He stretched his legs out under the table.
And then he saw her.
How could anyone miss her?
Sunlight glinted gold off her hair. The waitress was showing her and two older men to a table at the far end of the patio.
Rex didnt move despite the quickening of his pulse. He maintained his posture of relaxation. He did not want to draw attention to himself.
One of the men pulled out a chair for her. She sat with fluid grace, her back partially to him. He could just catch her aristocratic profile, her high cheekbones, the shape of her lush mouth. Rex closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, calming the edgy rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He felt as if hed been winded. A punch to the solar plexus. Nothing could have prepared him for this. So many times hed dreamed of her, conjured her up from the caverns of his mind. But this hit him straight in the gut. The sight of her in living, breathing, pulsing flesh was a physical assault on his system.
Time slowed. The patio buzz faded.
You all right, sir? His waitress was putting his club sandwich in front of him.
He opened his eyes. Thanks. Just drinking in the summer weather while it lasts. He was back in control. Cool. Composed. At least, outwardly. He had an ideal vantage point from the back of the patio under the umbrella. He donned his dark shades. She wasnt likely to see him here.
He took another swig of beer, his eyes fixed on the woman who was once his lover. The woman he still ached for. Her hair was longer than he remembered. More feminine. The thick waves skimmed below her shoulders. It fell softly across her profile as she leaned forward to touch the arm of one of the men. It was a gentle, consoling gesture. He felt his stomach slip. That was Hannah McGuire. A mix of intelligence and compassion, guts and lithe grace. He was a voyeur, studying her jealously from the shadows. But he couldnt tear his eyes away. Not for a minute. She was wearing white linen pants, a white tank top, her arms bare and sun browned. Fresh off the pages of a fashion magazine. He drank the sight in.
Every pore in his body screamed to go to her. Touch her. Hold her. Tell her he was sorry. He shouldve known it would be close to impossible to avoid her here. White River was a small town. Perhaps deep down, at some primal subconscious level, hed even wanted to run into her. Perhaps thats why hed accepted this mission instead of trying to insist on Scott as a replacement. His body had brought him where his mind refused to go. Hannah McGuire was like a drug to his system. And the sight of her now, after all these years, made him feel like an alcoholic must feel after taking that first forbidden sip.
Forbidden. Hannah was off-limits. He forced his attention to the company she was with.
The man was talking to her, shaking his head, as if in disbelief. Rex didnt recognize him.
But the other, there was something about the other man that butted sharply up against the deep recesses of his memory. He was familiar. Very. But Rex couldnt place him.
The man sat ramrod straight, broad shoulders pulled back. Tanned, fit, strong. His dark hair was flecked with silver, but from this distance it was difficult to pinpoint his age. Rex mentally filed the facts, trying to come up with a match.
All three of them looked up as a fourth man approached their table.
Again his pulse quickened. Agent Ken Mitchell.
Rex bit into his sandwich and slowly chewed as he watched. Now, this was getting really interesting.
Gunter, Al and Hannah all looked up as the tall man approached their table.
Hello again, Hannah. It was the Washington reporter shed met on the mountain, the one in the suit.
Mark, hi. Please join us, take a seat, Hannah motioned to an empty chair.
Thank you. He was wearing dark glasses, a crisp white shirt. Formal for this resort town. Hed brought his big-city sensibilities with him.
Hannah made the introductions. Mark Bamfield, this is Al Brashear, publisher of the Gazette, and this is Dr. Gunter Schmidt from the White River Spa. She turned to Al. Mark works as a freelance writer. He came to the Gazette office this morning to talk about Amy.
Mark Bamfield shook hands. Actually, Im here for the upcoming forensic toxicology conference. Im generally a medical and science writer, based out of the States. He pulled up the chair, sat down and lifted his sunglasses. But since Im here, Ive been
asked to pick up the Amy Barnes story. He turned to Al. This must be difficult. Im sorry.
Al nodded. I understand the news value. Im still a media man.
I was hoping Id get a chance to meet you, Al. I want to do an in-depth color piece on your niece. With your consent, of course. Something that captures the spirit of who she was. I was wondering if I could take a look at some of the articles shed been working on, get a sense of her life, her work.
Al looked weary. Of course. Feel free to call me at the office. We can set something up.
I appreciate that. Thank you.
Gunter stepped in, changing the topic, breaking the subtle tension that had settled around his friend. Tell me, Mark, the toxicology conference, is there anything in particular, any specific speakers you are interested in?