Leave the Grave Green

Was he sorry? For ten years he had kept his emotions safely, tightly reined, until he had almost forgotten how it felt to give another person access. Julia had forced his hand, made him see himself in the mirror of her isolation, and what he found frightened him. But probing beyond the fear, he felt a new and unexpected sense of freedom, even of anticipation.

He smiled back at Julia. “No.”

CHAPTER

16

“We should have taken the Midget,” Kincaid said testily as Gemma pulled the Escort up in front of the Carlingford Road flat.

“You know as well as I do that the bloody thing leaks in the rain,” she retorted, glaring at him. She felt as miserable and bedraggled as a cat forced into the bath, and he wasn’t much of an improvement. As she watched, a rivulet of water trickled down his forehead from his matted hair.

He wiped it away with the back of his hand, then burst out laughing. “Gemma, look at us. How can you be so stubborn?”

After what seemed an interminable session at High Wycombe, they had started back to London on the M40, only to have a puncture before they reached the North Circular Road. Gemma had pulled over to the verge and plunged out into the driving rain, refusing his help in changing the tire. He had stood in the rain, arguing with her while she worked, so that in the end they were both soaked to the skin.

“It’s too late to collect Toby tonight,” he said. “Come in and get some dry things on before you catch your death, and have something proper to eat. Please.”

After a moment, she said, “All right,” but the words she’d meant to be acquiescent came out grudging and sullen. Her bad temper seemed to be out of control, feeding on itself, and she didn’t know how to break the cycle.

They didn’t bother with umbrellas as they crossed the road to Kincaid’s building—how could they get any more wet, after all?—and the pellets of water stung against her skin.

When they reached the flat, Kincaid went straight to the kitchen, leaving a dripping trail on the carpet. He pulled an already uncorked bottle of white wine from the fridge and poured two glasses. Handing her one, he said, “Start on this. It will warm you up from the inside. Sorry I haven’t anything stronger. And in the meantime I’ll get you something dry to put on.”

He left her standing in the sitting room holding her glass, too wet to sit down, too exhausted to sort out her own feelings. Was she angry with him because of Julia? She had felt a communion between them, an understanding that excluded her, and the strength of her reaction dismayed her.

She tasted the wine, then drank half the glass. Chill in her mouth, it did seem to generate some warmth in her middle.

Or was she angry with Caroline Stowe for having taken her in, and Kincaid merely happened to be the nearest available target?

Perhaps it was just the waste of it all that made her feel like chucking something.

Sid uncurled himself from his nest on the sofa, stretching, and came to her. He elongated his sleek body as he rubbed around her ankles and butted his head against her legs. She bent to scratch him in the soft spot under his chin, and his throat began to vibrate under her fingertips. “Hullo, Sid. You’ve got the right idea tonight—warm and dry. We should all be so lucky.”

She looked around the familiar and comfortable room. Light from the lamps Kincaid had switched on spilled out in warm pools, illuminating his collection of brightly colored London transport posters. The coffee table held a haphazard pile of books and an empty mug, and the sofa a crumpled afghan rug. Gemma felt a sudden pang of longing. She wanted to feel at home here, wanted to feel safe.

“I didn’t know about underthings,” said Kincaid, returning from the bedroom carrying a stack of folded clothes with a big fluffy towel on the top. “I suppose you’ll have to make do.” He deposited the jeans and sweatshirt on the sofa and draped the towel around her shoulders. “Oh, and socks. I forgot socks.”

Wiping her face with one end of the towel, Gemma began fumbling with her sodden braid. Her fingers were too numb with cold to work properly, and she felt tears of frustration smart behind her eyelids.

“Let me help,” he said gently. He turned her around and deftly worked loose the braid, combing her hair out with his fingers. “Now.” Rotating her until she faced him again, he began rubbing her head with the towel. His hair stood on end where he had scrubbed at it, and his skin smelled warm and damp.

The weight of his hands against her head seemed to physically crumble her defenses, and she felt her legs go limp and boneless, as if they could no longer support her weight. She closed her eyes against the faintness, thinking too much wine, too quickly, but the sensation didn’t pass. Reaching up, she put a hand over his, and a buzz ran through her like electric current as their skin made contact.

He stopped his toweling of her hair, looking at her with concern. “Sorry,” he said. “Did I get carried away?”