Midnight Exposure (Midnight #1)(7)

Jayne stared at the pictures as she chewed hot cheese and tangy sauce. The sculptor’s work was complex and fascinating, but more than a little disturbing. She was no art critic. But R. S. Morgan, whoever he was, had some serious issues.



He focused on the third window, for the rest were dark. Her shadow moved across the opening. The sheer curtains weren’t quite closed, and he caught a quick glimpse of her bright red curls as she passed by.

As he’d already noted, she was lovely. Long limbs. Strong back. Skin creamy as fresh milk. Hair like a fiery halo. The kind of woman who could keep home and hearth, as well as wield a sword on the battlefield. Celtic blood ran thick in her veins, of that he had no doubt.

But she’d taken his picture. Not acceptable. Not for a man with secrets such as his.

Someone might find out what he’d been doing. He wasn’t prepared for that yet. He needed time to prepare, to gather his power, to collect the necessary implements for the upcoming ceremony. A true Druid ritual required preparation and study.

There was so much work still to be done, and he had no one to share his burden. The others weren’t ready to accept their fate. They weren’t ready for the sacrifices that had to be made. His gloved fingers pulled at the hem of his coat.

But soon they would have no choice. The gods had ordained their fate.

She moved across the window again. Tall and graceful. There was something special about her. Something that stirred his own blood. If only he could pinpoint her familiarity.

The light went out in the window of the inn. He stayed in the shadowed alley that ran alongside the building a while longer. The photos she’d taken could be quite…damaging. She couldn’t be allowed to leave town.

He’d be back tomorrow. She couldn’t stay in the inn forever.

When she came out, he’d be waiting.





CHAPTER FOUR


Fortified by a full country breakfast, Jayne stepped out onto the inn’s porch. The cold front preceding the approaching storm slapped her full in the face. But the shock was just what she needed to knock some sense into her. Her oldest brother, Pat, was keeping tabs on her paroled assailant. No news from Pat meant the scumbag was still accounted for. The danger was in Philadelphia, eight hundred miles away.

She could breathe.

With her camera bag slung over her shoulder, she tugged her knit hat over her ears and set out for the sidewalk. She would approach her search for R. S. Morgan the only way she knew how. She’d walk around, take pictures, talk to people, and hope her Irish luck played out one more time. Jayne’s fingers itched to capture the town’s Norman Rockwell charm anyway.

She turned down a side street. Smoke curled from chimneys and snow coated the ground like vanilla frosting. Lopsided snowmen waved mitten-covered stick hands at passing motorists. Buildings were draped with swags of greenery and wreaths.

This was what she was supposed to do. Real photography, not skulking around like a vulture waiting for celebrities to drop their guard. Knots slid from her neck muscles as she recorded images.

Her camera beeped. The memory card was full. She tugged off her gloves and changed it, shoving the full one into her jeans pocket. Her frozen fingers and the painful numbing of her toes alerted her to the passing of time. She glanced at her cell. She’d been out there for hours. No wonder her nose was frozen. She shivered and tugged her gloves back on. Her winter gear wasn’t adequate for the kind of cold that Maine served up.

She squatted down and took one last picture of the rusty sign that dangled from the front of the feed store, then turned back down the empty lane that would lead her back to the inn, just a few blocks away. She slid her equipment into its padded sheath.

Her spine prickled. Jayne spun around. No one in sight. She eyed the buildings on either side. Crumbling brick facades sat close to the cracked sidewalk. Their shadows loomed near enough to conceal a person.

Chill. There’s no one following you. Pat would let her know if she had reason to be afraid.

Something scraped on concrete in a narrow alley to her right.

Jayne picked up her pace, breaking into a jog as instincts overrode rational thought. Were those footsteps behind her? Her breath snagged in her dry throat. A shadow flickered in her peripheral vision and she lengthened her stride. Her feet went out from under her. She plunged ass-first into a slush puddle. Jayne scrambled to her feet.

Almost there.

Jayne glanced over her shoulder as she rounded the corner. Her boots hit a patch of ice. She scrambled for traction, but her feet slid. She slammed into a large, hard, male body.

“Umph.” He absorbed the impact with barely a stagger. Hands under her elbows supported her weight easily as she righted herself.

Heart rabbiting, Jayne flattened her hands against his chest and prepared to push away. She looked up into Reed Kimball’s piercing green eyes—and froze.

“Are you all right?” His expression went from surprised to suspicious in one pulse.

Jayne looked behind her. Nothing. She felt the blood rush to her chapped cheeks. Now that she was standing in front of the inn, her earlier panic felt silly. “I thought I heard someone following me, but it was probably just the wind.”

His eyes narrowed on her face, then scanned the street behind her. “Really?”

She nodded bobblehead style. Could she look like more of an idiot?

The muscles of his jaw tightened as he looked her over. His parka was open, the wool of his sweater soft under her palms. Through it, his heart thumped in the solid plane of his chest. “You’re all wet.”