A Convenient Proposal(11)



She gave him a serene smile, then bent to replace the pistol and close the zipper. “I think I’ve just given you quite a lot of information. Besides, I should be asking the questions, since I’m supposed to know you well enough to want to marry you. For instance, can I trust you to pilot us to the mainland without sinking? How long have you been driving boats?”

“Hah.” Grabbing up the dog’s bag, he started toward the dock, leaving her to follow empty-handed. “I’ve been fooling around with boats since I was ten, maybe even younger. We have a summer place at Lake Lanier, and we always had ski boats.”

He climbed onto the prow of the speedboat and transferred her bags into the bottom, then pulled the small craft sideways against the pier. “Does Igor need help?”

Arden shook her head. “Igor, jump.” She pointed at the boat. “Let’s go.”

The dog gave her a skeptical look, but after a moment of hesitation, he hopped in.

“Good boy,” she told him. “Good dog.”

Griff held up a hand. “Your turn.”

The boat dipped and rose slightly with the waves washing into shore, but Arden boarded gracefully, with just the slightest dependence on his hand for balance.

“I’ve never known anybody so good at changing the subject,” he declared. “Will I ever get a straight answer from you on a personal question?”

“That’s another rule. No prying.” She unrolled a broad-brimmed hat and set it on her head, then took a seat at the bow, next to the dog. “Now, are you planning to bring the dock with us, or shall we untie the rope before you turn on the engine?”





Chapter Three





In Miami, they took a cab from the marina to one of the high-rise buildings overlooking the waterfront. Igor was completely at home in the car and then in the elevator.

Griff was not. “The ride up is taking longer than the trip over here.”

Arden looked at him in surprise. “Are you claustrophobic?”

“No…well, maybe a little.” He hunched his shoulders, rolled his head around and then rubbed a hand over his face. “I haven’t been in an elevator, or a building more than two stories high, in months. That’s all.”

“We won’t be here long.” They stepped into a quiet hallway with closed doors and a deep green carpet. Arden turned left and led him to the last door on the right, where she put her key into the lock of number 3209. “If the height bothers you—”

“Not height,” he corrected, stepping in after her. “I’m just not used to being…wow.”

The wall facing the apartment entrance was a panel of glass from floor to ceiling, offering a panorama of the Florida coastline and the Keys beyond. Griff crossed to the wide expanse of window. “Talk about million-dollar views!”

She stood beside him a moment, gazing out into the sunny afternoon. “You can see storms coming from beyond the horizon. I’ve spent whole afternoons just watching the weather change.”

He turned his head to look at her, a new understanding in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be able to offer you anything you couldn’t buy for yourself, would I?”

Arden decided to answer the question. “Probably not.”

“And the island—Chaos Key, right?—belongs to you.”

“Yes.” Before he could continue the conversation, she hurried toward the bedroom. “I’ll just be a few minutes. Make yourself at home—there are drinks in the refrigerator and snacks in the cupboard.”

She sighed in relief when the snap of a pop top and the rustle of chips assured her he’d accepted the invitation. Given what she’d learned about Griff Campbell already, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d followed her to the bedroom to pursue the conversation he’d tried to start and she didn’t want to finish.

Igor claimed his usual spot on the king-size bed while she stowed the pistol and ammunition in her wall safe. Then, with a hiss of cold air, Arden opened one side of the hermetically sealed closet she’d installed for storing most of her wardrobe. Choosing casual wear to take with her posed no real fashion dilemma. A couple of cold-weather dresses, a few classic shirts and skirts, plus jackets and sweaters for outdoors… New jeans and shoes would be required, but shopping would give her something to do with her acquaintances in Sheridan, Georgia.

That plan called up yet another rule: no attachment to the natives. She would have to be friendly without developing friendships—an art she’d practiced nearly as often as she practiced the violin. In any event, the chance that she would share interests with the residents of a tiny, backwoods Georgia town seemed more than remote.

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