OUR DAYS LATER, as James ripped shingles off the roof, he had to admit he’d been wrong in thinking Parker would be a wuss when it came to hard physical labor. Grayhurst had had a cleaning crew, a gardening service, a handyman on call 24/7 and a personal chef who delivered meals daily. But there was Parker, hacking down the weeds along the stairway to the dock like a member of a chain gang. Cut-off jeans that showed her long, gorgeous legs. The jeans were the ones the mouse had run into, and she’d said there was no way in hell she was giving the rodent another chance. A shirt from Joe’s Diner; apparently, Miss Welles hadn’t packed—or didn’t own—a proper T-shirt. A Yankees hat, the only thing marring her golden beauty. Well, she couldn’t help it. Had spent most of her childhood in New York.

Nope, Parker had dug right in, shoveling the remainder of her aunt’s belongings into trash bags, sorting through what could go to the Salvation Army—not a lot—and what was recyclable. If she had to ask him how to change the head of the sponge mop, well, it was kind of appealing.

She talked to her kid probably four times a day, which James thought was a lot. Then again, he probably talked to his parents four times a year, so what did he know?

She whacked at the weeds again, swinging the scythe like a golf club, then stopped to throw Beauty a stick. She glanced up at James, saw him looking and gave a quick wave, then looked away.

Yeah. Even though they’d been together for five solid days, there was little change in their relationship. She was polite. She was a good worker and listened when he told her how to do something. She had a decent sense of humor. Still called him Thing One occasionally. Didn’t seem to be moping about her lost fortune, though she got quiet sometimes, maybe missing her kid.

In other words, she was as out of reach as ever. They talked about the house. The dog. The town. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes of conversation a day. She spent more time than that by far on the phone with her kid. And the Paragon. And Mrs. Paragon.

Whatever. He had his own work to do, ripping the decaying shingles off the roof. Sweat dampened his hair, and he wiped his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt. Gideon’s Cove was experiencing a rare heat wave the past day or so, with temperatures into the nineties. Humid, too. And the blackflies…he’d forgotten about those bloodthirsty little suckers.

He turned as a truck slowed in front of the house. Probably one of Parker’s fan club, the old guys from the hardware store, who’d been dropping by daily to check on her progress. She had those three wrapped, that was for sure. Called them the Three Musketeers, which made the old guys shuffle and blush as if she’d knighted them.

It wasn’t one of the Musketeers. It was his oldest brother, Tom, a good twenty pounds heavier than he’d been two Christmases ago when James had last seen him. Red-faced, and not from the sun.

“Hey,” James said, shading his eyes to be sure. Ayuh. That was Tom, all right.

“Hey, James. How you doing, bud?”

“I’m good. You?”

“Can’t complain. Talked to Dewey last week. He said you were here for the summer.”

James climbed down from the roof, wariness prickling at the back of his neck. He was the only one of the five Cahill kids who’d graduated college, let alone gone on for a law degree. The only one who’d made it out of Maine, too. His brothers didn’t drop by or give him a call for the hell of it.

“Kids are good?” James asked. He hesitated, then shook his brother’s hand. From down by the water, he could hear Parker’s scythe hacking into the long grass. He hoped she stayed there.

“Kids are great. Maybe you can swing by and visit this summer.”

“Uh, yeah. That’d be nice.” Except Tom had never once invited James to his house before. “So what brings you up here, Tom?”

“Oh, I had to do something in Machias. Figured I’d swing by.” Machias was an hour south, but James didn’t point that out. Tom leaned back against his truck door, all casual interest, and nodded at the house. “Got your work cut out for you, huh?”

“Yeah. Just trying to get it up to code, pretty much.”

“You gonna reshingle the sides next?” Like their father, Tom was a carpenter.

“Yep. Rebuild those steps, too.”

Tom nodded sagely. “So listen. I have a proposition for you.”

Ah. That made more sense. Tom was here for money.

His brother folded his arms across his chest and stared out at the harbor. “There’s this very cool opportunity to be a part owner in the old lumber mill. Remember that place? Down by the river?”

“I remember,” James said.

“So me and my buddies, we were thinking we’d buy it, renovate it, put in some really nice shops on the first floor, right? Cheese shop, wine, upscale shit. Then up above, we’d have luxury condos.”

“Sounds great.” It sounded idiotic. Dresner was a dying city. There was more call for a soup kitchen than luxury condos overlooking a river polluted by forty years of industrial waste. Cheese shop? Come on.

“So I’m looking for a little capital to get started.” He paused. “I’d pay you back with interest and all.”

James took a slow breath. “I’d love to help you out, Tom—”

“No one’s asking for help. This is an investment opportunity. Thought you liked that shit.” There was already an edge in Tom’s voice.

“I wish I could help you,” James said. “I really don’t have the money.”

Tom pushed off his truck, his face growing even redder. “Yes, you do, you little prick. You’ve been working for that rich asshole for years now—”

“In case you didn’t hear, my boss is in jail.”

“—and don’t tell me you didn’t get a king’s ransom for burrowing up that guy’s butt.”

Nice. “I did. But it’s all tied up, and you know it, Tom.”

His older brother glared. “Fuck you.”

“Tom, look, even if it was a great idea—”

“Oh, now it’s a crap idea?”

“—I honestly don’t have the money. It all went to Beckham.”

“And we wouldn’t have needed Beckham if it wasn’t for you! You fucked everyone over, didn’t you? When your own family needs something, forget it. But here you are, playing house with your boss’s daughter, aren’t you? Having fun living off her money?”

“Tom, look at this place. Does it seem like she’s got money?”

