More Than Words: Stories of Strength: Close Call / Built to Last / Find the Way

“What, that they don’t come any smarter, sexier, more hell-bent on catching bad guys—”

“More full of himself, more hell on women, more cynical—”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t cynical in those days.”

“You are now.”

“Only a little.”

He approached her, slipping his arms around her as she pulled her hands out of her pockets. She didn’t stiffen. She didn’t tell him to back off or go soak his head. Instead she met his eye and smiled. “You’re more than a little cynical, O’Malley.”

“It’s to protect a soft heart.”

“Ha.”

But she had to know he had a soft heart—he’d exposed it to her when they’d made love. He’d never done anything like that before and wasn’t sure he wanted to again. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable—emotionally or physically.

She was still smiling when his mouth found hers, and he could taste the salt air on her lips, her tongue. She draped her arms around his neck and responded with an urgency that told him she’d at least thought about this happening on her trip up here. He lifted her off her feet. Why hadn’t he asked her to come with him? Maybe she was right and it was some kind of test, some kind of sexy game between them.

“O’Malley.” She drew away from him and caught her breath. “Brendan. Oh, my. I didn’t mean—” She didn’t finish. “Maybe we should take a walk.”

“A walk?”

“It’s a gorgeous day.”

“Right.”

He set her down and backed up a step, raking one hand through his close-cropped hair. She licked her lips and adjusted her shirt, which had come awry during their kiss.

“I’m on a rescue mission,” she said. “I shouldn’t be taking advantage of your situation.”

“Why the hell not?”

But the moment had passed. She had something else on her mind besides falling into bed with him—not that it was easy for her, he decided. She just had a lot of self-discipline.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said. “We can take a walk, then do afternoon tea.”

That was it.

Jess made her way to the door and held it open for him as he strode past her back out into the hall. “Think Marianne Wells would have a ham sandwich or something at tea time?”

“I doubt it.”

“Little scones, probably, huh?”

Jess smiled, looking more at ease, less as if she was afraid he’d go off the deep end at any moment. “I’d count on something with raspberries.”

The afternoon stayed warm and sunny, and Marianne served tea on the back porch, laying out an assortment of miniature lemon scones with raspberry jam, tiny triangles of homemade bread, fresh local butter and watercress, and warm oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip cookies that one of her friends had dropped by that morning.

Jess couldn’t have been happier, but O’Malley looked a little out of place sitting on a white wicker rocker with a watermelon-colored cushion as he negotiated a Beatrix Potter teacup and plate of goodies.

He’d gotten rid of the bandage on his forehead. His bullet graze looked more like a nasty cat scratch. Probably no one would guess what it really was, or even bother to ask. He’d had no trouble negotiating their hike along a stunning stretch of the rugged granite coastline. Whenever the afternoon sun hit his dark hair, his clear blue eyes, Jess was struck again by how really good-looking and madly sexy he was. She hadn’t thought about his mental state—the possibility he was suffering from post-traumatic stress symptoms—at all.

Maybe it was being away from Boston—violence and his work seemed so far removed from Nova Scotia.

Or maybe it was the way he’d kissed her.

When a middle-aged man joined them on the porch, Jess forced herself to push aside all thought of kissing Brendan O’Malley.

The man introduced himself as John Summers, the Wild Raspberry’s third guest. He had longish graying hair and a full gray beard and was dressed in worn hiking shorts and shirt, with stringy, tanned, well-muscled legs and arms. He looked as if he’d been strolling the nooks and crannies of Nova Scotia for months, if not years. His eyes were a pale blue, and he had deep lines in an angular, friendly face.

But something about him immediately set off O’Malley’s cop radar. Jess could see it happening. He started with the inquisition. “How long have you been here?”

“A month. Gorgeous spot, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Spend the whole month here alone?”

Summers winced visibly at O’Malley’s aggressive tone, then said coolly, “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Must be relaxing. Hike a lot? Or are you into sailing?”

“Hiking and kayaking, mostly.” He sat on a wicker chair with his plate of goodies and a cup of tea and changed the subject. “What brings you to Nova Scotia? You’re American, aren’t you?”

“From Boston. Just taking a few days off.” O’Malley didn’t take the hint and back off. “Where are you from?”

“Toronto.”

“That’s a ways. You fly here or drive?”

Jess tried to distract O’Malley from the scent by offering him a warm cookie. He didn’t take the hint. Summers, to his credit, just answered the question. “I flew into Halifax.”

“I’ve never been to Halifax,” Jess said.

Summers seized on her comment like a lifeline. “It’s a wonderful city. I hope you’ll have a chance to spend a day there, at least, while you’re here. The entire South Shore is worth seeing. Lunenburg can occupy you for quite some time.”

“What would you recommend I see?”

O’Malley scowled at her as if she’d interfered with a homicide investigation. He said nothing, just downed a final scone in two bites. Jess chatted with their fellow guest about South Shore sites, then got him to recommend hiking trails. O’Malley finally growled under his breath and excused himself.

Summers nodded at his retreating figure. “You two know each other?”

“We work together,” Jess said vaguely. It was close enough to the truth. “He had a bad experience before coming up here.”

“He reminds me of a cop. Are you two in law enforcement?”

Jess sighed, then smiled. “Caught. Brendan’s a homicide detective. I’m a prosecutor.”

He didn’t seem pleased that he’d guessed right. “Have you prosecuted many domestic abuse cases?”