Less of a Stranger by Nora Roberts Nichole Archer

antique

Nichole

Archer

Less of a Stranger by Nora Roberts

Nichole

Archer

calibre 0.8.4

23.10.2014af776e79-f14a-44ee-a866-0692709aa34a1.0

Less of a Stranger

Nora Roberts

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven Epilogue

Copyright

For my friend, Joanne

Chapter One

He watched her coming. Though she wore jeans and a jacket, with a concealing helmet over her head, Katch recognized her femininity. She rode a small Honda motorcycle. He drew on his thin cigar and appreciated the competent way she swung into the market’s parking lot.

Settling the bike, she dismounted. She was tall, Katch noted, perhaps five feet eight, and slender. He leaned back on the soda machine and continued to watch her out of idle curiosity. Then she removed the helmet. Instantly, his curiosity was intensified. She was a stunner.

Her hair was loose and straight, swinging nearly to her shoulders, with a fringe of bangs sweeping over her forehead. It was a deep, rich brunette that showed glints of red and gold from the sun. Her face was narrow, the features sharp and distinct. He’d known models who’d starved themselves to get the angles and shadows that were in this woman’s face.

Her mouth, however, was full and generous.

Katch recognized the subtleties of cosmetics and knew that none had been used to add interest to

the woman’s features. She didn’t need them. Her eyes were large, and even with the distance of

the parking lot between them, he caught the depth of dark brown. They reminded him of a colt’s eyes—deep and wide and aware. Her movements were unaffected. They had an unrefined grace that was as coltish as her eyes. She was young, he decided, barely twenty. He drew on the cigar again. She was definitely a stunner.

“Hey, Megan!”

Megan turned at the call, brushing the bangs from her eyes as she moved.

Seeing the Bailey twins pull to the curb in their Jeep, she smiled.

“Hi.” Clipping the helmet onto a strap on her bike, Megan walked to the Jeep. She was very fond

of the Bailey twins.

Like herself, they were twenty-three and had golden, beach-town complexions, but they were petite, blue-eyed and pertly blonde. The long, baby-fine hair they shared had been tossed into confusion by the wind.

Both pairs of blue eyes drifted past Megan to focus on the man who leaned against the soda machine. In reflex, both women straightened and tucked strands of hair behind their ears. Tacitly, they agreed their right profile was the most comely.

“We haven’t seen you in a while.” Teri Bailey kept one eye cocked on Katch as she spoke to

Megan.

“I’ve been trying to get some things finished before the season starts.”

Megan’s voice was low, with the gentle flow of coastal South Carolina.

“How’ve you been?”

“Terrific!” Jeri answered, shifting in the driver’s seat. “We’ve got the afternoon off. Why don’t you come shopping with us?” She, too, kept Katch in her peripheral vision.

“I’d like to”—Megan was already shaking her head—“but I’ve got to pick up a few things there.”

“Like the guy over there with terrific gray eyes?” Jeri demanded.

“What?” Megan laughed.

“And shoulders,” Teri remarked.

“He hasn’t taken those eyes off her, has he, Teri?” Jeri remarked. “And we spent twelve-fifty for

this blouse.” She fingered the thin strap of the pink camisole top which matched her twin’s. “What,” Megan asked, totally bewildered, “are you talking about?”

“Behind you,” Teri said with a faint inclination of her fair head. “The hunk by the soda machine. Absolutely gorgeous.” But as Megan began to turn her head, Teri continued in a desperate whisper, “Don’t turn around, for goodness sake!”

“How can I see if I don’t look?” Megan pointed out reasonably as she turned.

His hair was blond, not pale like the twins’, but dusky and sun-streaked. It was thick and curled loosely and carelessly around his face. He was lean, and the jeans he wore were well faded from wear. His stance was negligent, completely relaxed as he leaned back against the machine and drank from a can. But his face wasn’t lazy, Megan thought as he met her stare without a blink. It was sharply aware. He needed a shave, certainly, but his bone structure was superb. There was the faintest of clefts in his chin, and his mouth was long and thin.

Normally, Megan would have found the face fascinating—strongly sculpted, even handsome in a rough-and-ready fashion. But the eyes were insolent. They were gray, as the twins had stated, dark and smoky. And, Megan decided with a frown, rude. She’d seen his type before—drifters, loners, looking for the sun and some fleeting female companionship.

Under her bangs, her eyebrows drew together. He was openly staring at her. As the can touched his lips, he sent

Megan a slow wink.

Hearing one of the twins giggle, Megan whipped her head back around.

“He’s adorable,” Jeri decided.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Megan swung her hair back with a toss of her head.

“He’s typical.”

The twins exchanged a look as Jeri started the Jeep’s engine. “Too choosy,” she stated. They

gave Megan mirror smiles as they pulled away from the curb. “Bye!”

Megan wrinkled her nose at them, but waved before she turned away.

Purposefully ignoring the man who loitered beside the concessions, Megan walked into the market.

She acknowledged the salute from the clerk behind the counter. Megan had grown up in Myrtle Beach. She knew all the small merchants in the five-mile radius around her grandfather’s amusement park.

After choosing a basket, she began to push it down the first aisle. Just a few things, she decided, plucking a quart of milk from a shelf. She had only the saddlebags on the bike for transporting. If the truck hadn’t been acting up … She let her thoughts drift away from that particular problem.

Nothing could be done about it at the moment.

Megan paused in the cookie section. She’d missed lunch and the bags and boxes looked

tempting. Maybe the oatmeal … “These are better.”

Megan started as a hand reached in front of her to choose a bag of cookies promising a double dose of chocolate chips. Twisting her head, she looked up into the insolent gray eyes.

“Want the cookies?” He grinned much as he had outside.

“No,” she said, giving a meaningful glance at his hand on her basket.

Shrugging, he took his hand away but, to Megan’s irritation, he strolled along beside her.

“What’s on the list, Meg?” he asked companionably as he tore open the bag of cookies.

“I can handle it alone, thanks.” She started down the next aisle, grabbing a can of tuna. He

walked, Megan noted, like a gunslinger—long, lanky strides with just a hint of swagger.

“You’ve got a nice bike.” He bit into a cookie as he strolled along beside her. “Live around here?”

Megan chose a box of tea bags. She gave it a critical glance before tossing it into the basket. “It lives with me,” she told him as she moved on.

“Cute,” he decided and offered her a cookie. Megan ignored him and moved down the next aisle. When she reached for a loaf of bread, however, he laid a hand on top of hers. “Whole wheat’s better for you.”

His palm was hard and firm on the back of her hand. Megan met his eyes indignantly and tried to pull away.

“Listen, I have …”

“No rings,” he commented, lacing his fingers through hers and lifting her hand for a closer study. “No entanglements. How about dinner?”

“No way.” She shook her hand but found it firmly locked in his.

“Don’t be unfriendly, Meg. You have fantastic eyes.” He smiled into them, looking at her as though they were the only two people on earth.

Someone reached around her, with an annoyed mutter, to get a loaf of rye.

“Will you go away?” she demanded in an undertone. It amazed her that his smile was having an

effect on her even though she knew what was behind it. “I’ll make a scene if you don’t.” “That’s all right,” he said genially, “I don’t mind scenes.”

He wouldn’t, she thought, eyeing him. He’d thrive on them. “Look,” she began angrily, “I don’t know who you are, but …”

“David Katcherton,” he volunteered with another easy smile. “Katch.

What time should I pick you up?”

“You’re not going to pick me up,” she said distinctly. “Not now, not later.” Megan cast a quick look around. The market was all but empty.

She couldn’t cause a decent scene if she’d wanted to. “Let go of my hand,” she ordered firmly.

“The Chamber of Commerce claims Myrtle Beach is a friendly town, Meg.” Katch released her

hand. “You’re going to give them a bad name.”

“And stop calling me Meg,” she said furiously. “I don’t know you.”

She stomped off, wheeling the basket in front of her.

“You will.” He made the claim quietly, but she heard him.

Their eyes met again, hers dark with temper, his assured. Turning away, she quickened her pace to the check-out counter.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened at the market.” Megan set the bag on the kitchen table

with a thump.

