Less than a Stranger Read online

  In the beginning, she’d been so young, so dependent upon him. And he hadn’t let her down. Then, as she had grown older, Megan had helped by assuming the duties her grandfather had found tiresome: accounts and bank reconciliations. Often, Megan suppressed her own desires in order to fulfill what she thought of as her duty. She dealt with figures, the unromantic process of adding and subtracting. But she also dealt with the illusionary world of art. There were times, when she was deep in her work, that she forgot the rules she had set up for day-to-day living. Often she felt pulled in two directions. She had enough to think about without David Katcherton.

  Why a man virtually unknown to her should so successfully upset the delicate balance of her world, she didn’t know. She shook her head. Instead of dwelling on it, she decided, she would work out her frustration by finishing the bust. When it was done, perhaps she would be able to see more clearly exactly how she perceived him. She returned to her work.

  The next hour passed quickly. She forgot her irritation with Katch for going fishing with her grandfather. How annoying to have seen him so eager and well rested when she had peeked through her bedroom curtain at five-thirty that morning! She’d fallen back into her rumpled bed to spend another hour staring, heavy-eyed, at the ceiling. She refused to remember how appealing his laugh had sounded in the hush of dawn.

  The planes of his face were just taking shape under her hands when she heard a car drive up. Katch’s laugh was followed by the more gravelly tones of her grandfather’s.

  Because her studio was above the garage, Megan had a bird’s-eye view of the house and drive. She watched as Katch lifted their fishing cooler from the back of the pickup. A grin was on his face, but whatever he said was too low for Megan to hear. Pop threw back his head, his dramatic mane of white flying back as he roared his appreciation. He gave Katch a companionable slap on the back. Unaccountably, Megan was miffed. They seemed to be getting along entirely too well.

  She continued to watch the man as they unloaded tackle boxes and gear. Katch was dressed much as he had been the day before. The pale blue T-shirt had lettering across the chest, but the words were faded and the distance was too great for Megan to read them. He wore Pop’s fishing cap, another source of annoyance for Megan. She was forced to admit the two of them looked good together. There was the contrast between their ages and their builds, but both seemed to her to be extraordinarily masculine men. Their looks were neither smooth nor pampered. She became engrossed with the similarities and difference between them. When Katch looked up, spotting her at the window, Megan continued to stare down, oblivious, absorbed with what she saw in them.

  Katch grinned, pushing the fishing cap back so that he had a clearer view. The window was long, the sill coming low at her knees. It had the effect of making Megan seem to be standing in a full-size picture frame. As was her habit when working, she had pulled her hair back in a ribbon. Her face seemed younger and more vulnerable, her eyes wider. The ancient shirt of Pop’s she used as a smock dwarfed her.

  Her eyes locked on Katch’s, and for a moment she thought she saw something flash in them—something she’d seen briefly the night before in the moonlight. A response trembled along her skin. Then his grin was arrogant again, his eyes amused.

  “Come on down, Meg.” He gestured before he bent to lift the cooler again. “We brought you a present.” He turned to carry the cooler around the side of the house.

  “I’d rather have emeralds,” she called back.

  “Next time,” Katch promised carelessly, before turning to carry the cooler around the side of the house.

  She found Katch alone, setting up for the cleaning of the catch. He smiled when he saw her and set down the knife he held, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her thoroughly, to her utter astonishment. It was a kiss of casual ownership rather than passion, but it elicited a response that surprised her with its force. More than a little shaken, Megan pushed away.

  “You can’t just …”

  “I already did,” he pointed out. “You’ve been working,” Katch stated as if the searing kiss had never taken place. “I’d like to see your studio.”

  It was better, Megan decided, to follow his lead and keep the conversation light. “Where’s my grandfather?” she asked as she moved to the cooler and prepared to lift the lid.

  “Pop’s inside stowing the gear.”

