“Dolman? But that’s not right.” The hand in his flexed, balled into a little fist of nerves. “I’m not supposed to be on Dolman Island. Oh, damn it. Damn it! It’s my fault. I wasn’t specific with the boy. He seemed to know where I was going, was supposed to be going. Or maybe he got turned around in the storm, too. I hope he’s all right.”
She paused, looked around, sighed. “Not just fired,” she murmured. “Disinherited, banished, and mortified all in one morning. I guess all I can do is go back to the hotel and wait to face the music.”
“Well, it won’t be today.”
“Excuse me?”
Conal looked out to sea, studying the crashing wall of waves. “You won’t find your way back today, and likely not tomorrow, as there’s more coming our way.”
“But—” She was talking to his back as he walked inside as though he hadn’t just sealed her doom. “I have to get back. She’ll be worried.”
“There’ll be no ferry service in these seas, and no boatman with a brain in his head would chance the trip back to the mainland.”
She sat on the arm of a chair, closed her eyes. “Well, that caps it. Is there a phone? Could I use your phone to call the hotel and leave a message?”
“The phones are out.”
“Of course they are.” She watched him go to the fire to add some bricks of turf. Her clothes hung on the screen like a recrimination. “Mr. O’Neil?”
“Conal.” He straightened, turned to her. “All the women I undress and put into bed call me Conal.”
It was a test, deliberately provocative. But she didn’t flush or fire. Instead her eyes lit with humor. “All the men who undress me and put me into bed call me Lena.”
“I prefer Allena.”
“Really? So do I, but it seems to be too many syllables for most people. Anyway, Conal, is there a hotel or a bed-and-breakfast where I can stay until the ferry’s running again?”
“There’s no hotel on Dolman. It’s a rare tourist who comes this far. And the nearest village, of which there are but three, is more than eight kilometers away.”
She gave him a level look. “Am I staying here?”
“Apparently.”
She nodded, rubbing her hand absently over Hugh’s broad back as she took stock of her surroundings. “I appreciate it, and I’ll try not to be a nuisance.”
“It’s a bit late for that, but we’ll deal with it.” When her only response was to lift her eyebrows and stare steadily, he felt a tug of shame. “Can you make a proper pot of tea?”
“Yes.”
He gestured toward the kitchen that was separated from the living area by a short counter. “The makings are in there. I’ve a few things to see to, then we’ll talk this out over a cup.”
“Fine.” The word was rigidly and properly polite. Only the single gunshot bang of a cupboard door as he started out again told him she was miffed.
She’d make the damn tea, she thought, jerking the faucet on to fill the kettle, which was no easy matter since the cast-iron sink was loaded with dishes. And she’d be grateful for Conal O’Neil’s hospitality, however reluctantly, however rudely given.
Was it her fault she’d ended up on the wrong island? Was it her fault she’d gotten turned around in a storm and passed out and had to be carted back to his house? Was it her fault she had nowhere else to go?
Well, yes. She rolled her eyes and began to empty the dishes out of the sink so that she could fill it with soapy water and wash them. Yes, technically it was her fault. Which just made it all the more annoying.
When she got back to New York she would be jobless. Again. And once more she’d be the object of pity, puzzlement, and pursed lips. And that was her fault, too. Her family expected her to fail now—flighty, scatterbrained Lena.
Worse, she realized, was that she expected it, too.
The problem was she wasn’t particularly good at anything. She had no real skill, no craft, and no driving ambitions.
She wasn’t lazy, though she knew Margaret would disagree. Work didn’t frighten her. Business did.
But that was tomorrow’s problem, she reminded herself as she dealt with the dishes and waited for the kettle to boil. Today’s problem was Conal O’Neil and how to handle the situation she’d put them both into.
A situation, she thought, as she went about stacking dishes, wiping counters, heating the teapot, that should have been thrilling. A storm-swept island; a handsome, brooding man; a cozy, if rustic, cottage isolated from the world.
This, she decided, perking up, was an adventure. She was going to find a way to enjoy it before the axe fell.