Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(77)

Jason had stopped a few yards away to look out at Glorietta Bay. Navy ships, tourist boats, and merchant vessels passed slowly beneath the arc of the two-mile-long steel girder bridge that linked San Diego and Coronado. Approaching him from behind, Justine slipped her arms around his lean waist and opened her hand to show him her find.

“What’s the plan for the rest of the day?” she asked against the back of his shirt.

Taking the sand dollar, Jason turned to face her. His eyes were concealed behind sunglasses, but his mouth held a relaxed curve. “The plan is to do whatever you want.”

“Let’s get sandwiches at one of those boardwalk shops, and go back to the cottage to take a nap. And then I’ll need some time to get ready for the cocktail party tonight.”

His mouth flattened into a hyphen. “I need to cancel that.”

“According to the schedule Priscilla gave me, you’re listed on the invitation as one of the hosts. And it’s for a cancer charity. So there’s no way you can cancel.”

“I’m considering faking an illness.”

“Tell them you have severe localized swelling,” Justine suggested innocently. “Tell them the only cure is to go straight to bed. I’ll vouch for you.” Giggling at his expression, she scampered coltishly along the beach, obliging him to follow.

After they had returned to the cottage and showered the powdered grit from their legs, Justine promptly dove into bed. Jason spent a few minutes sending texts and e-mails to business associates, and went to set the alarm to wake them in an hour.

He went still as he saw that the digital numbers on the clock were flashing.

12:00

12:00

12:00

For a moment he couldn’t breathe.

It happened all the time, Jason told himself. An interruption in power, or someone pressing the wrong button, a hotel maid forgetting to reset the clock. Nothing to worry about.

But he’d gone cold all over, his heart starting to slam. He went to the dresser, where he’d put his Swiss Army watch. The second hand had frozen. The watch had stopped at 2:15.

“Come to bed” came Justine’s dozy voice from among the heap of pillows. Jason was vaguely surprised he could hear her over the chaos of his thoughts. He forced himself to act normal, stay calm.

Shedding his robe, Jason slid in beside her and took her into his arms. She fitted against him bonelessly. “Did you set the alarm?” she asked.

“No.” His hand passed gently over the satiny river of her hair. “The clock stopped. Don’t worry—I won’t sleep for long.”

He wouldn’t sleep a wink.

“That’s weird,” Justine mumbled. “Did I tell you about the clocks at the inn?” She yawned again and settled more deeply against him.

Jason’s hand stopped in the middle of a caress. “What?” he asked softly.

She was quiet, drifting off.

“Baby, don’t go to sleep yet. What about the clocks?”

She stirred and made a protesting sound.

Jason fought to keep his voice gentle. “Just tell me about the clocks at the inn.”

“It’s no big deal.” Rubbing her eyes, Justine said, “A couple of days before I left, all the guest room clocks stopped working. It was strange because the wall clock in my cottage stopped working, too, and that one’s not plugged in. It runs on batteries.”

“Why do you think that happened?” Jason asked carefully.

“I have no idea. I’m going to sleep now.” She yawned hugely. In a couple of minutes her body had gone heavy and relaxed, and she was breathing deeply.

She’d said it had been happening for two days. Jason hadn’t noticed anything of the kind, until now.

His watch had frozen at a quarter past two … which was about the time he had met Justine in the lobby the previous afternoon, when she’d been about to check in.

What if the clocks had stopped not because of his presence, but because of Justine’s? A hideous thought came to him: Was it possible that when the longevity spell had been cast, the effect of the witch’s bane had somehow transferred to Justine?

A nightmare feeling unrolled over him in a chilling blanket.

A man’s most primal instinct—an instinct no less compelling than the need for food or sex—was to keep his woman safe. From anyone and anything. Horror consumed him as he realized that he not only might have failed to protect Justine … he might have set her death in motion.

Twenty-three

Jason was suffused with fury, directed exclusively at himself, for putting what he wanted—namely, Justine herself—above what had been in her best interests. He had tried to engineer the outcome he’d wanted, as if life were some damn game he was directing.

It was a mistake he would never make again. But it might be too late to correct.

Sweet Jesus.

This was what Justine had feared doing to him. This was what her mother and Sage and Priscilla’s grandmother and Bean had all suffered. Killing what you loved most. The devil knew how any of them had survived it.

He realized he had never truly been terrified of anything until now.

Over the past ten years he’d become accustomed to the idea of his own mortality. Although he had resolved to do as much as possible to prolong his life, he’d never allowed himself the luxury of imagining himself in the future, at an advanced age. But it was crucial, imperative, for Justine to have the life she was meant for. He would not be responsible for taking a single minute of it away from her.