He said with a deliberate lack of emphasis, “I think you’re by far the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.”
If he’d expected Katrin to be flustered by his remark, or pleased, he was soon disappointed. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrowing. “Do you?” she said. “Perhaps you’re beginning to understand why I wear those awful glasses in the dining room—to discourage cheap compliments from men like you.”
“Every word I said was the literal truth.”
“And the sails on my boat are purple,” she mocked.
“It’s no crime to be beautiful, Katrin.”
“Maybe not. But it’s sure a liability in a job like mine. This conversation proves my point.”
“You’re stereotyping me!”
“Deny that you gave me the once-over a moment ago.”
He couldn’t. Trying to iron any emotion out of his voice, Luke said, “You’re a very desirable woman. You know it, and so do I.”
She hugged herself tighter. “I hate flattery.”
Suddenly it was blindingly obvious to Luke. He said with all the subtlety of a fourteen-year-old, “You want me just as much as I want you. That’s why you’re scared.”
His words hung in the air; waves lapped the wharf, and overhead a gull wailed mournfully. Katrin whispered, “You’re out of your mind.”
He was. No question of that. “But I’m right. Aren’t I?”
“No! You’re the one who’s after me—not the other way around. And it’s because I’m just a waitress,” she added with a depth of bitterness that shocked him. She snatched her hand free. “I’m yours for the asking. Cheap. Available. It’s fine for you—you can jet in and jet out. But I’m stuck with—”
“This has nothing to do with how you earn your living,” Luke said fiercely.
“Yeah, right.” She pushed her hair back; in the sunlight, it gleamed like ripe prairie wheat. “You asked my name. It’s Katrin Sigurdson. My husband’s name is Erik Sigurdson. He’s a fisherman. He’s out there on the lake right now.”
It was as though she’d punched Luke hard in the solar plexus. He rasped, “You don’t wear a ring.”
“My wedding band’s antique gold, very finely engraved…I choose not to wear it at work. Or sailing.”
Was she telling the truth? She was staring straight at him, conviction in every line of her body. Conviction, defiance, and something else: a trace of the panic he’d seen before? “Are you from here?” he asked, trying to gather his wits.
“Yes. I’ve lived here all my life.”
“So I haven’t seen you anywhere else…”
“Not unless you’ve been here before. How could you have?”
How indeed? Baffled, frustrated and at some deep level frightened in a way he wasn’t about to admit to himself or her, Luke said bluntly, “Then I was wrong. You don’t remind me of anyone. If you don’t want to be late for work, you’d better go.”
Her expression was guarded; certainly he could discern not the slightest trace of relief. She said, “One more thing. Leave me alone from now on. Strictly alone. That way maybe I’ll believe you’re not just another tourist on the make.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away from him.
She moved with a lissome grace: something else her shapeless uniform had disguised. As she entered a grove of poplars, sunshine and shadow played in her hair, sprinkling the curves of her hips and slender lines of her thighs. Luke discovered his fists were clenched at his sides, his breathing trapped in his throat. What was wrong with him?
She was married. Unavailable.
Her ugly glasses and unflattering hairdo were to deflect unwanted male attention. She wasn’t in disguise. There was no mystery after all.
Luke pulled first one heel then the other to his buttocks, stretching his quads. He never behaved like this around a woman. Pushing her for answers. Wanting to know everything about her. Pursuing her. For one thing, he never needed to: the women came to him. For another, his whole focus since he’d run away from Teal Lake at age fifteen had been work. Unrelenting work. Be it underground in mines in the north, then aboveground everywhere else. He’d spent years reading, making contacts, investing his carefully hoarded savings and traveling the world over. He’d endured late hours and setbacks. There’d been times when he thought he was going under, so close to it he could taste defeat, smell the sourness of failure. But he hadn’t gone under. He’d made it to the top, to the sweet smell of success.
And all because he’d driven himself unmercifully. If his expectations for his staff were high, his expectations for himself were astronomical. Work was central to his life, its driving force. Women were peripheral. Decorative, pleasant, but definitely on the sidelines. And that’s where he intended to keep them.
There’d been women during those years, of course. He was no monk. But they had to be the kind who’d accept his conditions. No commitment with nothing long-term.
Although there hadn’t been nearly as many women as some of his colleagues might think.
And now, for no reason that he could discern, a mysterious, argumentative, independent blonde had gotten through all his defenses. A married woman, no less.
He never involved himself with anyone married. He abhorred infidelity. Besides, he thought meanly, his preference was for tall brunettes, and Katrin Sigurdson was of average height and blond into the bargain.
Would he ever forget the way the sun had threaded her hair with gold? Or the delicate shadows under her cheekbones? And then there was her body, so graceful, so exquisitely curved. Calling to him in a way that made nonsense of all his self-imposed rules and defenses.
Because defenses they were. His childhood and adolescence had killed something in him. The ability to love, to reach out to another human being and show his vulnerability. All the gentler emotions, like tenderness and protectiveness, had gone underground. He could add to the list, he thought savagely. But why bother? He was the way he was. And that was that.
He wasn’t going to change now.
Not for anyone. And certainly not for a married woman who didn’t even want to pass the time of day with him.
Luke thudded his foot back on the wharf, stretching his calf. Enough, he thought. More than enough. Right now he was going back to his room to shower, then he was heading for breakfast. And not once at breakfast or dinner was he going to make as much as eye contact with Katrin Sigurdson.
Luke made sure he walked into the dining room that morning accompanied by John, Akasaru and Rupert, who were engaged in an animated discussion about pollution control. Katrin was waiting on their table, wearing her plastic glasses. As if she weren’t there, Luke sat down and ordered his standard breakfast. “And coffee,” he finished with an edge of impatience. “Right away.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Certainly, sir.
