He nodded at Luke, who said nothing, his lips bloodless, and left.

When she was sure Stick was gone and out of earshot, Betsy grabbed up his empty champagne glass. "I hope the old fart trips and falls headfirst into the harbor. A dose of cold Maine water might give his system just the shock it needs." She noticed Luke was sweat ing, trembling. "I suppose he means well."

"Betsy…"

She didn't move to his side. She'd learned not to go near him unless he wanted her there. "What do you want me to do, Luke?"

"Help me…" He gasped for air. "Help me to bed."

"Are you sure? It's still early-"

His eyes shot through her, and she realized that even as upset as he was, anger and humiliation seethed just beneath the surface. She knew he hated the idea of someone like Stick Monroe thinking he'd done something stupid. "Help me."

"Do you want me to check your blood pressure?"

He shook his head. "I know it's high. I can feel it."

He motioned for her to come close, and when she put her arm around his lower back and took his hand, she could feel that his skin was clammy. But there wasn't a thing wrong with him. He'd live to be a hundred, unless it turned out all the supplements he was taking were no good for him, after all.

She guided him back to his stateroom. She had her own. He kept a little bell by his table in case he needed her in the night, not just for medical care. For sex, too. It was just a little arrangement they had. It made him feel more secure, and she didn't mind. Her stateroom was beautiful, and she appreciated the quiet nights when she could just sit in bed and read. But she'd die if anyone knew she responded to a bell.

She helped Luke out of his clothes. There was nothing romantic or loving in her actions, nothing remotely sexual. This was work. She was the nurse now, the professional.

"I don't think Kyle's relationship with Christina is anything that'll last, but if he-" Betsy found herself unable to get a proper breath. "Luke, I know you can't think your son had anything to do with Patrick's death."

"I asked you to mind your own business. None of this is your concern. Betsy-" He shivered as if suddenly he was cold, and she pulled back the covers of his bed and helped him slip beneath them. He took her hand, his eyes brimming with tears. "I'm sorry. Betsy, I don't know how I'd manage without you."

Pure drama. He'd be fine without her. He knew it. Betsy wasn't fooled. He just didn't want her to tell Kyle about Stick's visit. Let the plain, single nurse feel wanted and loved, and she'd do anything. Betsy had no illusions about Luke or their relationship.

"Let me know if you decide you want to get up," she said, keeping her tone clinical, professional. "Ring the bell. I'll be up for a few more hours."

He nodded. "I can't believe Stick came in here like that. Who does he think he is?"

"I don't know, Luke. I think he just wants to look out for you."

"Later." He raised his hand higher and pressed two fingers against one of her nipples, through the fabric of her top, an example, she thought, of the sort of abrupt, inappropriate gesture that had kept most women out of his life. "I might want you later."

Betsy thought of several sarcastic remarks about heart attacks and strokes, but she withdrew to the main salon without comment and checked the bottle of champagne. Another glass left. She poured it for herself and sank back onto the sectional.

She stared out at the dark harbor, wondering how long she had before she heard the tinkle of Luke's little bell- and what was wrong with her for staying to find out.

Ten

Despite the cold night, Zoe slept with the window open and awoke to the sounds of the ocean and the seabirds, and for a moment, she felt as if her life was normal again. Then she remembered she was in the twin room because McGrath had the big bedroom, and she could hear him in the shower down the hall. Picturing him naked was enough to propel her out of bed. She pulled corduroy pants and a fisherman's sweater out of her backpack and jumped into them, bolting downstairs before she could bump into her houseguest coming out of the shower.

It had been a long-enough night as it was, just knowing he was in the next room.

She ended up telling J.B. about her year in Connecticut while they carried her belongings upstairs. How she'd asked questions about the governor's drowning death that the state detectives were slow in asking or not asking at all. In Maine, she'd have been one of them, so she'd tried not to step on toes-but she was persistent.

Then it had all, literally, blown up. Bombs, shootings, national Breaking News happening right in the tiny Connecticut town where she was the sole detective.

J.B. had surprised her. He'd stood in the hallway and said, "I'm sorry about your father, Zoe. It must still be very hard for you and your family."

Then he went into his bedroom, shut the door and left her alone.

She'd failed her father. He'd have expected more of her. At the very least he'd have expected her to stand and fight until his killer was brought to justice.

Except that wasn't true.

He'd have wanted her to mourn him and then go on with her life. Leave the investigation to CID. Go to Quantico. She could almost hear his soothing voice… It's okay, Zoe, it's okay, you don't have to worry about me.

It had been one long damn night, she thought, pulling open the freezer. Only one Toaster Strudel left in the box.

"Ah-ha," J.B. said from the doorway, "so the Toaster Strudels are yours. I thought you were the flax-seed type."

"I am. I sprinkle ground flax seed on the Toaster Strudels. You can't even taste it."

"That, ex-Detective West, is disgusting."

He smiled, and that just made everything worse. She'd noticed how good-looking he was again last night while he was carrying boxes and trying not to bug her about the break-in at the café and Stick Monroe being such a jerk and Christina and Kyle and all of it. It wasn't the first time she'd noticed, but it was the first time she'd admitted to herself she was attracted to him. Physically, in a kind of elemental, rock-you-to-the-core way that generally only led to trouble.

She didn't trust her reactions. Responding to his blue eyes, his irreverent smile and his long, lean legs and scarred hands, his shoulders and flat stomach, could just be an unconscious ploy to keep her from confronting why she was even in Goose Harbor. Maybe even why he was.

He came up next to her and shut the freezer door. He had on a navy pinwale corduroy shirt and jeans. If he was physically aware of her, he gave no sign of it. Probably just didn't want to split the Toaster Strudel with her.

"Wait," she said. "I almost forgot. I have cider doughnuts-"

"Save them. Why don't we have some of your sis-ter's wild blueberry muffins? We can see how things are at the café this morning."

She nodded. "Make sure the police didn't miss anything."

"I'm not second-guessing them."

"Right. Of course not." She smiled, and for an instant, she wondered where she'd be now if she'd followed through and gone to Quantico. "We can walk. On the way I'll tell you how I've come to my senses and decided you shouldn't stay here, after all."

"Why not?" His voice was low and amused, and he stood very close to her, making her think he might actually be physically aware of her. He said softly, "I behaved."

Oh, God.

She darted past him to the side entry and pushed open the door, welcoming the gust of brisk autumn air, the sparkle of the sun on the water and the gleam of brightly colored leaves. But J.B. was right behind her, and she had to fight an image of him in the shower. The ends of his hair were still damp.