She was soon rewarded, paid off for her patience. Between one blink of the eye and the next, the golden globe of the sun popped up to send streams of light racing across the water. Within seconds, day had broken, bathing the beach, and her face, with the very first hints of warmth that cut through the morning chill.
"Okay, another day," she told herself. "Make something of it."
Though she seldom ventured far from the house, she did enjoy her occasional workout on the beach. The stretch of shoreline, called Dead Man's Beach by the locals, probably because of some ancient shipping tragedies off the rocky coast, was far from any of the crowded tourist areas. Not private and exclusive to Wyatt's house, it was still far enough from civilization to discourage visitors. A lighthouse, long abandoned, remained perched on a jutting bit of land a half mile to the north, but almost no one ever came by to explore it.
Today was no exception. No human was visible, as far as her eye could see. So she took full advantage, first with a quick jog along the shoreline, up to the lighthouse, then back, followed by stretches and position practice for this afternoon's lesson with the sarge.
Something else Wyatt seemed to disapprove of, though he had never said a word. He had been all for her taking a few martial arts lessons after she'd gotten through physical therapy to strengthen her badly damaged leg. He had. however, somehow sensed that she was no longer doing it just as a way to get back into shape, or even entirely for her own peace of mind.
They had not discussed it, but he was no fool. He knew what demons drove her, knew she felt with an undeniable certainty that the man who'd kidnapped her would come after her if he ever found out she was still alive.
And she was getting ready. Not just to defend herself But perhaps to avenge herself.
"The way you balance, no one would ever guess how badly damaged that leg was," a voice said.
She didn't turn around. She'd been aware of Wyatt's approach down the steps for a minute or two. She just hadn't allowed herself to think about it, not wanting the old self-consciousness to interfere with her workout. Especially because she knew if she glanced at him, she'd end up staring.
Wyatt almost always wore suits. Expensive, well-tailored suits. But he did, on occasion, dress down, which was almost worse for her peace of mind. His faded, worn jeans hugged his strong legs, and the casual polo shirt, with the collar turned up, highlighted the broad shoulders and thick arms. He looked a little less the boss she'd known and a little more the sexy man she'd had wicked dreams about.
"Just don't look too closely at the scars," she replied, smoothly moving from Intermediate to Position Four.
"Something else for the plastic surgeon to take care of."
Another soundless turn. "Maybe I'll go down to Williamsburg to see one."
He crossed his arms, his strong jaw jutting out. "Don't even think about it."
She'd gotten the reaction she expected. "You said yourself that hearing the voices of some of the doctors from that symposium might be of use."
"I meant recordings of their voices," he insisted, "which I'll have from Brandon sometime this morning. You are absolutely not going to stroll into the offices of the doctor whose car was stolen and try to listen for the voice of the monster who attacked you."
Position Five. Breathe deeply. Slow and steady.
"Maybe he'd see me and drop over dead from a heart attack, sure he was seeing a ghost," she said, not really serious. She wasn't crazy, and she certainly wouldn't waltz into a place that could put her face-to-face with someone who wanted to kill her.
Well, at least not until she'd tried it Wyatt's way, listening to the recordings or searching for any other audible resources she could find.
If all else failed, however? Well, she didn't think any- one else she had worked with on a daily basis would immediately recognize her now. So while she wouldn't necessarily make an appointment and walk right into the lion's den, perhaps there was another way. Shadowing a group going to lunch and sitting nearby? Delivering a package, or flowers? Something that would get her close-but not too close.
"Stop thinking about it," he ordered.
She paused to stare at him. "You can't control what goes on in my head."
"No, but I can control whether I leave the keys to my Jeep here or not. And if I get the idea you're thinking of making any long-distance trips, I guarantee you I'll be taking them with me."
A humorless laugh escaped her lips. "Gee, thanks for the reminder that I'm completely at your mercy."
He thrust out a frustrated breath and stalked closer. "Damn it, Lily, you're not a charity case. I don't begrudge you anything. I just don't want you to get hurt again."
"You're being kind. You have to admit, I am a charity case." The reality of that rankled. Lily had never relied on anyone, not since her parents had died and she and her sister had played a game of here-we-go-round-the-foster-care-system. She didn't like being completely supported by anyone. "I'll probably never be able to repay you for all my medical expenses, even if I can get back my unclaimed financial accounts."
He waved a hand, as if money meant absolutely nothing. Though she didn't know a lot about Wyatt's background, other than the fact that his family owned this house-and that he never used it, for some deep, dark reason that the locals hinted at but she had never pried into-she had no doubt the man had money. So much money, he hadn't batted an eye when paying her bills, whisking her up here, renovating the house, buying the Jeep.
That didn't mean she wasn't going to try to pay him back, somehow, someway. Sometime. Even if it took the rest of her life.
"I don't care about the money. I only care about your need to do something leading you into a dark, dangerous situation."
Hearing the genuine intensity, she had to try to mollify him. "Look, you and I both know I'm a hermit and the chances of me going more than ten miles from here are very slim, meaning a trip to Virginia is almost inconceivable."
"You really have no desire to leave? Haven't had any impulse to just go?"
Though his expression remained neutral, he seemed very interested in hearing her answer. She couldn't help wondering why he seemed so concerned. "What is it you're really trying to get at?"
He shook his head slowly. "Just curious."
Yeah, right. The man never asked idle questions; he was also after something. Now he seemed to be asking if she had the nerve to leave here, or if she just intended to give up and hide from the world forever.
Well, haven't you considered it?
She ignored the inner voice. "What is it you're accusing me of, Wyatt?"
He countered with a question. "Should I be accusing you of something?"
"Don't pull that interrogator garbage on me, okay? If you have something to say, just say it, would you?"
"Will you do the same?"
She managed to smother a groan that he'd done it again, and think about what he'd asked. Would she do the same? Be honest and open? About most things, probably. About the case, her physical well-being, the house, what was going on in the outside world. Yes. Absolutely.
But what went on in her head? What she was really thinking, feeling?
Not bloody likely.
"Forget I asked," she snapped.
Deliberately turning away, she tried to get back into her exercise, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. She heard the sarge's voice in her head as she moved, remembering how hard such simple movements had been a few months ago, when her muscles had only recently healed after the slash job the bullet and her attacker's instruments had done on them. After a few moments, she found her center, rediscovered her calm, and was able to focus.