had never met a stranger. He licked Reed’s hand and wriggled with anticipation. Reed chuckled. “Guess that’s my answer,” he said pleasantly, then looked at Spencer. “I promise I’ll take good care of him.”
Suddenly Parker Tremaine stepped up, clearing his throat. “I think you’ve got it backward, Reed,” he said with a wry smile. “It’s your house—I’m not even sure which rooms you’ve set aside for them. So how about you take Faith and Spencer up to the house, and I’ll wash the dog?”
Tigger sniffed Parker’s outstretched hand and began thumping his tail in unqualified approval. But Reed gave his friend a quizzical expression that Faith couldn’t quite decipher.
“What about your suit, Parker? I seem to remember that you’re wearing Sarah’s favorite suit.”
Parker tilted his head and grinned slowly. “True, but, you know, Reed, there is something Sarah values even more than a good suit.”
Reed squinted narrowly at the other man, as if he suspected him of an ulterior motive. “Really. And what would that be?”
Parker hesitated—a small pause that had a distinctly teasing flavor. Faith saw that they were communicating privately—and very effectively—but she couldn’t really tell about what. Maybe it was as simple as trying to get out of having to wash the muddy dog. Or having to squire the dripping guests up to the shower…
Suddenly Parker held out his hands with a smile, asking Spencer to transfer custody of Tigger. To Faith’s amazement, Spencer hardly hesitated. He handed the puppy over with a single kiss to his matted head.
“Dogs,” Parker said, holding Tigger up with the triumphant air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. “As you know, Reed, Sarah just loves dogs.”
SPENCER AND TIGGER fell asleep early, almost as soon as they had wolfed down dinner. Reed wasn’t surprised. They had both been subdued, obviously exhausted by their eventful day.
At one point, Spencer had looked up at his aunt intently, then gazed over at his bed. She must have understood, because she turned to Reed and asked whether he’d mind if Tigger slept on the bed.
Naturally, he hadn’t minded at all. He’d been six years old once. And frankly he still didn’t see the point in having a dog if you didn’t let it sleep on the bed.
Reed assumed that Faith would fall asleep early, too, but to his surprise when he strolled out onto the second-floor porch at about ten o’clock, she was standing out there, as well.
She didn’t hear him at first. Wrapped in a moonlight-blue robe and a gray cloud of deep thoughts, she was staring into the trees as if she longed to lose herself in their inky depths.
It probably would be wiser to turn around and leave her there. But he wasn’t feeling wise. All evening he’d been feeling edgy, unable to settle in. He felt irrationally as if his life was on the verge of becoming completely different, though he had no idea how.
Maybe it was just the weird feeling of having other people in the house. No one but him had slept in this house since Melissa died.
And, to be honest, he was curious. He wanted to know Faith Constable’s story. Parker had given him broad outlines, but, now that he’d met her, outlines weren’t enough.
He was careful to make enough noise walking toward her to be sure she’d hear him. Given what she’d been through lately, the last thing he wanted to do was startle her.
She turned around. “Hi,” she said, smiling.
“Hi,” he responded casually, but inside his senses were suddenly reeling. She smelled of soap and some kind of perfume that made him think of pink flowers and springtime. She wore no makeup, and the blue-gray shadows under her eyes were more apparent than before, but somehow she was more beautiful than ever.
Her dark hair fell to midarm—curving against the tender spot where he had earlier noticed a large white bandage. The bandage had been a brutal reminder that she wasn’t here for a social visit. She wasn’t even here to be his housekeeper.
She was a wounded, frightened woman. A refugee seeking asylum.
He felt a sudden flash of anger toward this insane, vicious Douglas Lambert. How could anyone be trying to hurt someone so beautiful?
He joined her at the railing. The night was chilly, but not yet cold. The autumn sky was like a piece of heavily sequined black satin.
“So,” he said, not sure how to open a normal conversation. So much about this situation was far from normal. “Is the room okay? Do you have everything you need?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely.” She sounded stilted, but polite. She turned toward him with another of those strained smiles. “I haven’t thanked you properly yet. It’s very generous of you to let us hide out here.”
“I’m glad to be able to help,” he answered. God, this was like a bad comedy of manners. They were living together, for Pete’s sake. They might be living together for weeks—even months. They were going to have to get past this stilted exchange of meaningless pleasantries.
“So, I was wondering… If this is a good time, with Spencer asleep, I thought maybe you’d be willing to tell me a little more about what happened.”
She touched her arm. “More like what?”
He chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to sound insensitive, as if he found her tragedy as morbidly fascinating and unreal as a soap opera. “About your sister, and why this guy is still after you. Why Spencer doesn’t talk.”
She didn’t answer at first. He shouldn’t have rushed her, he thought, kicking himself mentally. She wasn’t ready.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it can’t be easy to talk about. It’s just that—if I’m going to help—I thought maybe I should know a little more.”
She gripped the railing and stared back out at the trees. “No, that’s okay,” she said. “You’re right. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to—”
“I know,” he said, wishing he could unspeak the words. What a clumsy approach this had been. He really was rusty at dealing with women, wasn’t he? “It can wait.”
“No. Now is better. I just—I don’t really know why Spencer doesn’t talk.” It was as if she had to hurry up and get started, for fear she might lose her courage. “Not exactly. The psychiatrists seem to think it’s the stress of losing his mother. They use some pretty impressive phrases when they talk about it. They say his ‘stressor reactions of fear exceeded the normal adaptive responses.’”
She shrugged, then winced. The movement must have pulled her stitches. “Whatever that means.”
“I guess it means his system maxed out.”
“Right. They called it his ‘breaking point threshold.’”
Yeah, Reed thought. He’d heard those terms himself, back when he was in his heavy denial and heavy drinking phase. The breaking point threshold. Everyone had one. You didn’t necessarily see it coming, but you sure as hell knew when you crossed it.
“Anyhow,”
