Enemy Waters Page 7

  Then he would be on his way, mission accomplished, brother and sister reunited, and a nice chunk of change in his pocket. On his way to where, he didn’t know. But then, he often didn’t. Maybe he’d just head out and fish for a while. Salmon season was still open, and while he wasn’t a true devotee, he liked the routine and the slow, steady movement and the excitement of a catch. Not to mention the good eating after.

  He was pondering that pleasant prospect when the door to the little house opened just as he reached it.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Morning.”

  He looked her up and down. Just to be sure she’d dressed appropriately; he’d told her to wear a windproof jacket, and boots if she had them, explaining she’d be the one riding with her feet and ankles near the hot exhaust pipes. Her eyes had widened, but she’d nodded. And had done as he’d asked; the jacket looked heavy enough and the boots were nice, looking like they were lined with sheepskin, which would keep her feet warm. And they were practical boots, with a flat, lugged sole that would be good for some of the walking he had in mind.

  “Is this okay?”

  Her quiet question jerked him out of the reverie he’d slipped into unaware after his assessment of the practicality of her attire. He realized with a little jolt he’d never seen her in anything but the jeans and Waterfront Café T-shirt or sweatshirt she wore for work. Today she was wearing a lightweight sweater that subtly showed the curves the baggy shirts usually disguised, and her jeans were tucked into the top of the boots. Somehow the whole look had been like a punch in the stomach. She looked lean, lithe and leggy, like the woman in the picture.

  That disguise she’d adopted was damned effective.

  “Fine,” he said hastily. “Good. Ready?”

  “Coffee first?” She held out a disposable cup he hadn’t even noticed she had. “It might be nice if you could manage more than one-word sentences.”

  He nearly gaped at her. She’d never teased him before, not like that. He hoped it was a sign she was relaxing around him, at last. Not to mention it warmed him that she’d thought of it.

  “It’s from the café. I brought some home last night and brewed it up this morning fresh,” she said, as if that was the reason for his silence. “I just thought you might want your usual dose.”

  “Sounds great,” he finally said, skipping any explanation of the wild jumble of his thoughts that was slowing his answers and making him seem half asleep to her. There was no way he could explain it to her when he didn’t even understand it himself.

  He sipped at the coffee she handed him as they walked up to the big house. Roger was waiting for them, smiling widely as he handed Cooper the large bag he held. He’d had to explain to the older man that the picnic basket he’d wanted to use wouldn’t cut it on the bike.

  “I held off on the wine, sadly,” Roger said.

  Cooper nodded. “Wine and two wheels are never a good mix,” he said.

  Nell’s gaze shifted from Roger to him. He felt as if she were assessing him, or what he’d said. What had she expected?

  “If you want it, fine. You’re not driving.”

  He realized he sounded a bit sharp, and wondered what it was about this woman that seemed to bring out this weirdness in him.

  “I’ll save it for dinner.” She gave Roger a fond, sideways look. “If I know Roger, I’m sure there will be enough for leftovers.”

  The man smiled, and sent them on their way with a wave as he went back inside. They walked toward the bike.

  “How do we carry—never mind,” she started, then stopped as she spotted the saddlebags he’d added to the bike. He’d already filled one side with the extra weather gear, leaving one side free for the food. And it was going to take up all of the room, he thought as he rearranged some of the things to get it all to fit. He spotted cheese and crackers, and a couple of huge, well-wrapped sandwiches, probably made with Roger’s home baked bread, and his stomach almost growled in anticipation. Food had never been much more than fuel to him, but he could get used to this.

  “You know what it is?” he asked, as he at last closed up and securely latched the saddlebag.

  “Not for sure, but I think there’s prosciutto involved. I picked some up for him yesterday.”

  So that had been the stop at the grocery store after she left work yesterday, he thought. He’d hung back in the doorway of the hardware store across the street where he could have a view of both the front and back exits of the small market.

  Her routine seemed so set he could probably forgo following her home from work. But he didn’t want to have to report to his client that he’d found then lost her. And it had only been a week since he’d found her, after all.

  Only a week. The undeniable knowledge made his brows furrow. He’d found her; his job was essentially accomplished. All he had to do was keep an eye on her until Tristan got here, and although he hadn’t expected it to take this long, that aspect was proving easy enough.

  So why was she taking up so much of his conscious thought that it seemed like much longer than a week that she’d actually been in front of him?

  “Got anything else you want to put in?” He’d noticed she wasn’t carrying a purse. In fact, now that he thought of it, he didn’t think he’d ever seen her with one.

  “No.”

  “ID, cell phone?”

  “Back pocket, and don’t have one.”

  He blinked. And he thought he traveled light.

  He handed her the helmet he’d picked up for her. Her own brow furrowed. “Where did this come from?”

  “The motorcycle shop in Port Angeles,” he answered literally.

  She blinked. “You bought a helmet? Just for this?”

  “You said you wouldn’t come unless I wore the helmet. And I wouldn’t if you didn’t. So.”

  “Aren’t they expensive?” she asked, sounding concerned.

