam jerked his head around to glare at the parrot sitting on the newel post behind him. Hitch glared back, tilted his head, and muttered softly, “. . . be afraid . . . be very afraid . . .”

“And . . . cut!” Aunt Sadie laughed. “My, aren’t you inventive tonight, Hitch.”

As Claire came down the staircase, Sadie urged Hitch onto her forearm. Smiling at Adam, she said, “I’ll just take him with me into the kitchen.”

“. . . whip this out . . .”

“That’ll do, Hitch.”

“. . . whip this out . . .”

“Shut up, Hitch.”

The bird muttered something about badges and not needing any, as Sadie retreated through the door and into the kitchen.

When they’d gone, Adam returned his attention to Claire, letting his gaze move from the tips of her shoes to the crown of her head.

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “that bird took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Adam!” She felt her cheeks heat.

He arched a brow. “Do all your patients fall in love with you, Doc?”

Claire’s breath snagged on a dry spot in her throat, and her step faltered.

Do all your patients fall in love with you, Doc?

Taylor had said those words to her the day they’d met. He’d been injured; he was her patient. And later, when he’d recovered, he’d been fun and flirty and charming . . .

Stop it!
For God’s sake, she was going to dinner with Adam Thursby. She
had
to get Taylor off her mind, had to quit measuring every man she met against Taylor McKennitt.
Really, girl. Get a grip!

She brushed past Adam to retrieve her coat from the closet in the foyer. Without a word, he took it from her fingers and helped her slip into it. The blue silk lining felt cool against her bare arms. When his hands lingered a little too long on her shoulders, she stepped away and turned, giving him a big smile.

“Ready,” she said on an exhaled breath.

Adam looked down at her, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“You have a beep on your nose.”

“A what?” She lifted her hand to her face, but he circled her wrist with his long fingers, stopping her.

“A beep. Here,” he said. “I’ll get it.”

With his thumb and forefinger, he lightly pinched her nose and said, “
Beep
.” Then he laughed, leaned down, and kissed her.

As kisses went, it was a nice one. A gentle tugging on her lips, sweet, inoffensive, nonthreatening.

Even so, she wasn’t sure if she felt flattered, charmed, or annoyed.

He lifted his head and smiled down into her eyes. Adam had gray eyes. She loved gray eyes. They were almost her favorite color. Who needed laser blue eyes when you could have smoky, foggy gray?

He wore a charcoal suit and silver silk tie. He’d shaved and obviously taken care to look especially nice. When he offered her his arm, she slipped her hand through the crook, becoming instantly aware of his muscles under her palm. It was hard to ignore the warmth of his body, the clean smell of his soap, his height, his good looks. People seeing them together would think they were a couple. His attire and attitude seemed designed to perpetuate that assumption.

She wasn’t sure if she felt flattered, charmed, or annoyed.

“There’s a table with an ocean view waiting for us at Vittorio’s,” he said. “And a bottle of very expensive wine.”

“Sounds great.”

Vittorio’s Restaurante occupied the floor above The Crow’s Nest, a cozy bookstore built on the docks near the ferry landing and marina. As Adam seated Claire, she glanced out the window at the crimson sun, settling for the night into the wrinkled sea. Just below, harbor lights began to wink on, illuminating sailboats, fishing trawlers, small yachts, all rocking gently in their moorings. Through the glass, she could hear the rhythmic
tink-tink-tink
of the wind slapping ropes and tack against bare masts.

The young tuxedoed waiter arrived to pour the wine, and as they lifted their glasses, Adam said, “To everlasting friendships.” Tapping the rim of his glass against hers, he smiled.

Sipping the wine, she let the rich taste flow across her tongue and down her throat.

As another waiter began clearing the table behind Adam, she turned and gazed for a moment out the window, listening to Adam chat on about the superb menu choices. Conversation turned to shop talk, and they discussed patients, procedures, policies.

Their waiter returned, then departed after taking their orders.

Her wineglass in one hand, Claire felt herself begin to relax a little. This would be okay. A nice dinner with a man she liked. Nobody and nothing could throw off her equilibrium tonight.

Until she caught a glimpse of the man they were seating directly behind Adam: Taylor McKennitt.

The wine in her mouth went down hard, and she choked, covering her lips with her napkin.

Adam’s brow furrowed. “You okay?”

She nodded enthusiastically, set her glass down, picked up her water goblet, and chugged the contents.

Glaring into Taylor’s bemused eyes, she scooted her chair to the left, hoping to use Adam’s body to block her view. It didn’t work. Taylor scooted his chair to the right. She scooted again, so did he. If she scooted any farther, she’d be on the other side of the window.

“Is something wrong with your chair?”

“Not at all,” she said lightly. “The, uh, view was getting on my nerves.”

Over the top of his open menu, Taylor winked.

Fury sizzled her brain. Her nerves felt like somebody had gone at them with a steel scouring pad. How
dare
he follow her . . . and sit facing her . . . and position himself to hear their every word.

Adam glanced out the window. “The view?” he mumbled around a bite of breadstick. “I can have them lower the blinds if you like. I didn’t know you hated boats so much.”

Redirecting her gaze to Adam, she said, “No need. I’m fine now. Really.”

Silently, she cursed Taylor’s parentage and lineage and ancestors and even their belongings and pets, and vowed to get even with him for this if it took the rest of her life.

While Adam tried to engage her in conversation, knowing Taylor could hear every word they said, Claire kept her responses to nods and brief yeses and nos.

Adam set his wineglass on the table and tilted his head. “You seem a little distracted tonight, Claire. I know you’ve been through a lot this week. I’m here for you, if you’d like to talk about it.”

In her line of vision, Taylor broke a breadstick in half and glared at the back of her dinner companion’s head, subtly sticking out his bottom lip in an isn’t-that-sweet pout.

“It’s been a very trying few days, Adam. That’s all.”

At the demon table behind Adam, Taylor grinned, then quietly gave his order to the waiter.

“So, Claire,” Adam said as their waiter returned to set their plates in front of them. “Tell me more about that handyman I met at your aunt’s place.”

All too handy, if you asked her.

Taylor took a sip of wine and sat back in his chair, thumbing the rim of his glass as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

She set her jaw and glared at him just beyond Adam’s shoulder.

“He’s a former patient,” she snapped. “Victim of a hit-and-run. Cerebral trauma. Prognosis poor. Not long to live. Down to minutes, I’d say.” Her eyes locked with Taylor’s, she grabbed her fork and stabbed her herbed chicken breast, then sliced it in half. Violently.

“Really.” Adam leaned forward over his plate as if to confide a secret. “He seemed okay to me, even though I thought he was a bit of a prick.”

She curved her lips in an appreciative smile. “You’re very astute.”

Taylor took a bite of his salad and chewed it, watching her intently.

“He’s fine during the day, nearly normal,” she said, making sure Taylor could hear every word. “But, according to his team of psychiatrists, his personality undergoes a dramatic change when his meds wear off and he forgets his second dose.”