people might believe that of you, despite your innocence?”
“I’m upset because…because…”
Because he believes it. Because he kissed me. Because I can’t stop thinking about that.
“My point exactly,” Andy said, misinterpreting her stumble into silence. “Your friends know you well enough to not believe whatever he might put about.”
“My friends know. You know. I know,” she countered hotly, “but he’s always thought the worst of me. Now he believes I’m not only an Anna Nicole Smith clone who took advantage of a susceptible older man, but I kept a lover on the side to share my ill-gotten spoils.” She exhaled on a note of disgust. “I don’t even know why I’m surprised.”
Andy regarded her closely for a long moment. “He’s really got you stewing, hasn’t he?”
Oh, yes. In ways she didn’t want to think about, let alone talk about. She’d let him kiss her, she’d breathed the scent of him into her lungs, and then she’d raised her hand, for pity’s sake, when she despised violence born of temper and heated words and uncontrolled emotions.
“He got me so riled,” she said with quiet intensity, her stomach twisting with the pain of those long-ago memories. “I wanted to hit him, Andy.”
“But you didn’t.”
Only because he stopped me.
She could still feel the steely grip of his hand, the pressure of his fingers wrapped around her wrist, and the need to lash out raging in her blood. And the worst of it? Not the loss of her treasured gift but the acknowledgment, on the hour-plus drive up here, that she hadn’t been lashing out at him but at her fickle body’s unexpected and unwanted response.
“I told myself not to let him get under my skin. I invited him into my home when I wanted to slam the door in his face. I tried to be polite and calm. But the man is just so…so…” Unable to find a suitable descriptor, she spread her hands in a silent gesture of appeal. Except she doubted the dictionary contained a single word strong enough, hot enough, complex enough to cover all that Tristan had evoked in her that afternoon. “And it’s not only him that has me stewing.”
Suddenly she couldn’t stand still any longer. Hooking an arm through one of Andy’s folded ones, she forced him into motion, walking back toward the strip of tourist boutiques and sidewalk eateries opposite the small beach and marina.
“Someone sent him a letter. An accusation. That’s how this latest crusade of his started.” She tugged at his arm in agitation. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Did he show you this letter?”
Vanessa shook her head and in Andy’s raised brows she read another question. “Are you thinking that this letter might not exist?”
“If I were you,” he said carefully, “I’d want to see it.”
At the time she’d been too astounded and too het up by his allegations. She hadn’t thought of asking to see the evidence. Frowning, she walked and she chewed the whole exchange and its implications over in her mind. “Why would he invent this letter and come all the way over here to prove its claims? That only makes sense if he believes he can prove it. And that only makes sense if someone—such as his correspondent—has convinced him they have something on me.”
And that made no sense because she had never slept around.
Not once. Not ever.
“It’s not as if I have a pool boy,” she continued, “or a tennis pro or a personal trainer. The only male staff I employ regularly is Gloria’s Bennie, and that’s only for odd jobs to keep her happy. I see Jack, my attorney, regularly but everyone knows he’s a besotted new husband and soon-to-be father.”
“And you see me.”
Andy’s evenly spoken comment hung in the air a second before she grasped its significance. Then she stopped in her tracks, shaking her head with a slowly dawning realization. Usually they met behind the walls of Twelve Oaks’ sprawling estate, in one of the formal meeting rooms or the less formal library, or they walked around the estate’s spacious grounds.
But on occasions they did meet in the nearby town of Lexford, for lunch or a coffee. And they’d also met once or twice here at the shore where Andy lived.
“Do you think some busybody could have seen—” she waggled her hand between them, unable to voice the us that might link their friendship in a nonplatonic way “—and misconstrued?”
“It’s possible.”
Vanessa stared at him wide-eyed. Then, pity help her, she couldn’t suppress an involuntary giggle.
“Pretty funny, huh?”
“I’m sorry.” Sobering instantly, she reached out and put her hand on his arm. And that was the thing with Andy—she could touch him and feel no spark, no jolt, no prickling of heat. Nothing but a comfortable warmth similar to what she’d established with her husband and still missed so very much. “I didn’t mean to offend you. You know I love you like a brother.”
“I know that, but what about someone watching us?”
Shock immobilized her for a split second. Then she drew back her hand and her body, suddenly aware of how close they stood. As they’d done on countless other innocent occasions.
With an audience?
They continued walking, but Vanessa couldn’t stop herself from glancing at each car and passing pedestrian. Scores of people were out enjoying the gorgeous summer twilight, yet she felt exposed.
Despite the warmth of the air she felt a chill run over her skin. “I hate the thought that someone might have been following me.”
“That’s something I’ve never quite understood.”
She cut him a narrow look. “The fact that I don’t like being spied on?”
“The fact you’ve kept Lew and your visits to Twelve Oaks secret.”
“That has nothing to do with being spied on.”
“Maybe not,” he said in his usual mild manner. “But if the good folk of Eastwick knew about your brother, then they’d also understand why you need to drive up here so often and why you meet with me. That would take care of one possible misinterpretation.”
As usual, Andy was right. Except up until now she hadn’t seen any need to share this most personal part of her life. Only Stuart—plus a handful of trusted professionals and some old friends from her pre-Eastwick days—knew about Lew. Together they had decided to keep his long-term tenancy at Twelve Oaks private.
“Are you ashamed of—”
“Of course not!” Vanessa swung around to face Andy, all thoughts of being spied upon lost in the fierceness of her answer. “Don’t you dare suggest that Lew is some sort of embarrassment. I would take out a paid page in the New York Times if I thought it would help, but what would be the point? All that would accomplish is a whole lot of talk and finger-pointing from small-minded people who don’t
