Free With Her Last Breath by Cait London

thought. That quiet remark showed a woman’s curiosity working, stilling the brief bitterness. “It’s supposed to be a lighthouse, or at least the Frenchman’s version of one in another century. He built the house on the highest point of land—built it around the lighthouse, and his fiancée was to join him. Legend has it that her ship sunk just out there, and that he still haunts the place, waiting for her. My brothers and I used to go there with Dad and hunt fortreasure that might have washed ashore from Monique’s shipwreck.”
    He wanted to smooth her hair, to feel the warm burn of it on his skin. Instead, he brushed sand from her shoulder and caught the quick wary tension of her body. “My grandfather bought this place because he thought it would make a good vineyard. We worked together out here when we could. We got the grapes going—he wanted only reds—selling them to buyers, until we got enough to start the winery. He never saw the first bottle out of it, though we made some home wines.”
    “That tower makes quite a statement here on this knoll.”
    “Oh, what’s that?” But from the way she turned away, he knew that she hadn’t meant the words to come out as they did. Some men drove expensive mechanical penis symbols, but he had chosen a lighthouse.
    Nick considered the suspected jutting monument to manhood. “Maybe.”
    “I meant that you like the solitary life.” Her blush delighted him, soft and rosy and sweet beneath the crust and the fear. He had to know more of what ran beneath the surface and why she hoarded it.
    Maggie removed her ball cap and dusted the sand from it. Nick watched, fascinated, as those deft feminine hands removed the band confining her ponytail, her fingers winnowing through her hair. It caught the wind, and sailed in a dark red storm around her head, unwilling to be captured—just like the woman.
    As if she felt him watching her, Maggie turned slowly, and their eyes locked for just that heartbeat.
    “Hello, Maggie,” he said again, more softly this time, as his heart hitched just that half beat.
    She shivered as if sensing what ran between them, and then stood. “I’d better go. Scout?”
    At the top of the knoll, Maggie glanced at the house, and Nick wanted to keep her with him longer, to know more about her. “Would you like to see the house? I work on it when I can. The view from the old lighthouse is something.”
    “No, thanks. I’m leaving.”
    Nick tried again, justifying his lie with his need to be with her. “Give me a ride into town, will you? My pickup is dead and I’ve got to work tonight. Someone could come get me, but that would take more time.”
    That hesitation said she was wary, that she wasn’t used to sharing. “I didn’t ask you to throw sticks for my dog. If you’re late, it’s not my fault.”
    All defensive bristles, he thought, until she feared for her dog and clasped that gold locket. Then cracks in that brittle façade revealed a woman’s softness and pain. What had happened to her? Why did that locket mean so much? Why was she so scared of water? And why was she alone and afraid? “Do you ever laugh?” he asked abruptly, and wondered what she would look like if she were happy.
    Her fierce scowl held a big warning. “What’s it to you?”
    “Don’t get all touchy. Look, you can either drive out of here and leave me stranded—” Okay, Nick decided, so he’d learned a little something about guilt trips from his mother. “Or you can take in the fantastic view from the old lighthouse while I shower and change. On a clear day, you can see Blanchefleur’s red lighthouse, and there’s a gray bump way out on the horizon that is a tiny island. Supposedly Monique, the Frenchman’s fiancée, drowned near there. We call it Monique’s Island.”
    He watched Maggie weigh options as she glanced up at the brick tower-like structure. It really was a hell of a symbol for a man living alone, he thought, amused.
    “How long before