Aidan touched each cover with reverence. They’d denied him even the Washington Post in the hospital. And who knew who’d taken custody of his Treo?
The phone rang again. The old-fashioned receiver had no caller ID. “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Van.”
“Thanks for letting me use the cottage.” He worked gratitude into his voice. If he hadn’t felt so much like a rat in a cage, he would have been grateful. With tall ceilings and cool white walls the living room should have been relaxing.
A faint scent of wood smoke emerged from the cold, blackened fireplace, before which fat couches and chairs squatted around a big square table. A TV sat behind the open doors of an antique armoire that had never been meant for the purpose it served now.
“I’ll come down tomorrow and show you the walking paths,” Van said.
Aidan stifled an urge to snap that he could find them even after a minor myocardial infarction. “Thanks, but I’ll wander until I see them.” Then he felt bad. Van, a wunderkind of finance, the one man who always knew which parties to bring to the table, was trying to do him a favor. Aidan dialed back his frustration. “I appreciate your help.”
“No problem.” Van hesitated. “Have you eaten dinner?”
“I stopped in town for supplies. I’m fine.” He wasn’t sure he could stand one more pair of watchful eyes, waiting for his heart to explode. There’d been patients in worse shape in the cardiac ICU, but his name and the fame of Nikolas Enterprises had garnered him more interest.
“Come up to the house any time,” Van said. “Let me know if I can do anything for you—if anything in the cottage needs work.”
Aidan switched on the lamp at his side. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble. Every surface glowed. “Thanks, Van, but it’s great down here. See you tomorrow.”
He arranged the vegetables on the kitchen counter. Chopping them filled time and made some noise. So did toasting an illegal slice of fresh sourdough bread and slathering it with half a teaspoon of butter. Hunching over the sink, he ate it like a wild dog.
With less enthusiasm, he transferred his piles of celery, snow peas, cabbage, onions and carrots into a shiny silver colander. Next he unearthed a brand-new wok from its box and wrapping, washed it and did a quick stir-fry. Another boring, bland dinner.
He picked up his plate and made the mistake of glancing at the window, where his own face was reflected. And behind him…Madeline. He snapped his head around.
She wasn’t there. He knew that, but like a memory come to life, she appeared where he least wanted to see her, when he could least afford to face her.
Just over a year ago, she’d committed suicide. The cardiac team had attributed his heart attack to work pressure. They didn’t know guilt drove him or that it was his fault she’d done it.
He set the plate, food and all, in the spotless white sink. Another glance at the window revealed only him. He leaned into the open half, sucking down air, but it wasn’t enough. With his mouth gaping like a fish on a riverbank, he headed for the front door.
He pushed it open so hard it swung back at him. The night was colder than he’d thought, cold that bit into his lungs and set a fire that made him cough.
But he didn’t collapse. The only band around his chest came from breathing fresh air when he was used to the purified, sanctified, hospital-approved stuff.
He stared into the tall trees, mostly evergreen, waving in the moonlit sky. On the hill above him, Van’s house was alight with life. Lamps flickered in glowing pools all the way down to the shrubbery that divided Van’s lawn from the cottage’s. Another cold breath brought on another choking cough. As he grabbed his chest, he saw movement on the hill.
Someone crashed through the shrubbery, and a woman burst into his borrowed yard, wearing navy sweats, a white tank, holly leaves in her dark-blond ponytail and concern on her delicate face.
“Are you okay?”
He coughed again. It was a defining moment. Not that he was vain, but a lot of women came onto him. Some offered cell numbers and e-mail addresses. More than one had palmed a hotel key card into his hand.
This one, tall and lithe and smelling of pine and exercise, had busted through Van’s landscaping, bent on administering CPR.
“I was coughing,” he said, seduced by the sheen of sweat on her rounded shoulders.
“Oh.” She glanced toward the house. “Are you cooking? Set the place on fire? Van does that all the time.”
“I can cook.” Now that was an impressive display of testosterone. “I just coughed.” Oddly, she didn’t produce an oxygen canister. “I’m going for a walk. You must know Van?” He started down the gravel drive, knowing she’d fall into step beside him.
“I’m his sister.” She pushed her hand down her thigh and then offered it. “Beth Tully.” She looked at him too closely. “And you’re Aidan Nikolas.”
“Van told you about me?”
Her palm, hot from exercise, warmed his blood. The human contact felt almost too good after night upon night in the sterile confines of the hospital.
“He told me someone was arriving at the cottage today.” When she nodded her ponytail licked at either side of her neck. He couldn’t help staring. “But I’ve seen you on magazine covers, too.”
Some men might like being one of the sexiest guys alive, but Madeline had chosen to die rather than be with him. He wasn’t such a catch. “I try to ignore those. You live with Van?”
“He’s taken me and my son in.” Not mentioning a husband, she also ducked her head as if she’d said too much. “Our place burned down two months ago.”
“That’s bad.” Great answer. Nice and banal.
She dipped her head again, in a nod. Tall, round of breast, with curves that defined temptation and a voice like the whiskey tones of a forties starlet, she made him hope the husband she hadn’t mentioned didn’t exist.
“We’re rebuilding. It’s a fishing lodge.”
She stopped as if she’d slammed into a brick wall. Most people filled a silence. Not Beth Tully.
Sick of the sound of his own thoughts, Aidan searched for a way to keep her from running back to her own life. It had nothing to do with her sweet body reminding him he was only forty-two—and that he’d recovered from the heart attack. He was not an invalid.
His wife hadn’t wanted him, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still want a woman.
“You’ve lived here all your life, Beth?”
The strands of her hair clung to her neck again. “Except for a year in Florida.” Her scent, spice and exotic flowers, drew him even closer. “When I was first married,” she said.
He’d resisted those key cards and phone numbers and addresses so clever they’d immediately imprinted themselves
