He smiled. “My grandmother would say that describes my whole life. She says I’m a tumbleweed at heart.”

“Maybe that’s why you like Maine. All the granite around here isn’t going anywhere. It gives you a sense of permanence that you don’t have in your life right now.”

“So philosophical.”

She laughed. “Now you’re scaring me.” She got to her feet, took another sip of the Chianti before setting the glass down on a side table. “I don’t want to keep you. Thanks for the wine.”

Something about his tone-his expression, whatever-had spooked her, made her self-conscious, aware. Owen rose, setting his wineglass next to hers. “Linc thinks you’re going to end up selling your place, too. I told him it wouldn’t feel right not having a Browning out on these rocks.”

“The real Brownings are all gone now. Too many of them died young. Chris, his parents. God knows how many ancestors. I swear his grandfather lived to ninety-five just to spite the odds.”

Owen touched a finger to her jaw. He felt the heat of the fire on one side of him and, on the other side, the cool night air coming through the partially open door. Her skin was warm, soft. “Abigail.”

She took an audible breath. “I’ll never have that kind of love again. A first love. I know that.” She seemed to make herself look at him, her gaze clear, unwavering. “But don’t think I haven’t loved again. Or that I can’t.”

“What about falling in love again?”

“I haven’t-not in the way you mean. I have a good life. I have wonderful friends and colleagues, a great family, rewarding work. That’s a lot.”

“Enough?”

“I don’t live in the past, if that’s what you mean. I want answers to Chris’s death. I want justice for him. But that’s not the only thing that gets me up in the morning.”

With the tip of his finger, Owen traced the outline of her mouth, saw her shut her eyes for a split second longer than a normal blink, telling him she wasn’t unaffected by his touch.

“What about you?” she asked. “You haven’t married.”

“Not yet, no.”

“Then it’s something you think about-something you want.”

But he took a step closer to her, easing his hand behind her neck, breaking her concentration. He couldn’t pinpoint when he’d first become attracted to her. Maybe he’d always been attracted to her, but she’d seemed so untouchable, so remote. Chris Browning’s widow. But over the years-a glimpse here and there on the rocks, a friendly chat from time to time when they’d run into each other on a walk, at the hardware store, in the post office. He’d never expected to act on his attraction. And, yet, here he was.

His mouth found hers for a whisper of a kiss, but he knew he was holding back-he knew he had to put a hard brake on how far he wanted to go with her. She sank the fingers of one hand into his upper arm, not to balance herself, he realized, but to communicate that he’d gotten to her. Her lips opened to the kiss, and he responded, his tongue mingling with hers, her grasp on his arm tightening.

He lowered his arms around her middle and lifted her slightly off her feet, drawing her against him. How easy it would be to slide her pants over her slim hips and take her right here, in front of the fire.

Slipping his hands inside her waistband, he splayed his fingers against her firm, warm flesh.

“Damn, Owen,” she said, taking her mouth from his and throwing her arms around his neck. Her breathing was ragged, her eyes were shining, and under her shirt, her nipples were clearly visible. She pressed herself against him and found his mouth again. “Damn.”

“Tell me what you want.” He slid his hands deeper into her shorts, the flesh hotter, wetter. How had they come this far, this fast? One quick move on his part, and she’d be fully exposed. “Tell me, Abigail.”

She smiled. “I think it’s obvious what we both want.” She settled her feet back onto the floor and dropped her arms from his neck. “You do like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

“And you don’t?”

“Well…” She seemed to realize she had nowhere to go with that one. “That’s not the point. Or maybe it is.”

But they both knew when to give in to an impulse, and this wasn’t the time-if only, Owen thought, because they both also knew it was more than an impulse. Something real was going on between them and had been for a long time.

He stepped back from her. “Another glass of wine?”

She smiled. “That would be wonderful.”

Linc heard the clatter of a bicycle on the driveway outside, in the dark, and knew it was Mattie Young.

Who else would it be?

His father looked up from his book and frowned. “What was that?”

“I think it’s one of my friends,” Linc said, already on his feet. They were in the front den, pretending they were a normal family. Him, his father, his sister. “We’re supposed to make arrangements to hike the Bubbles tomorrow.”

“Oh. Wonderful.”

Linc had known his father would like that one. The thought of his one-and-only son doing something physical, besides playing video games, would appeal to him. He wouldn’t risk inadvertently dissuading Linc by interfering-which Linc counted on. He’d seen how his father had reacted when he’d told him about hiking with Owen. The restrained approval, as if going overboard would turn Linc right back to being a couch potato.

Grace, however, quietly put down the book she was reading and followed her brother onto the front porch. “Linc, it’s Mattie, isn’t it?”

“I think so. I suspect he’s drunk.”

“My God. I’d hoped he’d stopped for good this time.” She kept her voice to a whisper and showed no sign of wanting to see Mattie herself. “Please, do what you can to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else.”

“Like you, Grace?”

Even in the dim light, he could see her flush. “The FBI’s here on the island, checking up on me, my past. We all know that. But that’s not what I was thinking-”

“I know it wasn’t. I’m sorry.” He nodded in the direction of the front door. “Go back in. Keep Dad occupied. He’s not going to give Mattie many more chances.”

Linc waited a few seconds to give Grace a chance to get back inside, then took the porch steps in two leaps and ran out to the driveway.

Mattie kicked his bike. “Fucking piece of shit.”

“Mind your language here,” Linc said. “You know what my father’s like.”

“He swears. I’ve heard him.”

“He doesn’t always live by the same rules he expects the rest of us to live by.”

“Especially the hired help?” Mattie half tripped over the bike, standing close to Linc, his eyes wild, furious. But he wasn’t drunk. “I want my money.”

“Not here-”

“All of it. Every goddamn dime.”

“Mattie, I can’t.”

“Linc, you can. Your daddy has that much stuffed in his mattress. Get it, before I demand another ten.”

Linc’s stomach rolled over. He thought he’d throw up right there on the driveway, but saw the futility of arguing with Mattie. He just wanted to get rid of him without attracting his father’s attention. “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me a couple days?”

“Tomorrow.”

Linc nodded. “Okay. No promises, though-”

“Get. Me. My. Money.”

“I will.”

Mattie sucked in a breath, mollified, then coughed, half sobbing. “I’ll do good with it. I’m getting back into my photography. I don’t care if you think I’m scum. People will see the real me.”

The real Mattie? Linc checked his disgust. “I hope so, Mattie.”

“You wait. You wait and see.”

“I will. Everyone’s always said you have an incredible talent for photography.”

“It’s not just talent. It’s skill. There’s a lot more to photography than just pointing a camera and pressing a button.”

“You know more about it than I do.”

“Damn right.”

For a moment, Linc almost felt sorry for Mattie-wanted him to get back on his feet. The guy who was blackmailing him. “Look, why don’t I give you a ride back to your house? It’s dark as hell out here, and it’s cold-”