Chapter 17

Russ’s heart ached as he watched her escape through the front door. No wonder she was upset. Every inch of the old house must possess poignant memories. Tragedy hung in the air, and the rooms echoed with a cold emptiness. No one had lived in the house for a very long time, yet the place was spotless, untouched since the day the couple vanished. It was as if he were standing in a museum. Or—he shivered—the house was waiting for the occupants to return.

After his mother and father, returning from a holiday in the States, were killed in a car accident when he was fourteen, the pain and anger at their sudden demise had almost destroyed him. Athena’s pain had to be a thousand times worse. She’d left her home one morning to play in the forest and returned hours later to a scene of inexplicable loss. The not-knowing ate at her soul and was infinitely worse than the most awful truth.

He retraced his steps down the hall and eyed the other closed door. Unable to rein in his curiosity, he twisted the door handle and, pressing his shoulder against the warped wood, shoved. The door opened with a protesting screech.

A fresh, cool breeze blew through a broken window, mixing with the musty smell of the long-unused room. Faded pink frilly curtains fluttered in the window. The narrow bed was covered with a pink blanket dotted with rainbows and winged, multi-colored ponies. A doll, missing one button-bright eye, rested on a pillow. Except for the broken window, the room was as tidy as all the others.

A loose floorboard squeaked under his weight as he crossed to a wooden bookcase set against the far wall. A collection of rocks, seashells, and small pieces of driftwood lined the top shelf.

The bottom two shelves were jammed with dozens of books of all shapes and sizes, their corners curling from the damp. A stack of dog-eared comic books was piled on the floor beside the bookcase. Board games and puzzles, the boxes covered with patches of mildew, teetered in a crooked stack on the shelf.

A hardcover picture book, the pages yellowed with age, lay open on a pine desk. He flipped to the cover. A Child’s Guide to Greek Mythology. He riffled through the book. Each page revealed a different Greek god or goddess followed by a brief description. The corner of one page was dog-eared. A drawing of Athena, the goddess of war, wearing a tall crown and carrying a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, filled the page. The head of the Gorgon, Medusa, with writhing snakes for hair, lay at the goddess’s feet.

The gruesome drawing would have fascinated a precocious twelve-year old, and it explained the source of Athena’s name. She’d been an unusual child; no doubt a product of her unique upbringing on this remote, rugged island. Isolated from her peers, with only adults for company, she’d retreated into books and the heroic stories of the ancient Greek gods.

His mouth twisted in a smile. He’d also been fascinated with the ancient Greek and Roman civilizations. As a boy, he’d read both the Iliad and the Odyssey by Homer, and he’d devoured books on Greek and Roman history. He’d even named his boat Minerva after the Roman goddess of wisdom. Wasn’t Athena the Greek counterpart of Minerva? He read the description in the book. Minerva and Athena were the same goddess. One was Roman, and the other Greek. How weird was that?

A love of Greek mythology wasn’t the only thing he and Athena had in common. They’d lost their parents at a young age, and they both had connections to Angus Crawford and Shelter Island. If he didn’t know better, he’d think a greater power was behind their meeting—some force in the universe that wanted them to be together.

What the hell? He threaded his fingers through his hair. This old house with all its ghosts was getting to him. Athena Reynolds was a beautiful woman. It was only natural he was attracted to her. And then there was her tragic past. He felt sorry for her. Who wouldn’t? But that’s all it was. There was nothing else between them. Nothing at all. Nor would there ever be.

He strode out of the room and headed back to the living room. What happened here twenty-three years ago? Had the O’Flynns chosen to leave their young daughter behind and start a new life somewhere else like the police thought? Moving to the brick fireplace, he picked up a small clay ornament on the shelf above the fireplace. The crude sculpture of what was maybe supposed to be a clown had obviously been made by a child. The figurine held a place of honor on the mantel. The people who lived in this well-loved home would never have deserted their child.

Not unless they didn’t have a choice.

Could Athena be right? Had someone harmed the couple? Angus? He shook his head. No way. He didn’t believe his father was involved. But was there someone else?

A large, framed oil painting hanging on the wall by the couch caught his eye, and he moved closer. With bold strokes and a keen eye, the artist had recreated the stunning view from the front window of the little house. The colors were subdued and had faded over time, but the seascape pulsed with life. W. O’Flynn was scrawled across the lower right corner. William O’Flynn. Athena’s father had painted the picture.

