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Her heart pounded at the memory, and she silently cursed herself for being a nostalgic idiot. So she missed his sexy looks, his playful grin, his presence in her house.
He headed east, leaving the sun to cast a few dying rays over the darkening waters of the Pacific. The sky had turned a dusky shade of lavender, reflected in the restless sea.
Zane drove without saying much, but she could sense him watching her, smell the clean earthy scent of his aftershave. She’d been crazy to agree to this, she decided. She was much too aware of him.
“Why did we leave the city?” she asked, to break the awkward silence stretching between them.
“Because I discovered a place you’ll like.”
“In Kansas?”
His sensual lips twitched. “Not quite.”
“So let me get this straight. You thought, ‘Gee, Lee Johnston’s about to be released from the hospital—this would be a great time to break into Kaylie’s house and take her to dinner in some restaurant in Timbuktu.’”
He grinned. “You’re astounding, Kaylie. The way you read me like a book,” he said sarcastically. “You know, that’s exactly what I thought!”
She rolled her eyes and held her tongue for the rest of the journey.
Two hours later, Kaylie’s stomach rumbled as she stepped out of his Jeep and eyed the restaurant he’d chosen. She’d expected him to take her to one of their old haunts along the waterfront in Carmel where they could eat seafood and laugh, drink a little wine and remember the good times—the few carefree times they’d shared as man and wife. When he’d mentioned the mountains, her interest had been piqued.
This place, this ivy-covered, two-storied house that looked as if it had been built before the turn of the century, wasn’t like Zane at all. Mystified, she walked up the worn steps to a wide plank porch. A few rockers moved with the wind, and leaves in the surrounding maple and ash trees rustled as they turned with the breeze. Quaint, she thought. And so unlike Zane.
She eyed him from beneath her lashes, but his strong features seemed relaxed, his face handsome and rakish, one thatch of dark hair falling over his eyes. He shoved the wayward lock from his forehead, but it fell back again, making him look less than perfect and all the more wonderful.
Get a grip, she reminded herself as they walked into the old house and Zane tied Franklin to a tree near the entrance.
“You sure he won’t scare the guests?” Kaylie asked.
“This ol’ boy? No way,” Zane said, rubbing the dog behind his ears.
Inside, a mâitre d’ escorted them to a small table in what once had been the parlor.
Zane ordered wine for them both, then after a waiter had poured them each a glass of claret, Zane touched his glass to hers. “To old times,” he said.
“And independence,” she replied.
They dined on fresh oysters, grilled scallops, vegetables and crusty warm bread. Zane’s features seemed sharper in the candlelight, his eyes a warmer shade of gray as he poured the last of the bottle into their glasses, then ordered another.
Conversation was difficult. Kaylie talked of work at the station; Zane listened, never contributing. As if in unspoken agreement, they didn’t discuss Lee Johnston.
“So where’d you get the dog?” she asked as he topped off her glass. She was beginning to relax as the wine seeped into her blood.
“He used to work for the police.”
“What happened—they fire him?”
“He retired.”
Kaylie stifled a yawn and tried not to notice the play of candlelight in his hair. “And you ended up with him.”
Zane shrugged. “We get along.”
“Better than we did?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and sipping from her glass.
“Much.”
“He must do just as you say.”