  Though it was the habit of everyone who knew him to refer to Timothy Miller as Pop, Megan frowned at Katch.

  “You work fast, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. I like your grandfather, Meg. You of all people should understand how easy that is to do.”

  Megan regarded him steadily. She took a step closer, as if testing the air between them. “I don’t know if I should trust you.”

  “You shouldn’t.” Katch grinned again and ran a finger down the bridge of her nose. “Not for a second.” He tossed open the lid of the cooler, then gestured to the fish inside. “Hungry?”

  Megan smiled, letting herself be charmed despite the warnings of her sensible self. “I wasn’t. But I could be. Especially if I don’t have to clean them.”

  “Pop told me you were squeamish.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?” Megan cast a long, baleful look over her shoulder toward the house. “What else did he tell you?”

  “That you like daffodils and used to have a stuffed elephant named Henry.”

  Megan’s mouth dropped open. “He told you that?”

  “And that you watch horror movies, then sleep with the blankets over your head.”

  Megan narrowed her eyes as Katch’s grin widened. “Excuse me,” she said crossly, pushing Katch aside before racing through the kitchen door. She could hear Katch’s laughter behind her.

  “Pop!” She found him in the narrow room off the kitchen where he stored his fishing paraphernalia. He gave her an affectionate smile as she stood, hands on hips, in the doorway.

  “Hi, Megan. Let me tell you, that boy knows how to fish. Yessiree, he knows how to fish.”

  His obvious delight with Katch caused Megan to clench her teeth. “That’s the best news I’ve had all day,” she said, stepping into the room. “But exactly why did you feel it necessary to tell that boy that I had a stuffed elephant and slept with the covers over my head?”

  Pop lifted a hand, ostensibly to scratch his head. It wasn’t in time, however, to conceal the grin. Megan’s brows drew together.

  “Pop, really,” she said in exasperation. “Must you babble about me as if I were a little girl?”

  “You’ll always be my little girl,” he said maddeningly, and kissed her cheek. “Did you see those trout? We’ll have a heck of a fish fry tonight.”

  “I suppose,” Megan began and folded her arms, “he’s going to eat with us.”

  “Well, of course.” Pop blinked his eyes. “After all, Meg, he caught half the fish.”

  “That’s just peachy.”

  “We thought you might whip up some of your special blueberry tarts.” He smiled ingenuously.

  Megan sighed, recognizing defeat.

  Within minutes, Pop heard the thumping and banging of pans. He grinned, then slipped out of the room, moving noiselessly through the house and out the front door.

  “Whip up some tarts,” Megan muttered later as she cut shortening into the flour. “Men.”

  She was bending over to slip the pastry shells into the oven when the screen door slammed shut behind her. Turning, she brushed at the seat of her pants and met the predictable grin.

  “I’ve heard about your tarts,” Katch commented, setting the cleaned, filleted fish on the counter. “Pop said he had a few things to see to in the garage and to call him when dinner’s ready.”

  Megan glared through the screen door at the adjoining building. “Oh, he did, did he?” She turned back to Katch. “Well, if you think you can just sit back and be waited on, then you’re in for a disappointment.”

  “You didn’t think I’d allow you to cook my fish, did y
ou?” he interrupted.

  She stared at his unperturbed face.

  “I always cook my own fish. Where’s the frying pan?”

  Silently, still eyeing him, Megan pointed out the cabinet. She watched as he squatted down to rummage for it.

  “It’s not that I don’t think you’re a good cook,” he went on as he stood again with the cast-iron skillet in his hand. “It’s that I know I am.”

  “Are you implying I couldn’t cook those pathetic little sardines properly?”

  “Let’s just say I just don’t like to take chances with my dinner.” He began poking into cupboards. “Why don’t you make a salad,” he suggested mildly, “and leave the fish to me?” There was a grunt of approval as he located the cracker meal.

  Megan watched him casually going through her kitchen cupboards. “Why don’t you,” she began, “take your trout and …”

  Her suggestion was interrupted by the rude buzz of the oven timer.