Yet another trait he and Athena had in common. He’d always wanted to be an artist. He’d taken a few art classes in college but quit after Angus made his opinion clear. Pursuing art was a waste of time. The hard-nosed tycoon refused to pay the expensive tuition. They’d argued for weeks, but in the end, Russ quit the art courses and registered in business school. Five years later, he’d graduated with an MBA.

Angus was pleased. Russ—not so much.

His adoptive father’s reluctance to talk about the island now struck Russ as a red flag. Were Athena’s suspicions correct? Was Angus somehow involved in her parents’ disappearance? Russ had lived with Angus for years, but he was beginning to think he hadn’t known him at all. At the time, Russ wasn’t surprised by the man’s actions. Angus liked his privacy, and he’d refused to give a statement to the press after the O’Flynns’ disappearance, even though reporters followed him everywhere he went, shouting questions.

He rubbed the tight knot of muscle in the back of his neck. So many unexplained mysteries, and so few answers. Nor was there likely to be any resolution now Angus was gone. His tread was heavy as he plodded out of the house.

****

Russ found her down by the beach, standing on the soft, golden sand at the water’s edge, staring into the distance. Her arms were crossed over her chest as if she was chilled, and a pall of sorrow stained her tear-ravaged face. Her anguish struck him like a knife to the chest. “Athena.” His voice was a hoarse croak. “Athena…” Words failed him. What could he say to reassure her and take away her pain? He couldn’t bring her parents back. He couldn’t return to her the life she’d so suddenly lost. “I’m sorry.”

He cursed under his breath. Could he be any lamer? All the apologies in the world wouldn’t help. Only time would heal her wounds. Without stopping to think about the consequences, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her slim, unresisting body close.

Seagulls swooped and dove into the incoming surf, their raucous cries slicing the air like the excited chatter of children. The setting sun vanished behind a bank of menacing, dark clouds. A cold wind gusted, raising tiny swirls of sand and flattening the sea grass. The air was heavy with the tang of fish, salt, and impending rain.

She burrowed into his embrace.

He breathed in her scent—wild roses, spring rain, woman. Her silky red curls tickled his neck, the strands catching in his whiskers. He caressed the length of her back, gliding his hands over the delicate grooves of her spine. Giving in to temptation, he tangled his fingers in the bright halo of curls framing her pale face. Her hair, just as soft as he’d imagined, slipped through his fingers. His breathing quickened, and his blood heated. He tightened his embrace, drawing her closer.

She lifted her head. Her mouth parted, and the dainty tip of her pink tongue emerged as she moistened her lower lip.

His heart rate zoomed into the stratosphere at the same time warning bells clanged in his head. He should release her and run as quickly as he could back to the Minerva. But he was just a man, and she was one hell of an attractive woman. He’d wanted this ever since her beast of a dog forced their introduction in that park in Calgary. Groaning, he lowered his head and covered her lips with his.

What began as a gentle tasting deepened as the heat within him burst into flames. He traced the contours of her warm inviting mouth with his tongue, urging her to open.

She mewed and allowed him to plunder her moist heat. Her hands gripped the back of his neck and tangled in his hair.

He deepened the kiss until they were both breathing hard. Smoothing his hands over the rounded firmness of her hips and the impossible narrowness of her waist, he groaned. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest.

Oh man. He wanted her. Bad.

And she wanted him. He wasn’t the only one in a state of heat. But this was wrong in all sorts of ways. She was vulnerable. Hell, she’d just seen her childhood home where unimaginable tragedy had struck. She wanted comfort, companionship, a compassionate friend.

He wanted something else entirely.

He should step away, but the sensations rocketing through him were too hot, his need for her too intense. The passion rioting through him made thinking difficult. But the part of his character that ruled his life, the piece that made him the man he was, a man he was proud of, prevented him from acting upon his passion. Gritting his teeth until they ached, he dropped his arms and lurched back.

Her shiny curls were tousled from his fingers, her cheeks flushed, and her lips moist and swollen.

He drew in a ragged breath. Being noble sucked. His body throbbed with burning desire, but he’d done the right thing, the decent thing. Why the hell did acting like an honorable man hurt so damn much?

She held her body stiff and rigid like stone, avoiding his gaze. “I’d like to leave. Please take me back to Vancouver.” Turning toward the bank of trees, she strode across the overgrown clearing and into the shadows of the forest.

“Athena, wait.”

She ignored his call and kept walking.

Cold emptiness filled him as he trailed after her. He’d give her time to think, to consider everything that had happened. And then they’d talk. Somehow. he had to explain why he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. He grimaced. How the hell would he do that when he didn’t understand himself?