Was it the reason she’d come here? What was her mission?
When she walked on, he took to the stairs, pausing and touching Cecelia’s painting as Maggie had. Warmed by the overhead light, the paint felt smooth, though the canvas beneath it added substance and texture. Paint reminded him a lot of skin.
A warm spark of heat ignited inside him. A flicker of healing, of peace. Only a flicker, but God how he savored it. His eyes filmed over and he blinked hard. It’d been so long since he’d felt either.
“MacGregor!”
Startled, he jumped, jerked his hand away from the canvas and stared up the stairs to the landing. Empty. Ah, she’d found them. And she was indignant as hell about finding them.
Grinning, he rushed upstairs.
At the landing, he paused and deliberately slowed his pace to a swagger. “You bellowed, Miss Wright?”
Standing outside the door to her room, she snatched her underwear off the doorknob. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He leaned a shoulder against the hallway wall and crossed his chest with his arms. “You mean you didn’t want your underwear back?”
“Where did you get them?” She perched a hand on her hip. “Have you been in my room?”
“You left them in the bathroom.”
Narrowing her eyes, she balled the fragile snippet of lace in her fist. “If you hadn’t nagged and threatened me out of the bathroom, I wouldn’t have forgotten them there.” She marched back to him, her shoulders stiff enough to snap. “Was it really necessary to hang them on my doorknob?”
“No.” He shrugged. “But I figured you’d take exception to me putting them in your room.”
“You could’ve just left them in the bathroom.”
He slid her his best innocent look. “You mean you weren’t issuing me an invitation?”
Her face went apple-red and her shoulders hiked up a full three inches. “Fat chance.”
“Mmm, then I highly recommend you be more careful about the signals you’re sending.”
Her jaw gaped. She sputtered. Sent him a glower he’d still be feeling in his grave. Then turned and stormed down the hall, back to her room.
Holding the doorknob in a death grip, she looked back at him. “You are one arrogant jerk, MacGregor. So arrogant it’s hard to believe you can stuff all your arrogance inside your body.”
“Thank you.” He smiled.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sounded like one from here.”
“A walking miracle,” she muttered, convinced that was absolute truth. It was a miracle no one had killed him yet.
“Haven’t you heard, Maggie? There are no miracles.”
He stepped into his room and softly shut the door.
A pang of pity slid through her, head to heels.
What was that all about? The man deserved a lot of things, but pity sure didn’t rank among them. Still, she would rather he’d yelled at her again than sounded so disillusioned. He’d looked disillusioned, too. And despairing. No.
No, not despairing.
He’d looked... haunted.
Chapter 3
“I still think we should put a pad on the rocks, Tyler.” Huddled deep in her sturdy black coat, Miss Hattie slid him a worried look, her stiff collar hiked up around her ears.
“We can’t risk it.” Bill Butler sniffled, his nose buried in a forest-green muffler. “Anything straddling the boundary could extend it. We won’t know if the painting worked or not.”
“He’s right.” T.J. curled his fingers around the painting’s frame, avoiding eye contact with the canvas he’d painted of Seascape Inn. He gripped it so hard that his red fingertips turned white.
“All right.” Miss Hattie blinked, stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. “I agree it makes sense and it could have an effect. But, Tyler, you must believe in your heart that this is going to work. I would say that’s vitally important.”
He couldn’t believe it. How could he? He hoped—good God, how he hoped—it would work, but he didn’t dare to believe it. Live with another failure? See another little piece of
When she walked on, he took to the stairs, pausing and touching Cecelia’s painting as Maggie had. Warmed by the overhead light, the paint felt smooth, though the canvas beneath it added substance and texture. Paint reminded him a lot of skin.
A warm spark of heat ignited inside him. A flicker of healing, of peace. Only a flicker, but God how he savored it. His eyes filmed over and he blinked hard. It’d been so long since he’d felt either.
“MacGregor!”
Startled, he jumped, jerked his hand away from the canvas and stared up the stairs to the landing. Empty. Ah, she’d found them. And she was indignant as hell about finding them.
Grinning, he rushed upstairs.
At the landing, he paused and deliberately slowed his pace to a swagger. “You bellowed, Miss Wright?”
Standing outside the door to her room, she snatched her underwear off the doorknob. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He leaned a shoulder against the hallway wall and crossed his chest with his arms. “You mean you didn’t want your underwear back?”
“Where did you get them?” She perched a hand on her hip. “Have you been in my room?”
“You left them in the bathroom.”
Narrowing her eyes, she balled the fragile snippet of lace in her fist. “If you hadn’t nagged and threatened me out of the bathroom, I wouldn’t have forgotten them there.” She marched back to him, her shoulders stiff enough to snap. “Was it really necessary to hang them on my doorknob?”
“No.” He shrugged. “But I figured you’d take exception to me putting them in your room.”
“You could’ve just left them in the bathroom.”
He slid her his best innocent look. “You mean you weren’t issuing me an invitation?”
Her face went apple-red and her shoulders hiked up a full three inches. “Fat chance.”
“Mmm, then I highly recommend you be more careful about the signals you’re sending.”
Her jaw gaped. She sputtered. Sent him a glower he’d still be feeling in his grave. Then turned and stormed down the hall, back to her room.
Holding the doorknob in a death grip, she looked back at him. “You are one arrogant jerk, MacGregor. So arrogant it’s hard to believe you can stuff all your arrogance inside your body.”
“Thank you.” He smiled.
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Sounded like one from here.”
“A walking miracle,” she muttered, convinced that was absolute truth. It was a miracle no one had killed him yet.
“Haven’t you heard, Maggie? There are no miracles.”
He stepped into his room and softly shut the door.
A pang of pity slid through her, head to heels.
What was that all about? The man deserved a lot of things, but pity sure didn’t rank among them. Still, she would rather he’d yelled at her again than sounded so disillusioned. He’d looked disillusioned, too. And despairing. No.
No, not despairing.
He’d looked... haunted.
Chapter 3
“I still think we should put a pad on the rocks, Tyler.” Huddled deep in her sturdy black coat, Miss Hattie slid him a worried look, her stiff collar hiked up around her ears.
“We can’t risk it.” Bill Butler sniffled, his nose buried in a forest-green muffler. “Anything straddling the boundary could extend it. We won’t know if the painting worked or not.”
“He’s right.” T.J. curled his fingers around the painting’s frame, avoiding eye contact with the canvas he’d painted of Seascape Inn. He gripped it so hard that his red fingertips turned white.
“All right.” Miss Hattie blinked, stuffed her hands deep into her pockets. “I agree it makes sense and it could have an effect. But, Tyler, you must believe in your heart that this is going to work. I would say that’s vitally important.”
He couldn’t believe it. How could he? He hoped—good God, how he hoped—it would work, but he didn’t dare to believe it. Live with another failure? See another little piece of
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