Sweet Pretender Read online

  "Walking."

  "Do you have a beach card?"

  She refused his offer of a hand up and rose under her own power. Her head still hurt from the whack she'd received, and she couldn't locate her left shoe. "Why should I need a beach card?"

  "It's a private beach."

  She remembered then. Her shoe was still outside, caught between the steps. Brushing past him without ceremony, she retrieved it, wriggled into it and came back inside to study herself briefly in the small, half-silvered excuse for a mirror that hung on a nail next to the door. She did look like something of an urchin. Wisps of dark hair had escaped her hat, and there was grime on her face. From the look of her dirty sneakers, they would never be white again.

  "The idea of a beach being private appalls me," she snapped, turning on him. "No one should be allowed to own the rocks, sand and water, any more than they can own the sunshine. The beauties of nature are for everyone to enjoy."

  "A very pretty speech, but perhaps you wouldn't feel that way if you could see the remnants of sandwiches, empty beer cans and broken bottles I find after a family of your nature lovers has gone."

  "And Sandgate people never leave trash behind?"

  "If they do, they soon hear about it. Besides, it's an easy matter to get a beach card. A visitor can stop in the sheriffs office and—"

  "I've brought an injured bird," she broke in, trying to recover from chagrin at her disheveled appearance with a show of arrogance to match that of her host. This man was not your everyday brand of hermit. He showed no timidity at her intrusion. No fear of the outside world.

  On the contrary, he was the personification of self-confidence. He gave the impression of being handsome, though the raw angles of his face kept him from being classically so. The line between his heavy straight brows said clearly that he was more given to frowning than smiling. But there was a glimmer in his deepset eyes. A glimmer that remained even when his expression was stern, hinting at some inner joke—a joke at her expense.

  "So you said."

  "If you're going to see to him, I think you should do it."

  The frown line deepened. "There's coffee on the stove," he told her. "Help yourself. I'll see what I can do."

  The coffee was bitter and so strong it made her eyes water. It wasn't even hot, but she sipped it for want of something to do, while the man brought the bird inside and worked over it. At first glance she had pronounced the cottage a disaster area. A hopeless shambles. Now that she'd studied it more closely, she realized that it only appeared so because it was overcrowded with possessions.

  The doctor was a collector, it seemed. Of everything. Old clocks, maps, lithographs, keys, books and a multitude of things that defied category. There wasn't a bare spot on any wall or a clear place on any flat surface, except for the kitchen table. The floor was well swept, though. The curtains were clean, and there were no dirty dishes soaking in the sink.

  "It isn't too bad. He's a sea swallow." The man held the patient up for her inspection. "I've taped his wing. He should be as good as new in a few days."

  "What could have caused such an injury?"

  "A stone, I'd guess."

  "You mean someone deliberately hurt him?"

  "It's been known to happen."

  "It's hard to imagine." Disconcerted by her host's unrelenting gaze, she forced her eyes away. "He's beautiful, isn't he?"

  The bird's underbody was soft shades of gray. His beak was scarlet, and he had a black velvety cap. He was relaxed now, sensing that he was among friends.

  "If you think he's beautiful now, you should see him in flight."

  "I hope I will." Did it sound as if she were inviting herself back?

  He opened a curtained-off area at the far end of the room, where two layers of cages were secured to long shelves. Most were occupied. A larger cage, somewhat apart from the others, held another bird, exactly like the one she had rescued.

  "I'll set yours in with her. A bird responds best to treatment if there's another of his kind about." Gently he eased the newcomer in and waited before fastening the door. "I'll have to watch to see how they get along," he said, yanking the curtain closed. "Sometimes an old-timer will resent a stranger for no apparent reason."

  "They're much like people then," she couldn't resist saying.

  Only the slightest trace of a smile indicated that the remark had struck home. She could have counted to ten slowly before he answered. "You might say that."

  Fortunately she had tucked a few dollars into her jeans pocket, thinking to stop somewhere for a sandwich if she got hungry. Now she recalled what the children had said, and as the doctor turned to wash his hands at the sink, she put the money on the table and weighted it with a pepper shaker. It somehow made her feel foolish.