Her grandfather sat at the table, on one of the four matching maple chairs, earnestly tying a fly. He grunted in acknowledgment but didn’t glance up.

Wires and feathers and weights were neatly piled in front of him.

“This man,” she began, pulling the bread from the top bag. “This incredibly rude man tried to pick me up. Right in the cookie section.”

Megan frowned as she stored tea bags in a canister. “He wanted me to go to dinner with him.”

“Hmm.” Her grandfather meticulously attached a yellow feather to the fly.

“Have a nice time.” “Pop!” Megan shook her head in frustration, but a smile tugged at her mouth.

Timothy Miller was a small, spare man in his mid-sixties. His round, lined face was tanned, surrounded by a shock of white hair and a full beard. The beard was soft as a cloud and carefully tended. His blue eyes, unfaded by the years, were settled deeply into the folds and lines of his face. They missed little. Megan could see he was focused on his lures. That he had heard her at all was a tribute to his affection for his granddaughter.

Moving over, she dropped a kiss on the crown of his head. “Going fishing tomorrow?” “Yessiree, bright and early.” Pop counted out his assortment of lures and mentally reviewed his

strategy. Fishing was a serious business. “The truck should be fixed this evening. I’ll be back before supper.”

Megan nodded, giving him a second kiss. He needed his fishing days. The amusement parks opened for business on weekends in the spring and fall.

In the three summer months they worked seven days a week. The summer kept the town alive; it drew tourists, and tourists meant business. For one-fourth of the year, the town swelled from a population of thirteen or fourteen

thousand to three hundred thousand. The bulk of those three hundred thousand people had come to the small coastal town to have fun.

To provide it, and make his living, her grandfather worked hard. He always had, Megan mused. It would have been a trial if he hadn’t loved the park so much. It had been part of her life for as long as she could remember.

Megan had been barely five when she had lost her parents. Over the years, Pop had been mother, father and friend to her. And Joyland was home to her as much as the beachside cottage they lived in. Years before, they had turned to each other in grief. Now, their love was bedrock firm.

With the exclusion of her grandfather, Megan was careful with her emotions, for once involved, they were intense. When she loved, she loved totally.

“Trout would be nice,” she murmured, as she gave him a last, quick hug.

“We’ll have to settle for tuna casserole tonight.”

“Thought you were going out.”

“Pop!” Megan leaned back against the stove and pushed her hair from her face with both hands. “Do you think I’d spend the evening with a man who tried to pick me up with a bag of chocolate chip cookies?” With a jerk of her wrist, she flicked on the burner under the teakettle.

“Depends on the man.” She saw the twinkle in his eye as he glanced up at her. Megan knew she finally had his full attention. “What’d he look like?”

“A beach bum,” she retorted, although she knew the answer wasn’t precisely true. “With a bit of cowboy thrown in.” She smiled then in response to Pop’s grin. “Actually, he had a great face. Lean and strong, very attractive in an unscrupulous sort of way. He’d do well in bronze.”

“Sounds interesting. Where’d you meet him again?” “In the cookie section.”

“And you’re going to fix tuna casserole instead of having dinner out?”

Pop gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s the matter with this girl,” he addressed a favored lure.

“He was cocky,” Megan claimed and folded her arms. “And he leered at me. Aren’t grandfathers supposed to tote shotguns around for the purpose of discouraging leerers?”

“Want to borrow one and go hunting for him?”

The shrill whistling of the kettle drowned out her response. Pop watched Megan as she rose to fix the tea.

She was a good girl, he mused. A bit too serious about things at times, but a good girl. And a

beauty, too. It didn’t surprise him that a stranger had tried to make a date with her. He was more

surprised that it hadn’t happened more often. But Megan could discourage a man without opening her mouth, he recalled. All she had to do was aim one of her “I beg your pardon” looks and most of them backed off. That seemed to be the way she wanted it.

Between the amusement park and her art, she never seemed to have time for much socializing. Or didn’t make time, Pop amended thoughtfully.

Still, he wasn’t certain that he didn’t detect more than just annoyance in her attitude toward the man in the market. Unless he missed his guess, she had been amused and perhaps a touch attracted. Because he knew his granddaughter well, he decided to let the subject ride for the time being.

“The weather’s supposed to hold all weekend,” he commented as he carefully placed his lures in his fishing box. “There should be a good crowd in the park. Are you going to work in the arcade?”

“Of course.” Megan set two cups of tea on the table and sat again. “Have those seats been adjusted on the ferris wheel?”

“Saw to it myself this morning.” Pop blew his tea to cool it, then sipped.

He was relaxed, Megan saw. Pop was a simple man. She’d always admired his unassuming manner, his quiet humor, his lack of pretensions.

He loved to watch people enjoy. More, she added with a sigh, than he liked to charge them for doing so. Joyland never made more than a modest profit. He was, Megan concluded, a much better grandfather than businessman.

To a large extent, it was she who handled the profit-and-loss aspect of the park. Though the responsibility took time away from her art, she knew it was the park that supported them. And, more important, it was the park that Pop loved.

At the moment, the books were teetering a bit too steeply into the red for comfort. Neither of them spoke of it at any length with the other. They mentioned improvements during the busy season, talked vaguely about promoting business during the Easter break and over Memorial Day weekend.

Megan sipped at her tea and half listened to Pop’s rambling about hiring summer help. She would see to it when the time came. Pop was a whiz in dealing with cranky machines and sunburned tourists, but he tended to overpay and underwork his employees. Megan was more practical. She had to be.

I’ll have to work full-time myself this summer, she reflected. She thought fleetingly of the half- completed sculpture in her studio over the garage.

It’ll just have to wait for December, she told herself and tried not to sigh.

There’s no other way until things are on a more even keel again. Maybe next year … it was always next year. There were things to do, always things to do. With a small shrug, she turned back to Pop’s monologue.

“So, I figure we’ll get some of the usual college kids and drifters to run the rides.”

“I don’t imagine that’ll be a problem,” Megan murmured. Pop’s mention of drifters had led her

thoughts back to David Katcherton.

Katch, she mused, letting his face form in her mind again. Ordinarily, she’d have cast his type as a drifter, but there had been something more than that. Megan prided herself on her observations, her characterizations of people. It annoyed her that she wasn’t able to make a conclusive profile on this man. It annoyed her further that she was again thinking of a silly encounter with a rude stranger.

“Want some more tea?” Pop was already making his way to the stove when Megan shook herself

back.

“Ah … yeah, sure.” She scolded herself for dwelling on the insignificant when there were things to do. “I guess I’d better start dinner. You’ll want an early night if you’re going fishing in the morning.”

“That’s my girl.” Pop turned the flame back on under the kettle as he glanced out the window.

He cast a quick look at his unsuspecting granddaughter. “I hope you’ve got enough for three,” he said casually. “It looks like your beach-cowboy found his way to the ranch.”

“What?” Megan’s brows drew together as she stood up.

“A perfect description, as usual, Megan,” Pop complimented her as he watched the man approach, loose-limbed with a touch of a swashbuckler, a strong, good-looking face. Pop liked his looks. He turned with a grin as Megan walked to the window to stare out. Pop suppressed a chuckle at her expression.

“It is him,” she whispered, hardly believing her eyes as she watched Katch approach her kitchen door.

“I thought it might be,” Pop said mildly.

“Of all the nerve,” she muttered darkly. “Of all the incredible nerve!”

Chapter Two

Before her grandfather could comment, Megan took the few strides necessary to bring her to the kitchen door. She swung it open just as Katch stepped up on the stoop. There was a flicker, only a flicker, of surprise in the gray eyes.

“You have a nerve,” she said coolly.

“So I’ve been told,” he agreed easily. “You’re prettier than you were an hour ago.” He ran a finger down her cheek. “There’s a bit of rose under the honey now. Very becoming.” He traced the line of her chin before dropping his hand. “Do you live here?”

“You know very well I do,” she retorted. “You followed me.”

Katch grinned. “Sorry to disappoint you, Meg. Finding you here’s just a bonus. I’m looking for

Timothy Miller. Friend of yours?”