  “Your tarts.” Katch walked to the refrigerator for eggs and milk.

  With supreme effort, Megan controlled herself enough to deal with the pastry shells. Setting them on the rack to cool, she decided to create the salad of the decade. It would put his pan-fried trout to shame.

  For a time there were no words. The hot oil hissed as Katch added his coated trout. Megan tore the lettuce. She sliced raw vegetables. The scent from the pan was enticing. Megan peeled a carrot and sighed. Hearing her, Katch raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “You had to be good at it, didn’t you?” Megan’s smile was reluctant. “You had to do it right.”

  He shrugged, then snatched the peeled carrot from her hand. “You’d like it better if I didn’t?” Katch took a bite of the carrot before Megan could retrieve it. Shaking her head, she selected another.

  “It would have been more gratifying if you’d fumbled around and made a mess of things.”

  Katch tilted his head as he poked at the sizzling fish with a spatula. “Is that a compliment?”

  Megan diced the carrot, frowning at it thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It might be easier to deal with you if you didn’t seem so capable.”

  He caught her off guard by taking her shoulders and turning her around to face him. “Is that what you want to do?” His fingers gently massaged her flesh. “Deal with me?” When she felt herself being drawn closer, she placed her hands on his chest. “Do I make you nervous?”

  “No.” Megan shook her head with the denial. “No, of course not.” Katch only lifted a brow and drew her closer. “Yes,” she admitted in a rush, and pulled away. “Yes, blast it, you do.” Stalking to the refrigerator, she yanked out the blueberry filling she had prepared. “You needn’t look so pleased about it,” she told him, wishing she could work up the annoyance she thought she should feel.

  “Several things make me nervous.” Megan moved to the pastry shells and began to spoon in the filling. “Snakes, tooth decay, large unfriendly dogs.” When she heard him chuckle, Megan turned her head and found herself grinning at him. “It’s difficult to actively dislike you when you make me laugh.”

  “Do you have to actively dislike me?” Katch flipped the fish expertly and sent oil sizzling.

  “That was my plan,” Megan admitted. “It seemed like a good idea.”

  “Why don’t we work on a different plan?” Katch suggested, searching through a cupboard again for a platter. “What do you like? Besides daffodils?”

  “Soft ice cream,” Megan responded spontaneously. “Oscar Wilde, walking barefoot.”

  “How about baseball?” Katch demanded.

  Megan paused in the act of filling the shells. “What about it?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes,” she considered, smiling. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “I knew we had something in common.” Katch grinned. He turned the flame off under the pan. “Why don’t you call Pop? The fish is done.”

  * * *

  There was something altogether too cozy about the three of them sitting around the kitchen table eating a meal each of them had a part in providing, Megan thought. She could sense the growing affection between the two men and it worried her. She was sure that Katch was still as determined as ever to buy Joyland. Yet Pop was so obviously happy in his company. Megan decided that, while she couldn’t trust Katch unreservedly, neither could she maintain her original plan. She couldn’t dislike him or keep him from touching their lives. She thought it best not to dwell on precisely how he was touching hers.

  “Tell you what.” Pop sighed over his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. “Since the pair of you cooked dinner, I’ll do the dishes.” His eyes passed over Megan to Katch. “Why don’t you two go for a walk? Megan likes to walk on the beach.”

  “Pop!”

  “I know you young people like to be alone,” he continued shamelessly.

  Megan opened her mouth to protest, but Katch spoke first. “I’m always willing to take a walk with a beautiful woman, especially if it means getting out of KP,” he said.

  “You have such a gracious way of putting things,” Megan began.

  “Actually, I’d really like to see your studio.”

  “Take Katch up, Megan,” Pop insisted. “I’ve been bragging about your pieces all day. Let him see for himself.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Megan decided it was simpler to agree. Certainly she didn’t mind showing Katch her work. And, there was little doubt that it was safer to let him putter around her studio than to walk with him on the beach.

