at the sink, she stole the stream of water he was using to rinse the pan, and washed off her apple. Lord, but it irked her to look at his shoulder. To see his face, she’d have to crane her neck. “Thanks.”
“You always eat so much?”
She took a crunchy bite. It was sweet and firm—perfect. “Yes, I do.”
He held out a clean plate, waiting for her to take it. “Better watch it. Your metabolism might shut down on you.”
Droplets of water sprinkled steadily onto the floor. “You think I’m fat?”
“Not yet.”
The man sounded about as interested as if he’d been discussing drippy weather. Good thing she wasn’t in this for an ego boost. Her mother’s flatter-than-a-flitter expression regarding stomachs took on a whole new meaning. “Hate to break it to you, MacGregor, but your sleeve is getting soaked.”
“It’ll dry.” He reached into the sink and pulled out the plug. “Good night.”
“Good night.” So much for accomplishing anything tonight. She munched her disappointment, taking it out on the apple, still having no idea why the man was here.
T.J. turned out the dining room light, then just stood there in the darkness. Maggie Wright worried him. She was a beautiful woman who watched him like a hawk. It wasn’t an appreciative woman/man kind of look, though. More like she expected at any second he’d sprout a spare head.
He leaned back against the wall and let his fingertips drift over the smooth, wainscoted wood. Worse, he couldn’t, shake the feeling that her seemingly innocent questions actually were pointed and razor-sharp. He told himself again that she’d just been making polite conversation with a stranger, but he didn’t believe it. Though he knew he couldn’t trust his instincts, he wished he could, because she sure didn’t strike him as a woman on a resting vacation.
An odd tingling started in his toes.
It worked its way up his legs, crept through his stomach, then spread through his chest and up his neck, into his head. What the hell was happening to him now?
He tried to move and couldn’t. Knowing only Maggie Wright would hear him, he tried to yell out, but he couldn’t make a sound.
The grandfather clock ticked louder and louder until it pounded inside his head, blocking out all other sounds. The rhythm suddenly altered to a deep, melodic whisper. It wasn’t a trick of the mind. He heard a whisper. A man’s whisper. A message meant for him. A warning.
She’s on a mission. On a mission. On a mission...
The whisper ceased.
The clock’s ticks returned to normal, then softened, and the sounds of the house, of the sleet slanting against the roof and pinging against the windows, returned. And, as suddenly as it had started, the tingling inside his body stopped.
Shaky, T.J. dragged in a great gulp of air, but didn’t risk trying to move. Instinctively he knew the room was empty. So who had whispered that message to warn him? Who... or what?
He was losing it. It couldn’t have happened. It had to have been his imagination. Of course, it had been. Stress-induced. Not insane, but psychological—just as Bill Butler had said.
Footsteps sounded. Seconds later, Maggie walked down the gallery toward the stairs, humming and clearly not realizing T.J. stood there in the darkness.
She’s on a mission.
Wary, T.J. followed her.
Midway up the stairs, she stopped and studied Cecelia Freeport’s painting, touching the canvas with delicate fingertips, as if it were fragile glass she feared would shatter.
Carolyn crossed his mind. She and Maggie didn’t resemble each other, or even stand or move alike. But the way Maggie touched Cecelia’s painting bitterly reminded T.J. of the way Carolyn had caressed his painting of Seascape Inn. God, had she given him grief over that painting.
Her guard down, Maggie let out a sigh that T.J. felt in his bones. Because he suffered the same malady, he recognized it instantly in her. The woman was in trouble.
But what kind of trouble?
“You always eat so much?”
She took a crunchy bite. It was sweet and firm—perfect. “Yes, I do.”
He held out a clean plate, waiting for her to take it. “Better watch it. Your metabolism might shut down on you.”
Droplets of water sprinkled steadily onto the floor. “You think I’m fat?”
“Not yet.”
The man sounded about as interested as if he’d been discussing drippy weather. Good thing she wasn’t in this for an ego boost. Her mother’s flatter-than-a-flitter expression regarding stomachs took on a whole new meaning. “Hate to break it to you, MacGregor, but your sleeve is getting soaked.”
“It’ll dry.” He reached into the sink and pulled out the plug. “Good night.”
“Good night.” So much for accomplishing anything tonight. She munched her disappointment, taking it out on the apple, still having no idea why the man was here.
T.J. turned out the dining room light, then just stood there in the darkness. Maggie Wright worried him. She was a beautiful woman who watched him like a hawk. It wasn’t an appreciative woman/man kind of look, though. More like she expected at any second he’d sprout a spare head.
He leaned back against the wall and let his fingertips drift over the smooth, wainscoted wood. Worse, he couldn’t, shake the feeling that her seemingly innocent questions actually were pointed and razor-sharp. He told himself again that she’d just been making polite conversation with a stranger, but he didn’t believe it. Though he knew he couldn’t trust his instincts, he wished he could, because she sure didn’t strike him as a woman on a resting vacation.
An odd tingling started in his toes.
It worked its way up his legs, crept through his stomach, then spread through his chest and up his neck, into his head. What the hell was happening to him now?
He tried to move and couldn’t. Knowing only Maggie Wright would hear him, he tried to yell out, but he couldn’t make a sound.
The grandfather clock ticked louder and louder until it pounded inside his head, blocking out all other sounds. The rhythm suddenly altered to a deep, melodic whisper. It wasn’t a trick of the mind. He heard a whisper. A man’s whisper. A message meant for him. A warning.
She’s on a mission. On a mission. On a mission...
The whisper ceased.
The clock’s ticks returned to normal, then softened, and the sounds of the house, of the sleet slanting against the roof and pinging against the windows, returned. And, as suddenly as it had started, the tingling inside his body stopped.
Shaky, T.J. dragged in a great gulp of air, but didn’t risk trying to move. Instinctively he knew the room was empty. So who had whispered that message to warn him? Who... or what?
He was losing it. It couldn’t have happened. It had to have been his imagination. Of course, it had been. Stress-induced. Not insane, but psychological—just as Bill Butler had said.
Footsteps sounded. Seconds later, Maggie walked down the gallery toward the stairs, humming and clearly not realizing T.J. stood there in the darkness.
She’s on a mission.
Wary, T.J. followed her.
Midway up the stairs, she stopped and studied Cecelia Freeport’s painting, touching the canvas with delicate fingertips, as if it were fragile glass she feared would shatter.
Carolyn crossed his mind. She and Maggie didn’t resemble each other, or even stand or move alike. But the way Maggie touched Cecelia’s painting bitterly reminded T.J. of the way Carolyn had caressed his painting of Seascape Inn. God, had she given him grief over that painting.
Her guard down, Maggie let out a sigh that T.J. felt in his bones. Because he suffered the same malady, he recognized it instantly in her. The woman was in trouble.
But what kind of trouble?
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