“He’s my grandfather.” She moved, almost imperceptibly, positioning herself between Katch and

the doorway. “What do you want with him?”

Katch recognized the protective move, but before he could comment, Pop spoke from behind her.

“Why don’t you let the man in, Megan? He can tell me himself.”

“I’m basically human, Meg,” Katch said quietly. The tone of his voice had her looking at him

more closely.

She glanced briefly over her shoulder, then turned back to Katch. The look she gave him was a

warning. Don’t do anything to upset him.

She noticed something in his eyes she hadn’t expected—gentleness. It was more disconcerting than his earlier arrogance. Megan backed into the kitchen, holding open the door in silent invitation.

Katch smiled at her, casually brushing a strand of hair from her cheek as he walked by and into the kitchen. Megan stood for a moment, wondering why she should be so moved by a stranger’s touch.

“Mr. Miller?” She heard the unaffected friendliness in Katch’s voice and glanced over as he held

out a hand to her grandfather. “I’m David Katcherton.”

Pop nodded in approval. “You’re the fellow who called me a couple of hours ago.” He shot a look past Katch’s shoulder to Megan. “I see you’ve already met my granddaughter.”

His eyes smiled in response. “Yes. Charming.”

Pop chuckled and moved toward the stove. “I was just about to make some more tea. How about a cup?”

Megan noticed the faint lift of his brow. Tea, she thought, was probably not his first choice.

“That’d be nice. Thanks.” He walked to the table and sat, Megan decided, as if his acquaintance were long-standing and personal. Half reluctant, half defiant, she sat next to him. Her eyes asked him questions behind Pop’s back.

“Did I tell you before that you have fabulous eyes?” he murmured.

Without waiting for her

answer, he turned his attention to Pop’s tackle box. “You’ve got some great lures here,” he

observed to Pop, picking up a bone squid, then a wood plug painted to simulate a small frog. “Do you make any of your own?”

“That’s half the sport,” Pop stated, bringing a fresh cup to the table. “Have you done much fishing?”

“Here and there. I’d guess you’d know the best spots along the Grand Strand.” “A few of them,” Pop said modestly.

Megan scowled into her tea. Once the subject of fishing had been brought up, Pop could go on for hours. And hours.

“I thought I’d do some surf casting while I’m here,” Katch mentioned offhandedly. Megan was

surprised to catch a shrewdly measuring expression in his eyes.

“Well now”—Pop warmed to the theme—“I might just be able to show you a spot or two. Do

you have your own gear?” “Not with me, no.”

Pop brushed this off as inconsequential. “Where are you from, Mr.

Katcherton?” “Katch,” he corrected, leaning back in his chair. “California originally.”

That, Megan decided, explained the beachboy look. She drank her cooling tea with a casual air while studying him over the rim.

“You’re a long way from home,” Pop commented. He shifted comfortably, then brought out a pipe he saved for interesting conversations. “Do you plan to be in Myrtle Beach long?”

“Depends. I’d like to talk with you about your amusement park.”

Pop puffed rapidly on his pipe while holding a match to the bowl. The tobacco caught, sending out cherry-scented smoke. “So you said on the phone. Funny, Megan and I were just talking about hiring on help for the summer. Only about six weeks before the season starts.” He puffed and let the smoke waft lazily. “Less than three until Easter. Ever worked rides or a booth?”

“No.” Katch sampled his tea.

“Well …” Pop shrugged his inexperience away. “It’s simple enough to learn. You look smart.” Again, Megan caught the flash of Katch’s grin.

She set down her cup.

“We can’t pay more than minimum to a novice,” she said dampeningly.

He made her nervous, she was forced to admit. With any luck, she could discourage him from Joyland so that he’d try his luck elsewhere. But something nagged at her. He didn’t look the type to take a job running a roller coaster or hawking a pitch-and-toss for a summer. There were hints of authority in his face, touches of casual power in his stance. Yet there was something not altogether respectable in his raffish charm.

He met her stare with a complete lack of self-consciousness. “That seems reasonable. Do you work in the park, Meg?”

She bit back a retort to his familiarity. “Often,” she said succinctly.

“Megan’s got a good business head,” Pop interjected. “She keeps me straight.”

“Funny,” Katch said speculatively. “Somehow I thought you might be a model. You’ve the face for it.” There was no flirtatiousness in his tone.

“Megan’s an artist,” Pop said, puffing contentedly at his pipe. “Oh?”

She watched Katch’s eyes narrow and focus on her. Uncomfortable, she shifted in her chair. “We

seem to be drifting away from the subject,” she said crisply. “If you’ve come about a job—” “No.”

“But … didn’t you say—”

“I don’t think so,” he cut her off again and added a smile. He turned to Pop now, and Megan recognized a subtle change in his manner. “I don’t want a job in your park, Mr. Miller. I want to buy it.”

Both men were intent on each other. Pop was surprised, unmistakably so, but there was also a look of consideration in his eyes. Neither of them noticed Megan. She stared at Katch, her face open and young, and just a little frightened. She wanted to laugh and say he was making a foolish joke, but she knew better. Katch said exactly what he meant.

She’d recognized the understated authority and power beneath the glib exterior. This was business, pure and simple. She could see it on his face.

There was a flutter of panic in her stomach as she looked at her grandfather.

“Pop?” Her voice was very small, and he made no sign that he heard her.

“You’re a surprise,” the old man said eventually. Then he began to puff on his pipe again. “Why my park?”

“I’ve done some research on the amusements here.” Katch shrugged off the details. “I like yours.”

Pop sighed and blew smoke at the ceiling. “I can’t say I’m interested in selling out, son. A man

gets used to a certain way of life.”

“With the offer I’m prepared to make, you might find it easy to get used to another.” Pop gave a quiet laugh. “How old are you, Katch?”

“Thirty-one.”

“That’s just about how long I’ve been in this business. How much do you know about running a

park?”

“Not as much as you do.” Katch grinned and leaned back again. “But I could learn fast with the right teacher.”

Megan saw that her grandfather was studying Katch carefully. She felt excluded from the conversation and resented it. Her grandfather was capable of doing this very subtly. She recognized that David Katcherton had the same talent. Megan sat silently; natural courtesy forbade her interrupting private conversation.

“Why do you want to own an amusement park?” Pop asked suddenly.

Megan could tell he was interested in David Katcherton. A warning bell began to ring in her head. The last thing she wanted was for her grandfather to become too involved with Katch. He was trouble, Megan was sure of it.

“It’s good business,” Katch answered Pop’s question after a moment.

“And fun.” He smiled. “I

like things that put fun into life.”

He knows how to say the right thing, Megan acknowledged grudgingly, noting Pop’s expression. “I’d appreciate it if you’d think about it, Mr.

Miller,” Katch continued. “We could talk about it again in a few days.”

And how to advance and retreat, she thought.

“I can’t refuse to think about it,” Pop agreed, but shook his head. “Still, you might take another look around. Megan and I’ve run Joyland for a good many years. It’s home to us.” He looked to his granddaughter teasingly. “Weren’t you two going out to dinner?”

“No!” She flashed him a scowl.

“Exactly what I had in mind,” Katch said smoothly. “Come on, Meg, I’ll buy you a hamburger.” As he rose, he took her hand, pulling her to her feet. Feeling her temper rise with her, Megan attempted to control it.

“I can’t tell you how I hate to refuse such a charming invitation,” she began.

“Then don’t,” Katch cut her off before turning to Pop. “Would you like to join us?”

Pop chuckled and motioned them away with the back of his hand. “Go on. I’ve got to get my gear together for the morning.”

“Want company?”

Pop studied Katch over the bowl of his pipe. “I’m leaving at five-thirty,”

he said after a moment. “I have extra gear.”

“I’ll be here.”

Megan was so astonished that she allowed Katch to lead her outside without making another protest. Pop never invited anyone along on his fishing mornings. They were his relaxation, and he enjoyed his solitude too much to share it.

“He never takes anyone with him,” she murmured, thinking aloud. “Then I’m flattered.”

Megan noticed that Katch still had her hand, his fingers comfortably laced with hers.

“I’m not going out with you,” she said positively and stopped walking.

