Chesapeake Blue

  More important, she'd proven that she could stand on her own and make a very contented life.

  Which didn't mean, she admitted, that she didn't miss a certain amount of companionship, or sexual heat, or the heady challenge of the mating dance with an interesting, attractive man.

  She heard his tires crunch on her gravel drive. One step at a time, she told herself, and waited for him to knock.

  All right, she thought, so she did feel a rush of heat the minute she opened the door and looked at him. It only proved that she was human, and she was healthy.

  "Good morning," she said, as manners had her stepping back to let him inside.

  "Morning. I love this place. I just realized that if you hadn't snapped it up before I got back home, I would have."

  "Lucky for me."

  "I'll say." He scanned the living area as he wandered. Strong colors, good fabrics, he mused. It could've used a little more clutter for his taste, but it suited her with its good, carefully selected pieces, the fresh flowers and the tidy air of it all. "You said you wanted to work outside."

  "Yeah. Oh, hey, your painting." He shifted the package wrapped in brown paper under his arm and handed it to her. "I'll hang it for you if you've picked your spot."

  "That was quick." And because she couldn't resist, she sat on the sofa and ripped off the wrapping.

  He'd chosen thin strips of wood stained a dull gold that complemented the rich tones of the flowers and foliage so that the frame was as simple and strong as the painting.

  "It's perfect. Thank you. It's a wonderful start to my Seth Quinn collection."

  "Planning on a collection?"

  She ran a finger over the top of the frame as she looked up at him. "Maybe. And I'd take you up on hanging it for me because I'm dying to see how it looks, but I don't have the proper hanger."

  "Like this?" He dug the one he'd brought with him out of his pocket.

  "Like that." She angled her head, considered. "You're very handy, aren't you?"

  "Damn near indispensable. Got a hammer, and a tape measure, or should I get mine out of my car?"

  "I happen to have a hammer and other assorted household tools." She rose, went into the kitchen and came back with a hammer so new it gleamed.

  "Where do you want it?"

  "Upstairs. My bedroom." She turned to lead the way. "What's in the bag?"

  "Stuff. The guy who rehabbed this place knew what he was doing." Seth examined the satin finish on the banister as they climbed to the second floor. "I wonder how he could stand to let it go."

  "He likes the work itself—and the profit. Once he's finished, he's bored and wants to move on. Or so he told me when I asked just that."

  "How many bedrooms? Three?"

  "Four, though one's quite small, more suited to a home office or a little library."

  "Third floor?"

  "A finished attic, which has potential for a small apartment. Or," she said with a glance at him, "an artist's garret."

  She turned into a room, and Seth saw immediately she'd selected what suited her best here as well. The windows gave her a view of the river, a sweep of trees and shady garden. The window trim was just fussy enough to be charming, and she'd chosen to drape filmy white gauze in a kind of long swag around them in lieu of formal curtains. It diffused the sunlight and still left the view and the craftsmanship of the trim.

  She'd gone for cerulean blue on the walls, scattered a couple of floral rugs on the pine floor, and had stuck with antiques for the furnishings.

  The bed was tidily made, as he'd expected, and covered with a white quilt with intricate interlocking rings and rosebuds that seemed to have been crafted specifically for the sleigh bed.

  "Great piece." He leaned down to get a closer look at the workmanship of the quilt. "Heirloom?"

  "No. I found it at an arts-and-crafts fair in Pennsylvania last year. I thought the wall between these windows. It'll be good light without direct sun."

  "Good choice." He held the painting up. "And it'll be like another window, so you'll have flowers during the winter." Her thoughts, Dru admitted, exactly. "About here?"

  She stepped back, checked the position from several different angles—resisting, only because it was a bit too suggestive, lying down on the bed to see how it would look to her when she woke in the mornings. "That's perfect."

  He reached behind the painting, scraping a vague mark on the wall with his thumbnail, then set it aside to measure.

  It was odd, she thought, having a man in her bedroom again. And far from unpleasant to watch him with his tools and his painting, his rough clothes and his beautiful hands.

  Far from unpleasant, she admitted, to imagine those beautiful hands on her skin.

  "See what you think about what's in the bag," he said without looking around.