  His back was turned, but he was studying her in the mirror. "Have you had your supper?"

  She smiled. He was still treating her as he might have treated a child he had scolded for being naughty. Now he was being solicitous to make up for it. "I'm not hungry."

  "I think you are. The sea air builds up an enormous appetite. We'll have something to eat. Then I'll see you home."

  "It isn't necessary. Really." His food supplies, judging by the cupboard space and the tiny refrigerator, must have been limited. She didn't want him to feel that he had to entertain her.

  "I didn't suppose it was necessary. I'd like to get to know you better."

  His remark and the unexpected intensity of its delivery jarred her more than a little. Oh, she'd heard the same words from other men before. She'd seen the same look of interest in other men's eyes when she'd met them. But this man wasn't an ordinary man. He was the village hermit. Hermits didn't seek companionship from anyone, especially not from a stranger. Did they?

  "You want to see if I'm worthy?" she countered.

  He partly closed one eye. "Worthy?"

  "Worthy of having a beach card." As always, when she felt ill at ease in someone's presence, she found herself joking. Though in this case, she was half in earnest. It still seemed wrong—no matter the reason—that any one group of people should have the right to grant or deny others permission to enjoy the gifts of nature.

  "Something like that." He dried his hands and turned to face her. "Shall we go?"

  Watch it, girl, she cautioned herself. When you supposed this man was dangerous, you could have been right. Dangerous in a different way. She knew nothing about him, except that he was the town eccentric.

  "You're not planning to eat here?"

  "My own cooking?" He shook his head as if dismissing an abhorrent thought. "Put that in the jam jar on the shelf over by the stove." He indicated the money she'd left on the table. "Eli will find it later."

  "You—you aren't Eli Campbell?"

  "You thought that?" Amusement twinkled in his eyes. "Sometimes I wish I was. He has a simple, uncomplicated life here. At least he had until recently. The vandals I mentioned threw rocks at the house. He bolted after them, took a tumble and twisted his leg. Now he's in the hospital. But he'll be out tomorrow. I've been seeing to things for him. My name is Jeremy York."

  "Oh," was all she could say. It certainly made more sense that this man wasn't the recluse she'd expected.

  However it was even more disturbing. Now he was a total stranger.

  "And you are…" He waited.

  "Melissa Brandon."

  "Well, Melissa Brandon, how about it? The Sea View restaurant is only a short walk up the path to the road."

  "I don't know."

  "Sandgate people are honorable and above suspicion," he assured her, sensing the reason for her reluctance.

  "Then the vandals you spoke of were summer people?"

  "Without a doubt."

  "How could I have thought otherwise?"

  She'd never found it difficult to decline an unwelcome invitation before, she reminded herself. Or to shy away from an uncertain relationship. The key phrases here were no, thank you and goodbye uttered in a firm, emphatic voice
. But she didn't say anything, and he moved closer.

  For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead of stepping back, she tensed for it. She wanted it in a way—yet she didn't.

  "You have a lovely face," he said. "But I'm certain you already know that."

  "Thank you," she murmured. You aren't so bad yourself, she added silently.

  "What you may not know is that your face is almost as dirty as it is lovely." He gestured with one hand. "The bathroom is in there. Why don't you do something about yourself? Your hair. That wretched hat. I'll see how our feathered friends are getting on together and we'll be on our way."

  As she shut herself into the dollhouse-sized bathroom, she felt as jittery and weak-kneed as she had on the night of her first school dance.

  You could be making a gigantic mistake, she warned her bedraggled reflection. If Arlene were in her place, Melissa would demand that she make for the door. She'd never known anyone quite like this man, terrific-looking and unpredictable. And the fact that she was inordinately attracted to him wasn't a plus; it could cloud her judgment. Could? It already had. And she wasn't that experienced.

  The men in her life up to now had been those she'd known from the insurance company or from high school, and they'd been as predictable as television commercials.

