in her demeanor betraying the hurt his remark had inflicted. “I can live with the fact that you don’t much like me, Mr. Winter, but I will not tolerate your repeated insinuations that Barbara’s death was in any way my fault, and I will not allow you to drive me into hiding. If and when the Wexlers are ready to have me finish the job they hired me to do, I shall make myself available.”
“It would be better for all of us if you stayed away,” he maintained obstinately, and for all that she tried to stern it, another blast of hurt shafted through her at the unbending accusation in his voice. She could protest until the world stopped turning but, just as it was clear nothing could alter his initial antipathy toward her, so it was equally clear that he still held her accountable for the pain he was now suffering.
She was sorely tempted to get up and leave, but pride wouldn’t let her be put to rout two nights in a row. So, willing her voice not to betray her by trembling, she said, “In that case, why don’t you ask to sit somewhere else for the duration of your stay here? Because heaven forbid I should cause you indigestion on top of all my other manifest sins.”
Sophie didn’t know whether or not he’d taken her suggestion to heart because she walked into town for breakfast on Sunday, spent the rest of the morning in the botanical gardens and stopped at a roadside stand for a lunch consisting of a sandwich and freshly squeezed fruit juice cocktail.
It was after two when she got back to the hotel and the breeze that normally made the heat tolerable had died completely. Out of respect for Barbara, she’d abandoned her habit of skin diving in the lagoon beyond the palm-fringed beach each afternoon, and spent the time instead with a book under an umbrella on the patio. But that day, fatigued as much by the fact that she hadn’t slept well the night before as by the hot Caribbean sun, she slipped into a bikini and stretched out on a wicker chaise in the restful shade of her balcony. That she was also going out of her way to avoid Dominic Winter and his cold, disapproving gaze was something she preferred not to acknowledge.
The murmur of the ocean, in concert with the musical splash of the fountains in the gardens below, soothed like a lullaby. All the hard-edged events of the past few days softened, their colors paling to dreamy pastels. Lassitude spread through Sophie’s arms, her legs, and she welcomed it, happy to drift in the no-man’s-land between waking and sleeping.
She didn’t notice when the colors faded to black or the languor took complete possession of her mind as well as her body. She knew nothing until she became suddenly and alarmingly conscious of someone moving about in her room.
There were discreet signs posted throughout the hotel, warning guests to keep their bedroom doors locked and all valuables stored in the safe at the front desk. Sophie had no valuables worth worrying about except for her camera equipment, and she was reasonably certain she’d locked her door, but there was no doubt someone had managed to gain access. Slewing her gaze sideways, she could see through the slats of the louvered balcony doors the shadow of a man moving back and forth within the room.
A glance at her watch showed that more than an hour had passed since she’d apparently fallen asleep. Time enough for a seasoned burglar to pick the lock and go about his business. His mistake, however, lay in choosing a victim who’d already been on the receiving end of Dominic Winter’s unabashed displeasure. She was in no mood to take further abuse from anyone else.
Without stopping to consider the wisdom of such a move, she slid off the chaise and moved swiftly around the half-open door. But the outrage she’d been about to vent at the intruder dwindled to wordless shock at the sight before her.
Dominic was naked from the waist up, his torso in all its sleekly muscled beauty narrowing to fit snugly into the waist of khaki linen shorts. And yet, that was not quite accurate. Although invisible, desolation hung about him like a second presence.
He stood before the low dresser that still contained Barbara’s things, his broad shoulders paralleling the bowed despair of his dark head. In the palm of his hand lay the diamond ring he’d given her, even its bright fire temporarily dimmed.
Sophie’s breath escaped in a soft exhalation of protest at being too long trapped in her throat. The sound looped across the mourning hush that filled the room and wound itself around him, bringing his head up and swinging around to face her. His eyes were the deep dark green of moss clothing ancient gravestones. And his mouth...!
Her heart contracted with pity, leaving no room for the anger and hurt she’d nurtured from the night before. “Dominic,” she breathed, and cupped her hands in front of her as if they held the magic formula guaranteed to wipe away his hurt.
He blinked and focused his gaze on her slowly, the way a person does when emerging from deep sleep. “They told me you were gone for the day,” he said, his voice a husky echo of its usual rich baritone. “I thought it would be a good time to take care of... this.”
His fingers closed around the ring, his other hand gesturing at the contents of the open drawer. Little bits of silk and ribbon-trimmed lingerie frothed in disorder, just the way Barbara had left them. Her suitcase lay open on Sophie’s bed, one half already filled with items from her share of the closet.
Still poised near the balcony doors, Sophie nodded understanding. “I would have done it myself, except I didn’t feel it was my place.”
“It wasn’t your responsibility.” Impatiently, Dominic tossed the ring on top of the articles of clothing remaining in the drawer and, scooping everything up in both hands, turned to stuff it in the suitcase.
As he did so, something slid out from between the folds of fabric and slipped to the floor despite Sophie’s attempt to catch it. It was the tooled-leather picture frame that, for the first few days of the holiday, had sat on the bedside table next to Barbara’s bed. Hinged in the middle, it contained two photographs, one of Dominic and one of Barbara.
Stooping, Sophie retrieved it and passed it to him. He sank to the edge of Barbara’s bed and for the longest time stared at the image of his dead fiancée.
Not a trace of emotion showed on his face. The seconds slowed, tightening the already-tense atmosphere so painfully that Sophie wished she’d ignored her scruples and simply taken charge of packing Barbara’s things herself.
At last, Dominic slapped the frame closed the way a man does a book that, regretfully, he’s finished reading for all that he never wanted it to end. But instead of completing packing Barbara’s things, he remained where he was, hands idle, with the photograph frame clasped between them.
Yet another goodbye, Sophie thought, sympathy welling within her. He must wonder if they’ll ever end.
Covering the small distance that separated them, she perched next to him and gently removed the frame from his hands. Unwillingly, he looked at her, the expression in his eyes veiled by the thick fringe of his lashes.
He did not want her to see his grieving, as though there was something shameful in allowing himself to succumb to it. She knew because her brother, Paul, was just the same.
What was it about men that what they accepted as healthy and normal in a woman they saw as weakness in themselves? Didn’t they know the healing took longer if it was denied? That only by accepting it and dealing with it could they validate eventual recovery from it?
Seeing Dominic closing in on himself and refusing to let go, Sophie could only suppose they didn’t, and so she offered comfort exactly as she’d have extended it to anyone, man, woman or child, in the same state of grief. With one hand she reached up and brought his head down to her shoulder, and with the other raised his fingertips to her mouth and kissed them.