  She picked it up, opened it. And her eyebrows lifted high as she took out the long, filmy skirt—purple pansies rioting against a cool blue background—and the thin-strapped, narrow top in that same shade of blue.

  "You're a determined man, aren't you?"

  "It'll look good on you, and it's the look I'm after."

  "And you get what you're after."

  He glanced back now, his expression both relaxed and cocky.

  "So far. You got any of those…" He made a circle with his finger in the air. "Hoop ear things. They'd work with that." I should've known, Dru thought, but only said, "Hmm." She laid the skirt and top on the bed, then stepped back as he fixed the painting on its hook. "Left bottom needs to come up a little—too much. There. That's perfect. Painted, framed and hung by Quinn. Not a bad deal on my side."

  "It looks good from my end, too," he said, staring at her. When he took a step toward her, she considered taking one toward him. Before the phone rang.

  "Excuse me." For the best, she assured herself as she picked up the bedside phone. "Hello."

  "Hello, princess."

  "Dad." Pleasure, distress and, shamefully, a thread of annoyance knotted inside her. "Why aren't you on the seventh green by this time on a Sunday morning?"

  "I've got some difficult news." Proctor let out a long sigh. "Sweetheart, your mother and I are getting divorced."

  "I see." The pulse in her temple began to throb. "I need you to wait just a minute." She pushed the hold button, turned to Seth. "I'm sorry, I need to take this. There's coffee in the kitchen.

  I shouldn't be long."

  "Okay." Her face had gone blank on him. It was very still and very empty. "I'll grab a cup before I go out to set up. Take your time."

  She waited until she heard him start down the steps, then sat on the side of the bed and reconnected with her father. "I'm sorry, Dad. What happened?" And bit her tongue before she could finish the question with: this time.

  "I'm afraid your mother and I haven't been getting along for quite a while. I've tried to shield you from our problems. I have no doubt we'd have taken this step years ago if it hadn't been for you. But, well, these things happen, princess."

  "I'm very sorry." She knew her job well and finished with, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "Ah well. I'm sure I'd feel better if I could explain things to you, so I'm sure you're not upset by all this. It's too complicated to discuss on the phone. Why don't you come up this afternoon? We'll have lunch, just you and me. Nothing would brighten my day more than spending it with my little girl."

  "I'm sorry. I've got a commitment today."

  "Surely, under the circumstances, this is more important." Her temple throbbed, and guilt began to roil in her stomach. "I can't break this engagement. In fact, I was just about to—"

  "All right. That's all right," he said in a voice that managed to be both long-suffering and brisk. "I'd hoped you'd have some time for me. Thirty years. Thirty, and it comes down to this."

  Dru rubbed at the tension banding the back of her neck. "I'm sorry, Dad."

  She lost track of the times she echoed that phrase during the rest of the conversation. But she knew
when she hung up she was exhausted from repeating it.

  No sooner had she set the phone down, than it rang again.

  Thirty years, Dru thought, might account for the sixth sense her parents had in regard to each other. Resigned, she picked up the phone.

  "Hello, Mom."

  HE'D SPREAD a red blanket on the grass near the bank of the river where there were both beams of sunlight and dappled shade. He added a wicker picnic basket, propping an open bottle of wine and a stemmed glass against it. A slim book with a ragged white cover lay beside it.

  She'd changed into the clothes he'd brought, put on the hoop earrings as he'd requested. And had used the time to steady herself.

  His table was up, his sketch pad on it. At the foot was a portable stereo, but instead of the driving rock, it was Mozart. And that surprised her.

  "Sorry I held you up," she said as she stepped off the porch. "No problem." One look at her face had him crossing to her. He put his arms around her and, ignoring her flinch, held her gently. A part of her wanted to burrow straight into that unquestioning offer of comfort. "Do I look that bad?"

  "You look that sad." He brushed his lips over her hair. "You want to do this some other time?"

  "No. It's nothing, really. Just habitual family insanity."

  "I'm good at that." He tipped her head back with his fingers. "An expert on family insanity."

  "Not this kind." She eased back. "My parents are getting divorced."

  "Oh baby." He touched her cheek. "I'm sorry."