“You might be able to

charm Pop into taking you fishing, but—”

“So you think I’m charming?” His smile was audacious as he took her other hand. “Not in the least,” she said firmly, repressing an answering smile.

“Why won’t you have dinner with me?”

“Because,” she said, meeting his eyes directly, “I don’t like you.” His smile broadened. “I’d like the chance to change your mind.”

“You couldn’t.” Megan started to draw her hands away, but he tightened his fingers.

“Wanna bet?” Again, she squashed the desire to smile. “If I change your mind, you’ll go to the park with me Friday night.”

“And if I don’t change my mind?” she asked. “What then?”

“I won’t bother you anymore.” He grinned, as persuasive, she noted, as he was confident.

Her brow lifted in speculation. It might, she reflected, it just might be worth it.

“All you have to do is have dinner with me tonight,” Katch continued, watching Megan’s face. “Just a couple of hours.”

“All right,” she agreed impulsively. “It’s a deal.” She wriggled her fingers, but he didn’t release them. “We could shake on it,” she said, “but you still have my hands.”

“So I do,” he agreed. “We’ll seal it my way then.”

With a quick tug, he had her colliding against his chest. She felt a strength there which wasn’t apparent in the lean, somewhat lanky frame.

Before she could express annoyance, his mouth had taken hers.

He was skillful and thorough. She never knew whether she had parted her lips instinctively or if he had urged her to do so with the gently probing tip of his tongue.

From the instant of contact, Megan’s mind had emptied, to be filled only with thoughts she couldn’t center on. Her body dominated, taking command in simple surrender. She was melted against him, aware of his chest hard against her breasts … aware of his mouth quietly savaging hers. There was nothing else. She found there was nothing to hold on to.

No anchor to keep her from veering off into wild water. Megan gave a small, protesting moan and drew away.

His eyes were darker than she’d thought, and too smoky to read clearly.

Why had she thought them so decipherable? Why had she thought him so manageable? Nothing was as she had thought it had been minutes before.

Her breath trembled as she fought to collect herself.

“You’re very warm,” Katch said softly. “It’s a pity you struggle so hard to be remote.”

“I’m not. I don’t …” Megan shook her head, wishing desperately for her heartbeat to slow. “You are,” he corrected, “and you do.” Katch gave her hands a companionable squeeze before

releasing one of them. The other he kept snugly in his as he turned toward his car.

Panic was welling up inside Megan, and she tried to suppress it. You’ve been kissed before, she reminded herself. This was just unexpected. It just caught you off guard. Even as the excuse ran through her mind, she knew it for a lie. She’d never been kissed like that before. And the situation was no longer under her control.

“I don’t think I’ll go after all,” she told him in calmer tones.

Katch turned, smiling at her as he opened the car door. “A bet’s a bet, Meg.”

Chapter Three

Katch drove a black Porsche. Megan wasn’t surprised. She wouldn’t have expected him to drive anything ordinary. It wasn’t difficult to deduce that David Katcherton could afford the best of everything.

He’d probably inherited his money, she decided as she settled back against the silver gray seat cushion. He’d probably never worked a day in his life. She remembered the hard, unpampered feel of his palm. Probably a whiz at sports, she thought. Plays tennis, squash, sails his own yacht.

Never does anything worthwhile. Only looks for pleasure. And finds it, she thought.

Megan turned to him, pushing her swinging hair back behind her shoulders. His profile was sharply attractive, with the dusky blond hair curling negligently over his ear.

“See something you like?”

Megan flushed in annoyance, aware that she’d been caught staring. “You need a shave,” she said primly.

Katch turned the rearview mirror toward him as if to check her analysis.

“Guess I do.” He smiled as they merged into the traffic. “On our next date I’ll be sure to remember. Don’t say anything,” he added, feeling her stiffen at his side. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to say anything if you couldn’t say something pleasant?”

Megan stifled a retort.

Katch smiled as he merged into traffic. “How long have you lived here?”

“Always.” With the windows down, Megan could hear the outdoor noises.

The music from a variety of car radios competed against each other and merged into a strange sort of harmony. Megan liked the cluttered, indefinable sound. She felt herself relaxing and straightened her shoulders and faced Katch again.

“And what do you do?”

He caught the thread of disdain in the question, but merely lifted a brow.

“I own things.” “Really? What sort of things?”

Katch stopped at a red light, then turned, giving her a long, direct look.

“Anything I want.” The

light changed and he deftly slid the car into the parking lot.

“We can’t go in there,” Megan told him with a glance at the exclusive restaurant.

“Why not?” Katch switched off the ignition. “The food’s good here.”

“I know, but we’re not dressed properly, and—”

“Do you like doing things properly all the time, Meg?”

The question stopped her. She searched his face carefully, wondering if he was laughing at her, and unsure of the answer.

“Tell you what.” He eased himself out of the car, then leaned back in the window. “Think about it for a few minutes. I’ll be back.”

Megan watched him slide through the elegant doors of the restaurant and shook her head. They’ll boot him out, she thought. Still, she couldn’t help admiring his confidence. There was something rather elusive about it. She crossed her arms over. “Still, I don’t really like him,” she muttered.

Fifteen minutes later, she decided she liked him even less. How impossibly rude! she fumed as she slammed out of his car. Keeping me waiting out here all this time!

She decided to find the nearest phone booth and call her grandfather to ask him to come pick her up. She searched the pockets in her jeans and her jacket. Not a dime, she thought furiously. Not one thin dime to my name. Taking a deep breath, she stared at the doors of the restaurant.

She’d have to borrow change, or beg their permission to use the house phone. Anything was better than waiting in the car. Just as she pulled open the door of the restaurant, Katch strolled out.

“Thanks,” he said casually and moved past her.

Megan stared after him. He was carrying the biggest picnic basket she’d ever seen. After he’d

opened the trunk and settled it inside, he glanced back up at her.

“Well come on.” He slammed the lid. “I’m starving.” “What’s in there?”

she asked suspiciously.

“Dinner.” He motioned for her to get in the car. Megan stood beside the closed door on the passenger side.

“How did you get them to do that?” “I asked. Are you hungry?”

“Well, yes … But how—”

“Then let’s go.” Katch dropped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The moment she sat

beside him, he swung out of the parking lot. “Where’s your favorite place?” he demanded. “My favorite place?” she repeated dumbly.

“You can’t tell me you’ve lived here all your life and don’t have a favorite place.” Katch turned the car toward the ocean. “Where is it?”

“Toward the north end of the beach,” she said. “Not many people go there, except at the height of the season.”

“Good. I want to be alone with you.”

The simple directness had butterflies dancing in her stomach. Slowly, she turned to look at him again.

“Anything wrong with that?” The smile was back, irreverent and engaging. Megan sighed,

feeling like she was just climbing the first hill of a roller coaster.

“Probably,” she murmured.

The beach was deserted but for the crying gulls. She stood for a moment facing west, enjoying the rich glow of the dying sun.

“I love this time of day,” she said softly. “Everything seems so still. As if the day’s holding its breath.” She jumped when Katch’s hands came to her shoulders.

“Easy,” he murmured, kneading the suddenly tense muscles as he stood behind her. He looked over her head to the sunset. “I like it just before dawn, when the birds first start to sing and the light’s still soft.

“You should relax more often,” he told her. He slid his fingers lazily up her neck and down

again. The pleasure became less quiet and more demanding. When she would have slipped away, Katch turned her to face him.

“No,” she said immediately, “don’t.” Megan placed both her hands on his chest. “Don’t.” “All right.” He relaxed his hold, but didn’t release her for a moment. Then he stooped for the

picnic basket and pulled out a white tablecloth saying briskly, “Besides, it’s time to eat.” Megan

took it from him, marveling that the restaurant had given him their best linen.

“Here you go.” With his head still bent over the basket, he handed her the glasses.

And their crystal, she thought, dazed as she accepted the elegant wine glasses. There was china next, then silver.

“Why did they give you all this?” “They were low on paper plates.”

“Champagne?” She glanced at the label as he poured. “You must be crazy!” “What’s the matter?” he returned mildly. “Don’t you like champagne?” “Actually I do, though I’ve only had American.”

