held out his hand. “Kyle Robert Marshall.”
His handshake was firm, his palm warm, and she could lose herself in those midnight blue eyes. She said, tugging at her hand, “I’m called Nell.”
As though the contact had freed something in him, Kyle added, “I’m really sorry, Nell. I must have scared you.”
She stopped tugging, letting her palm rest in his. “The word ‘psychopath’ did cross my mind.”
Although his laugh was rueful, it made him look years younger. “You reacted pretty fast yourself.”
“Just as well you moved.”
He grinned. “Just as well, indeed. I’d have been singing soprano for the rest of my life.”
His voice was a rich baritone. Nell pulled her hand free and said with careful restraint, “A mosquito has just landed under your left ear.”
He brushed it away. “I left my repellent in the van.”
“I’ve got some.” Nell bent to her haversack, passed him the little plastic bottle and found herself watching his every move as he smoothed the liquid over his throat and arms. In the course of her work, she’d met a lot of men from countries all over Europe. Sophisticated Frenchmen, sexy Italians, devastating Norwegians, hunky Hungarians. But never one to pull her to him as instinctively as this man pulled her.
As he passed her back the bottle, Kyle said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t see it on the road—one reason why you took me by surprise.”
“I don’t have one. I was hitching a ride.”
He frowned. “On your own?”
She looked around. “No one else here. Besides, didn’t you tell me there aren’t any wolves in Newfoundland?”
“Newfoundland is not peopled entirely by saints.”
“You sound like my father,” Nell flung back, then instantly wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
“Don’t tell me how to live my life—is that the message?” As she nodded, he added softly, “Trouble is, I’m used to giving orders. And used to being obeyed. So I’ll drive you wherever you’re going, Petronella Cornelia. As a rather more concrete way of apologizing.”
“And what if I say St. John’s?” The capital city was an eight—hour drive from the barrens.
“You were headed south if you got out when you first saw the barrens. The options are therefore limited. Caplin Bay, St Swithin’s, Salmon River, Drowned Island…that’s about it.”
She liked matching wits with him, Nell realized breathlessly. “Where are you going?”
“Caplin Bay.”
She bit her lip. Wendell had been going to Caplin Bay and now Kyle was. Maybe it was time she went there, too. After all, she didn’t have to take the coastal boat for Mort Harbour right away. She could camp in Caplin Bay for a couple of days. Try to plan some kind of strategy.
With a sense of taking a momentous step, she said, “I’m going to Caplin Bay, too.”
“Good,” Kyle said briskly. “Let’s go.”
But as he half turned away from her, putting his weight on his left knee, it buckled under him. His features convulsed; his harsh intake of breath echoed in Nell’s ears. She grabbed for him, bracing herself against the nearest rock, aware for the second time of the lean length of his body. As though he resented her help, he pushed himself upright and shook free of her.
“Say it,” Nell said. “You’ll feel better.”
“You don’t let up, do you?” he said nastily.
“Would you rather I had hysterics? Or fluttered around you doing the helpless—female act?” Nell wrung her hands, batted her lashes—which were thick and dark and one of her better points—and simpered, “Oh, Kyle, where does it hurt?”
He gave a reluctant laugh. “Okay, okay. Unfortunately, I’ve used up my entire stock of French. And my mother’d be horrified if she ever found out I’d sworn at you in English.”
“German can be very expressive. I’ll teach you, if you like. Sounds to me like you could use a few more good cusswords.”
Gingerly, Kyle placed both feet on a patch of smooth granite and straightened to his full height. “For once, we’re in complete agreement.”
“We have all the way to Caplin Bay,” Nell said. He was over six foot, broad shouldered and narrow of hip. Dark hair, dark brows, dark eyes, and a dark past, too, unless she was very much mistaken. If she was smart, she’d head for St. John’s and not Caplin Bay. Then, uncannily, he responded with a similar train of thought.
“You know what? I can’t say I’ve ever met a woman quite like you.”
“My mother always said I was mouthy.”
Something must have shown in her face. He said gently, “Is she no longer living?”
“She died four months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He had invested the phrase with genuine feeling. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of a stranger. “Let’s go,” she muttered.
“Perhaps you could use a few of those cusswords yourself.” As she glanced up, her eyes liquid with unshed tears, Kyle took an awkward step toward her, brushing her lids with his fingers, then smoothing her hair back from her face. “You have beautiful hair,” he said thickly. “Where it catches the sun, it shines like copper.”
Quite suddenly, the level of emotion was too much for Nell. She tilted her chin and said, “It’s awful hair—dead straight and too fine. That’s why I keep it bundled up.”
He said evenly, “It’s beautiful hair, Nell.”
As he tucked a strand into her braid, his fingers brushing her neck, she couldn’t hide her involuntary shiver of response. Terrified for the second time in their all—toobrief acquaintance, she said meanly, “Guess what? The wolfs just made a reappearance in Newfoundland.”
He flinched, and with bitter regret she knew she had cheapened his gesture beyond repair. He said in a hard voice, “Let’s get the hell out of here. You go first.”
And don’t offer to help…He hadn’t said that, but he hadn’t needed to. The look on his face had said it for him.
Nell adjusted her haversack over her shoulder and clambered out of the hollow where the tamaracks were waving their feather—green branches in the breeze. Not even looking around to see if Kyle was following her, passionately wishing her words unsaid, she headed for the little stream that she’d crossed on the way up.
