Sanctuary

whore instead of angel, and a poor choice.
    If he decided to—if he decided he needed just a little more practice before the main event—Kirby, with her pretty eyes and angel hands, would be a fine subject. She would work out just fine.
    Something to think about, he mused. Something to consider. But for now he thought he’d wander toward Sanctuary and see if Jo Ellen was out and about.
    It was nearly time to remind her he was thinking about her.

EIGHTEEN
    A S Giff drove up the road to Sanctuary, he saw Lexy. She stood on the second-floor terrace, her long legs prettily displayed in cuffed cotton shorts, her hair bundled messily on top of her head. She was washing windows, which he was sure would have her in one of her less hospitable moods.
    As appealing a picture as she made, she would have to wait. He needed to talk to Brian.
    She saw Giff park his pickup but barely spared him a glance. Her smile was smug as she polished off the mixture of vinegar and water with newspaper until the windowpane shone. She’d known he would come around, though it had taken him longer than she’d expected.
    But she decided to forgive him—after he crawled just a little.
    She bent to soak her rag again, turning her head a bit, slanting her eyes over and down. Then sprang straight up when she saw Giff was heading not toward the house and her but toward the old smokehouse, where Brian was painting porch furniture.
    Why, that rattlesnake, she thought, slapping the cleaning solution on the next window. If he was waiting for her to come to him, he was going to be sorely disappointed. She’d never forgive him now. Not if she lived to be a thousand years old. He could crawl over hot coals, she thought, furiously polishing the window. He could beg and plead and call her name on his deathbed and she would laugh gaily and walk on.
    From this moment on, Giff Verdon meant less than nothing to her.
    She picked up her bucket and moved three windows down so she could keep an eye on him.
    At the moment, Lexy and her moods weren’t at the forefront of Giff’s mind. He caught the oversweet smell of fresh paint, heard the hiss of the sprayer. He worked up a smile as he rounded the stone corner of the smokehouse and saw Brian.
    Little dots of sea-blue paint freckled his arms to past the elbows, and polka-dotted the old jeans he wore. An army-green tarp was spread out and covered with chaises and chairs. Brian was giving the old glider a second coat.
    “Nice color,” Giff called out.
    Brian moved the nozzle slowly back and forth another stroke before disengaging it. “You know Cousin Kate. Every few years she wants something different—and always ends up going with blue.”
    “Freshens them up nice, though.”
    “It does.” Brian flicked the motor off, set the sprayer down. “She’s ordered new umbrellas for the tables, pads for the chairs. Should be in on the ferry in another day or two. She wants the picnic tables painted over at the campground, too.”
    “I can take care of that if you don’t have time.”
    “I’ll probably do it.” Brian rolled his shoulders free of kinks. “Gets me out in the air. Gives me some daydreaming time.” He’d just been having a nice one, too, replaying his night with Kirby.
    He knew he would never think of a stethoscope in quite the same way again.
    “How’s that porch coming?”
    “Got the screening in the truck. The weather looks like it’s going to hold, so I should be finished by end of the week, like Miss Kate wanted.”
    “Good. I’ll try to come by and take a look at it.”
    “How’s the hand doing?” Giff asked, nodding toward the bandage.
    “Oh.” Frowning, Brian flexed his fingers. “A little stiff is all.” Brian didn’t ask how Giff had heard about it. News simply floated on the island’s air—especially the juiciest tidbits. The fact was, he considered it a wonder no one knew that he’d spent most of the night on the good doctor’s examining table.
    “You and Doc Kirby, huh?”
    “What?”
    “You and Doc Kirby.” Giff adjusted his cap. “My cousin Ned was down to the beach early this morning. You know how he collects shells, polishes them up and sells them off to day-trippers down to the ferry. Seems he saw you leaving the doc’s this morning about daybreak. You know how Ned runs his mouth.”
    So much for wonders, Brian mused. “Yeah, I do. How long did it take him to pass the news?”
    “Well ...” Amused, Giff rubbed his chin. “I was heading down to the