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She paused to study him. He’d taken off his sunglasses, so his eyes were squinted almost shut to block the glare. But his attention was fixed on her. “Did you meet Jeremy in Afghanistan?”
She could tell the question surprised him. “No. How could I have? I just got back two weeks ago. I’d never heard of him until Willard Strong’s murder trial was brought to my attention.”
“By whom?”
“I can’t reveal a source.”
“How convenient.”
“Ask me something else.”
She picked at the fringe on the beach towel lining her chair. “Why didn’t you approach me through normal channels?”
“Could I have found you?”
“Through the museum. Through Lemuel Jackson. On the Internet, for that matter. Anybody can be found. How about Glenda? She would have found me.”
He cracked a smile, but quickly pulled it back in. “Would you have agreed to an interview?”
“You know the answer to that. I’d like an answer to my question, please.”
“What didn’t I try a straightforward approach? Honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to write a story about Jeremy. I was urged to come down here, sit in on the trial, check it out. By the third day, I was basically bored, ready to cash in, go home, and find another topic of more interest to me. But I changed my mind and decided to stay, at least for a while longer. Take it to the next step.” He shrugged. “You know the rest.”
“I caught you at taking it to the next step.”
“It wasn’t my proudest moment when I came out of the bathroom yesterday and realized I’d been caught spying, with my pants down, literally.”
She resisted the appeal of his crooked smile. “You always have an answer ready, don
’t you?”
“Not always, no.”
“That hasn’t been my experience. All of your answers are self-deprecating, designed that way to be disarming, I’m sure.”
He turned completely serious again. “I haven’t ‘designed’ my answers, Amelia, and I think you’re anything but disarmed right now. In fact, you seem locked and loaded. Are you that mad at me for playing with Hunter and Grant?”
“Why would a grown man want to waste his time that way?”
“I don’t consider it a waste of time.”
“Even worse. That’s an admission that you have an ulterior motive. I hazard to guess what it is.”
“You think I’m into little boys?”
She didn’t say anything.
“I took just as many pictures of you.”
Recalling one in particular sent a rush of heat through her. “That’s supposed to reassure me?”
“It should reassure you that I’m not a deviant.”
“Perhaps. But it doesn’t rule out that you’re a slick opportunist.”
He tipped his chin down and stared at his sandy bare feet. Or maybe he was staring at hers, their bare toes being only inches apart. In any case, it was several moments before he raised his head.
“You don’t know me, so I don’t blame you in the slightest for being suspicious. In fact, I admire you for being ultraprotective and careful of who you let near your children. But I would never harm those boys, or you. Please trust me on that.”