“Here’s to the French.” Katch held out a glass to her.

Megan sipped. “It’s wonderful,” she said before experimenting with another sip. “But you didn’t have to …” she gestured expansively.

“I decided I wasn’t in the mood for a hamburger.” Katch screwed the bottle down into the sand.

He placed a small container on the cloth, then dived back into the basket.

“What’s this?” Megan demanded as she opened it. She frowned at the shiny black mass inside. He placed toast points on a plate. “Is it …” She paused in disbelief and glanced at him. “Is this caviar?”

“Yeah. Let me have some, will you? I’m starving.” Katch took it from her and spread a generous amount on a piece of toast. “Don’t you want any?”

he asked her as he took a bite.

“I don’t know.” Megan examined it critically. “I’ve never tasted it before.”

“No?” He offered her his piece. “Taste it.” When she hesitated, Katch grinned and held it closer to her mouth. “Go on, Meg, have a bite.”

“It’s salty,” she said with surprise. She plucked the toast from his hand and took another bite. “And it’s good,” she decided, swallowing.

“You might’ve left me some,” he complained when Megan finished off the toast.

She laughed and, heaping caviar onto another piece, handed it to him. “I wondered how it would sound.” Katch took the offering, but his attention was on Megan.

“What?” Still smiling, she licked a bit of caviar from her thumb.

“Your laugh. I wondered if it would be as appealing as your face.” He took a bite now, still watching her. “It is.”

Megan tried to calm her fluttering pulse. “You didn’t have to feed me caviar and champagne to

hear me laugh.” With a casual shrug, she moved out of his reach. “I laugh quite a bit.” “Not often enough.”

She looked back at him in surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“Your eyes are so serious. So’s your mouth.” His glance swept over her face. “Perhaps that’s why I feel compelled to make you smile.”

“How extraordinary.” Megan sat back on her heels and stared at him.

“You barely know me.” “Does it matter?”

“I always thought it should,” she murmured as he reached into the hamper again. Megan watched, no longer surprised as he drew out lobster tails and fresh strawberries. She laughed again and, pushing back her hair, moved closer to him.

“Here,” she said. “Let me help.”

The sun sank as they ate. The moon rose. It shot a shimmering white line across the sea. Megan thought it was like a dream—the china and silver gleaming in the moonlight, the exotic tastes on her tongue, the familiar sound of surf and the stranger beside her, who was becoming less of a stranger every minute.

Already Megan knew the exact movement of his face when he smiled, the precise tonal quality of his voice. She knew the exact pattern of the curls over his ear. More than once, bewitched by moonlight and champagne, she had to restrain her fingers from reaching for them, experimenting with them.

“Aren’t you going to eat any cheesecake?” Katch gestured with a forkful, then slid it into his

mouth.

“I can’t.” Megan brought her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. She watched his

obvious enjoyment with dessert. “How do you do it?”

“Dedication.” Katch took the last bite. “I try to see every project through to the finish.” “I’ve never had a picnic like this,” she told him with a contented sigh. Leaning back on her

elbows, she stretched out her legs and looked up at the stars. “I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful.”

“I’ll give Ricardo your compliments.” Katch moved to sit beside her. His eyes moved from the

crown of her head down the slender arch of her neck. Her face was thrown up to the stars.

“Who’s Ricardo?” she asked absently. There was no thought of objection when Katch tucked her

hair behind her ear with his fingertip.

“The chef. He loves compliments.”

Megan smiled, liking the way the sound of his voice mixed with the sound of the sea. “How do you know?”

“That’s how I lured him away from Chicago.”

“Lured him away? What do you mean?” It took only an instant for the answer to come to her. “You own that restaurant?”

“Yes.” He smiled at the incredulity in her face. “I bought it a couple of years ago.”

Megan glanced at the white linen cloth scattered with fine china and heavy silver. She recalled that a little more than two years before, the restaurant had been ready to go under. The food had been overpriced and the service slack. Then it had received a face-lift. The interior had been redesigned, boasting, she was told, a mirrored ceiling. Since its reopening, it had maintained the highest of reputations in a town which prided itself on its quality and variety of restaurants.

She shifted her attention back to him. “You bought it?”

“That’s right.” Katch smiled at her. He sat Indian-style, facing her as she leaned back on her

elbows. “Does that surprise you?”

Megan looked at him carefully: the careless toss of curls, the white knees of his jeans, the frayed sneakers. He was not her conception of a successful businessman. Where was the three-piece suit, the careful hairstyling? And yet … she had to admit there was something in his face.

“No,” she said at length. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Megan frowned as he shifted his position. In a moment he was close, facing the sea as she did.

“You bought it the same way you want to buy Joyland.”

“I told you, that’s what I do.”

“But it’s more than owning things, isn’t it?” she insisted, not satisfied with his offhand answers.

“It’s making a success of them.”

“That’s the idea,” he agreed. “There’s a certain satisfaction in succeeding, don’t you think?” Megan sat up and turned to him. “But you can’t have Joyland, it’s Pop’s whole life. You don’t

understand …”

“Maybe not,” he said easily. “You can explain it to me later. Not tonight.”

He covered her hand with his. “This isn’t a night for business.”

“Katch, you have to—”

“Look at the stars, Meg,” he suggested as he did so himself. “Have you ever tried to count them?”

Her eyes were irresistibly drawn upward. “When I was little. But—”

“Star counting isn’t just for kids,” he instructed in a voice warm and laced with humor. “Do you come here at night?”

The stars were brilliant and low over the sea. “Sometimes,” she murmured. “When a project isn’t going well and I need to clear my head, or just be alone.”

“What sort of artist are you?” His fingers trailed over her knuckles. “Do you paint seascapes? Portraits?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, I sculpt.”

“Ah.” He lifted her hand, then examined it—one side, then the other—

while she watched him. “Yes, I can see that. Your hands are strong and capable.” When he pressed his lips to the center of her palm, she felt the jolt shoot through her entire body.

Carefully, Megan drew her hand away; then, bringing her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. She could feel Katch smile without seeing it.

“What do you work in? Clay, wood, stone?” “All three.” Turning her head, she smiled again. “Where did you study?”

“I took courses in college.” With a shrug, she passed this off. “There hasn’t been much time for it.” She looked up at the sky again. “The moon’s so white tonight. I like to come here when it’s full like this, so that the light’s silvery.”

When his lips brushed her ear, she would have jerked away, but he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Relax, Meg.” His voice was a whisper at her cheek. “There’s a moon and the ocean. That’s all there is besides us.”

With his lips tingling on her skin, she could almost believe him. Her limbs were heavy, drugged with wine and the magic of his touch. Katch trailed his mouth down to her throat so that she moaned with the leap of her pulse.

“Katch, I’d better go.” He was tracing her jaw with light kisses. “Please,”

she said weakly. “Later,” he murmured, going back to nuzzle her ear.

“Much, much later.”

“No, I …” Megan turned her head, and the words died.

Her lips were no more than a breath from his. She stared at him, eyes wide and aware as he bent closer. Still his mouth didn’t touch hers. It hovered, offering, promising. She moaned again, lids lowering as he teased the corners of her lips. His hands never touched her. He had moved his arm so that their only contact was his mouth and tongue on her skin and the mingling of their breath.

Megan felt her resistance peel away, layer by layer until there was only need. She forgot to question the dangers, the consequences. She could only feel. Her mouth sought his. There was no hesitation or shyness now but demand, impatient demand, as she hungered to feel what she had felt before—the delicious confusion, the dark awareness.

When he still didn’t touch her, Megan slipped her arms around him. She pulled him close, enjoying his soft sound of pleasure as the kiss deepened.

Still, he let her lead, touching her now, but lightly, his fingers in her hair.

She could barely hear the hissing of the surf over the pounding of her heart. Finally, she drew away, pulling in a deep breath as their lips separated.

But he wouldn’t let her go. “Again?” The question was quiet and seemed to shout through the

still night.

Refusal trembled on Megan’s tongue. She knew the ground beneath her was far from solid. His

hand on the back of her neck brought her a whisper closer.

“Yes,” she said, and went into his arms.

