Olivia debated what to wear for fifteen minutes even though her choices were severely limited to the few items she'd packed. She finally opted for a pair of jeans and a soft pullover sweater. Then she trapped her unruly hair in a claw clip on the back of her head.
Her grandmother was sound asleep when she made herself comfortable in the courtyard. She lit a trio of candles on the table beneath the grape arbor. On a chair, she set an old cricket bat Yia Yia used to beat rugs.
She hoped she wouldn't need it to defend herself, but her work at the Bureau had taught her that looks could be deceiving. She'd been surprised the first time she met Otis Crump by how harmless and ordinary he appeared. Underneath the pleasant exterior lurked a monster who had raped, tortured, and murdered thirteen women.
She shoved him out of her thoughts. This was her time to recover and heal. He had been an assignment, nothing more, and she was done with it. Done with him.
She could only pray that he was done with her.
She strode back into the house to make a cup of hot tea. As she exited the kitchen, she grabbed the rose and took it with her. Back in the courtyard, she waited. And waited. She finished her tea and left the cup on the table.
Back at the wall, she smoothed her fingers over the velvet rose petals. The thorns had been pinched off the stem, so her secret admirer appeared to be considerate. She hoped he was the mysterious jogger. But where was he?
Maybe she was too early. Or maybe he had left the island and this rose was his way of saying good-bye. After all, the last week of November was way past the tourist season. Or maybe she'd imagined him. After dealing with the ultimate dregs of humanity in the person of Otis Crump, her subconscious could be trying to compensate by manufacturing a handsome, honorable hero.
She sighed. Too many years of psychology classes had left her with a tendency to overanalyze everything. She just needed to relax and smell the roses. Or one rose in particular. She lifted it to her nose and smiled.
Her attention snapped to a figure coming from the south. She looked through the telescope, and her heart lurched in her chest. It was him! He was real.
He wasn't jogging tonight. Instead, he walked toward her with a quick determined stride. He lifted a hand in greeting, and her heart did another flip. Through the telescope, she could tell he was focused entirely on her. He certainly had good eyesight.
She stepped toward the wall and waved a hand to acknowledge his greeting. He immediately broke into a jog, and her heart pounded with each step that brought him closer. His eyes never seemed to leave her. He was checking her out, and that brought heat to her cheeks. Was he excited and attracted? Or was he already regretting his actions? She opened her senses to detect his feelings.
Nothing. In all her twenty-four years, she'd never met a person she couldn't read. She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow with concentration.
Nothing.
She opened her eyes to make sure he was real. Yep, he was almost in front of her. Why couldn't she sense him? She always knew how people felt. She always knew when they were lying.
Good God, this was awful. How would she know where she stood with this man? How could she trust anything he said? A spurt of panic flashed through her, and she considered escaping into the house.
But then she saw his face. He had stopped on the beach below her, and he was gazing up at her with an intense, searching look as if he didn't know what to think. Well, that made two of them.
She met his gaze, and an instant wave of desire flooded through her. It caught her by surprise, nearly buckling her knees. Whoa. She gripped the edge of the wall to steady herself. She didn't usually react like that.
Actually, she wasn't sure how she usually reacted. She'd always concentrated on other people's feelings so she would know how to deal with them.
This was a first for her. She was in the company of another person, but alone with her own feelings. And she'd never realized her feelings could be so...strong. Maybe they just seemed that way because they were isolated. Or because this situation was new to her.
Or maybe he was the cause.
She swallowed hard. She'd have to be careful. She had no idea what he was feeling. Or if he could be trusted. How did normal women survive like this? It was terrifying.
And incredibly exciting.
He raised a hand. "Good evening."
His low voice carried up to her with the slight stir of a breeze that tickled her neck. She felt giddy with excitement. Almost giggly.
"Do ye speak English, lass?"
She bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. His accent was adorable. "You're Scottish?"
"Aye. Ye're...American?"
She nodded with a growing smile. He smiled back, and a fluttery feeling started in her stomach. Careful. You don't know if he can be trusted.
"I'm Robert Alexander MacKay." He inclined his head, leaning forward.