Half Moon Hill: A Destiny Novel Read online

  “I did the inside mostly by myself with just a little help from Sue Ann Simpkins and Tessa,” she explained proudly.

  And for the effort got only another knowing shrug. “Not knockin’ it,” he said. “I know that’s hard work, too. But inside work and outside work are two different things, Daisy.”

  Anna let out one more sigh. The truth was, she was beginning to see his point. She didn’t like to give up on something—but just a few minutes with that gutter had shown her it was the tip of a very big home repair iceberg, and that even if she could muddle through it on her own, bit by bit, it would be a long, rough, project that she might not do an especially competent job on. And that she could end up growing old before she ever got her bed-and-breakfast open. Still . . . “The thing is, I love my brother Mike, but he has a bad habit of hovering over me and trying to do everything for me.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, guess I might have noticed that some last summer.”

  Anna wasn’t surprised because she and Duke had crossed paths at more than one event last year, related to both Lucky’s and Mike’s weddings. “And if I get him involved, he’ll just hover even more—which is a habit I’m trying to break and part of the reason I moved up here. To be close to my family, but not too close.”

  He nodded again, and she thought maybe he understood that since Lucky had once told her Duke lived in this area because it kept his family in Indiana within driving distance—but also far enough away that they didn’t see each other often.

  “And if I ask Lucky or even hire somebody from town, Mike will know and get involved whether I want him to or not. So it’s just a situation I want to avoid.” But now she found herself taking a long, disparaging look at the large house as well. “Even if it’s beginning not to seem very practical.”

  The sun began to feel hotter to Anna than it had all day up to now as they stood there in silence, both seeming to weigh it. And just when she’d begun to wonder, for the first time ever, if she’d bitten off more than she could chew in buying this place, Duke quietly said, “I could help you.”

  As his words sifted slowly down through her, she dared to look at him once more. “You could?” She hadn’t seen this coming from the hermit in the woods who had actually succeeded—wildly—in being an even bigger hermit than she had unwittingly become.

  He gave another of his short, quick nods. “Not for free, though. You’d have to pay me.”

  She tilted her head, gave him a slightly critical look. “Or we could consider it rent.”

  He returned a glance just as challenging. “Then I’d be wanting a few improvements on the place, Miss Landlord.”

  She felt a conceding expression come over her face before she could stop it. Since the structure he inhabited was indeed a shit hole of the highest degree and his being there didn’t cost her a dime. “Okay, point taken. And all right, I’m willing to pay you a fair enough wage. But . . .” She squinted slightly in his direction. “Why do you want to work on my house? I mean, I thought you were all ‘I just want to keep to myself and live in the woods.’ ” She said the last part in a deep, gruff imitation of him.

  “Maybe I could use some physical exertion,” he replied without missing a beat. “Or maybe I need a way to pass the time.”

  She tilted her head first one way, then the other, still trying to size him up. Because there was clearly way more to Duke Dawson than she’d been able to figure out so far. “Fair enough,” she finally said. “But . . . mind if I ask what you need money for? I mean, you just sold Gravediggers, and I’m guessing you got a lot more than you invested since, from what I hear, you built a good business. And your living expenses seem to be on the low side right now.”

  This time he hesitated, but only briefly, and his voice grew more wooden when he said, “Mind if I ask you to quit being so nosy and mind your own damn business.”

  She flinched—since she hadn’t seen that coming, either. After all, it had seemed like an obvious question to her, and she seldom saw the point in beating around the bush. “Fine,” she snipped. “Maybe it is none of my business. But . . . there’s one more thing, and I’m making it my business.”

  “What’s that, Daisy?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

  “You need a haircut and a shave—bad.”

  He lowered his chin, offering up a bored, irritated expression—though she could barely see it beneath all that hair. “Told ya before—not real concerned with my looks right now.”

  “But I am. If you’re going to be around the house, I don’t want to think I’ve spotted Bigfoot in my yard every time I glance out the window.” She didn’t mean to be rude, but she felt strongly about this—if he was going to work for her, she didn’t want to keep feeling frightened of him. If he looked a little more like he used to—the scar notwithstanding—maybe it would help.

  Still, he balked. “Can’t say I’m feeling much like a trip to the barber.”

  “Then I’ll do it,” she informed him.

  His dark eyebrows shot up at the offer. “You know how to cut hair?”

  Though she did have a little experience with it, she kept her expression dry. “What does it matter? It couldn’t look any worse than it already does. Anything I do will be an improvement.” If he could be belligerent, so could she. In fact, he seemed to bring it out in her.

  When he hesitated a long moment, Anna thought maybe the whole deal might actually fall apart over this—until he surprised her by saying, “Okay.” Just that.

  “Fine,” she said, offering up a pleased nod. “Come back tomorrow, around lunchtime, and I’ll cut your hair. Then we can get to work.”

  Another quick flick of his head signaled his agreement, and he appeared ready to head back to the woods. Which suited her fine. As usual with him, she was feeling the need to escape, to process all this, but she couldn’t really go running away from her own yard.

  Though as he trudged toward the trees, crossing the driveway, she called, “One more thing.”