This time he was less passive. He showed her there were many ways to kiss. Short and light, long and deep. Tongue and teeth and lips could all bring pleasure. Together, they lowered themselves to the sand.

It was a rough blanket, but she felt only the excitement of his lips on her skin as they wandered to her throat. She ran her fingers through his hair.

His mouth returned to hers, harder now, more insistent. She was ready for it, answering it. Craving it.

When his hand took the naked skin of her breast, she murmured in resistance. She hadn’t felt him

release the zipper of her jacket or the buttons of her shirt. But his hand was gentle, persuasive. He let his fingers trail over her, a whispering touch. Resistance melted into surrender, then heated into passion. It was smoldering just under her skin, threatening to explode into something out of her control. She moved under him and his hands became less gentle.

There was a hunger in the kiss now. She could taste it, a flavor sharper than any she’d known. It

was more seductive than soft words or champagne, and more frightening.

“I want you.” Katch spoke against her mouth, but the words were not in his easygoing tone. “I

want to make love with you.”

Megan felt control slipping from her grasp. Her need for him was overpowering, her appetite ravenous. She struggled to climb back to reality, to remember who they were. Names, places, responsibilities.

There was more than the moon and the sea. And he was a stranger, a man she barely knew.

“No.” Megan managed to free her mouth from his. She struggled to her feet. “No.” The

repetition was shaky. Quickly, she began to fumble with the buttons of her shirt.

Katch stood and gathered the shirttail in his hands. Surprised, Megan looked up at him. His eyes

were no longer calm, but his voice was deadly so. “Why not?”

Megan swallowed. There wasn’t lazy arrogance here, but a hint of ruthlessness. She had sensed it, but seeing it was much more potent. “I don’t want to.”

“Liar,” he said simply.

“All right.” She nodded, conceding his point. “I don’t know you.”

Katch inclined his head in agreement but tugged on the tails of her shirt to bring her closer. “You will,” he assured her. He kissed her then, searingly.

“But we’ll wait until you do.”

She fought to steady her breathing and stabilize her pulse. “Do you think you should always get what you want?” she demanded. The defiance was back, calming her.

“Yes,” he said and grinned. “Of course.”

“You’re going to be disappointed.” She smacked his hands from her shirt and began doing the buttons. Her fingers were unfaltering. “You can’t have Joyland and you can’t have me. Neither of us is for sale.”

The roughness with which he took her arm had her eyes flying back to his face. “I don’t buy women.” He was angry, his eyes dark with it. The appealing voice had hardened like flint. The artist in her was fascinated by the planes of his face, the woman was uneasy with his harsh tone. “I don’t have to. We’re both aware that with a bit more persuasion I’d have had you tonight.”

Megan pulled out of his hold. “What happened tonight doesn’t mean I find you irresistible, you know.” She zipped up her jacket with one quick jerk. “I can only repeat, you can’t have Joyland and you can’t have me.”

Katch watched her a moment as she stood in the moonlight, her back to the sea. The smile came again, slowly, arrogantly. “I’ll have you both, Meg,” he promised quietly. “Before the season begins.”

Chapter Four

The afternoon sun poured into Megan’s studio. She was oblivious to it, and to the bird song outside the windows. Her mind was focused on the clay her hands worked with, or, more precisely, on what she saw in the partially formed mound.

She had put her current project aside, something she rarely did, to begin a new one. The new subject had haunted her throughout the night. She would exorcise David Katcherton by doing a bust of him.

Megan could see it clearly, knew precisely what she wanted to capture: strength and determination behind a surface affability.

Though she had yet to admit it, Katch had frightened her the night before.

Not physically—he was too intelligent to use brute force, she acknowledged—but by the force of his personality. Angrily, she stabbed at the clay. Obviously, this was a man who got what he wanted. But she was determined that this time he would not have his way. He would soon find out that she couldn’t be pushed around any more than Pop could.

Slowly and meticulously, her fingers worked to mold the planes of his face. It gave her a certain satisfaction to have control over him—if only vicariously with the clay.

Almost without thinking, she shaped a careless curl over the high brow.

She stepped back to survey it. Somehow, she had caught a facet of his nature. He was a rogue, she decided. The old- fashioned word suited him.

She could picture him with boots and six-guns, dealing cards for stud poker in a Tucson saloon; with a saber, captaining a ship into the Barbary Coast. Her fingers absently caressed the clay curls. He would laugh in the face of the wind, take treasure and

women where he found them. Women. Megan’s thoughts zeroed in on the night before … On the feel of his lips on hers, the touch of his hand on her skin. She could remember the texture of the sand as they had lain together, the scent and sounds of the sea. And she remembered how the moonlight had fallen on his hair, how her hands had sought it while his lips had wandered over her. How thick and soft it had felt. How …

Megan stopped, appalled. She glanced down to see her fingers in the clay replica of Katch’s hair. She swore, and nearly, very nearly, reduced the clay to a formless mass. Controlling herself, she rose, backing away from the forming bust. I should never allow myself to be distracted from my work by petty annoyances, she thought. Her evening with Katch belonged in that category. Just a petty annoyance. Not important.

But it was difficult for Megan to convince herself this was true. Both her intuition and her emotions told her that Katch was important, far more important than a stranger should be to a sensible woman.

And I am sensible, she reminded herself. Taking a long breath, she moved to the basin to rinse the clay from her hands. She had to be sensible. Pop needed someone around to remind him that bills had to be paid. A smile crept across her mouth as she dried her hands. Megan thought, as she did from time to time, that she had been almost as much of a savior to her grandfather as he had been to her.

In the beginning, she’d been so young, so dependent upon him. And he hadn’t let her down. Then, as she had grown older, Megan had helped by assuming the duties her grandfather had found tiresome: accounts and bank reconciliations. Often, Megan suppressed her own desires in order to fulfill what she thought of as her duty. She dealt with figures, the unromantic process of adding and subtracting. But she also dealt with the illusionary world of art. There were times, when she was deep in her work, that she forgot the rules she had set up for day-to-day living. Often she felt pulled in two directions. She had enough to think about without David Katcherton.

Why a man virtually unknown to her should so successfully upset the delicate balance of her world, she didn’t know. She shook her head.

Instead of dwelling on it, she decided, she would work out her frustration by finishing the bust. When it was done, perhaps she would be able to see more clearly exactly how she perceived him. She returned to her work.

The next hour passed quickly. She forgot her irritation with Katch for going fishing with her grandfather. How annoying to have seen him so eager and well rested when she had peeked through her bedroom curtain at five-thirty that morning! She’d fallen back into her rumpled bed to spend another hour staring, heavy-eyed, at the ceiling. She refused to remember how appealing his laugh had sounded in the hush of dawn.

The planes of his face were just taking shape under her hands when she heard a car drive up.

Katch’s laugh was followed by the more gravelly tones of her grandfather’s.

Because her studio was above the garage, Megan had a bird’s-eye view of the house and drive. She watched as Katch lifted their fishing cooler from the back of the pickup. A grin was on his face, but whatever he said was too low for Megan to hear. Pop threw back his head, his dramatic mane of white flying back as he roared his appreciation. He gave Katch a companionable slap on the back. Unaccountably, Megan was miffed.

They seemed to be getting along entirely too well.

She continued to watch the man as they unloaded tackle boxes and gear.

Katch was dressed much as he had been the day before. The pale blue T-shirt had lettering across the chest, but the words were faded and the distance was too great for Megan to read them. He wore Pop’s fishing cap, another source of annoyance for Megan. She was forced to admit the two of them looked good together. There was the contrast between their ages and their builds, but both seemed to her to be extraordinarily masculine men. Their looks were neither smooth nor pampered. She became engrossed with the similarities and difference between them.

When Katch looked up, spotting her at the window, Megan continued to stare down, oblivious, absorbed with what she saw in them.

Katch grinned, pushing the fishing cap back so that he had a clearer view.

The window was long, the sill coming low at her knees. It had the effect of making Megan seem to be standing in a full- size picture frame. As was her habit when working, she had pulled her hair back in a ribbon. Her face seemed younger and more vulnerable, her eyes wider. The ancient shirt of Pop’s she used as a smock dwarfed her.