  She sighed, recognizing the futility of her argument. Maybe she'd regret getting involved with Jeremy York. But then going out for a sandwich was hardly "getting involved." And one thing was certain: should she let him get away without trying to learn something about him, she'd regret that, too.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As the name suggested, the redeeming quality of the Sea View restaurant was the magnificent view it no doubt afforded of the water. Wrapped in fog now, it was only a harshly lit diner, with chrome-and-vinyl booths and a frazzled young waitress who looked as if she had put in a long day and was ready to go home. There was only one other customer. A bearded man who worked a newspaper crossword. He didn't look up as Melissa and her companion entered.

  Famished, Melissa ordered bacon and eggs. The man who sat opposite her seconded her decision without glancing at the menu. His deepset eyes were curious beneath eyebrows that were dark, shaggy gashes.

  "What do you do, young lady," he asked, "when you aren't prowling about private beaches, peering into strange windows?"

  "I'm an insurance underwriter in Albany," she said, then added quickly, "It might sound like dull work, but it isn't. I find it very challenging. A bit more study and I'll have my broker's license."

  Restrained humor played at one corner of his mouth, lifting it slightly. "Why so defensive?"

  "Am I?"

  "Aren't you?"

  She pulled her gaze to her water glass, suddenly finding the intense gray of his eyes—open and changing like the sky before a storm—too disquieting for direct contact. "Maybe."

  She'd almost forgotten herself and explained that her younger sister, who had her own sights set on a glamorous musical career, couldn't imagine how Melissa could even consider such a dull, plodding occupation that meant staring at columns of figures all day. The mention of a sister could bring up questions she'd been advised not to answer. In Sandgate, as Natalie had reminded her, she had no sister.

  "And what do you do," she mimicked him, finding her sense of direction again, "when you aren't frightening the living daylights out of trespassers?"

  "I wouldn't have guessed that you could be frightened so easily."

  "Easily? I thought I'd been set upon by a wild man."

  "And so you had. Poor little girl." He gave her the half smile again. The one that worked only one side of his generously molded mouth. "But I was easily tamed, wasn't I?"

  Tamed? She wondered. Even as he spoke—his voice as quietly resonant as that of a television newscaster and his manner gentle—there was something of the wild man she had encountered in Eli's shack about him still, boiling and bubbling beneath the surface. The idea of this duality intrigued her.

  "What do you do?" she repeated, genuinely interested. Perhaps if she brought the level of their conversation to the everyday mechanics of going to and from work, to briefcases, account books and computers, she'd see him as an ordinary person and recognize her overreaction to him.

  "I build amusement park equipment."

  "Carousels… and Ferris wheels?"

  "Among other things."

  Impossible. She frowned, considering him. Never would she have imagined him in such a line of work. The Tarzanlike thickness of his neck and shoulders and the obvious strength of his form would certainly have been compatible with one who worked by the sweat of his brow, felling trees, climbing mountains and battling forest fires. But there was a dignity and noble grace about him, too, that said something else. Even in his faded denims he had the look of a handsome young ambassador taking a well-deserved leave from the pressing duties of his office.

  "Most people have the idea that spectacular theme rides are new," he said. "They aren't. The Exposition of Buffalo, New York, in 1901, for example, had a Trip to the Moon ride so realistic that when passengers emerged, they couldn't believe they hadn't actually left the ground. Then there was the Fall of Pompeii attraction that reenacted the eruption of Mount Vesuvius."

  Melissa groaned. "That's entertainment? You don't make anything so grisly, do you?"

  "I prefer rides that make the customer a participant, rather than an observer. We're working on one now that's a much-improved version of the old Steeplechase. The horses run on separate tracks, and riders have the sensation of jockeying in an actual horse race."

  Clearly he loved his work. As he described this or that attraction, giving dates and places and relating anecdotes that made her laugh, growing enthusiasm cast him in a new role. Again she adjusted the mental image she was forming of him, adding youthful exuberance and passion for life's challenges.

