Briarwood Cottage (6 page)

But rather than diminish, over dinner in Kabul’s luxury Serena Hotel’s Silk Route Restaurant, the hormone level had soared as hot and high as a comet. Which was how she’d ended up spending that night in his bed.

Unfortunately, like many comets, they’d flamed out and gone crashing back to earth. Which didn’t explain the urge to fling herself into his arms.

“I’m far from queen of anything.” Was it even possible to have a hot flash at her age?

After a few weeks of therapy and exercise, which involved daily walks on the Shelter Bay beach, she’d felt ready to get back to work but hadn’t had the heart to return to writing stories revolving around so much pain and suffering. Which, she’d learned when she’d called editors she’d worked with in the past seeking assignments, was exactly what they expected from her.

“Not surprising, given how hard you’d worked to build your brand,” Duncan said when she told him about the less-than-satisfactory conversations. “And burnout is always professional risk. I doubt any serious journalist avoids it forever.”

“Even adrenaline junkies?” she asked the man who just happened to be master of that particular universe.

“I suppose that could make the crash even more of a flameout,” he suggested in a way that had her wondering which of the two of them Duncan was referring to. Could that bar brawl have been caused by his own personal burnout?

“I suppose it could,” she said, deciding he was right about not getting into complex conversational topics while her brain felt as numb as a stone. “I was starting to get discouraged when I received an out-of-the-blue email from Dan Gagnon, an old college friend.

“Dan had carried double majors of finance and journalism because, as much as he enjoyed the fantasy of becoming the next Peter Jennings, he was pragmatic enough to know that he’d never be happy living on a journalist’s salary while working his way up a ladder that was losing rungs every day.

“So he spent ten years on Wall Street, cashed in, then bought the
Worldwide Buzz
, which, after a hundred years in business, had sinking revenues and was in danger of going under. Which didn’t seem like the wisest financial decision at the time given that tabloids are in as much economic trouble as print newspapers.”

Although more recently, the
Buzz
had been kicking tabloid butt and was even starting to challenge the ubiquitous entertainment magazines.

“They’re disappearing like the Tyrannosaurus Rex, because more and more people don’t want to read negative stories about their favorite celebrities,” she repeated what Dan had told her.

“And with social media being what it is, those who do can read them faster and for free online. Just like the news,” he guessed.

“Exactly. If you can count a lot of what’s online as
news
,” she said. “Anyway, I was curious enough to email him back my phone number, and when he called and told me he wanted me to be his first hire, my first reaction was to refuse.”

“Even though you’d already decided that you didn’t want to go back to the work you were doing?”

“And wasn’t that the dilemma?” she admitted. “I might not want to write about girls getting beaten for wanting to go to school in Afghanistan, but that didn’t mean that I wanted to switch to soft, end-of-the-newscast, baby panda stories. Then he explained his plan to take it back to its tabloid roots of ‘Gee-Whiz’ outlandish stories.”

“Like Bigfoot opening up a pot store in a town populated by sparkly vampires.”

“Ha!” That drew a full smile, making Cassandra aware of muscles on either side of her lips that hadn’t gotten any use these past months. “If you were reading carefully, you’d have noticed that I never once mentioned the vamps. But when many people think of Forks, Washington, that’s what comes to mind. Like Astoria, Oregon, and Goonies.”

“Or San Francisco and Steve McQueen’s car chase.”

“Exactly.” Oh, God. He still totally got her without her having to explain. That mental shorthand they’d developed made him even more dangerous than the still-smoldering chemistry.

“Anyway, I became more interested when he told me that the main editorial rule would be that the stories should be outrageous. And truth should be avoided at all costs.”

“Which actually is a smart move.” He plated the eggs and put them on the table. “Because Bigfoot isn’t likely to sue anyone for libel anytime soon.”

“True enough. The same with the fictional Peruvian archeologist I invented who’s supposedly uncovered proof that we’re all descended from outer space aliens. People know the stories aren’t real life. They read them solely for entertainment value. The same as others might read a novel.”

She took a bite of the eggs. “Oh, these are exactly what I wanted. Without knowing I wanted them.”