Her eyes locked on Katch’s, and for a moment she thought she saw something flash in them— something she’d seen briefly the night before in the moonlight. A response trembled along her skin. Then his grin was arrogant again, his eyes amused.

“Come on down, Meg.” He gestured before he bent to lift the cooler again. “We brought you a

present.” He turned to carry the cooler around the side of the house. “I’d rather have emeralds,” she called back.

“Next time,” Katch promised carelessly, before turning to carry the cooler around the side of the

house.

She found Katch alone, setting up for the cleaning of the catch. He smiled when he saw her and set down the knife he held, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly, to her utter astonishment. It was a kiss of casual ownership rather than passion, but it elicited a response that surprised her with its force. More than a little shaken, Megan pushed away.

“You can’t just …”

“I already did,” he pointed out. “You’ve been working,” Katch stated as if the searing kiss had never taken place. “I’d like to see your studio.”

It was better, Megan decided, to follow his lead and keep the conversation light. “Where’s my grandfather?” she asked as she moved to the cooler and prepared to lift the lid.

“Pop’s inside stowing the gear.”

Though it was the habit of everyone who knew him to refer to Timothy Miller as Pop, Megan frowned at Katch.

“You work fast, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. I like your grandfather, Meg. You of all people should understand how easy that is to do.”

Megan regarded him steadily. She took a step closer, as if testing the air between them. “I don’t know if I should trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.” Katch grinned again and ran a finger down the bridge of her nose. “Not for a second.” He tossed open the lid of the cooler, then gestured to the fish inside. “Hungry?”

Megan smiled, letting herself be charmed despite the warnings of her sensible self. “I wasn’t. But

I could be. Especially if I don’t have to clean them.” “Pop told me you were squeamish.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” Megan cast a long, baleful look over her shoulder toward the house. “What else did he tell you?”

“That you like daffodils and used to have a stuffed elephant named Henry.” Megan’s mouth dropped open. “He told you that?”

“And that you watch horror movies, then sleep with the blankets over your head.”

Megan narrowed her eyes as Katch’s grin widened. “Excuse me,” she said crossly, pushing

Katch aside before racing through the kitchen door. She could hear Katch’s laughter behind her.

“Pop!” She found him in the narrow room off the kitchen where he stored his fishing paraphernalia. He gave her an affectionate smile as she stood, hands on hips, in the doorway.

“Hi, Megan. Let me tell you, that boy knows how to fish. Yessiree, he knows how to fish.”

His obvious delight with Katch caused Megan to clench her teeth. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day,” she said, stepping into the room. “But exactly why did you feel it necessary to tell that boy that I had a stuffed elephant and slept with the covers over my head?”

Pop lifted a hand, ostensibly to scratch his head. It wasn’t in time, however, to conceal the grin. Megan’s brows drew together.

“Pop, really,” she said in exasperation. “Must you babble about me as if I were a little girl?” “You’ll always be my little girl,” he said maddeningly, and kissed her cheek. “Did you see those

trout? We’ll have a heck of a fish fry tonight.”

“I suppose,” Megan began and folded her arms, “he’s going to eat with us.” “Well, of course.” Pop blinked his eyes. “After all, Meg, he caught half the fish.” “That’s just peachy.”

“We thought you might whip up some of your special blueberry tarts.” He smiled ingenuously.

Megan sighed, recognizing defeat.

Within minutes, Pop heard the thumping and banging of pans. He grinned, then slipped out of the room, moving noiselessly through the house and out the front door.

“Whip up some tarts,” Megan muttered later as she cut shortening into the flour. “Men.”

She was bending over to slip the pastry shells into the oven when the screen door slammed shut behind her. Turning, she brushed at the seat of her pants and met the predictable grin.

“I’ve heard about your tarts,” Katch commented, setting the cleaned, filleted fish on the counter. “Pop said he had a few things to see to in the garage and to call him when dinner’s ready.”

Megan glared through the screen door at the adjoining building. “Oh, he did, did he?” She turned back to Katch. “Well, if you think you can just sit back and be waited on, then you’re in for a disappointment.”

“You didn’t think I’d allow you to cook my fish, did you?” he interrupted.

She stared at his unperturbed face.

“I always cook my own fish. Where’s the frying pan?”

Silently, still eyeing him, Megan pointed out the cabinet. She watched as he squatted down to rummage for it.

“It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good cook,” he went on as he stood again with the cast-iron

skillet in his hand. “It’s that I know I am.”

“Are you implying I couldn’t cook those pathetic little sardines properly?”

“Let’s just say I just don’t like to take chances with my dinner.” He began poking into cupboards. “Why don’t you make a salad,” he suggested mildly, “and leave the fish to me?” There was a grunt of approval as he located the cracker meal.

Megan watched him casually going through her kitchen cupboards. “Why don’t you,” she began, “take your trout and …”

Her suggestion was interrupted by the rude buzz of the oven timer.

“Your tarts.” Katch walked to the refrigerator for eggs and milk.

With supreme effort, Megan controlled herself enough to deal with the pastry shells. Setting them on the rack to cool, she decided to create the salad of the decade. It would put his pan-fried trout to shame.

For a time there were no words. The hot oil hissed as Katch added his coated trout. Megan tore the lettuce. She sliced raw vegetables. The scent from the pan was enticing. Megan peeled a carrot and sighed. Hearing her, Katch raised a questioning eyebrow.

“You had to be good at it, didn’t you?” Megan’s smile was reluctant.

“You had to do it right.” He shrugged, then snatched the peeled carrot from her hand. “You’d like it better if I didn’t?”

Katch took a bite of the carrot before Megan could retrieve it. Shaking her head, she selected another.

“It would have been more gratifying if you’d fumbled around and made a mess of things.” Katch tilted his head as he poked at the sizzling fish with a spatula. “Is that a compliment?”

Megan diced the carrot, frowning at it thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It might be easier to deal with

you if you didn’t seem so capable.”

He caught her off guard by taking her shoulders and turning her around to face him. “Is that what you want to do?” His fingers gently massaged her flesh. “Deal with me?” When she felt herself being drawn closer, she placed her hands on his chest. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” Megan shook her head with the denial. “No, of course not.” Katch only lifted a brow and drew her closer. “Yes,” she admitted in a rush, and pulled away. “Yes, blast it, you do.” Stalking to the refrigerator, she yanked out the blueberry filling she had prepared. “You needn’t look so pleased about it,” she told him, wishing she could work up the annoyance she thought she should feel.

“Several things make me nervous.” Megan moved to the pastry shells and began to spoon in the

filling. “Snakes, tooth decay, large unfriendly dogs.” When she heard him chuckle, Megan

turned her head and found herself grinning at him. “It’s difficult to actively dislike you when you make me laugh.”

“Do you have to actively dislike me?” Katch flipped the fish expertly and sent oil sizzling. “That was my plan,” Megan admitted. “It seemed like a good idea.”

“Why don’t we work on a different plan?” Katch suggested, searching through a cupboard again

for a platter. “What do you like? Besides daffodils?”

“Soft ice cream,” Megan responded spontaneously. “Oscar Wilde, walking barefoot.” “How about baseball?” Katch demanded.

Megan paused in the act of filling the shells. “What about it?” “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” she considered, smiling. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I knew we had something in common.” Katch grinned. He turned the flame off under the pan. “Why don’t you call Pop? The fish is done.”

* * *

There was something altogether too cozy about the three of them sitting around the kitchen table eating a meal each of them had a part in providing, Megan thought. She could sense the growing affection between the two men and it worried her. She was sure that Katch was still as determined as ever to buy Joyland. Yet Pop was so obviously happy in his company. Megan

decided that, while she couldn’t trust Katch unreservedly, neither could she maintain her original plan. She couldn’t dislike him or keep him from touching their lives. She thought it best not to dwell on precisely how he was touching hers.

“Tell you what.” Pop sighed over his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. “Since the pair of you cooked dinner, I’ll do the dishes.” His eyes passed over Megan to Katch. “Why don’t you two go for a walk? Megan likes to walk on the beach.”

“Pop!”