  “All right.” She rose. “I’ll take you up.”

  As they passed through the screen door, Katch slipped his arm over her shoulders. “This is a nice place,” he commented. He looked around the small trim yard lined with azalea shrubs. “Very quiet and settled.”

  The weight of his arm was pleasant. Megan allowed it to remain as they walked toward the garage. “I wouldn’t think you’d find something quiet and settled terribly appealing.”

  “There’s a time for porch swings and a time for roller coasters.” Katch glanced down at her as she paused at the foot of the steps. “I’d think you’d know that.”

  “I do,” she said, knowing her involvement with him was beginning to slip beyond her control. “I wasn’t aware you did.” Thoughtfully, Megan climbed the stairs. “It’s rather a small-scale studio, I suppose, and not very impressive. It’s really just a place to work where I won’t disturb Pop and he won’t disturb me.”

  Megan opened the door, flicking on the light as the sun was growing dim.

  There was much less order here than she permitted herself in other areas of her life. The room was hers, personally, more exclusively than her bedroom in the house next door. There were tools—calipers, chisels, gouges, and an assortment of knives and files. There was the smock she’d carelessly thrown over a chair when Katch had called her downstairs. Future projects sat waiting inside, untouched slabs of limestone and chunks of wood. There was a precious piece of marble she hoarded like a miser. Everywhere, on shelves, tables and even the floor, were samples of her work.

  Katch moved past her into the room. Strangely, Megan felt a flutter of nerves. She found herself wondering how to react if he spoke critically, or worse, offered some trite compliment. Her work was important to her and very personal. To her surprise she realized that she cared about his opinion. Quietly, she closed the door behind her, then stood with her back against it.

  Katch had gone directly to a small walnut study of a young girl building a sand castle. She was particularly pleased with the piece, as she had achieved exactly the mood she had sought. There was more than youth and innocence in the child’s face. The girl saw herself as the princess in the castle tower. The half-smile on her face made the onlooker believe in happy endings.

  It was painstakingly detailed, the beginnings of a crenellated roof and the turrets of the castle, the slender fingers of the girl as she sculpted the sand. Her hair was long, falling over her shoulders and wispi
ng into her face as though a breeze teased it. Megan had felt successful when the study had been complete, but now, watching Katch turn it over in his hands, his mouth oddly grave, his eyes intent, she felt a twinge of doubt.

  “This is your work?” Because the silence had seemed so permanent, Megan jerked when Katch spoke.

  “Well, yes.” While she was still searching for something more to say, Katch turned away to prowl the room.

  He picked up piece after piece, examining, saying nothing. As the silence dragged on, minute upon minute, Megan became more and more tense. If he’d just say something, she thought. She picked up the discarded smock and folded it, nervously smoothing creases as she listened to the soft sound of his tennis shoes on the wood floor.

  “What are you doing here?”

  She whirled, eyes wide. Whatever reaction she had expected, it certainly hadn’t been anger. And there was anger on his face, a sharp, penetrating anger which caused her to grip the worn material of the smock tighter.

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Megan’s voice was calm, but her heart had begun to beat faster.

  “Why are you hiding?” he demanded. “What are you afraid of?”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “I’m not hiding, Katch. You’re not making any sense.”

  “I’m not making sense?” He took a step toward her, then stopped, turning away to pace again. She watched in fascination. “Do you think it makes sense to create things like this and lock them up in a room over a garage?” He lifted polished limestone which had been formed into a head-and-shoulders study of a man and a woman in each other’s arms. “When you’ve been given talent like this, you have an obligation. What are you going to do, continue to stack them in here until there isn’t any more room?”

  His reaction had thrown Megan completely off-balance. She looked around the room. “No, I … I take pieces into an art gallery downtown now and then. They sell fairly well, especially during the season, and—”