  He looked back, the tree line in the distance providing a fitting backdrop for the man who lived within.

  She crossed her arms and tried to appear brave—even as she asked, “Do I have any reason to be afraid of you?”

  He hesitated only a second before replying. “Don’t worry, Daisy, you’re safe with me.” Then he added under his breath, “More or less.” After which he turned and walked away, leaving those last three words to echo in her brain.

  “Show me your face without fear.”

  Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera

  Five

  “Nice car,” Duke said as Anna let him in the house. He pointed vaguely over his shoulder toward the Mustang in the driveway. And to her dismay, she still found it jarring to make eye contact with him in the first few moments they came face-to-face.

  “Thanks,” she said, shifting her glance in that general direction as well, even though she couldn’t see the car from this angle—just because it was easier than looking at him. The classic Mustang got a lot of compliments, so given that he was a motorcycle guy and that it seemed like motorcycle guys were also often car guys, she was almost surprised it had taken him this long to comment.

  As she turned to lead him to the kitchen, where she planned to cut his hair, she realized he’d paused behind her in the foyer and was looking back and forth between her and the car—slightly visible out a side window now. “Doesn’t gel much, though,” he said.

  She blinked, confused. “What doesn’t gel?”

  “You and that car.”

  She flinched, feeling a little insulted. Since it was a great car—produced the first year Mustangs were ever made—and it was in mint condition right up to the black convertible top. She’d bought it right after she’d gotten her inheritance—an indulgence, a distraction, a reward for what she’d been going through at the time.

  Duke narrowed his gaze on her. “Just seems like the wrong car for a girl hiding herself away up here on Half Moon Hill.”

  “You judge peopl
e by their cars?” she asked, letting her eyebrows lift.

  He gave his typical shrug. “Party girls don’t usually drive minivans. And librarians don’t usually drive Corvettes. Or Mustangs.”

  “I’m not a librarian,” she said dryly.

  “Innkeeper,” he reminded her. “Close enough.”

  She tilted her head, wondering if he was teasing her—or if he really thought she was boring. “Well, the innkeeper thing is new—and I’ve known a few librarians in my day who could party with the best of them. So just never you mind thinking my car is wasted on me. I promise it’s not.”

  “Never you mind,” he murmured, repeating her words as he followed her to the kitchen. “You learn that at innkeeper school?”

  She let out a short laugh before she could stifle it. “No, I probably picked it up in Destiny—because believe me, a year ago, that phrase never would have come out of my mouth.”

  “So you’re . . . going through some changes then,” he acknowledged.

  And that’s when she realized she wasn’t necessarily comfortable getting any more personal with Duke Dawson. Her changes were her business. And he’d made it clear that whatever he was going through was none of hers, several times now. So she simply answered with a noncommittal “Maybe,” then pulled a chair out from the small table situated against one wall, dragging it to the kitchen’s more open area.

  “Guess you do seem different—in ways—than when I met you last summer,” he said. “You didn’t seem like an innkeeper then.”

  She could feel his eyes on her, could feel him picking a bit, prying a little, hoping she’d explain herself. But that just made her all the more stubborn about it. So she met his gaze long enough to say, “And you didn’t seem like a guy who would hide out in a shack in the woods.”

  “Touché, Daisy,” he replied.

  And she said nothing more on the subject—but liked that he’d used a word like touché. She hadn’t seen that coming from Duke Dawson. Talk about a man of mystery.

  “I set out some shampoo,” she said, motioning to the kitchen sink. “You should wash your hair before I cut it.”

  He looked at the sink—then at her. “In the sink?” he asked.

  Should she offer him her shower? But . . . no. Just no. Duke Dawson naked in her house, for any reason whatsoever—just . . . no. “Make do,” she told him.

  A few minutes later, he sat down in the chair, his hair hanging in soft, wet, messy waves to his shoulders, some of it falling down in his eyes, as well. As she draped a towel around his shoulders, she tried to appear confident, as if she were an expert cutter of hair—and as if being this close to him again wasn’t already making her uneasy. But it was. It had been challenging enough just to talk to him in the foyer—yet now she was touching him, sort of, as she secured the towel. He smelled like the woods, but in a good way—sort of piney, earthy. And why on earth had she thought this seemed like a good idea?

  She’d blurted out the suggestion before thinking yesterday—it had seemed like the obvious solution and she’d been under a lot of stress at the time. Now, though, she began to question everything. Cutting his hair. Letting him work for her. Even agreeing to keep his secret. Despite the moments he’d seemed normal, even bordering on friendly—and hell, he’d seriously come to her rescue yesterday—she still couldn’t shake the idea that she was somehow being sucked into something a bit dangerous here.

  “Meow.” Anna looked down to see that Erik had arrived on the scene. Figured.

  “Your cat,” Duke said. Like maybe she wouldn’t recognize him. As Erik padded about their feet and the chair legs, meowing a couple more times, Duke asked, “What does he want?”

  “I don’t know,” Anna replied. “He’s annoying that way.”

  “You feed him?”

  “All the time. He’s probably going to get fat. But it never shuts him up.”

