Deadline (Sandra Brown)

“What did he want when he called you back?”
    “He asked about, uh…garbage collection.”
    Stef’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, don’t tell me.”
    Time to change the subject. “Are the boys down?”
    “They were waiting for a story from you, but they went unconscious the second their heads hit the pillows.”
    “Thank you. I had to see to some things in my office. Reply to some e-mails.” Look under the front doormat.
    “Mind if I borrow your car again? I’ll cover the gas.”
    “Seeing Dirk?”
    “Um-huh.”
    “You’re welcome to invite him to come here one night.”
    Stef wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think so. He wouldn’t exactly fit into the cozy family scene. He’s not the type.”
    “Oh? What type is he?”
    “Hip. Tattoos and a beard. He’s older than me.”
    “By how much?”
    She laughed. “I think my instinct is right. You’d take one look at him and disapprove. But that’s cool. It’s not like I’m that smitten. At the end of next week, I’ll be going back to Kansas, and Dirk will be a blurry memory of my summer.”
    After Stef left, Amelia continued upstairs and went into the boys’ bedroom. She kissed each of them, then sat on the edge of Hunter’s bunk and watched them while they slept. Usually that brought her a sense of peace and well-being.
    Tonight, it only served to remind her how vulnerable they were, how young and innocent, and totally dependent on her to protect them. Many times, she’d had to shelter them from Jeremy’s dark moods, his heavy drinking, his rants about her working at the museum. After returning from his second tour in Afghanistan, her job had been one of the first things he’d picked quarrels over.
    He’d wanted her waiting at home for him when he got off work every day and had resented any evening event or meeting that she was expected to attend. He became increasingly belligerent over having to stay at home with the boys until, finally, she began making excuses to George Metcalf as to why she had to miss work-related occasions.
    But their evenings spent at home together were far from idyllic. She couldn’t say anything that didn’t spark a touchy reaction or full-throttle fight. The boys’ constant activity and noise grated on him.
    At first Jeremy had been a proud and boastful father to both boys. She had photographs of him cuddling them. In those, he looked happy and content. He’d been playful and had dazzled them with tricks, such as pulling pennies from their ears. He’d indulged them with treats and small gifts, which she allowed because he had missed much of their infancy. His desire to spoil them was understandable.
    But after that second tour, his interaction with them became unpredictable. He’d become too short-tempered and impatient to be a hands-on dad. The overindulgent daddy became an angry man that her boys grew wary of, and their wariness irritated him, making the time he spent with them volatile. Ultimately she became afraid to leave them alone with him. Which was one of the main reasons she’d left. Protecting her children had become more important than saving the bad marriage.
    Disturbed by those memories, she kissed the boys one more time, then went into her bedroom. Now that she knew eyes were watching, she made certain to pull down the shades before undressing.
    *  *  *
     
    It was a large and rambling house, and Dawson occupied very little of it. He didn’t generate enough noise to fill it, either, so he heard every creak of wood, every faucet drip, and every thud of unknown origin.
    He’d chosen to use one of the upstairs bedrooms, solely because the windows on the west side of it afforded an unrestricted view of Amelia’s house.
    From it, he watched Stef get into Amelia’s car and head toward the village. Shortly after she left, he saw Amelia enter her bedroom, walk straight to the row of windows, and pull down each shade with a purposeful tug, as though she knew he was watching. She wanted him to know with certainty that she was closing off not only his view but also his access to her life. A few minutes later, the light in the room went out.
    With one hand propped high on the jamb, he continued to watch her house through his open window. The breeze off the ocean was balmy and moisture-laden. Against the skin of his belly, it felt like a woman’s breath. Like the softest of open-mouth kisses.
    Groaning, he turned his face into his raised arm and rubbed his forehead against his biceps, cursing himself