Page 92 of Masquerade

Nature was serving up her own punishment, clearly on Kate’s side. The GPS claimed his destination was a few-hundred metres away. He’d lost confidence in it an hour ago when he’d found himself at the bottom of another dirt track, talking to a cantankerous old man. The ancient had wielded his walking stick like a rapier. At least, the swordsman had explained the mix-up in lower south and upper north locations.

Night was closing in, and visibility was already almost zero. As wild as the night Kate and he had returned from the North Coast, and she’d claimed not to have the key. Her smile had been tentative, edged with guilt and—eejit that he was—he’d hoarded her wish for privacy to use as a weapon. He could be sleeping in the car tonight.

“Shite.” His vehicle shifted sideways on the wet mud. He fought to keep it on the makeshift road, his eyes sliding briefly to the river raging alongside.

The turnoff loomed out of relentless, horizontal rain. A hard pull on the steering wheel turned him in the right direction. He manoeuvred left. A few metres further on he saw the wooden sign nailed to the tree—44 Upper Heath North. No trespassers. The merciless downpour didn’t give him much chance to get his bearings. Pulling up before a square cottage, he studied the faint light leaking around windows and under a door. No raincoat. He’d be drenched before he made the front door, a dark presence looming out of the night. He shoved his pullover and coat into his duffel, then tried texting her a warning he was here.

No signal.

A ferocious gust of wind wrenched the car door from his hand when he tried to exit. Using his weight to push it shut, he held his duffel to his chest and fought his way towards the house.

“Kate, it’s Liam. Let me in.” He thumped on the door. “Kate,” he shouted.

It fell open. He staggered inside, aware of a blast of heat, the smell of roasting coffee and the powerful vocals of Aretha Franklin belting out, “All I’m asking is for a little respect when you get home.”

Respect wasn’t their problem. Respect had him haring here, and Kate standing beside the open door. It slammed behind him, and the bolt shot shut.

She crossed to a farmhouse kitchen sideboard to turn down the sound system. Even muted, Aretha packed a wallop.

“You came.” She folded her arms across her chest. Classic defence. Well, he carried his own wounds.

“Anna said she’d call you.” He flicked wet hair out of his eyes. “I tried, from outside, but the signal’s dead.”

“She did.” Her old jeans clung to curves he missed beside him in bed. His old T-shirt was still faded and hugged her figure. Her hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders. The only giveaway to his prim librarian was the big unbuttoned, woollen cardigan. “The signal’s unreliable here.”

“I told her we had an unfinished conversation.” An understatement. Kate had known he was coming and hadn’t sent him a don’t-you-dare text, but she sounded uncertain. He swiped at the water trickling down his neck. “Did you think I’d changed my mind?”

“It’s dangerous driving in this weather.” She shrugged.

“I took a wrong turn.” He rolled his shoulders, watching as she processed his reason for the delay between his conversation with Anna and his arrival. She’d been worried about him.

No get-stuffed text but an open door and her concern strengthened his chance of a hearing.

Although they wouldn’t sort this mess out unless she talked to him too. Dumping her book on his desk hadn’t been an emphatic statement of trust. She’d been defensive, as well as angry, at his accusations.

“I owe you an apology.” He grimaced. “Multiple apologies. And an explanation.”

Her face lost some of its colour.

“You’re soaked through. Move closer to the fire.” She pushed herself off the sideboard and scurried past him on her way to the back half of the house.

Unsupervised, he let himself survey his surroundings. A single rectangular space with the kitchen to his left and the living area largely to his right. The kitchen was functional, with a dresser, a dining table and a few chairs the only furniture. The living area looked more promising, with a huge sofa positioned to collect most of the warmth from the open fire. There was a single armchair for a visitor if you weren’t feeling friendly. Liam winced.

Will I be relegated to the chair?Ambling towards the fire, he tugged the damp shirt away from his cooling skin.

On the far right, beneath some windows, was a long benchtop. A straight piece of polished cedar served as her desk. Her computer held pride of place, with a printer underneath. Piles of paper were perched on every nearby surface, including the floor. Draft manuscripts, he guessed. He stopped on a plush woollen rug with his back to the fire and pulled the shirt over his head, then heard a muffled gasp.

“Nice place.” His gaze settled on her, where she stood quietly in the doorway. “I’m guessing your desk windows overlook the bush.”

“I made a garden. I told you. Remember?” She stumbled on the words, sudden colour flushing her cheeks.

Why are you embarrassed about your garden?She held a towel in front of her.

“Take this.” The hitch in her voice alerted him, the hitch and her hungry gaze on his half-naked body.

Lust was still a potent beat between them.

“Thanks.” Liam took the towel from her outstretched hand, letting her step back.

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