cherub paintings caught his eye. Unlike the others, the rosy-cheeked, winged baby in this one wasn't blond and blue-eyed. Its hair was dark, its eyes wide and brown, and they seemed to be accusing him and pleading with him at the same time. Stay, the cherub seemed to say.
Swallowing, he tore his gaze away. Stay? Let himself be coerced into staying? His gaze was drawn back to the cherub, its expression cheery but stubborn. Stay.
Was that what he owed? Was living here for the rest of the summer, reliving the past, the way to clear his debt to Bram and everyone else in Hot Water? His muscles, his mood, tightened.
"I'm going to get you for this, Kitty Wilder," he said.
She swallowed, but didn't look away from him. "Exactly what I want," she answered. "Every Saturday and Sunday afternoon."
Tension coiling tighter, he searched her face one last time for a sign of softening. She had him over a barrel, damn it all, because he'd do anything - anything - to sever their marriage, to sever his ties to home. His temper snapped. "Fuck. Fine. Just fine. I'll do it."
Shoving away his coffee mug, he vaulted out of his seat. The four women in the booth on the other side of the cafe gasped. Ignoring them, he stalked out the door.
Kitty followed behind him like some angel-faced, red-dressed devil from hell. On the sidewalk, she caught his arm. Stinging heat lanced his arm. He froze. Amazing how much he could resent her and how desperate he was to do her at the same time.
"Just tell me one thing, Kitty," he demanded, spinning around to face her. "Why? Why the hell did you register the marriage?"
Emotions - yearning, hurt, maybe embarrassment - chased across her face. "Didn't you ever make a mistake?" she finally said.
Those were the precise six words that could shut him up on the subject forever, he thought, gritting his teeth. He couldn't rail at her blunders, not without being the biggest hypocrite on earth. Because, yeah, he'd made a mistake. And someone else had paid for it with her life.
* * *
Kitty watched Dylan climb aboard his motorcycle, then do something to make it awaken with a vicious growl. Without another word to her, he sped off, his black hair waving in the wind.
"Your helmet..." she cried out, but he was already leaning around the next corner.
"Excuse me," said an unfamiliar female voice. Kitty started, suddenly aware that two women were standing outside Pearl's. The strangers were both young, one with very short, dark hair, the other with blond braids. College students vacationing at the campground on Lake Colter, she guessed.
"Can I help you?" Since they were apparently unfazed by her courtesan couture, Kitty also pegged them as repeat visitors to town.
"We were wondering..." The dark-haired one began. The second woman jumped in. "We want to know if that's Dylan Matthews," she said excitedly.
Kitty hesitated.
"Well, is he?" the blonde demanded, obviously a young woman used to getting what she wanted.
A young woman too interested as well, Kitty thought. She opened her mouth, intending to squelch that interest - he was married, after all - but another voice took over.
"Why, we thought the very same thing!"
The four ladies she'd met on Aunt Cat's sidewalk the day before were bustling out the cafe's door. "They say everyone has a twin. That must be Dylan Matthews's evil one," a second lady went on to say.
Another of them lowered her voice. "On probation. Ankle monitor. State and federal crimes."
"We just watched him inside," the last woman said. "He's a wild animal."
Leaving the others still gossiping, Kitty backed away, shivering.
A wild animal. And she had only herself to thank for unleashing it.
CHAPTER SIX
The following afternoon in The Burning Rose, Kitty served "champagne" to her parlorful of guests following their tour of the upstairs bedrooms. While the hands of the gilt mantel clock ticked ever closer to two o'clock and the player piano cheerfully tinkled out an off-key rendition of "Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair," Kitty's stomach jumped with each sour note. The long skirt of her sapphire-colored costume hiding her knocking knees, she moved among the unisex khaki shorts and athletic shoes, refilling glasses.
Waiting for Dylan to show was like waiting for the touch of the dentist's drill. You knew it wasn't going to be pleasant, but you also didn't know just how unpleasant it would be. A tiny buzz or a full-out jaw-rocker?
If his attitude as she'd explained his role that morning