Page 60 of Rainshadow Road

“Better than I would have expected. She had a pretty good night, but she’s sore today. Still on pain meds.”

“You’re so nice to take care of her like this. Justine and I both appreciate it.”

Zoë carried her va-va-voom figure in an innately apologetic manner, shoulders down and slightly forward. She was perplexingly shy for a woman with such flagrant beauty at her disposal. Maybe that was the problem—Sam guessed that she’d had more than her share of heavy-handed overtures from the wrong kind of men.

They entered the spacious kitchen, with its enameled stove set in a cream-tiled alcove, glass-fronted cabinets, and black walnut flooring. Zoë’s marveling gaze swept from the high trussed ceilings to the huge soapstone farmhouse sink. But her eyes widened and her expression went blank as Alex turned from the coffeemaker to face them. Sam wondered what she would make of his brother, who resembled Satan with a hangover.

“Hello,” Zoë said in a subdued voice after Sam had introduced them. Alex responded with a surly nod. Neither of them made a move to shake hands. Zoë turned to Sam. “Do you happen to have a cake plate I could set these muffins on?”

“It’s in one of those cabinets near the Sub-Zero. Alex, would you help her out while I go upstairs to get Lucy?” Sam glanced at Zoë. “I’ll find out if she wants to sit in the living room down here, or visit with you upstairs.”

“Of course,” Zoë said, and went to the cabinets.

Alex strode to the doorway just as Sam reached it. He lowered his voice. “I’ve got stuff to do. I don’t have time to spend chitchatting with Betty Boop.”

From the way Zoë’s shoulders stiffened, Sam saw that she’d overheard the remark. “Al,” he said softly, “just help her find the damn plate.”

***

Zoë found the glass-domed plate in one of the cabinets, but it was too high for her to reach. She contemplated it with a frown, pushing back the curl that insisted on hanging over one eye. She was aware of Alex Nolan approaching her from behind, and a hot-and-cold chill went down her spine. “It’s up there,” she said, moving to the side.

He retrieved it easily, and set the plate and dome on the granite countertop. He was tall but rawboned, as if he hadn’t had a good meal in weeks. The suggestion of cruelty on his face did nothing to detract from his profligate handsomeness. Or maybe it wasn’t cruelty, but bitterness. It was a face that many women would find attractive, but it made Zoë nervous.

Of course, most men made her nervous.

Zoë thought that with the task done, Alex would leave the kitchen. She certainly hoped he would. Instead he stayed there with one hand braced on the countertop, his expensive watch gleaming in the light from the multipaned windows.

Trying to ignore him, Zoë set the glass plate beside the muffin pan. Carefully she extracted each muffin and set it on the plate. The scent of hot berries, white sugar, buttery streusel, rose in a melting-sweet updraft. She heard Alex draw in a deep breath, and another.

Darting a cautious glance at him, she noticed the dark half-moon indentations beneath a pair of vivid blue-green eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in months. “You can go now,” Zoë said. “You don’t have to stay and chitchat.”

Alex didn’t bother to apologize for his earlier rudeness. “What did you put in those?” He sounded accusatory, suspicious.

Zoë was so taken aback that she could hardly speak. “Blueberries. Help yourself, if you’d like one.”

He shook his head and reached for his coffee.

She couldn’t help but notice the tremor in his hand, the dark brew shivering in the porcelain cup. Instantly Zoë lowered her gaze. What would cause a man’s hand to shake like that? A nervous condition? Alcohol abuse? Somehow the sign of weakness in such a physically imposing person was infinitely more affecting than it would have been in someone of smaller stature.

Despite his irritable behavior, Zoë’s compassionate nature asserted itself. She had never been able to pass by a crying child, a hurt animal, a person who looked lonely or hungry, without trying to do something about it. Particularly a hungry person, because if there was one thing Zoë liked better than anything in the world, it was feeding people. She loved the obvious pleasure that people took in tasting something delicious, something carefully made and nourishing.

Wordlessly Zoë set a muffin on Alex’s saucer while the cup was still in his hand. She didn’t look at him, only continued to arrange the plate. Although it seemed very likely that he would throw the offering at her, or say something derogatory, he was silent.

Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw him pick up the muffin.

He left with a gruff murmur that she gathered was meant to be a good-bye.

***

Alex went out to the front porch, taking care to leave the front door unlocked. The muffin was cradled in his hand, the unbleached parchment liner slick with the residue of butter, the dome cobblestoned with streusel.

He sat on a cushioned wicker chair, hunching over the food as if someone were likely to rush forward and snatch it from him.

Lately he’d had a tough time eating. No appetite, no ability to be tempted, and when he did manage to take a bite and chew something, his throat clenched until it was difficult to swallow. He was always cold, desperate for the temporary heat of liquor, always needing more than his body would tolerate. Now that the divorce had gone through, there were plenty of women offering any kind of consolation he might want, and he couldn’t work up any interest in them.

He thought of the little blonde in the kitchen, almost comically beautiful, with her big eyes and perfect bow-shaped mouth… and beneath the tidily buttoned clothes, the voluptuous curves that approximated an amusement park ride. Not at all his taste.

As soon as he took a bite of the muffin, a saliva-spiking mixture of tartness and sweetness nearly overwhelmed him. The texture of it was dense and yet cakelike. He consumed it slowly, his entire being absorbed in the experience. It was the first time he’d been able to taste something, really experience a flavor, in months.

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