Night Mist. Helen R. Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Gestures, indeed. No, she would have to see this situation through on her own. But never had she felt more unsure of herself or about what to do.

      Trying to think back to the beginning, she rested her forehead on her updrawn knees. Think about Joe…. Joe warning you about…who? Jay Barnes, who looked like him, but couldn’t be him? It didn’t make any sense! Jay Barnes was no more Joe Becket than she was Princess Whatshername. His unignorable physique versus her sexually deprived status aside, there had been no real chemistry between them.

      Except for that one moment when…

      None, she argued with herself, repressing her mutinous thoughts. While on the other hand, Joe, with a few simple words, a look and a caress had made her feel…special…needed…wanted.

      Bright Eyes. Like a whisper carried on the night’s steady wing, the memory of his voice, as well as his words, floated to her. No one had ever called her that before. Being a woman who’d gone through college, graduate school, medical training and hell’s internship in her own noncomformist way, she was too experienced to fall for negligent flattery. Two affairs had also left her dubious as to whether she was capable of opening her heart again. But how often did a woman have a ghost tell her he needed to touch her more than he wanted his dubious contact with the world?

      “Only you don’t believe in the supernatural,” she whispered.

      Torn, Rachel leaped to her feet and combed both hands through her hair.

      So what was going on? Maybe she needed to focus on things from a different angle…specifically, on someone who didn’t vanish the moment she touched him…which brought her back to Jay Barnes.

      She pressed her lips together. Not for a moment did she believe that man. She also didn’t think his reticence had anything to do with a penchant for privacy. He was hiding from something, or someone, she knew it.

      How strange his expression had been when she’d asked about a twin. She’d only posed the question because she couldn’t think of any other way to explain his uncanny similarity to Joe. Obviously, she’d touched a tender nerve. All she had to do was figure out what it was.

      From the moment he’d first seen her, he’d known she would be trouble for him. It gave him no pleasure to have her prove him right.

      As he lay on his bed with sleep farther away than ever, he linked his hands behind his head and swore at the stabbing pain. That damned hand would be his downfall yet!

      Shifting to avoid putting any further weight on it, he again berated himself for being a clumsy fool. He’d injured himself trying to keep Mudcat’s building from falling around him, holding up sheet metal paneling as he’d reached for the drill. There was, however, no such thing as a successful shortcut—at least, not for him. He’d discovered that as a kid when he’d written a book report based on the cover jacket and received a failing mark; he’d had the lesson drilled into him every time impatience or pride had lured him into beating around the bush instead of doing something the right way. Now his throbbing hand reiterated the old lesson.

      At least the derisive and damnably desirable doctor had been right about the ointment. The burning had about stopped. But the thing was still stinging like a nest of vengeful scorpions.

      Dr. Rachel Gentry…what was he going to do about her? He’d never doubted the legitimacy of her credentials; however, just as there were cops who were crooked and politicians who were worse, he figured it was entirely feasible for a doctor—especially one who was so easy on the eyes—to be not quite on the up-and-up. What else explained what a woman with her understated class was doing in a moldy sinkhole like Nooton?

      He’d known her name almost from the moment she’d moved in. The Duchess had told him when he’d gone downstairs to pay for another month’s rent. He’d let the drifty old landlady lure him into her parlor—crammed with everything except spiderwebs—and prattle to her heart’s content. It had been a sacrifice considering the god-awful cologne she doused herself with. The mere thought of how the artificial sweetness had conflicted with the strange smells drifting out from the kitchen made him shudder. But he’d sat and listened, her voice reminding him of a scratched-up vinyl record.

      “…Dr. Rachel Gentry of the Washington Gentrys. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.” He hadn’t. “Oh, my dear, impeccable lineage. They’re connected to the Georgia Gentrys, you know. Rachel—she insists I call her Rachel, isn’t that sweet?—well, Rachel inherited that delightful complexion that’s become world renown. But I digress…”

      She’d about digressed him into a coma. These days he couldn’t afford to give a damn about the hide on peaches, women or anything else; he had been pleased that he’d come away with enough information to justify his uneasiness about his new neighbor.

      Rachel Gentry, he’d concluded, might be a legitimate physician, but she was no more a good Samaritan doing her bit for the underprivileged in this parish than he was the pope’s son. He would have to stay alert until she made her move.

      Pity she was such a looker, though, and sharp. That had probably been the idea—send in the primo bait to sniff him out. He’d never made it a secret that he had an appreciation for independent women who had as much brainpower as beauty. Someone must have tipped them off and they’d decided to test the theory, since nothing else seemed to be working in their attempt to locate and flush him out.

      Well, let them try. He enjoyed a game of cat and mouse as much as anyone, and he’d been getting more than a little restless, anyway. How the devil did Garth stand it around here? he wondered, then reminded himself that the snake lived on an estate surrounded with all the toys other people’s money could buy.

      Feeling a new surge of bitterness, he jackknifed off the bed and paced the confines of his room. Room—ha! he thought with a new surge of sarcasm. The price of obtaining privacy had meant taking this man-size version of a toaster oven. Fog or no fog, the temperature remained lethal up here regardless of the hour, and the closest thing to air-conditioning crazy Adorabella provided was the oscillating fan on the dresser. Most of the time he refused to run it, because the ancient thing had almost no safety guard left and sounded as though it was still busy grinding up fingers of previous tenants.

      He stopped before it, tempted to turn it on despite all the reasons he shouldn’t. He was drenched with sweat, and the hot, humid breeze would have to feel better than this. Of course, best of all would be a beer.

      If he had to stay here much longer, he was going to have to look into getting one of those small refrigerators and a quiet fan…and then he could wile away the hours by wondering if he would live long enough to get his money’s worth out of them.

      He reached for his cigarettes and lighter, reminding himself for the umpteenth time that life was easier without complications. Maybe somebody should have told bright-eyed Dr. Gentry that. Hell, she seemed too young to have her license, let alone be involved in this kind of filth.

      His cigarettes and lighter lay beside the man-eating fan. Pulling one from the pack, he stopped it inches away from his mouth, then slammed it back onto the dresser. Down to almost three a day and she’d nearly ruined it for him.

      He ran his good hand over his hair. Like the rest of him, it was soaking wet, another warning that he was edging toward an explosion.

      What the hell, he thought, thinking about the beer again. Hadn’t he already reserved himself a first-class ticket to hell? He might as well make it a worthwhile trip.

      He headed СКАЧАТЬ