to wrap around her head, then soaped herself quickly and climbed out. A
lovely trip into the past had ended in frustration. Satisfaction would
not be forthcoming. Nor would there be a respite from the guilt she
still felt.
For the guilt was only in part related to the act of loving Ross. Its
other part was Crystal. Crystal-her twin. Crystal-her alter ego.
Crystal-who had never known that same joy, but should have, should have
at least once before her death such a short time later.
The long ponytail bobbed against her neck as Chloe jogged on the beach.
Indian summer had come to Rhode Island, bringing bright sun and a heat
that was unusual for mid-October. She wasn't about to complain, though.
All too soon her daily run would require a sweat suit, hat, and gloves.
Now she delighted in the freedom of shorts and tank top, which allowed
her arms and legs to breathe. The sweat that dotted her brow trickled
across her temple and down along her hairline. It glistened on her skin,
adding glow.
It had been two weeks since she had seen Ross Stephenson, two weeks
since his presence had stunned her. He had a way of doing that, she
mused, as she dodged a piece of driftwood that had washed up on the
beach. The slap of her sneakers on the wet sand evened out.
Eleven years before, Ross had scored a coup, conquering her mind and
body within hours. Their encounter two weeks ago had been under vastly
different circumstances, but it was nearly as devastating.
The physical attraction between them hadn't diminished. If anything, it
was more awesome than before, if her recollection of that kiss in the
Wayward Sailor's kitchen was correct. He had to have known how he would
affect her, which made his disappearance the next morning all the more
unforgivable.
Chloe hadn't known what to expect-whether Ross would wake her or meet
her downstairs for breakfast. She had assumed that, at the very least,
he would drive her back to her car. But a maid had awakened her at
seven, putting a pot of fresh coffee and a plate of sweet rolls on the
small stand by her bed before scurrying back out, and when Chloe reached
the front desk, she learned that Ross had already checked out.
She was immediately disappointed, then annoyed with herself It was
better this way. She was too vulnerable, if the previous night's kiss
meant anything. Ross made her feel beautiful things, things she didn't
deserve.
She was alive. That was enough. She reasoned that it was far better that
he should be gone from her life.
When the day manager had handed her Ross's note, though, she was livid.
"Chloe," he had scrawled in a bold hand, "Had to leave to catch the
early plane. Your car is taken care of Someone from the inn will take
you there." It was signed, "Love, Ross." and was punctuated with a
period as a statement of fact.
He had no business doing that, had no business using the word love so
blithely. But that was the least of it. It seemed that he had paid her
tab at the inn and the cost of a new battery and its installation.
She ran on down the beach, struggling to forget about Ross, to push him
from mind, to focus on work. But he remained, along with her wounded
pride. She had stewed all the way from Rye to Little Compton that
morning. On arriving home, she had gotten the address of the Hansen
Corporation and sent a check out in the mail that same day, with a note
that was much less personal than his.
"Enclosed is a check to cover the expenses I incurred last night and
this morning. Chloe Macdaniel." She hadn't asked him to take care of
her. She didn't need him to take care of her. She didn't want to feel
beholden to him in any way, shape, or form, because one thing was clear.
She had picked herself up after Crystal's death and built a new life.
She wasn't letting anything threaten it.
With firm resolve she made a gentle semicircle and jogged more slowly
back toward where she had left her towel on the rocks at the sea side of
her home.
As she approached, though, it wasn't the house that caught her eye but
the tall figure that moved away from it and began to walk to the beach.
She stopped short.
He was dressed in casual navy slacks and a plaid shirt that was
unbuttoned at the neck and rolled to the elbows. His dark hair tumbled
in disarray across his brow. Even from a distance he looked threatening
in a divine kind of way.
He must have been watching for her, must have stood by the living room
window until she had come into sight. If Lee hadn't been there to answer
the door, he might have left. Now she was caught-and annoyed.
Tipping up a defiant chin, she began walking. Ross made no move to meet
her halfway, just watched and waited, but his stance suggested an
annoyance of his own, along with a touch of the imperious. Despite his
casual clothes, he looked formal.
She came to a halt before him, nodded, and offered a polite "Ross" in
greeting, before shifting beyond him to retrieve her towel.
"What in the hell did you do it for, Chloe?" He was annoyed, all right.
"Do what?" She straightened slowly.
His eyes bore into her. "Send that check. You didn't lose a minute, did
you? You must have had it in the mail that same afternoon."
"Shouldn't I have?"
"No. There was no need."
"I thought there was. You had no cause to pick up the check, either for
the inn or the battery. I'm not helpless. I can take care of myself!"
A muscle worked in his jaw. "Then it was a matter of principle?"
"Principle? I wasn't thinking about principle. I simply saw it as my
responsibility. It was kind of you to offer to pay, but I feel more
comfortable this way. I wanted to take care of it myself"
"Ah. The independent woman. So that's how you intend to live the rest of
your life?" he challenged, and drawled, "All by yourself.?"
Chloe was startled by the turn of the conversation. "This is crazy," she
said. "You show up here, out of the blue, without so much as a civil
hello, and start criticizing me? I don't have to defend my lifestyle to
you or anyone else!" She turned away, then turned right back, confused.
"Why are you here, Ross? Did you come all the way from Park Avenue to
call me out for repaying your loan? Little Compton is on the way to
nowhere. We're at the tip of a peninsula. So don't tell me you were just
passing through."
"No." His features had begun to relax, though his eyes remained clear
and direct. "I wanted to see you."
Chloe could deal with the angry Ross more easily than she could with the
gentler one. Uncomfortable now, she bent for her towel and straightened
holding it tight. "You could have called if you wanted to discuss the
Rye Beach Complex. Nothing much will happen until the referendum in
November. Unless, of course, you alter your proposal." Satisfied with
her minor dig, she began to mop her face and neck. Ross ignored the
barb. "I'm not here on business. I came to see you."
