didn’t mean to frighten you,” Quinn said quietly. His right arm was sharply angled behind him, half-hidden by the drape of a hip-length khaki vest that seemed an odd complement to faded blue jeans and a white T-shirt.
She waited until her heart had resumed a quasi-normal rhythm. “I didn’t realize there was anyone else here.”
Without responding, he tucked something behind his back, then emerged into the fully lit laundry area, crossed his sculpted arms, propped a slim hip against the clothes dryer and stared in a manner that she would have considered rude had she not been rendered momentarily senseless by his mesmerizing gaze. He had the pale eyes of a snow leopard, cunning and wise, glowing with predatory intent.
Suddenly feeling like a trapped hare, Janine rubbed her upper arms. “Why are you here? In the basement, I mean.”
A vague wariness clouded his eyes while he considered a response. Since Janine had already noted the enigmatic stranger’s tendency to weigh words carefully, the hesitation was expected.
“My van needs washing,” he said finally. “I was looking for a bucket.”
“There’s a stack of five-gallon buckets in the storage area across from the boiler. They’re difficult to find in the dark.” She took two steps and flipped the switch. A half-dozen fluorescents fluttered to life, illuminating the entire basement.
His expression remained impassive. “Thank you.”
Acknowledging him with a jerky nod, Janine was unduly irritated by a nagging feeling that she was the intruder.
That peculiar sensation wasn’t her only source of discomfort. In Quinn Coulliard’s presence, she felt a heightened sense of awareness, an exquisite sensitivity that bordered on pain, as though every nerve in her body was burrowing to the surface.
There was something about him, a renegade quality that was both unnerving and strangely compelling. The wild mane of espresso-colored hair, so tightly bound yet never quite controlled, seemed a silent metaphor for the man himself.
Averting her gaze, Janine turned on the washing machine and feigned interest in sorting the remaining laundry. “There’s liquid detergent in the overhead cupboard and a box of rags if you need them.” She slanted a glance over her shoulder. “I imagine your van gathered a pretty thick layer of road dust during that long trip from California.”
After a long moment, he responded, “Actually, I drove down from Washington.”
“Really?” She straightened, still clutching the hem of a rumpled sheet. “Since your van has a California license plate, I naturally assumed—”
“Assumptions are dangerous.” The softness with which he spoke belied the warning glint in his eye. Then he smiled, a vague tilt at the corner of his mouth that did little to warm his guarded gaze. “I once lived in California.”
“So did I.” Dropping the linens, Janine leaned against the agitating washer and regarded him curiously. “San Diego. And you?”
He stared into her eyes without blinking yet she perceived that his mind was working quickly, analyzing the ramifications of every conceivable response. Finally he slid his hand beneath his vest and hooked a thumb in the waist-band of his jeans. “I’ve spent time in that area.”
The man’s evasiveness was beginning to irritate her. If he was this secretive about something as mundane as mentioning where he was from, he’d probably endure torture rather than reveal the really important stuff, like whether he preferred his coffee black or with cream.
Normally Janine would have respected such an obvious desire for privacy, but for some unfathomable reason, his deliberate attempt to embellish an air of mystery just brought out the devil in her. “So, Mr. Coulliard, may I assume that you and I might once have been neighbors?”
This time he answered with barely a pause. “It’s possible.”
“San Diego is a beautiful city.”
“Yes.”
“Most people fall in love with the place and wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.” She hesitated, hoping he’d elaborate. He didn’t. She posed a blunt question. “Why did you leave?”
A disturbing gleam warmed his eyes. “For the same reason you did.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. God, how could he know? Her breath backed up in her lungs as she fought to maintain her composure. She told herself that he was just fishing and prayed it was true. There was no way on earth this man could know a secret that had been too shameful to share with her own family.
Clasping her hands together, she faced him squarely. “I doubt we left for the same reason.”
To her surprise, his eyes warmed and he regarded her with something akin to respect. “Not specifically, perhaps, but in spirit.”
She exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, but deciphering ecumenical vagaries has never been my strong suit.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was faintly amused by her response. “Life is a journey, Miss Taylor, one each of us must travel, physically and spiritually. In that context, we’d be soul mates, wouldn’t we?”
Caught by his penetrating gaze, Janine heard a whispered voice that sounded very much like her own. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Peculiar waves of warmth washed over her, an odd floating sensation that settled like a fluttering bird to nest in her feminine core. In spite of a cultured manner, there was a primitive quality about this mysterious man that awakened an ancient part of her own soul. Like a magnificent warrior, Quinn Coulliard exuded an aura of strength and leashed savagery that was deeply disturbing—and incredibly erotic.
Confused and unnerved, she glanced away long enough to take a deep breath and clear her fuzzy mind. She managed a tight laugh. “Well, regardless of metaphysical consequences, it seems that Darby Ridge is a gathering point for displaced San Diegans. Marjorie Barker once mentioned that she’d owned some kind of business outside of Mission Bay.”
“And your other tenants, are they from Southern California?”
The underlying urgency of his question gave her pause. “I’m not certain.”
His smile wasn’t particularly pleasant. “So of all your guests, only I have been singled out for your intensive interrogation. Should I be concerned or flattered?”
Her face warmed. “It wasn’t my intent to interrogate you, Mr. Coulliard. I was simply making polite conversation.”
A victorious smile played on his lips. “So was I, Miss Taylor.”
Decidedly uncomfortable, Janine fidgeted with the detergent box. He was right, of course. She hadn’t grilled her other guests about their pasts. Quite frankly, she hadn’t been interested, and that realization opened an entirely new area of thought. Obviously she was interested in Quinn Coulliard yet was unsure as to exactly why. She’d have to think about that later.
At the moment, however, she offered a conciliatory smile. “Jules and Edna are originally from Massachusetts, but from what I understand, they most recently lived in Seattle. They’ve been in Darby Ridge a little over a year. As for
