Still Lake - Anne Stuart [51]
She didn’t move, waiting for her heartbeat to still, waiting for reality to wash over her. It was a cool, silent night in the country, and the only sound was the rustle of leaves as that same soft breeze stirred them. That, and the faint lap of the lake against the sandy shore were all that broke the stillness.
They were noises she was used to, soft, lulling noises that soothed her to sleep. Why had she woken up in such a panic?
She scooted back against the headboard, tucking the plump feather pillows behind her. It must have been a nightmare, though she wasn’t quite sure what had set it off. In fact, she hadn’t had the world’s calmest day. At least Marty had been halfway cheerful, and she’d even taken her dishes out after they finished dinner. Grace had gone off with Doc, and by the time she returned she’d gone straight to bed. Nothing to panic about with either of them, at least for now.
Of course, there was the big hunting knife she’d found hidden beneath Grace’s underclothes. That in itself wasn’t terribly worrisome—Grace had a habit of appropriating strange things and leaving them in her room. Over the past few months Sophie had retrieved three of her most flowery dresses, a frying pan, four half-eaten boxes of cookies, a trowel, an electric razor from God knows where and a red wool hunting cap. She had no possible use for any of those things, except perhaps the cookies. Grace had never had much of a sweet tooth, and she’d seldom eaten store-bought cookies, but then, she was changing so radically that it was no wonder that Sophie couldn’t keep up with her.
Still, it was nothing out of the ordinary in terms of Grace’s recent behavior. Though the knife was intrinsically more dangerous—she could have cut herself on the dull, rusty blade.
But at least it was out of her reach now, tucked in the back of Sophie’s closet. She could clean the rust stains off it, maybe give it to Doc to dispose of. It was a good-looking knife if one liked that sort of thing, and men seemed uncommonly fascinated with weapons. She didn’t think Doc would be, but he probably knew someone in town who’d like it.
As a matter of fact, it had a distinctive handle, a carved white bonelike substance. Not the sort of knife that was kept behind the glass case in Audley’s extensive hunting section. Maybe Doc would know who’d lost a knife like that one, and could get it back to its rightful owner. And even come up with a reason why Grace would have found it and hidden it in her drawer.
It was really nothing to worry about. No more than Marty’s interest in the new gardener. Patrick Laflamme was immune to her, Marge had assured her. He was much too focused on going back to college and accomplishing things to be distracted by a young girl who meant nothing but trouble. Besides, he had a stern French-Canadian mother who’d keep him on the straight and narrow.
So that situation was safe enough. The inn was almost ready, everything was running smoothly. What was her problem?
She knew perfectly well what her problem was—she just didn’t want to think about it. It could be summed up in one word. Well, maybe two. John Smith.
Why in the world had he kissed her like that? And why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? It wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed. She’d kissed any number of men, looking for one, anyone, who would entice her enough to make her throw caution to the wind. She still hadn’t found the right one, but that wasn’t for want of trying. She’d kissed more than her share of toads, searching for a prince in disguise. So far they’d all been toads.
Including John Smith—or whatever his name was. Who did he think he was, to grab her like that? What in heaven’s name made him think she’d want him to kiss her? Had she been sending out erotic messages? Highly unlikely. Maybe he was just egotistical enough to think any woman would want him to kiss her, including someone who’d gone out of her way to show her dislike…
Had she? Had she been cool and unfriendly? She’d meant to be. But the question was, why? Why did John Smith bring out the worst in her?