And hadn’t he always known exactly what she wanted? What she needed? At least in bed. She hadn’t had that many lovers before Duncan, but enough to often feel as if she should have just drawn a map of her body with arrows pointing to the good parts. This man, on the other hand, had proven a master explorer, never missing an erogenous zone. Even ones she’d never known she possessed.

“Remind me to thank Mrs. Monohan the next time I’m in the Mercantile.” He put a basket of pastries in the center of the table and sat down across from her, his eyes warming as he returned her smile. It would’ve been like the old days. If it weren’t for the huge pink-polka-dot estranged marriage elephant sucking so much oxygen out of the cottage.

Steeped in her own pain and guilt, Cassandra hadn’t probed into Duncan’s feelings. One thing she and her husband had in common was that they had both continually put themselves in danger in order to shine a bright light on dark truths. The irony, Dr. Fletcher had helped her see, was that they’d never been courageous enough to shine that same light on the obvious pitfalls in their relationship.

“We’re going to have to talk about it, Duncan,” she said quietly. Reluctantly.

“I know. But for now, what would you say to just enjoying breakfast? The market didn’t have any bagels, but Mrs. Monohan assures me that you can’t come to Ireland without sampling the local scones.”

He took a raspberry scone from the basket, broke it in half, spooned some cream on it, and held it out to her. As she accepted it from his outstretched hand, Cassandra had a sudden flashback to one honeymoon night when he’d spread rich Irish whipped cream onto her breasts, then licked it off as they rolled over the bed.

A silence settled back over them. One that, while easier than the earlier one, she nevertheless felt the need to fill.

“I may no longer be trying to save the world with my writing, but believe it or not, I enjoy my work.”

“I’m glad. You always said you wanted to try fiction.”

“Ah, yes.” She licked a bit of cream off her thumb, then, as she met his gaze, his darkening eyes told her that they were definitely sharing the same sensual memory. “My novel. The one I’m determined to write so I never have to tell my grandchildren that someday Grandma’s going to write a book.”

She blew out a long breath. The curtain of silence lowered yet again. When it grew as thick as the fog blowing in from the coast and began to obscure the view, Cassandra decided to try again.

“Speaking of the future—”

“I swear I’m not blowing you off, Cass,” he said, his gaze drifting to her mouth for a long, heart-hitching moment before returning to her eyes. “And believe me, I don’t like the way we left things so unsettled any more than you do. But you’ve had a long flight, you’ve got to be jet-lagged, so since we seem to be managing to get along okay, what would you say to agreeing to a moratorium on the serious stuff for the next couple days?”

The suggestion was undeniably reasonable. Especially since, despite the breakfast, she was starting to crash.

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“Terrific.” He reached across the table, brushing away a bit of cream from the corner of her lips. It was a good thing she was sitting down, because that light touch had her knees weakening even before he’d licked the sweet cream off his thumb. “You
are
planning to stay here?”

“I was hoping to,” she admitted. “Thanks to all the Lady seekers, according to all the hotel and bed and breakfast websites, there’s not another room within thirty miles of here.” Which, given the narrow hedgerow-lined roads, could take as long as an hour if you got caught in a traffic jam. From past trips to this emerald-green country, Cassandra remembered such jams usually involved a herd of dairy cows or sheep moving pastures. “But now I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”

“If you’re worried that I’m going to make a move—”

“What was that, with the cream, if it wasn’t a move?”

“Okay. You caught me. I plead guilty to an impulsive slip.” He lifted his hands and flashed that rogue alpha male smile she’d always suspected had panties dropping all over the globe. “But I promise to be on my best behavior from now on. And you won’t have to worry about having to hang a Wall of Jericho between us, because the cottage has two bedrooms.”

His reference to the classic Clark Gable, Claudette Colbert’s
It Happened One Night
, one of her favorite old movies, was edging toward a move since it brought both their minds back to having watched it—in bed—on their honeymoon when it had shown up on RTÉ.

“Thank you.”

Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she lowered her eyes in an attempt to prevent him from seeing the sensual yearnings that had begun to break through emotional walls she’d spent months building.

