They meandered northeast along the rocky coast, past Sutherland Island and amidst the small islands off the Olivia West Nature Preserve. Because of the narrow passages and shallow waters, J.B. had stayed away from the smaller islands in his lobster boat. He'd never live down getting hung up on an underwater ledge or running aground in the mud.

Zoe finally led him to a pocket beach on the northwest shore of Sutherland Island. She hadn't shown him how to land, either, but there was nothing to it. She explained that it was important to pick out a sandy beach, some place where they'd have a minimal impact on the environment-he wasn't to be fooled by the rugged appearance of the landscape.

J.B. thought she looked relaxed and in her element.

They peeled off their life vests and sat together on a rounded, sun-warmed boulder above the water and several low-lying wild blueberry bushes. Zoe had a dry bag and offered to share her water bottle and Christina-made ginger cookies. Her rear end was just as soaked as his, but her tights would dry faster than his khakis.

"So, this island's named after one of your ancestors," she said. "George Sutherland. Did you know he fought in the Revolutionary War? He's buried here."

"On the island?"

"Mm. There's an old cemetery. Do you want to see it? It's not very far."

She was already on her feet, ginger cookie in hand. He followed her across an open expanse of sloping gray rock, the tide crashing below-much rougher here than where they'd landed. They curved inland, taking a visible but overgrown path under pines and spruces, until they arrived at a tiny, shaded cemetery enclosed in a crumbling three-foot wrought-iron fence. Maybe a dozen slender stone rectangles marked graves.

Zoe climbed over the fence and examined the largest of the stones, leaning slightly with time. "George Sutherland. There he is."

J.B. joined her at his ancestor's stone. 1742 to 1797. Just fifty-five when he died. J.B. knelt in the weeds and touched the smooth, cool stone, and tried to imagine what life must have been like on this small island over two hundred years ago.

"When did the Wests get here?" he asked Zoe.

"Not that early. Olivia and her brother were the first Wests actually born in Goose Harbor. Before that they were in Portsmouth, I think. My mother's family came down from Castine-it's just below Mt. Desert Island."

J.B. checked the other gravestones. Many also bore the name Sutherland. There were two babies, a teenaged girl. "No one lives on the island these days," he said.

"Not since the late nineteenth century."

A bramble stuck on Zoe's upper thigh, and she picked it off unconsciously. Gravestones or no gravestones, J.B. noticed the shape of her legs, the curve of her hip, thought again of that rose tattoo. She seemed oblivious.

They climbed back over the fence. He could feel his kayaking in his arms and shoulders. Zoe seemed unaffected, but he had no doubt she'd fake it just to lord her greater experience over him. He tended to bring out the competitiveness in people, make them feel as if they had something to prove to him. It wasn't always a bad thing. Wanting to stick it to him could bring out the best in people, too.

On their way back to their kayaks, he noticed a partial stone foundation amidst the birches and pines, the dry undergrowth. Zoe explained it was the foundation of the original Sutherland house, which, according to local legend, had burned down the same night Abraham Lincoln was shot. The entire island nearly went up in flames. Island fires and boat fires. Both were treacherous.

"There's an old boathouse at the tip of the island,"

J.B. said. "I noticed it when I was out on my boat last week. New door, new lock."

"Really? I wonder if Luke worked out a deal with the preserve. He owns the island, but Olivia left the preserve enough money to buy it from them-of course, I think he should just donate it." She smiled as if she knew she was expecting a lot. "I know the preserve wants the island for public access. They think it'll help discourage people-especially kayakers-from stopping on the smaller islands and disturbing the seabird nests. They can picnic and prowl around here instead."

J.B. nodded, looking out through the brightly coloredleaves and the dark green of the spruces and pines. "Gravestones, cellar holes, history, wildlife and scenery. Not a bad combination."

They returned to their kayaks, and after more water and cookies, set off back down the coast, the wind holding back until they reached Olivia's point. J.B. had no illusions he could handle white water and tough currents or one of Maine's notorious fog banks floating in, but he decided he did all right his first time in a kayak.

When they pulled their boats out of the water, he thought he noticed Zoe might be examining his wet butt. He smiled to himself. Yesterday's kisses hadn't been a fluke, a response to the stress of her first full day home. The woman had something going for him. He didn't mind at all.

They left their kayaks in the front yard and headed up to change into dry clothes, but they didn't make it to their respective bedrooms. They got as far as the upstairs hall before J.B. scooped her up and found her mouth, lifted her onto him as she wrapped her arms around him.

"Damn," she whispered, "it must be the kayaking- I can't seem to resist you."

"Good."

She kissed him back deeply, hungrily, her arms over his shoulders, her fingers clasped behind his neck. When he lifted her higher, pressing her against him, his hands slid over her wet tights, the curve of her hips, between her legs. The wetness there wasn't cold at all.

But his intimate touch startled her, seemed to bring her back to reality. She slid down off him, back to the floor, and caught her breath, pushing both palms through her short blond curls. "I should get changed," she mumbled, and disappeared into her room.

J.B. didn't push it.

Retreating to his room, he put on dry pants and checked his voice mail. He had a message from Bruce Young. No boats missing at the lobster pound. No one saying they'd seen Teddy Shelton or given him a ride. "The guy's gone, McGrath," Bruce had said. "Maybe it's just as well."

Teddy Shelton had hit the road. Kyle Castellane wasn't pressing charges. J.B. clipped his belt holster back on and decided it wasn't necessary. He didn't need a gun. He needed a dose of common sense. He should go back to D.C. and let these people get on with their lives. If he hadn't tapped on Shelton 's window, probably nothing would have happened. He wouldn't have beaten up Kyle last night and spent the night in the marsh. J.B. wouldn't have found out Stick Monroe had sentenced him to seven years.

Maybe he wouldn't have kissed Zoe the way he had.

She met him downstairs in the kitchen, and J.B. filled her in. She shook her head at Bruce's suggestion that Teddy Shelton was gone. "We're not going to be that lucky. He's still here. Lunch at Christina's? I haven't had my annual fried fish sandwich."

J.B. smiled. "No fish for me. I want meat."

She muttered something about Montanans, but at least she was smiling and the circles under her eyes didn't seem so ominous. He thought it might be that near-lovemaking in the upstairs hall, but she'd probably say it was the kayaking.