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He stuck a finger to his cheek. "It's the dimple."
She felt her lips twitch before she could stop herself. "Magic, huh?"
His eyes grew flirty. "Is it working on you?"
Inside, she stilled much like the darkness around them. Should she laugh it off or tell him the truth? Roll the dice or hold her cards close? "Eh, kind of."
"Perfect."
He settled back, kicking them into motion again, seeming content to do nothing more than sit beside her, sip liquor, and enjoy the intimacy of not having to say a thing.
An owl hooted and the squeak of the swing created a soothing lullaby as the warm liquor made Abigail feel languid and heavy. After they'd been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour, Abigail stopped the swing. "I should go inside."
"It's late," he agreed, rising and extending a hand. She took it, almost sighing at the warmth of his skin against her cold hand. God help her, but she wanted to feel his arms around her, to give him what she'd denied Cal earlier.
''Thank you," she said.
His eyes stayed soft as he whispered, "That's what neighbors are for."
"Neighbors?"
''And maybe friends."
"Oh.” She glanced away, trying not to feel crushing disappointment. Stupid woman. Leif had been doing what he did best-charming anything in a skirt. Not that she wore a skirt. Too cold for that. But he probably flirted with grocery store cashiers, phlebotomists, and anyone he came in contact with including lonely, pathetic neighbors.
''And women I want to kiss."
Abigail started. "You want to kiss me?"
He brought her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss on the back of it. His whiskey breath fanned her skin, causing heat to shimmer in her stomach. ''Another time, pretty Abigail."
Abigail stared at the hand he released before snapping out of the trance he'd put her in. "Oh."
"Night."
"Good night, Leif. Thank you."
He picked up the bottle and lifted a hand as he walked down the steps. "My pleasure."
Then he left her with a smile... and a hunger she knew would keep her awake long into the night.
6
THE NEXT MORNING Leif skirted the woods behind his house. Laurel Woods sprawled in the middle of twenty acres of woods that harbored deer, raccoon, and pesky squirrels who cut pinecones into his lap pool. Technically, he was trespassing, but since he'd taken Abigail a drink last night, he was sure he could get a pass for traipsing through her woods on an early morning hike.
Of course, his real intent was to poke around the abandoned cabins that sat to the left of the huge white house.
His mother had lived in one of them.
Hell, he may have even been conceived in one of them. All along he'd intended to get to know the owner of Laurel Woods. But he hadn't realized the owner was the fusspot PTA president, the kind of woman who made a guy's fellows shrink to the size of blueberries. His neighbors had told him that Abigail had petitioned against the subdivision, even going as far as to solicit the aid of the Historical Society. She'd lost. And she hadn't been happy about it, erecting a huge fence to block the development from her sight. Leif had practiced patience hoping to eventually befriend the woman. And finally opportunity had plopped in his lap by way of Birdie.
He glanced at the large Greek revival house standing proud and rebellious in the face of the elements determined to wear away the centuries-old edifice. It was just like its owner-defiant and guarded.
As he pushed through the bushes that encroached on the trail, he wondered if anything his mother had created remained in the former cabins that had been modified forty-five years ago to house traveling artists. He had little hope since the cabins had been shut up for years, but he'd wanted to see where his mother had lived. Perhaps something remained of her, some hint of who she'd been... of whom she'd fallen in love with.
At the coffeehouse where he sometimes played on Friday nights he'd run into Royal Desadier, the grandson of Simeon Harvey's former groundskeeper. Royal lived with his grandfather Cletus, who suffered poor health but whose mind was still sharp. Leif asked to visit Cletus because the man had been around when artists populated the grounds.
Simeon Harvey had brought in artists from all over the world, including Leif's mother, who had journeyed from her Colorado commune to a studio in one of the cabins. She'd left four short months after arriving amidst allegations of murder, taking with her what she called her one true masterpiece-Leif.