  "No, no, no." To his bafflement, she laughed and pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. "You don't get it. They whack the D word around like a Ping-Pong ball. Every couple of years I

  get the call. 'Dru, I have difficult news.' Or 'Dru, I'm not sure how to tell you.' Once, when I was sixteen, they actually separated for nearly two months. Being careful to time it during my summer break so my mother could flee to Europe with me for a week, then my father could drag me off with him to Bar Harbor to sail."

  "Sounds more like you've been the Ping-Pong ball."

  "Yes, it does. They wear me out, which is why I ran away before… before I started to despise them. And still, I wish to God they'd just go through with it. That sounds cold and selfish and horrible."

  "No, it doesn't. Not when you've got tears in your eyes."

  "They love me too much," she said quietly. "Or not enough. I've never been able to figure it out. I don't suppose they have either. I can't be with them, standing in as their crutch or their referee the rest of my life."

  "Have you told them?"

  "Tried. They don't hear." She rubbed her arms as if smoothing ruffled feathers. "And I have absolutely no business dumping my mess in your lap."

  "Why not? We're practically going steady." She let out a half laugh. "You're awfully good at that."

  "I'm good at so many things. Which one is this?"

  "At listening, for one." She leaned forward, kissed his cheek. "I've never been particularly good at asking anyone to listen. I don't seem to have to with you. And for two"—she kissed his other cheek—"you're good at making me laugh, even when I'm annoyed."

  "I'll listen some more—and make you laugh—if you kiss me again. And aim for here this time," he added, tapping a finger to his lips.

  "Thanks, but that's about it. Let's put it away. There's nothing I can do about them." She eased away from him. "I assume you want me on the blanket."

  "Why don't we toss this for today and go for a sail? It always clears my head."

  "No, you're already set up, and it'll take my mind off things.

  But thanks, really, Seth."

  Satisfied that the sadness on her face had lifted, he nodded. "Okay. If you decide you want to stop after all, just say so. First, lose the shoes."

  She stepped out of the canvas slides. "A barefoot picnic."

  "There you go. Lie down on the blanket."

  She'd assumed she'd be sitting on it, skirts spread as she read the book. But she stepped onto the blanket. "Face up or down?"

  "On your back. Scoot down a little more," he suggested as he walked around her. "Let's have the right arm over your head. Bend your elbow, relax the hand."

  "I feel silly. I didn't feel silly in the studio."

  "Don't think about it. Bring your left knee up." She did, and when the skirt came with it, smoothed it back down over her legs.

  "Oh, come on." He knelt down and had her eyes going to slits when he pulled up the hem of the skirt so it exposed her left leg to mid-thigh.

  "Aren't you supposed to say something about how you're not hitting on me, but that this is all for the sake of art?"

  "It is for the sake of art." The back of his fingers skimmed her thigh as he fussed with the lie of the material. "But I'm hitting on you, too." He slid the strap of her top off her shoulder, studied the result, nodded.

  "Relax. Start with your toes." He rubbed a hand over her bare foot. "And work your way up." Watching her, he ran his hand up her calf, over her knee. "Turn your head toward me."

  She did, and glanced over the paint supplies he'd set up by his easel. "Aren't those watercolors? I thought you said you wanted oil."

  "This one's for watercolors. I've got something else in mind for oils."

  "So you keep saying. Just how many times do you think you can persuade me to do this?"

  "As many as it takes. You're having a quiet afternoon by the water," he told her as he began sketching lightly on the paper. "A little sleepy from wine and reading."

  "Am I alone?"

  "For the moment. You're just daydreaming now. Go wherever you want."

  "If it were warmer, I'd slide into the river."

  "It's as warm as you want it to be. Close your eyes, Dru. Dream a little."

  She did as he asked. The music, soft, romantic, was a caress on the air.

  "What do you think of when you paint?" she asked him.

  "Think?" At the question his mind went completely blank. "I don't know. Ah… shape, I guess. Light, shadow. Jeez. Mood. I don't have an answer."

  "You just answered the question I didn't ask. It's instinct. Your talent is instinctive. It has to be, really, as you were so clever at drawing so young."

  "What did you want to do when you were a kid?" Her body was a long, slim flow to him. Shape.

  "Lots of things. A ballerina, a movie star, an explorer. A missionary."

