they weren’t. She spent a sleepless night worrying about it, waiting for it. Connor Sinclair was her worst enemy. He’d never stop until he made her pay for what she’d done.
She hated her own cowardice. She was hiding from him, from retribution, from punishment. She hoped he wasn’t badly hurt, but what if he was?
* * *
On the second day after the incident, she got up enough nerve to call his lake house. It wasn’t listed under his name, just under its own designation: Pine Cottage. Only local people knew it was Connor Sinclair’s home.
Emma called the number and let it ring. Her heart was running wild as it rang once, twice, three times, four...
She was about to hang up when a female voice answered.
“Pine Cottage,” she said, using the name local people gave the sprawling vacation home.
“Is Mr. Sinclair available?” she asked in her most businesslike tone.
“Connor?” the woman replied. “Oh, no, he’s at the hospital. He fell off the Jet Ski and hit his head. Poor thing, he has no idea how it happened...is this Jewell?”
“No, this is Adrian Merrell’s personal assistant. Mr. Merrell was hoping to speak to Mr. Sinclair about an upcoming conference they’re both attending,” she lied.
“Merrell? I’ve heard that name. No matter, Connor won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, I’m afraid.”
“I’m very sorry to hear about his accident. I’ll tell Mr. Merrell. Thank you. Goodbye.”
She hung up. Connor was alive. He’d hit his head. Why wouldn’t he be going anywhere soon? Emma groaned as she wondered just how much damage she’d done. There hadn’t been anybody on the lake, she was certain of it!
But the sun had been in her eyes. She’d been daydreaming, not paying attention. How could she not have realized where she was, whose cove she was near? She could have cried at her lack of good sense, at her own recklessness. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. But would that matter in the end?
* * *
She agonized about it for the rest of the week. On her walks, she got near enough to the big house to tell that people were still coming and going. There didn’t seem to be any frenetic activity. She didn’t see lake police or ambulances there. Perhaps he knew it had been Emma who hit him, though, and he was just biding his time, waiting to let her worry about what he was going to do about the accident.
She finally realized that it was doing no good to wear ruts in Mamie’s carpet. She was hiding, like a coward. Whatever the consequences, she had to apologize and beg him not to press charges. She’d offer to work for him, free, to do anything within reason to help make up for injuring him. Surely he’d realize that she hadn’t done it maliciously. Then she recalled his warnings, his anger at her for earlier near-misses. He wasn’t going to be merciful. He’d want blood.
But hiding wasn’t helping her, either. She was a nervous wreck. She might as well face the music. She didn’t want Mamie to suffer for something that was her own fault. However painful, she had to face the music.
* * *
She walked slowly toward Pine Cottage. It was late afternoon on Saturday. There were boats scattered on the lake. The sailboats were elegant and beautiful. Emma loved to look at them. She wondered if Mr. Sinclair ever sailed. Mamie had said that he owned a sailboat. If only he’d been in it the previous week, and not on that stupid Jet Ski—
“Oh!” she exclaimed as she almost ran right into a huge man standing on the lakeshore. “I’m so sorry.”
Her voice caught in her throat as she met Connor Sinclair’s pale, glittering silver eyes. She bit her lower lip. She’d forgotten how dangerous he was. That cold gaze brought it all back. He’d probably call the police as soon as she told him what she’d done.
“My fault,” he returned. “I can’t see you.”
“You can’t...see...me?” she gasped. The horror of what she’d done made every muscle in her slender body clench. She’d blinded him. She’d blinded him!
He shrugged. “Concussion,” he said, turning toward the lake as if he could see it. “I fell off a Jet Ski and hit my head. Or so they say. I don’t remember any of it. They said it was a miracle that I made it back to the dock at all.”
“I’m...so sorry,” she choked. “Your sight...will it come back?”
“They don’t know. Five thousand dollars’ worth of tests to tell me that they’re not sure if I’ll see again. No more Jet Skis, for sure. Either way.”
She paused beside him. “I thought Jet Skis were dangerous,” she began.
“They are. I like dangerous things,” he said curtly. “Skydiving, race cars, testing planes, Jet Skis,” he added with a faint smile. “I had my housekeeper lead me down here. I’ll have to find my own way back. As I said,” he added whimsically, “I like dangerous things.”
“Why?”
Both thick eyebrows went up. He turned toward her voice. “What the hell do you mean, why?”
“Life is precious,” she said.
“Life is tedious, monotonous, maddening and joyless,” he shot back. “It’s hard, and then you die.”
“You stole that line from a retro television show,” she accused involuntarily, with a muffled laugh, and then flushed.
But he chuckled, surprised. “Yes, I did. Dempsey and Makepeace; you can find reruns of it on YouTube.”
Then he frowned. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
She had to think fast. Confession was good for the soul, she thought, but not yet. “I’m staying with a girlfriend for a couple of weeks. I’m sort of in between jobs. I got lost. I thought her cabin was this way, but nothing looks familiar here.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Brain surgery,” she said pertly. “I took this mail-order course...”
He burst out laughing.
She was surprised, because he was a man who hardly knew how to laugh.
“Pull the other one,” he invited.
She grinned. “Okay. In my spare time, I make custom harnesses for frogs. So you can walk them.”
He let out a breath, and grinned. “What do you do?” he persisted.
She shrugged. “I’m a copy typist for a law firm. Or I was.”
“Why?”
“I was made redundant. Laid off sounds better, though.” She glanced at him. “It’s getting dark. Should you be out here by yourself when you can’t see? The lake is very deep.”
“Should you be out by yourself