  His was a contagious passion, too, enabling Melissa to follow with interest as he outlined in detail a problem he'd run across in a newly conceived ride's design. He was an exciting man whose sensuality was present in his every word and movement. Had he been a plumber, he could probably have made her feel enthusiastic about an idea for a new kind of plunger.

  "I haven't been to an amusement park since I was a child," she said, almost adding that it was because Arlene got dizzy on anything that spun, whirled or dipped.

  "And now you're too adult. What a pity." His grave frown was a comic-opera one, born of a fondness for teasing, she suspected. "To waste your young years playing the sophisticate. Then when you're as old as I am, you'll try desperately to recapture the youth you allowed to slip away."

  She slid her tongue lightly across her upper lip, wondering if a bit of bacon or a crumb of toast could be stuck there, warranting his close scrutiny. "I believe there's a moral in that," she said.

  He leaned closer. "Ah, you noticed."

  "I'm not exactly wasting my years," she answered guardedly. "And you aren't exactly an old man." Had he, after all, brought her out as he might have a child with a scraped knee for an ice-cream cone? Had she misjudged his interest in her? The thought was disheartening. Could she feel such a stirring without his feeling it, too?

  She would have placed him at about thirty-five, if she were forced to hazard a guess. In any case, he was no more than ten years her senior. Undoubtedly he had misjudged her age, as many people did, because of her slight build.

  He made no comment on her answer, nor did he react as if he'd heard it. But the silence that fell between them as he mulled something over in his mind was a comfortable one—the sort old friends might share who felt no need to make small talk. "Why Sandgate?" he asked abruptly, beckoning for the waitress to bring him a coffee refill.

  The question caught her off guard. "Why not? The reunion festivities should be exciting."

  He laughed explosively. "They'll be a crashing bore to anyone who isn't a native."

  Melissa fought an impulse to pound a fist on the table. A native! There
he was again, stressing the fact that she was an outsider. Brian had certainly been right about the clannishness of the townspeople. "I'm here with a friend," she said.

  "I see."

  The tentative half smile played at the corners of his mouth again as he waited for her to elaborate. She didn't. This time she didn't find his smile nearly so attractive nor the silence so comfortable. Too much resentment was building up inside her. A snob in any guise was still a snob.

  "Do I need a permit to attend?" she asked, with more than a touch of saccharine. "And is it your duty to see that I have one?"

  The smile fell away. "Are you always so touchy, or is there something about me that brings it out in you?" Clearly he would have said more if he had known her better. He wasn't used to being questioned.

  "Do you always interrogate visitors to your fair community, or is there something about me that brings it out in you?" she countered.

  His shaggy eyebrows pulled closer together. "I'm not the constable."

  "You could have fooled me."

  "I'm sorry if I sounded inhospitable," he said, tapping an impatient finger against the rim of his cup. He looked toward the door, probably anxious now to be rid of her. "The fog's getting thick out there. Finish up like a good girl and I'll see you home."

  Like a good girl. She considered saying, "Thanks, but no thanks." She'd find her own way. But it would have been a foolhardy gesture. She might wander about for hours. The landmarks she'd chosen to lead her back might have been swallowed by the fog, just as the bread crumbs of Hansel and Gretel had been eaten by the birds of the forest. Besides, this man interested her, his attempts to bait her notwithstanding. She wasn't ready to walk away from him so soon. He was a puzzle she might well enjoy trying to solve.

  "I've finished," she told him, primly touching the paper napkin to her lips.

  A sense of mystery surrounded them as they moved away from the Sea View's neon lights. Was it only the mist, the call of the sea and the unfamiliar surroundings? Or was it the presence of the stranger who walked beside her? He was still a stranger, after all, though less so now that she knew his name. Jeremy York. She'd seen him scribble it on the check the waitress had brought to him. His was a dark, bold signature, with well-rounded letters and outsized capitals. If she'd known anything about graphology, she might have discovered something about him from it. Jeremy. She'd never known anyone by that name before. It had a feeling about it of another time and place—of dashing men in skintight breeches, who fought with swords to defend a lady's honor.