  He found that interesting. Tanya Brown had certainly never had to worry about money, probably never even thought about the cost of things. Yet here she was worried about how much he’d spent on something protective for her. It was another of those tiny notes that clashed with the image of that woman in the photograph. And with what he’d been told.

  “It’s used,” he said. “It wasn’t that much. But it’s in good shape. You’ll be fine.”

  He wished he could have gotten her at least a leather jacket, but the only one they’d had had cost more than he had at the moment. He’d just have to make sure she didn’t need it, he told himself.

  Then, on impulse, he said, “You need the glasses for distance?”

  Wariness spiked through her visibly. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Just be easier without them. On your ears if nothing else. Those frames are kind of thick.”

  She hesitated for a long, silent moment. And then, in a quick motion that made him think she was doing it before she could change her mind, she reached up and yanked off the glasses.

  Answers that, he thought. She didn’t really need them.

  And removing them truly changed her face. They were so dark and heavy they almost overwhelmed her delicate features; he’d be willing to bet that anyone who just saw her once would later describe her as “the girl with the glasses.” He wondered if she’d chosen those frames purposefully to draw attention there rather than to herself. She certainly hadn’t chosen them because they were flattering.

  She slipped the bright blue helmet on. It fit her much better than his had, he could see that immediately and so, judging by her smile, could she. She adjusted the D-ring strap quickly this time; she learned fast.

  He picked up his own helmet and strapped it on. But he wasn’t thinking about it, he was thinking about her. As usual, of late. He supposed it was a measure of how much she’d loved her brother, how drastically she’d changed herself. And apparently more than just physically. She’d gone from living in a huge, gated mansion to a tiny cottage in someone else’s backyard. From driving a high-end luxury car to walkin
g to work. For that matter, from not working at all, probably just shopping to fill her time, to working as a waitress six days a week.

  Oddly, she didn’t seem angry about it, either. She just…did it. As if there were no choice, and no use in dwelling on it.

  Finished with his own helmet strap, he turned to her. “Ready?”

  The blue helmet bobbed. She was game, but still a little nervous; it showed in what he could see of her behind the face shield.

  “Same deal,” he said. “It starts to freak you out too much, you tell me and we’ll stop. Eat lunch in a parking lot or something.”

  He couldn’t see her mouth, but her eyes told him she was smiling.

  “But how do I tell you?”

  He was tempted to tell her to squeeze him harder, but decided that was just asking for trouble. Hell, the five-minute ride to the café with her snugged up tight behind him had played havoc with his senses—who knew what this would do? The only good thing about it was that ironic little voice in his head saying maybe he wasn’t so shallow after all.

  Or maybe he was just horny, he thought drily. It had been a while.

  “Rap me on the head,” he muttered, meaning it in more ways than she could possibly know.

  Chapter 11

  While this wasn’t the worst mistake she’d made in her life— Jeremy won that title, hands down—it surely was the worst one since that life had ended. What had possessed her to say yes to this? Why had she thought clinging to this man, aboard this dangerous machine, was a good idea? If she’d wanted, on some level, to shake up her quiet little world, she’d certainly managed that. Her heart was pounding, pulse racing, as they leaned into another curve.

  But she couldn’t deny it was exhilarating. She had, as he’d promised, gotten the rhythm of it as they swooped first through the woods then down along the canal—really a fjord, he’d told her. She’d learned to anticipate the moment when he would lean into the next turn, and when he would straighten up after. She could sense the shift in his body a moment before, and had learned to move when he did. The sight, the sound, the smell, it all came together into a sensory experience she hadn’t expected, and had never even come close to in her life.

  He was obviously good at this. And maybe clinging to him wasn’t really so bad. He was lean, and strong, and for the moment at least didn’t seem like a threat.

  At the moment, he’s the only thing between you and a nasty crash, she thought wryly.

  But that didn’t seem likely. Nothing bad seemed possible just now; it was a glorious day, almost fall, with splashes of color from yellow to orange to explosive red beginning to show here and there against the backdrop of the evergreens, a crisp coolness in the air, but still with the warmth of the sun burning through. She’d grown up where there was little change in the weather from season to season—some joked California had seasons, it was just that they were fire, flood, earthquake and drought—and this was a novelty for her. And she liked it.

  When they stopped at a state park along the water’s edge, she was surprised. When she realized they’d been riding for forty-five minutes, she was stunned. It had seemed much shorter.

  Cooper took off his helmet and, he said with a laugh, put on his tour guide hat. This park was unique, because it combined freshwater and salt, being at the mouth of a river running down from the Olympic Peninsula to empty into the canal. He’d obviously been here before, because as they walked along the tidal flats he told her all manner of fascinating things about the canal and its inhabitants, and he knew everything by name. Her mind was a blur of so many different birds, she marveled he could remember them. They could come back and do some clamming, he suggested; the season was still open for a little while yet.

