cockamamie plan, Valentina?”
“You give the okay on Kate. I’ll handle Devlin.”
“You’re that sure, are you?”
“Our brothers have never been capable of refusing Patience or me. Devlin’s different now, but he won’t say no.”
The venerable commander of The Black Watch was equally as sure. Just as he’d known when she marched into his office with that familiar determined look that no matter what she wanted, or what argument he offered, he would lose.
“So,” Valentina concluded. “If there’s nothing else…”
“Haven’t you overlooked something?”
Mission accomplished, she was ready to leave. “Have I?”
With a scrawl, he tore a sheet from a pad. “Kate’s address.”
“I know where she is, Simon.”
Crumpling the paper, he muttered, “Given that her location is a deep secret, it seems I have a leak.”
“There’s no leak. My source talks only to me.” A grin teased her mouth. “Unless you consider me the leak.”
“Never you, Valentina.” Drawing his thumb across a lighter, he touched flame to paper. When fire licked away letters spelling out Belle Terre, South Carolina, he dropped it in an empty trash can. “As usual, your visit has been…interesting.”
“My pleasure.”
“And mine.”
Val paused by the door. “The standing invitation still stands, should you find time to come to the shore.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Positively, I hope.” With a wave, she was gone.
Into the quiet, Simon spoke thoughtfully, “Maybe I will go out to the bay. Renew old acquaintances. Lay some groundwork.”
The day was coming when he must choose his replacement. Given her intuition and with added maturity, Valentina O’Hara Courtenay would be the perfect choice. If she could succeed with Devlin in this, Simon hadn’t a doubt she could do anything.
Ravenel’s By The River was not just a grocery store, but also a meeting place for the citizenry of Belle Terre. Today, pleasant temperatures of autumn had brought shoppers out en masse. With music drifting about them, they traversed wide aisles, filling carts with an extraordinary array of wines, flowers, and groceries.
No one seemed to hurry. Some only nodded and smiled at other shoppers. But the majority stopped to chat, to gossip, to laugh, or to adjourn to the canopied balcony that served as a teahouse. There, with the river sliding by, in the shade of a centuries-old oak, they sipped tea, sherry, and even the ritual bourbon and branch water to the accompaniment of more gossip, more laughter.
Only Kate Gallagher seemed oblivious to the pleasant surroundings. Only she paid no homage to expected Southern customs as she moved through the music, gliding from one corridor to the next. Her head bent, her face veiled by a wealth of hair falling against her cheek, none who passed caught her eye. Some glanced her way. Others appeared inclined to speak. But as if the silvery veil were a wall innate courtesy must not breach, no one intruded.
Once upon a time Devlin O’Hara would have considered that aloof detachment a challenge. One look at the melancholy barely hidden in Kate’s distracted gaze, and it would have become his prevailing mission in life to make her world a better place. To make her smile, perhaps even laugh, as the others laughed.
But that was once upon a time. A time of innocence now and forever lost to him. And no matter what he’d promise Valentina, he wouldn’t interfere.
He’d learned that some things never heal, and the pain and guilt never eased. Perhaps for some, as for him, it shouldn’t.
If, as the cliché promised, the blind couldn’t lead the halt, who was he to play Galahad?
And if the question had an answer, it wasn’t one he wanted to face. Not now. Not yet. So it was that when she approached his loitering space, he turned away, determinedly immersing himself in deciding which brand of coffee he needn’t buy.
He sensed her faltering step rather than heard it. Something more than the rustle of her clothing, or the scent of sunlight and flowers, warned of her nearness. An inexplicable awareness sent an uncommon disquiet racing through him.
More to counter any feelings regarding Valentina’s latest lost lamb than an interest in the coffee he wouldn’t be drinking on a Belle Terre morning, he reached for a brightly labeled packet. Unexpectedly, their hands collided, but his a fraction behind. With a pilot’s instincts and reflexes, his fingers closed over hers, keeping the package from tumbling out of her grasp.
For a moment neither moved nor spoke. Devlin stared down at a mass of hair ranging from dark gold to the palest silver, and falling from a center part. Barely realizing he was holding his breath, he waited for her head to lift.
When she stirred, her unshielded gaze rising to his, her eyes were golden brown and fringed by dark lashes. Her look was remote, without emotion.
“Pardon me.” Her voice was low and restrained, as remote, as emotionless, as her gaze. Each spare word was without accent, and perfectly enunciated in the quiet tone of a woman apart. A woman going through the motions of her life, taking each moment as it came. Coping…only coping.
Devlin was struck by the conviction that there should be fire in those eyes. The light of the pleasure of life, the need of an accomplished woman to be all she had worked to be. Above all, there should be passion, desire, love, and contentment.
Wondering how glorious that gaze would be alight with love, he responded belatedly, “What is there to pardon?”
Turning from his study of her face to the packet they held jointly, Devlin’s lips moved in a rare smile. “Unless preferring the same brand of coffee is a problem for you, Mrs….?”
The implied question seemed to fill the little space separating them. A simple question, but a look of haunting sadness altered the line of her lips. “It’s Miss. I’m not married. As I suspect you’ve observed.” Her voice was steady, hardly more than a breath. “And my name isn’t important.”
Devlin’s smile, not the smile of old but one that would have set Valentina cheering, was undaunted. “Suppose I go first?”
“No.” Her hair brushed over her shoulders with the slight shake of her head. “I don’t mean to insult you, but who you are doesn’t matter since it isn’t likely we’ll ever reach for the same package again. So, if you would give me back my hand, I’ll take my bit of coffee and leave you to the rest of your shopping.”
“I’m called Devlin.”
“My hand, please.” There was no anger in the reminder, no struggle to pull from his grasp.
“You’re in a hurry?” His clasp didn’t ease.
“My hand, please, Mr. Devlin.”
“O’Hara.” Devlin