D
espite Duncan’s wild,
admittedly unrealistic hopes that perhaps Cass had been coming here to initiate a reunion, things were going better than he’d expected. Although it was impossible to ignore the strain hovering in the air like the morning fog blowing in from the sea, they
were
talking. And she was eating the food, which, if he did say so himself, was pretty damn good. Thanks to Mrs. Monohan’s excellent advice.

And speaking of good…

The moment he’d opened the door, Duncan had felt his heart stop. Unlike the wounded, ghostlike woman he’d unwillingly left behind, Cass looked good. Better than good. She looked as beautiful as ever. And, thank you, God, healthy.

She’d always been slender, which, he’d realized soon after they’d met during that firefight, was deceptive, because people didn’t tend to realize how tough she was. A misconception he’d watched her use to her advantage on more than one occasion.

The world of international journalism wasn’t for the weak of heart. It was a tough, balls-to-the-wall, testosterone-driven environment where women admittedly had to work at least twice as hard as men to be taken seriously. Cass had not only been as tough as any male journalist he’d ever worked with, she was smart as a whip and could hold her own in any situation.

But, as he’d told her during that argument on their honeymoon, that didn’t mean that she was bulletproof. Or invincible. Too many journalists had already died covering wars, and new names continued to be added to the glass-walled Journalists Memorial at the national Newseum in Washington, D.C.

Given her toughness, Cass had never been a woman to blush easily. Duncan had always enjoyed being able to bring that soft color into her cheeks.

They’d met during a street firefight in Kabul. When the bullets had started flying, he’d reacted on instinct. After dragging her into a nearby alley behind a pizza joint, he’d pulled her down behind a pile of wooden crates and thrown his body on top of her.

Time had ceased to have meaning. The shooting could’ve lasted a minute. An hour. An eternity. But when the bullets finally stopped flying and he’d helped her back to her feet, she’d looked up into his face with those lake-blue eyes, and Duncan had known, in that frozen moment in that faraway place, that he was lost.

“You’re Duncan McCaragh.”

“That would be me,” he’d said. “The man who’s going to marry you,” he’d heard himself saying. “So I suppose, now that the shooting’s stopped, it’d be a good time for you to tell me the name of my future children’s mother.”

She’d both surprised and impressed him by laughing at a time when she would have been forgiven for screaming bloody murder after what they’d been through.

“Sorry, I’m not in the market for a husband.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll change your mind.”

She’d laughed again, obviously not taking him seriously. “Give it your best shot.”

“I intend to.” That had been true then. And was now. “But any good campaign needs proper intel. So, it’d help to know the name of my future wife.”

She’d shaken her head in friendly exasperation. “I’m beginning to see why they call you Mad Dog. I can’t believe that line actually works. Although I’m too smart to fall for it, I’m Cassandra Carpenter.”

He’d recognized her name immediately. “The Cassandra Carpenter who wrote that five-part investigative piece on the murder of the Chinese prostitutes enslaved in Kabul?”

She’d gone undercover as an expat American broker allegedly running an undercover prostitution ring and had later revealed, in vivid, heartbreaking detail, that even in a country as ultraconservative as Afghanistan, sex was for sale. Tragically, at an often deadly price.

“That would be me,” she tossed his own words back at him. “The journalist you beat out for the Pulitzer.”

“Ouch. I’m sorry about that. But getting grazed by shrapnel undoubtedly won me some sympathy votes that should have gone to you.”

“You may have been wounded, which I heard was a lot worse than a ‘graze,’ but your piece deserved to win without any sympathy votes.”

“I like that. It shows that you’re not only talented, you have the capacity to forgive.” He’d taken hold of her bruised, skinned hand and lifted it to his lips. “Which is even more reason you have to marry me, Cassandra Carpenter. Because we’re a match made in journalist heaven.”

Although she’d always insisted that his over-the-top proposal was born solely from the adrenaline rush of their situation, that was another truism that hadn’t changed. At least to his mind.

After they’d cleaned up in their individual rooms at the Kabul hotel, he’d taken her to dinner. Before they’d made it to the cheese plate, he’d put the meal on his GNN Platinum card and walked her back to her room, where they’d spent the night heating up the sheets.