"That's a mistake," she whispered, hearing pain, feeling pain. He
replied as softly. "Then again we differ in opinion." He sighed. "Look,
can we walk? Your house seemed pretty crowded. I'd like to talk."
All too aware of a tingling inside, she shook her head, then tore her
gaze from his and looked out to sea. "It's not a good idea."
"Just talk?"
"Fine, if it has to do with the complex. Anything else ..."
"What are you afraid of?" he asked. "I see the same fear in you now that
I saw two weeks ago. What is it?"
She shot him a chiding look that said You're imagining it, I'm not
afraid of a thing.
"Then what can be the harm in talking? What can be so awful about
walking along the beach with me for a few minutes?" He tossed his dark
head back toward the house. "You have a whole crew in there just waiting
to come if you scream."
"I won't scream." She spoke softly, blushed lightly. "It's not my
style."
He studied her for what seemed an eternity. "Maybe that's your problem,"
he finally decided. "You're too composed. Maybe you need a good yell and
scream to let it all out."
"Let what all out?"
He took her arm. "Come on. Let's take a walk." He pulled her gently into
step beside him, and she went along. After all, what harm could come
from a walk on the beach?
One fast glance at Ross supplied an answer. The magnetism was there in
all its force, coming from him, tugging at her. If only they had never
met before, if only they didn't have a past, there might have been hope.
"What if," he echoed her thoughts with uncanny precision, "we had never
met before? Would you feel differently?"
"Maybe." She clutched the ends of the towel that circled her neck.
"Would you?" some inner voice made her ask.
"No." There was no hesitancy in his response. "I saw a woman two weeks
ago who interested me. I would be here regardless. It's just.. ."
As Chloe waited for his voice to pick up again, their paths crisscrossed
her earlier footprints. Ross easily measured his pace to hers. "It's
just what?" she prodded.
He stopped walking. She went a step farther, then turned to face him. He
frowned, seeming deliberative. "It's just that after what happened
eleven years ago, I feel even more justified.. ."
Her voice rose, as it often did when she was distressed. "Are you saying
you feel guilty so long after the fact? Is that why you've come? To ease
some long-harbored guilt? Where were you then?" she cried. "Where were
you when I-"
She cut herself off. For the very first time she wondered what might
have happened had Ross been with her at the time of Crystal's death. It
had been late Saturday night, two days after Thanksgiving, when she and
Crystal argued, Crystal raced off in her car, the accident happened. By
that time Ross was on his way back to Africa. What if he had been with
her through the ordeal? Would things have been different?
But he hadn't been with her. There was no changing that fact. She had
survived. She had survived. Not Crystal, though.
When she closed her eyes for a moment in search of composure, Ross took
her arm and said a quick, "Over there. Those rocks. You should sit
down."
"I'm all right-"
"Then I want to sit down! Indulge me!" He led her to a jagged
outcropping of rocks. When they were seated on side by side boulders, he
said, "Okay. Why don't you tell me about that night-and stop looking at
me like I'm crazy. You know what I'm talking about. I know what I
experienced that night. I'd like to hear what you did."
"Oh, Ross." She sighed wearily. "I don't want to go into this." She
caught the graceful takeoff of a tern from the salt-soaked beach. "It's
too beautiful here to rehash the past."
"The past had its moments of beauty, too."
Her head snapped back, but the warmth of his gaze cut off the retort
that might have come. Suddenly it seemed pointless to resist his
request. It was just a matter of choosing the right words. "The past did
have its moments. And, yes, they were beautiful." There was a soft
quality in her voice as she returned to that night.
Ross grasped the stone on either side of him. "Had you planned it to
happen? When you came toward me from across that room, had you hoped
that we'd end up in bed?"
"Beforehand?" She looked up in surprise. "No. I'd never done anything
like that before. Oh, we dated plenty and went to our share of parties.
But we had never, that is, neither of us had, ah, I mean, I had never..
."
"I know." He rescued her from her floundering, daring to touch her cheek
with the back of his fingers. Instinctively she tipped her face toward
his touch, then caught herself and righted her head.
"Were you sorry you did it?" His voice was low, urgent.
"No ... Yes ... I don't know," she finally ended in a whisper, tugging
at the towel draped about her neck. "I can't give you a simple yes or
no. I've never regretted the act itself It was beautiful."
"Then what is it about me that makes you so uncomfortable?"
The ensuing silence was rich with the sounds of the shore-the lapping of
the waves, the cry of the gulls, the rustle of the breeze in the drying
leaves of the wild honeysuckle. Each had the potential to soothe, yet
Chloe remained tense.
"Seeing you," she finally confessed, "brings back memories of a holiday
weekend that was tragic for me."
"Your sister's death."
Her eyes shot to his. "You knew?" And hadn't tried to contact her?
The dark sheen of his hair captured the golden rays of the slow-setting
sun. "Yes, I knew, but not until long after I'd returned to Africa. I
didn't feel then that it was my place to contact you."
"Why not?" She didn't understand that detachment. He was certainly
persistent enough now.
"In the first place," he began, "it was pitiful, how long after the fact
I learned of it. Sammy wrote me the news in a letter the following
spring."
He seemed to hesitate. More quietly, he said, "It was only then that I'd
had the guts to ask him about you."
"But why?" she cried.
"Because you weren't the only one to have afterthoughts of that night!
From what I could see I had seduced the virgin daughter of my host's
best friend. I was twenty-seven. You were eighteen. I should have known
better. But the worst of it was that I was glad I hadn't." His voice
