in case you didn’t shoot me for trespassing, then we could talk privately without having to sit in the dark.”
I flicked the light switch. “My house is your house,” I said, giving it an edge.
“I deserve that, I guess. Tomlinson said that about you, too. That you can be intimidating. He’s even hinted you might be a little dangerous, depending on the situation . . .” She emphasized the last with a pause, her tone oddly hopeful. Then said, “But he trusts you. So I’ve decided to trust you. Is that so bad?”
That was my cue to turn and look at the woman now that the shades were drawn and a light on. Time to smile and stop the sparring. If she was as attractive as JoAnn had said, Cressa would expect it. She would be poised and ready to take advantage of my bedazzled reaction—or was I being the cynical misogynist once again? I might have played along if I hadn’t noticed that the coffee mug I’d left in the sink was now washed, and a stack of research notes had been straightened and squared on the desk beside my shortwave radio.
“Obsessive-compulsive behavior isn’t a bad thing,” I said, opening a cupboard. “We’d still be living in caves if the gene pool didn’t pick a few of us. And there wouldn’t be meds to treat the symptoms when they get out of hand.” I turned for the first time, adding, “Has your doctor tried prescribing something? Or would you miss the mood swing highs?”
The lady was almost as advertised—attractive in a moneyed way that relies on style and cosmetic augmentation, but she also emanated a fleshy sensuality that I associate with ripeness or willingness—both, possibly, in her case. The woman had chosen the Grace Kelly look, Nordic face and hair, long legs in designer jeans, but the indignation I expected from my crack about obsession wasn’t there. Instead she appeared stricken as she stepped toward me. “My god, were you in a fight?” She reached to touch my cheek. “You’re scratched all to hell . . . and your shirt’s ripped. No wonder you’re in such a vile mood. What happened?” Her fingers were warm and confident, right at home, as she inspected my face.
That fast, I went from distrusting the married mistress to liking her—in a guarded way.
—
USING A CORKSCREW on a bottle of Concha y Toro merlot, I explained the scratches on my face and forearms. “I fell out of a tree trying to rescue a cat. Our marina’s cat, but it turned out to be a different one—they’re both black, so no way to tell from a distance.”
“So that’s where you disappeared to.” Cressa was inspecting my wounds, standing close enough that I got a whiff of body lotion. Girl scent and leather, a hint of soap. Nice. “A cat scratch can be serious,” she told me, then hurried toward the bathroom where, presumably, she had already gone through my medicine cabinet and knew what to look for.
I continued to talk while I poured wine into a pair of Bell jars. “Well . . . actually, I didn’t fall. There was a big bobcat above me and the limb broke when I looked up. I overreacted, entirely my fault. It was a stupid thing to do.”
Her voice, silky feminine, didn’t carry far, but I heard her well enough. “Bobcat. I had no idea.”
“They’re common on the islands. Anyway, this big male had flattened itself in the branches, all it wanted to do was blend in, which is why we didn’t see it. Plus, we were all focused on that damn stray cat. So I sort of lurched—you know, surprised when I figured out what it was?—at the same time that idiot cat tried to shoot past me. It was a gumbo-limbo tree, very brittle limbs. But only about ten feet off the ground. Somehow, the cat and I got all tangled up. Or maybe it was the bobcat, I’m really not sure. But it could’ve been worse.”
Cressa Arturo reappeared, salves and bandages in hand, an endearing smile on her face. “Tomlinson told me about your plane crash-landing. Which I suppose explains why—”
“I think you misheard,” I interrupted. “We didn’t crash-land.”
She responded with a shrug. “What I’m saying is, I understand. After almost dying in the Everglades, nothing seems like a big deal. You’re both looking on the bright side of life—pain, love, everything. I get it. How could anything be worse?”
No point in explaining I had