Page 11 of Sucker For You

“I needed the cold.” She fished out a clump of greasy detritus. Her knuckles on the skimmer’s plastic handle were white,colorless as the massive diamond she wore, and—Jesus. As if aware of his gaze despite her own averted focus, she dropped the skimmer and stuffed her fists and that ring under her sleeves. Beneath the flecks of mascara on her cheekbones, a tinge of color suffused her skin. She spoke to her feet. “It helps. Sometimes.”

He’d done polar plunges before, but then he’d sprinted for a sauna.

Isabel still stood here in her puddle.

Why?

He didn’t ask her. Not right now. In spite of her stillness, instinct from his years of wildlife work whispered that she was poised to run.Fightandfleewere rarely a wild creature’s first responses to a threat. That first reaction wasfreeze.

But clearly, Isabel had already fled here from somewhere else tonight.

Whywasshe at Erin’s bungalow?

He wouldn’t ask her that, either. Not yet. She had no reason to trust him with an answer. Instead, slowly and very carefully—wary of startling her or of slipping in her puddle—he stepped away from the tank, out of her threatened sphere. He backed into the kitchen. He opened cupboards and drawers and rummaged through them, making noise so that she could track his movements. The shelves were bare of coffee, tea, or cocoa, with nothing except expiring condiments available. He nevertheless filled an electric kettle from the tap. While the water heated, he blew dust from a pair of mismatched mugs. He returned to the doorway between the kitchen and the living room with them, then raised the mugs in inquiry as he volunteered,

“I’m also an open-water swimmer. I’m guessing you win the Fahrenheit numbers game tonight. But even after submerging in something as warm as the Indian Ocean, it’s important toget your body temperature back up. The water in Monterey Bay can’t be over sixty degrees.”

“Fifteen,” she nodded.

“Christ,fifteen—wait, you mean Celsius.”

Another nod. She didn’t outright reject the mug.

And she measured the temperature in Celsius, not Fahrenheit.

He sidled back into the kitchen to fill their mugs from the whistling kettle. Once he’d placed the hot water on coasters beside the coffee table’s binder of local tourism highlights, he perched on the afghan-draped arm of the couch and asked her, “What’s your estimate on the number inside these mugs?”

“The temperature?” A frown wrinkled her nose. She approached gingerly, took a mug, stepped away, and sipped. Her mouth twisted. Down went the mug. “Close to one hundred. Only organisms inhabiting thermal fissures in the ocean’s hadal zone would survive this.”

“Sure.”

All right:who the hell is Isabel Wright?

Smelling of kelp and salt, skittish and avoidant, but with numbers and niche marine facts ready on her tongue—and apparentlyhungry: even through the terrycloth, her stomach’s rumbling was audible.

If nothing else,thiswas easy.

He pushed off the couch. “The cupboards are pretty empty, but I saw chocolate-covered strawberries in the refrigerator. Want some?”

She hugged her forearms. “Won’t Ethan. . .?”

“Yeah, but finders, keepers.” He retrieved the berries in their tray, then dragged a wicker basket chair over to the coffee table for her. He offered up the fruit. “Anyhow, he and Erin are probably in San Francisco. His brother’s getting married laterthis month. Since it’s a Friday night, some party or other’s got to be scheduled. We can leave the champagne for them.”

Again, Isabel frowned. But her stomach rumbled a second time. Flushing faintly, she sat.

He ate a strawberry, noisily.

She didn’t glance at the tray.

She didn’t glance at him.

She didn’t speak into the silence that his chewing left, either. Damp patches began to emerge on her bathrobe, evidence of her soaked silk sheath beneath it. Her spiky shoes lay abandoned by the door. There was that diamond on her fourth finger, too.

She’d been somewhere nice tonight. Somewhere important. Probablywithsomeone important.

Where?

More critically:why?