Overkill(24)

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” she said softly.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he was sorry for curtailing her purpose. She was seeking justice, and his decision was preventing her from pursuing it. But an apology would be disingenuous, and she would know that, and probably would resent it. Instead, he asked, “What will you do now?”

“As you said, pack up and go home.”

“Dave will be sick he won’t be getting you on that zip line.”

“He wouldn’t be getting me on that zip line in a million years. I have a fear of heights.”

“Yet you drove up the mountain road to see me. Twice.”

“Risks worth taking.”

“They didn’t pay off for you, though.”

“No. I accept that you’re not going to change your mind, and I’m out of arguments.” Then her expression changed, as though she’d just been struck with a breakthrough thought. “But maybe not. What’s your email address?”

“Why?”

“Why does anyone ask for an email address? I want to send you something. I promise not to share or publicize the address. Okay? You can put it in my phone. It’s in my bag on the sofa.” She slid off the stool. “I need to be going anyway.”

“Before it gets foggier.”

“Fog doesn’t scare me.”

They returned to the living area, where the fire had burned down to a heap of red embers. She took her cell phone from her bag and handed it to him. He pecked his email address into it and gave it back.

“When can I expect the email?”

“Soon.”

“Give me a hint?”

“Tonight.”

“No, I mean give me a hint of what the email is about.”

“It’ll be self-evident. Once you’ve read it, give me a call. My cell number is on my business card.”

“Don’t hold out hope that I’ll change my mind. I won’t.”

“I respect your conflict, Zach. I do. It’s important to me that you believe that.” She stuck out her right hand.

“I believe it.” He clasped her hand and shook it. “Kate.”

She gave him a close-lipped smile, which he returned, then pulled her hand from his. He walked her to the door, opened it, and stepped out onto the porch to check the weather conditions.

“The fog isn’t too heavy. You should be all right if you take it slow on the curves.”

She went down the porch steps. When she reached the bottom, she halted and looked at him over her shoulder. “I lied to you earlier.”

“Fog does scare you?”

“It wasn’t my roommate who had your poster above her bed.”





Kathryn Cartwright Lennon played dirty pool. The intention of that exit line had been to leave him with something to think about. But if she thought he was going to follow up on it, boy, was she wrong.

Did she think flirting would bend his will? She’d have to do better than that. Team groupies used to throw him their thong underwear. They had his name tattooed around their nipples. They were sexting him before the word had been coined.

Wearing him down by appealing to his ego wouldn’t work, either. His had been ground to dust years ago.

Besides, he was probably reading too much into her teenage crush on that damn poster. They were both way beyond that.

Scrounging in his fridge for something for supper, he found a package of deli-sliced roast beef. He built a thick sandwich with plenty of horseradish and took it and his laptop to his favorite chair in front of the hearth. He added logs to the fire and stirred the embers beneath them to get them going, then sat down to eat.

He booted up his laptop and opened his email. The one from her was already there. She’d said soon, but she hadn’t even had time to get back to town. She’d stopped alongside the road to send it. What could be so damned important?

Then he read the email’s subject line. Cursing, he angrily closed his laptop.

Her half-empty wineglass was where she’d left it on the coffee table. It had a lip gloss imprint of her lower lip on the rim. To look at it fired his imagination and inflated his cock with hope. Vain hope. He tore at his rare roast beef with all the etiquette of a caveman.

Once he’d demolished the sandwich and dusted his hands of bread crumbs, he reopened his laptop. The one line in the body of the email said that he needed to read only the highlighted sections of the attachment.

With dread, he opened it.

The fire had burned down to embers again by the time he’d read through the specified sections. Twice. He didn’t send a reply, but he stared at the screen until it went dark.

Damn her.

Taking his laptop with him, he killed the lights on the first floor, set the alarm, and climbed the stairs. He went into his bathroom and rummaged through the pile of dirty clothes he’d left in the floor when he’d showered. He fished his cell phone from the pocket of his cargo shorts. There was a time when he’d never been without his phone. He’d taken it into the shower, the hot tub, bed, everywhere. That had been before he’d answered it in the Caymans. Now, he carried it only when he thought it might be essential.

He held it in his palm and reconsidered, but then thumbed it on, went into his contacts, and placed the call. He was put through a tiresome menu of options, all of which he skipped until he finally connected with a male human being, who said, “How can I help you?”