“I know you young people like to be alone,” he continued shamelessly.

Megan opened her mouth to protest, but Katch spoke first. “I’m always willing to take a walk

with a beautiful woman, especially if it means getting out of KP,” he said.

“You have such a gracious way of putting things,” Megan began.

“Actually, I’d really like to see your studio.”

“Take Katch up, Megan,” Pop insisted. “I’ve been bragging about your pieces all day. Let him see for himself.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Megan decided it was simpler to agree.

Certainly she didn’t mind showing Katch her work. And, there was little doubt that it was safer to let him putter around her studio than to walk with him on the beach.

“All right.” She rose. “I’ll take you up.”

As they passed through the screen door, Katch slipped his arm over her shoulders. “This is a nice place,” he commented. He looked around the small trim yard lined with azalea shrubs. “Very quiet and settled.”

The weight of his arm was pleasant. Megan allowed it to remain as they walked toward the

garage. “I wouldn’t think you’d find something quiet and settled terribly appealing.”

“There’s a time for porch swings and a time for roller coasters.” Katch glanced down at her as

she paused at the foot of the steps. “I’d think you’d know that.”

“I do,” she said, knowing her involvement with him was beginning to slip beyond her control. “I wasn’t aware you did.” Thoughtfully, Megan climbed the stairs. “It’s rather a small-scale studio, I suppose, and not very impressive. It’s really just a place to work where I won’t disturb Pop and he won’t disturb me.”

Megan opened the door, flicking on the light as the sun was growing dim.

There was much less order here than she permitted herself in other areas of her life. The room was hers, personally, more exclusively than her bedroom in the house next door. There were tools—calipers, chisels, gouges, and an assortment of knives and files. There was the smock she’d carelessly thrown over a chair when Katch had called her downstairs.

Future projects sat waiting inside, untouched slabs of limestone and chunks of wood. There was a precious piece of marble she hoarded like a miser. Everywhere, on shelves, tables and even the floor, were samples of her work.

Katch moved past her into the room. Strangely, Megan felt a flutter of nerves. She found herself wondering how to react if he spoke critically, or worse, offered some trite compliment. Her work was important to her and very personal. To her surprise she realized that she cared about his opinion. Quietly, she closed the door behind her, then stood with her back against it.

Katch had gone directly to a small walnut study of a young girl building a sand castle. She was particularly pleased with the piece, as she had achieved exactly the mood she had sought. There was more than youth and innocence in the child’s face. The girl saw herself as the princess in the castle tower. The half-smile on her face made the onlooker believe in happy endings.

It was painstakingly detailed, the beginnings of a crenellated roof and the turrets of the castle, the slender fingers of the girl as she sculpted the sand.

Her hair was long, falling over her shoulders and wisping into her face as though a breeze teased it. Megan had felt successful when the study had been complete, but now, watching Katch turn it over in his hands, his mouth oddly grave, his eyes intent, she felt a twinge of doubt.

“This is your work?” Because the silence had seemed so permanent, Megan jerked when Katch spoke.

“Well, yes.” While she was still searching for something more to say, Katch turned away to

prowl the room.

He picked up piece after piece, examining, saying nothing. As the silence dragged on, minute upon minute, Megan became more and more tense. If he’d just say something, she thought. She picked up the discarded smock and folded it, nervously smoothing creases as she listened to the soft sound of his tennis shoes on the wood floor.

“What are you doing here?”

She whirled, eyes wide. Whatever reaction she had expected, it certainly hadn’t been anger. And

there was anger on his face, a sharp, penetrating anger which caused her to grip the worn material of the smock tighter.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Megan’s voice was calm, but her heart had begun to beat faster.

“Why are you hiding?” he demanded. “What are you afraid of?”

She shook her head in bewilderment. “I’m not hiding, Katch. You’re not making any sense.” “I’m not making sense?” He took a step toward her, then stopped, turning away to pace again.

She watched in fascination. “Do you think it makes sense to create things like this and lock them up in a room over a garage?” He lifted polished limestone which had been formed into a head- and-shoulders study of a man and a woman in each other’s arms. “When you’ve been given talent like this, you have an obligation. What are you going to do, continue to stack them in here

until there isn’t any more room?”

His reaction had thrown Megan completely off-balance. She looked around the room. “No, I … I

take pieces into an art gallery downtown now and then. They sell fairly well, especially during the season, and—”

Katch’s pungent oath cut her off. Megan gave her full attention back to him. Was this furious,

disapproving man the same one who had amiably prepared trout in her kitchen a short time ago?

“I don’t understand why you’re so mad.” Annoyed with herself for nervously pleating the

material of the smock, Megan tossed it down.

“Waste,” he said tersely, placing the limestone back on the shelf. “Waste infuriates me.” He

came to her, taking her deliberately by the shoulders. “Why haven’t you done anything with your work?” His eyes were direct on hers, demanding answers, not evasions.

“It’s not as simple as that,” she began. “I have responsibilities.” “Your responsibilities are to yourself, to your talent.”

“You make it sound as though I’ve done something wrong.” Confused, Megan searched his face. “I’ve done what I know how to do. I don’t understand why you’re angry. There are things, like time and money, to be considered,” she went on. “A business to run. And reality to face.”

Megan shook her head. “I can hardly cart my work to a Charleston art gallery and demand a showing.”

“That would make more sense than cloistering it up here.” He released her abruptly, then paced

again.

He was, Megan discovered, much more volatile than her first impression had allowed. She glanced at the clay wrapped in the damp towel. Her fingertips itched to work while fresh impressions were streaming through her brain.

“When’s the last time you’ve been to New York?” Katch demanded, facing her again. “Chicago, L.A.?”

“We can’t all be globetrotters,” she told him. “Some are born to other things.”

He picked up the sand-castle girl again, then strode over to the limestone couple. “I want these two,” he stated. “Will you sell them to me?”

They were two of her favorites, though totally opposite in tone. “Yes, I suppose. If you want them.”

“I’ll give you five hundred.” Megan’s eyes widened. “Apiece.”

“Oh, no, they’re not worth—”

“They’re worth a lot more, I imagine.” Katch lifted the limestone. “Have you got a box I can carry them in?”

“Yes, but, Katch.” Megan paused and pushed the bangs from her eyes. “A thousand dollars?”

He set down both pieces and came back to her. He was still angry; she could feel it vibrating

from him. “Do you think it’s safer to underestimate yourself than to face up to your own worth?”

Megan started to make a furious denial, then stopped. Uncertain, she made a helpless gesture with her hands. Katch turned away again to search for a box himself. She watched him as he wrapped the sculptures in old newspapers. The frown was still on his face, the temper in his eyes.

“I’ll bring you a check,” he stated, and was gone without another word.

Chapter Five

There was a long, high-pitched scream. The roller coaster grumbled along the track as it whipped around another curve and tilted its passengers.

Lights along the midway were twinkling, and

there was noise. Such noise. There was the whirl and whine of machinery, the electronic buzz and beeps from video games, the pop of arcade rifles and the call of concessionaires.

Tinny music floated all over, but for the most part, there was the sound of people. They were laughing, calling, talking, shouting. There were smells: popcorn, peanuts, grilled hot dogs, machine oil.

Megan loaded another clip into the scaled-down rifle and handed it to a would-be Wyatt Earp.

“Rabbits are five points, ducks ten, deer twenty-five and the bears fifty.”

The sixteen-year-old sharpshooter aimed and managed to bag a duck and a rabbit. He chose a rubber snake as his prize, to the ensuing screams and disgust of his girl.

Shaking her head, Megan watched them walk away. The boy slipped his arm around the girl’s shoulders, then pursued the romance by dangling the snake in front of her face. He earned a quick jab in the ribs.

The crowd was thin tonight, but that was to be expected in the off-season.

Particularly, Megan knew, when there were so many other parks with more rides, live entertainment and a more sophisticated selection of video games. She didn’t mind the slack. Megan was preoccupied, as she had been since the evening Katch had seen her studio. In three days, she hadn’t heard a word from him. At first, she had wanted badly to see him, to talk about the things he’d said to her. He had made her think, made her consider a part of herself she had ignored or submerged most of her life.