The Unquiet - J. D. Robb [136]
Her stomach turned and her eyes played wavy tricks with her eyesight—but only long enough to make her stop in her tracks. Still a good thirty feet from the edge, she knew she wasn’t as afraid of the height as she was of the strange sense of familiarity that washed over her, overwhelming . . . and frightening.
Goose bumps zipped across her shoulders and down her arms. Her fingers turned to fists. The blood draining from her face pooled in the veins of her neck and made her throat tight; air was hard to get. Worst of all was the confusion—a lot of strange vibes with no cause and no understanding of what was happening to her.
Her muscles were stiff, sluggish, as she forced them to turn her around toward the house, yet the moment she saw the man they went limp and spastic. She staggered and her scream echoed out over the lake and down the river valley.
The man looked horrified and pushed out his arms, fingertips up, to make her stop, but he didn’t move to come closer. He stood halfway between her and the house. Looking right and then left at the trees that made the house covert, she wondered which direction to run for safety—bare feet forgotten.
“Wait! Wait. I’m sorry.” He took a step back. He looked inclined to run as well. “I thought you heard me coming, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Then, like the proverbial light bulb flashing on, he announced, “I’m a neighbor!”—like that made all the difference in the world.
Actually, it did make a slight difference, but only in as much as her vision stopped careening around for an escape route and for the first time truly focused on him. An average-looking man . . . maybe slightly better than average when the artist in her took in the fine symmetrical bone structure of his face. Tall and built on the large side, he looked athletic—or at least fit. His dark hair was clipped short and he was clean shaven. But frankly, she was an eye girl who believed that everything she needed to know about a person could be detected by the life in their eyes. He was wearing aviator shades.
“You’re Ivy Bonner, right? I’m guessing everyone on this end of the lake has been asked to watch out for you, but I live closest so I thought I’d come over and introduce myself.” Despite the fact that a dozen feet separated them, he stretched out his hand in friendship. “I’m Craig Tennet?” He asked like maybe she’d heard of him—but she hadn’t. He took a step forward. “Next house . . . about a mile that way.” He used his friendly hand to point north. “I’ve known the Rossinis”—he shook his head—“all my life, I guess. Gracie’s my godmother,” he said, like that ought to do it. When it obviously didn’t, he grew frustrated and whipped off his sunglasses. “Look, I just came over to introduce myself and to tell you that I’ll be here most of the summer, and if you need anything, just give me a call.” He patted the back and front pockets of his khaki slacks and finally pulled a business card from the pocket of his white oxford shirt. “My numbers.”
Holding the card between two fingers, he stretched out his arm like a ten-foot pole and started inching forward, his eyes sharp and quick, concerned and wary. By the time she could tell they were a lovely moss green color, she’d decided to meet him halfway and plucked the card from his grasp. He gave her a small, tentative smile even as he started backing away again.
“So. Okay. If you have any questions, need to borrow some sugar, anything . . . I’m right next door. If you can’t get through on my cell, call the house. Someone will always answer.” She nodded and he sighed—mission accomplished. “Great. All right then, I’ll probably see you around. And sorry about before . . . startling you. Next time I’ll . . . wear a bell or something.”
That made her smile, but he missed it when he turned to leave.
“Mr. . . . ah . . .” She looked at the card.
He stopped and turned back to her. “Craig.”
His voice was soft and deep like the purr of a really big cat—she liked it.
“Did you knock a few minutes ago? At the