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But there was no sign of Ryan in the living area and her heart began to thump uncomfortably fast as she hurried back up the hall.
Last night, when she had tried to bring up the subject of his leaving, Ryan had said he was tired and wanted an early night, but even though she had mentioned that if the ferries were sailing there would be an early commuter run, surely he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye!
She cautiously opened the door to his room, her jaw relaxing when she saw the black leather bag sitting under the neatly made bed.
Her eyes swept around the pristine room. Ryan was still only experiencing vague flashes of recall, but obviously the habit of personal tidiness was too deeply ingrained to be ignored. It might simply be that he was consciously on his best behaviour, but she was inclined to think that perhaps Ryan Flint was a domesticated animal after all.
Not necessarily tamed, just domesticated. Perhaps even married. She had used that unpalatable thought to help her dam the cascade of little thrills that had flooded through her whenever she turned and caught Ryan unexpectedly watching her with that sexy narrowing of his eyes.
Retracing her steps to the living room, Nina saw that the fire had been restoked and suddenly realised that Zorro, too, was missing. For the past couple of days, with Nina doing her best to make herself inaccessible, man and dog had been inseparable companions.
Perhaps they’d gone for a walk along the beach. Maybe Ryan had wanted to see if anyone would recognise him or vice versa, or perhaps he had wanted to call in on Dave Freeman to ask for a lift over to the jetty.
Nina grabbed the elderly binoculars from the bookcase and pushed open the sliding door, then stood on the deck to scan the beach, her body soaking up the weak rays of sunshine, which didn’t quite compensate for the chilly sea breeze lifting the loose hair off her shoulders and knifing keenly through her hand-knitted green jumper.
There were only three people visible on the right, two of them scrambling over a yacht that had been blown from its mooring up onto the beach. The other figure was so tall and skeletally thin it had to be Chas Peterson, dipping and bending as he dragged a large sack along the snaking high-waterline, collecting seaweed to feed the voracious compost heap that fertilised his highly prized vegetable garden.
In the other direction, on the short, triangular section of beach where the creek that ran down the rocky, scrub-covered hill flattened out to meet the sea, a large black Labrador was chasing seagulls away from a lump on the wet sand, while two children prodded ghoulishly with sticks at the obviously fishy corpse.
As Nina lowered the binoculars, she caught a glimpse of movement next door, a grey head moving off around the side of the house.
Ray Stewart was home again.
That meant the ferries were definitely back on schedule.
Normally, she would have gone straight over to say a cheery hello and listen to all Ray’s news about his family and fill him in on anything interesting that had occurred while he was away, but this morning she slunk back inside the house, guiltily aware that she was only putting off the inevitable.
She knew Ray would be annoyed that he had missed the drama of Ryan’s arrival and would want to share in the vicarious excitement by peppering her with questions about her mysterious guest. Nina had too many unanswered questions herself. She didn’t want to probe too deeply into her reactions to Ryan or think too hard about the dichotomy of her feelings—the compulsion to keep him at arm’s length that warred with the powerful undercurrent of attraction.
She ate her solitary breakfast and cleared away the dishes, then flitted around the living room tidying up, pausing frequently to glance out the window.
As she straightened the cover on the couch, she remembered Zorro making a nuisance of himself last night, snuffling and pawing at the fabric tucked deep into the crease where the padded back met the sagging seat. At the time, she had suspected him of having buried one of his bones down there, but a cursory inspection had produced nothing except fluff. Rather an embarrassing quantity of fluff! She couldn’t remember the last time she had thoroughly vacuumed the couch, and now, looking closely at the floral pattern, she could see faint streaks of dried mud on the bottom of the throw where Ryan’s feet had lain that first night. Maybe it was time to put the whole thing in the washing machine.
