LITMIR.BIZ

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jaw. A touch long, shaggy, his dark hair ruffled beneath the wind. “Kane?” She stopped on the pier, waited for him to look up. Straight, dark brows lowered over piercing, smoky-gray eyes as he studied her for a moment—a long moment. She’d forgotten how deciphering those gray eyes were. Feeling weighed and measured, she almost squirmed. “Do you remember me? Rachel Quinn,” she yelled to him. “I need to talk to you.”

      He cast off the bow line. “Don’t have time.”

      “I’ve traveled more than twelve hundred miles to talk to you.” He tossed the stern line onto the dock. “It’s really important. Vital,” she mumbled to herself as he strode toward the wheelhouse.

      Rachel abandoned any notion of trying to shout over the chugging of the engine. Perfect timing, she berated herself. With Heather cuddled close and nowhere to go, she watched the boat, filled with passengers, motor out of the slip. The bow rose, rode a small swell, then lowered. She took a deep breath, drawing in the smell of fish and seaweed. If she’d arrived earlier, she’d have had a chance with him, could have made her announcement.

      Well, she hadn’t. She ambled back to her van. So she’d have to handle this situation differently. She knew where he lived. He’d inherited Charlie Greer’s home, the same house that had at one time belonged to her family. She’d lived there until her teens.

      The street his house was on led to the top of a cliff. The cottage was perched at the end of the street, and on a clear day it had a spectacular view of the sea. Odd that fate had brought her back here, that Kane, the one person she needed to see, owned it now.

      The white clapboard house with blue trim was weathered from the wind and in need of paint. Wooden steps led to a wide wooden porch. The home, with its steep gable roof, had a full attic, high ceilings, a brick fireplace and plenty of creaky floorboards and groaning doors. A fish-shaped weathervane on the roof spun to point north. Rachel recalled her mother had loved the house, loved being so near the water.

      She parked at the curb, facing a sky darkening with a storm. Within an hour, it rolled in from the north. Through the closed windows of her van, the wind howled. In the pewter-colored sky, lightning cracked, splaying fingers toward the choppy-looking water. Waves crashed against the rocky coastline even before rain began pounding.

      She shifted on the seat behind the steering wheel, ate a second candy bar and downed a can of soda. Despite the junk food snack, her stomach growled. Heather slept, unaware of the storm. Rachel assumed that Kane had docked hours ago. So where was he?

      He wondered what she wanted. Kane had no problem putting a name to her face. He hadn’t seen Rachel Quinn in more than a decade, but she’d been the girl he’d gone to sleep thinking about, the girl he’d never asked out, a red-haired beauty with shoulder-length hair, a girl with looks that had promised in time to rock some man’s world. Just the sight of her had been a bright light to him during some of the most dismal of days.

      Slim, long-legged, about five-five, she wore her hair shorter now, chin length. It swung with the movement of her head. She’d changed a lot, he reflected as he recalled the baby in her arms.

      He could only guess why she’d wanted to talk to him. Either she was the sentimental type who’d needed to see the family homestead, or she wanted to find his kid sister. They used to be good friends.

      He shrugged and finished his dinner, a meat loaf smothered with brown gravy. A quiet thing, Rachel had always waited outside the house for Marnie. He figured she was afraid of the old man. Ian Riley had been drowning his sorrow in booze nightly and was more often drunk than sober.

      Kane cursed himself for not giving her a few minutes earlier. He figured he owed her. Big-time. Sweet, she’d offered his sister friendship when shunning Marnie had been the in thing to do. Kids could be cruel. He hadn’t cared that he wore sneakers with holes, but their poorness had proved harder for Marnie. At thirteen, she’d agonized over the thrift-store clothes, over the taunts. His sister’s saviors had been Lori Wolken, some other girl and Rachel Quinn.

      Looking up, he stared at the window and the rain pounding against it while a waitress poured more coffee in his cup. He’d driven to Bangor earlier. He was in a foul mood, mostly because of the rain. If a downpour lasted for days, he’d lose money.

      Living nearby was a certain brunette with no interest in anything but good times, which suited him fine. He kept his life free of complications, of connections with others. He always would.

      As nightfall closed in on the town, Rachel grumbled under her breath. This was dumb. While she was sitting in a car, waiting for Kane, her legs cramping, he might be hunched over a warm meal somewhere. Expecting Heather’s cry any minute, she yanked the giant denim diaper bag from the floor to the seat and hunted for a bottle of formula that she’d made up in a gas station rest room earlier.

      When lightning flashed again, she glanced at the cottage’s wide porch. She should have known this wouldn’t be easy. Nothing had been going right since she’d left Texas. She’d never believed in omens or superstitions. She’d always been far too practical, too level-headed for mystical ponderings. But she’d had a flat tire in South Carolina, the alternator had quit outside of Washington, D.C., and the water pump had begun to leak at Maine’s state line.

      Weary, she slouched on the seat, wanted to close her eyes. She might have, but a beam of headlights sliced through the curtain of rain. Rachel squinted through the van windows and the downpour. An old-model black truck maneuvered into the driveway beside the house.

      In seconds the truck door opened. Shoulders hunched against the rain, a man raced to the house in several long strides. Wearing a seaman’s cap, a yellow slicker, jeans and work boots, he might be anyone. That sounded like a logical reason to her for stalling. In truth, uncertainty plagued her, kept her in the van. Coming here to see him was what she’d promised to do, but was she doing the right thing?

      A light went on at the back of the cottage. It was the kitchen. She’d dried dishes often enough at the old porcelain sink. Mentally she geared up for the next moments, considered what she’d say. This situation was too important for her to mess up. But she was no more prepared now than she’d been hours, even days, before, and her empty stomach knotted.

      Nerves had kept her from eating more than the candy bars. She could have excused uneasiness to old feelings and memories of when he used to make her teenage heart palpitate. Unbeknown to him, Kane Riley had been the first love of her life. In retrospect, Rachel concluded that she’d fantasized about him because he’d been forbidden fruit, the bad boy. But she wasn’t fifteen anymore, innocent and naive; she was experienced, had had a lover. Whatever nervousness was besieging her had more to do with concern for a baby than puppy love.

      As she slid out of the van, the wind whipped at her, tossed down her hood. She yanked it up again, then stretched into the back seat to unbuckle Heather from her car seat. She wrapped her snugly in a heavy blanket and nestled her against her chest and beneath the opened rain slicker.

      Almost punishingly the rain whipped at the side of her face before she reached the steps. They creaked beneath her feet; memories flooded her. As a child, she used to chase up the stairs after her brother. As a teen, she’d come down those stairs with the gangly sixteen-year-old star of the school basketball team.

      On the porch now, she dabbed a hand at her wet face before she knocked on the door. In a matter of minutes she would fulfill a plan that had started in Texas almost two weeks ago. Optimism, along with tenacity, ranked as her best traits, but she was filled with doubt.

      Tempted to turn on her heels and scurry back to the van, she rapped again. An instant later, the door swung open. Kane still intimidated her with a look, she realized, feeling more nervous than she wanted to be. “Hi,” she said with exaggerated brightness.

      Deep-set eyes traveled down to her soaked and mud-spotted sneakers, then came back to her face. “What do you want?”

      Rachel had used the moment to inch closer to the screen door, to breathe again. “It’s been ages.” She gave him her best smile. “I don’t know if you remember me. I was friends with Marnie,” she

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