  Ready to get down to business here—because she had to be—she reached for a comb. And then she paused. If she was cutting his hair, she had to comb it out—but even doing just that suddenly seemed . . . surprisingly intimate.

  “Something wrong?”

  Crap. He was looking up at her, those steel gray eyes pinning her in place as usual, even while peering through locks of damp hair.

  “Nope,” she said merrily. “Just . . . trying to figure out where to start with this mess.”

  “It’s not that bad,” he protested.

  But she shrugged her disagreement. It was pretty bad. Yet she dove in with the comb anyway then, because she didn’t want to appear too timid to touch his hair, for God’s sake. After all, she was cutting it, not running her fingers through it in passion.

  Yikes, where had that thought come from?

  From your lack of sex. It’s no biggie. Just cut the guy’s hair and move on with your life.

  She stood over him, carefully combing his hair back over his head, trying to be gentle. But some snarled tangles required actually working with the hair, holding locks of it in one hand while she combed with the other. She couldn’t help noticing the texture of it between her fingers and thinking how odd it was that she’d ended up with her hands in Duke Dawson’s hair.

  “Ow!” he groused as she fought with one particularly tough tangle near his ear.

  “You sure are sensitive for a big, tough biker guy,” she said, still untangling.

  “You sure are rough with a comb.”

  “Toughen up,” she advised him. “I’m sure you’ve been through worse.”

  Though she kind of regretted the words as soon as they left her—she’d been teasing him, but maybe he wouldn’t take it that way. Maybe it would be a reminder of bad things. Though . . . perhaps it heartened her a little to know Duke Dawson had weaknesses, just like everyone else.

  Once his hair was combed out, hanging straight down now around his head, she reached for the scissors. She actually owned a pair of hair shears—one of her closest friends back in Indianapolis was a hairdresser, and when they were younger, Julie had given Anna a few lessons in trimming.

  “Sure you know what you’re doing with those things, Daisy?” he asked doubtfully, dark eyebrows knitting.

  Rather than reply to the question, though, she simply warned him, “I’d be careful calling me that while I have scissors in my hand.”

  He just gave her a look and she didn’t respond further. She couldn’t help taking a little perverse thrill in still not putting his mind at ease about her skills. It seemed like a bit of payback for all the times she’d felt off-balance since meeting him in her woods nearly a week ago.

  “So . . . what was with all the old music yesterday?”

  She combed a section of his hair, pulling it neatly away from his head until she caught it between the fingers of her other hand and began to snip, cutting away a large chunk and letting it fall to the floor. “Albums and an old record player I found in the attic.”

  “Yeah?” was all he said, but his tone made her think he might actually find it interesting, the same way she did.

  So she went on. “They belonged to a girl named Cathy who lived here in the fifties. Actually, I think she may have lived here all her life. The attic is filled with her stuff, and I’ve started going through it. Just out of curiosity.”

  This time his only reply was “Hmm,” but again she thought he was more intrigued than bored. And it made him feel more . . . human to her or something. Unless she was just imagining it.

  Don’t read too much into this guy’s personality. You still don’t know him very well. Yes, he saved your butt yesterday—but that doesn’t mean he’s a saint. So don’t go trying to make him into something he’s not.

  Stay wary.

  It just seemed like good advice to give herself right now.

  When things went silent, she said, “Can I ask you a question?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  She ignored the taut reply. “Why’d you sell your bar? And why, again, are you living the way you are? I mean, I
can get wanting to be alone for a while, but . . . you’re taking that to kind of an extreme, don’t you think? And you don’t seem to mind being around me.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions there,” he said dryly.

  And she let out a short huff. “Whatever. Are you going to answer my question?”

  At this, he let out what she thought was a rather exaggerated and long-suffering sigh. “Look, I agreed to let you cut my hair, not interrogate me, Daisy. How about we just stick to business.”

  Standing behind him now, she sneered and stuck her tongue out at the back of his head. “Fine.”

  And then silence ensued, and Anna resumed concentrating solely on his hair. And that was probably good, because despite Julie’s long-ago lessons, this wasn’t exactly like riding a bike. Not that she figured she could really mess up or make it worse than it started out, but she wanted to do a decent job. Maybe she wanted him to think she was good at something. Better than she’d appeared to be at home improvement anyway.

  As she gave him a simple, tidy haircut, she needed to check the layers she’d put in to make sure they were even. Which was why she found herself combing the fingers of one hand back through his now-short hair in the way Julie had once shown her.

  Which suddenly made her stomach contract. And sent a tingly ribbon of awareness rushing up her arm when she least expected it. She held in her gasp, tried to act natural, tried to keep concentrating on her task.

  But that meant running the same hand through his hair a couple more times, just in different places. So she did it—her fingertips grazing his scalp, her every nerve ending on red alert now, and more of that same sensation assaulting her.

  Lord, why did this suddenly feel so intimate? She’d seen hairdressers do it to clients a million times. Why, when she did it to Duke, did it feel like something more than just checking her work? Why did it feel like . . . something she’d do if she were his lover?

  Swallowing back the questions, she took a deep breath, let it back out. Stick to business. Like Duke said.