  By the time they sat down to eat Roger’s wonderful lunch she was ravenous in a way she hadn’t been in months. The cheese and crackers were subtle, almost delicate, and were followed by little cups of the shrimp salad he’d made the first time she’d eaten with him and had told him she loved. Trust Roger to remember that. The sandwiches were thick and delicious, layers of ham and cheese and other things full of flavors that exploded between slices of Roger’s wonderful bread. A custardlike dessert topped with kiwi fruit was the perfect final touch. He’d cleverly packed it all with bottles of frozen water, which kept it all chilled while packed, and now served as drinks.

  “I can honestly say I’ve never eaten that well in a restaurant, let alone on a picnic table and out of my bike’s saddlebags,” Cooper said.

  “I can honestly say I’ve never eaten that much, ever,” she said, almost ruefully.

  “It’s the open air,” he said. “Plus, riding’s more work than you might think. You don’t just sit there, like in a car.”

  She’d seen that for herself, and nodded. After a moment he went on.

  “Some go for the new stuff, synthetics, even Kevlar, like in bulletproof vests. But it’s expensive, and some people are traditionalists and stick with leather.”

  “Like you,” she said, looking at the heavy jacket he’d pulled off and laid on the end of the picnic table.

  “It was my dad’s.”

  His voice was quiet, and held an undertone she knew all too well.

  “How did it happen?”

  The question was out before she thought, and she almost wished it back the moment she’d said it. He drew in a deep breath, then let it out, slowly. She opened her mouth to apologize, to say never mind, but before she could he answered her.

  “He walked into a convenience-store armed robbery.”

  “Walked in? You mean he wasn’t sent there?”

  He shook his head. “No. They hadn’t called it in, it was literally in progress. The guy saw the uniform and panicked. Started shooting.”

  “How awful.” She remembered what he’d just said about new motorcycle gear. “Wasn’t he wearing a bulletproof vest?”

  “Didn’t matter. Round hit him in the neck. Severed his spinal cord. They say he probably never knew what hit him.”

  His voice was so bleak, so grim, she let other words she never meant to say slip out.

  “My mother died slowly. Cancer. It doesn’t matter, it’s horrific either way.” She barely suppressed a shudder. Memories of her own tearing, crushing grief when her mother had died nearly swamped her. “I’m sorry, Cooper. Really.”

  Her voice was a little shaky. He must have heard it, because he reached across the table and laid his hand over hers. His was warm, strong and somehow soothing. As if he knew just how she felt. And he did, she thought. They’d both been through the worst loss a child could have. Each horrible in its own way, yet different. Hers random, his random yet not really. Somehow his seemed worse: it had happened with intent, and to a man who served. Not that her mother—

  She gave herself an inward shake. Her thoughts were getting jumbled. Because it was an emotional topic, she told herself. Not because he’s touching you.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said at last, his voice a little gruff. “If it hadn’t been for me, he wouldn’t have been there at all.”

  “What?”

  “He traded shifts so he could go to my baseball game the day before. It should have been his day off. He died because of me.”

  Her breath caught. “Cooper, you can’t seriously blame yourself? He just did what any loving father would do, to support his son, show him he loved him.”

  His mouth twisted. “If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that…”

  She pulled back slightly, a bit stung by the words. And by the fact that he’d pulled his hand back. She instantly missed the warmth.

  “I only meant—”

  “I know what you meant. I know you meant well. It’s just…” He stopped, ran a hand over his chin, then sighed. “When you’re fourteen, none of that means anything. You’re still pretty much focused on yourself, and everything that happens around you seems somehow be connected to you.”

  She absorbed that, saw the truth in it. “I guess your view at fourteen
is still pretty narrow.”

  He nodded. And for a long moment he just looked at her. She got the oddest feeling he was now thinking about something else entirely.

  “He really was there because of me. And guilt, it does crazy things to you. Makes you do crazy things.”

  She knew a little something about that. And to her shock, Cooper Grant was looking at her as if he knew she knew. As if he somehow saw past the disguise to the truth behind it; unlike the boy he’d been, she’d been as responsible for Tris’s death as if she’d pulled the trigger herself.

  She shivered inwardly, reaching for the old pain to suppress the newer one.

  “There’s nothing like losing a parent,” she said.

  He put his hand back over hers. The little jolt she felt was like an alarm going off, but she barely noticed the warning.

  “How old were you?”

  “Seventeen. Almost an adult. But we were…really, really close. I thought the world had ended.”

  “In a way, it had,” he said.

  His quiet words were so different from the usual platitudes of You get over it, or At least you had her that long, that she found them oddly soothing.

  “Yes. And after she died, my father…he completely lost it. He’d been with her since high school, and he simply couldn’t live without her.”

  Cooper went very still except for his fingers, which tightened around hers. By now it seemed so natural she hadn’t even thought of pulling away.

  “Are you saying he killed himself?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. He just vanished one day. Left everything. Including my brother and I.”

  It hurt, to even mention Tris. And she was wishing she’d never started this.

  “So you don’t know?”

  She let out a compressed breath. “Not really. We looked for years, my brother and I, but we never found him. And I spent the next five years trying to put it back together.”

  “Can’t be done.”

  Again the simple acknowledgment was comforting in a way platitudes never were. “I found that out. Too late. I wanted to feel safe again. So I made…a big mistake.”