  "Wow, a missionary. Really?" The sun slid through the leaves and lay softly on her skin. Light and shadow.

  "It was a brief ambition, but a profound one. What I didn't think I'd be was a businesswoman. Surprise."

  "But you like it."

  "I love it. I love being able to take what I once assumed was a personal passion and a small talent for flowers and do something with it." Her mind began to drift, like the river that flowed beside her. "I've never been able to talk to anyone the way I seem to be able to talk to you."

  "No kidding?" She looked like a faerie queen—the exotic shape of her eyes, the sexy pixie cap of dark hair. The utter female confidence of the pose. A faerie queen drowsing alone in her private glade. Mood.

  "Why do you think that is?" he wondered.

  "I haven't a clue." And with a sigh, she fell asleep.

  THE MUSIC had changed. A woman with a voice like heartbreak was singing about love. Still half dreaming, Dru shifted. "Who is that singing?" she murmured.

  "Darcy Gallagher. Some pipes there. I caught a show she did with her two brothers a couple years ago in County Waterford. Little place called Ardmore. It was amazing."

  "Mmm. I think I've heard—" She broke off when she opened her eyes and found Seth sitting beside the blanket with a sketchbook instead of standing behind the table. "What're you doing?"

  "Waiting for you to wake up."

  "I fell asleep." Embarrassed, she rose on one elbow. "I'm sorry. How long was I out?"

  "Dunno. Don't have a watch." He set the book aside. "No need to be sorry. You gave me just what I was after."

>   Trying to clear her head, she looked over at the table. The watercolor paper was, frustratingly, out of her line of sight. "You finished?"

  "No, but I got a hell of a start. Watch or no watch, my stomach's telling me it's lunchtime." He flipped the lid on a cooler.

  "You brought a real picnic."

  "Hamper was for art, cooler's for practicality. We've got bread, cheese, grapes, some of this pate Phil swears by." He pulled out plates as he spoke. "And though I had to debase myself and beg, some of Anna's pasta salad. And this terrific wine I discovered in Venice. It's called Dreams. Seemed to fit."

  "You're trying to make this a date," she said warily.

  "Too late." He poured the first glass, handed it to her. "It already is a date. I wanted to ask why you took off so fast yesterday, when you came by the boatyard."

  "I'd finished my business." She chose a chilled grape, bit through its tart skin. "And I had to get back to work."

  "So you want a boat?"

  "Yes, I do. I like to sail."

  "Come sailing with me. That way you can check out how seaworthy a boat by Quinn is."

  "I'll think about it." She sampled the pate, made a sexy little sound of pleasure. "Your brother Phillip has excellent taste. They're very different, your brothers. Yet they hang together like a single unit."

  "That's family."

  "Is it? No, not always, not even usually, at least in my experience. Yours is unique, in a number of ways. Why aren't you scarred?" He looked up from scooping out pasta salad. "Sorry?"

  "There's been enough information dribbled through the stories I've read about you, and what I've heard just living in Saint Chris, to tell me you had a very hard childhood. You told me so yourself. How do you get through that without being damaged?" The press articles had barely skimmed the surface, Seth thought. They knew nothing of the young boy who had hidden from or fought off more than once the slick, groping hands of the drunks or druggies Gloria had brought home.

  They didn't know about the beatings or the blackmail, or the fear that remained a hard kernel lodged in his heart.

  "They saved me." He said it with a simple honesty that made her throat burn. "It's not an exaggeration to say that they saved my life. Ray Quinn, then Cam and Ethan and Phil. They turned their world around for me, and because of it, turned mine around with it. Anna and Grace and Sybill, Aubrey, too. They made a home for me, and nothing that happened before matters nearly as much as everything that came after."

  Unspeakably moved, she leaned forward and touched her lips to his. "That's for three. For making me like you. You're a good man. I don't know just what to do with you."

  "You could start by trusting me."

  "No." She eased back again, broke off a small hunk of bread. "Nothing starts with trust. Trust develops. And with me, that can take considerable time."

  "I can probably guarantee I'm nothing like the guy you were engaged to." When her body went rigid, he shrugged. "I'm not the only one who gets written about or talked about."

  And when she'd touched on a personal area, she reminded herself, he hadn't