“Thanks for nothing. I should’ve known. And don’t show your face in Dresner. Mom’s enough of a mess without you. Asshole.”

Ten seconds later, Tom screeched out of the driveway. He gave James the bird as he gunned the motor. Then he was gone.

Forget the roof. There was a crowbar; there was the long side of the house. James grabbed the heavy metal tool, jammed its wedged end under some shingles and began ripping them off with a vengeance. Sweat poured off his body, soaked his hair, stung his eyes. The wood screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. Just ripped the shingles off the side, no matter that they’d been petrifying there for two generations, just shoved the pry bar underneath and jerked up and ripped them off like scabs.

He didn’t even notice Parker come up from the beach until she walked right past him, her dog as always tight against her calves.

“Hello, sweaty day laborer,” she said with a grin.

“Hey,” he grunted.

“Was someone here? Thought I heard voices.”

“Nope.”

“You hungry?”

“Nope.”

She gave him a look, but he kept ripping shingles. “Okay, Thing One. I’m going for a swim.”

“Fine.”

She went blithely into the house. James continued jamming the crowbar under the shingles, relishing the screech as they tore off.

Then her words sank in.

She couldn’t swim in Maine water. It was practically ice-cold. Fifty-two, fifty-five degrees? Maybe? It was high tide, too, so it’d be even colder. He tossed down the pry bar and stomped inside, folded his arms across his sweaty T-shirt and stood outside her door, ready to lecture her.

Then the door opened, and he forgot what he was there for.

She was wearing a bikini.

“You want to come?” she asked.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Skin. There was a lot of skin. And…curves. Breasts. Shoulders. Legs. His mouth went dry. She gave him an odd look, then scooped up her hair and secured it with an elastic, and his eyes slid down to her rack, because my God, that was a fantastic—

“I know. Cellulite. I’ve gained eleven pounds this past year.” She stared down at her torso, then sighed. “Oh, well. Maybe I can swim some off. Come on, Beauty.” She grabbed a towel and headed through the kitchen.

Her ass was…well, he was unable to summon actual words at the moment, as there was no blood flowing upward. And that scrap of fabric—red fabric—thank you, Jesus. Hard to believe she’d kissed him once, and speaking of hard, she was so beautiful and perfect and luscious, bad enough that he’d had to listen to her shower every morning, and—

But wait, wait, wait.

She couldn’t swim in that water.

“Parker,” he croaked, but she was already halfway down the stairs, the long grass billowing in the breeze, the dog’s feathery tail in the air.

“Parker!” he called, banging out the back door. “That water’s really cold.”

“And I am really hot,” she said. Tell me about it. “I’ve been working like a dog. Right, Beauty?”

“It’s too cold for swimming,” he said, running down the stairs. “Hypothermia cold, Parker. Don’t go in.”

“Oh, come on. People swim in it all the time.”

“Not up here they don’t.” He reached the dock, which was bobbing vigorously, as the tide was coming in hard, slapping against the buoys that held the thing afloat. If he didn’t watch it, he’d fall right in.

“Well, I’m going swimming.” She draped her towel over one of the old wooden porch chairs she’d dragged down here. “Beauty, want to come? Come on, girl!” With that, Parker executed a perfect swimmer’s dive from the dock, the dog sailing in right behind her.

She didn’t surface. He could see her white skin under the water…but no, that was just sunlight. Where was she? Where the hell was she? “Parker!” James stripped off his shirt. “Parker!”

Then her blond head popped up, way too far away from the dock. She pushed her hair out of her face. “Oh, bugger!” she called. “You were right! It’s freezing!” She grinned at him, then saw her dog. “Beauty! Good girl! Good puppy!”

“Parker, get in here. You’ll freeze.”

“I do feel like I’m dying. But eleven pounds, Thing One!” With that, she began swimming in long, hard strokes away from the dock.

James bit his thumbnail. Yes, granted, she’d swum on the Harvard team. There’d been two pools at Grayhurst, one inside and one out. But there were no tides in swimming pools, and they weren’t fifty-two degrees, and they weren’t strewn with buoy lines. What if she got tangled on one? “Parker, don’t be an idiot,” he called, jamming his hands into his pockets.

She didn’t hear him. Kept swimming. Another yard. Another. She was an entire football field away now. No signs of slowing. Damn it all to hell. If he jumped in after her, could he catch her? Probably not. But once she went under, he’d be a lot closer—

Finally she stopped, and the dog swam right up to her. It had a stick, which Parker threw back toward the dock, and the dog zipped right around to find it.

“Time to come in, Parker,” James yelled, sounding like a parent. Then again, she was acting like an idiot child. Like—

“It’s really not bad once you get used to it,” she called.

“That’s what they all say, right before they freeze to death.”

She laughed. He was chewing his thumbnail again.

Finally, she turned in the right direction, diving under the surface of the water in a dolphinlike move, then popping up for breath a few yards closer. Swam efficiently, closer, closer. James didn’t take his eyes off her the entire time.

Then, as she was climbing back onto the dock, she slipped and fell back with a splash, and before he was quite aware of having moved, he had her by the arm and was hauling her up, slopping frigid water against himself, her skin as cold as if she were dead.

“Easy there, Mr. Lifeguard,” she said, stepping back and smoothing the hair off her face. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t make this a habit. It’s too cold. It’s stupid, Parker.”

“I think I will make it a habit, Thing One,” she said, squeezing the saltwater out of her hair. “I love to swim, I own a house on the water, and you’re not the boss of me.” Goose bumps covered her skin, and her nipples— Shit. Women were not fair, because a perfectly good case of righteous anger was turning into lust.

Without another word, he turned and stalked off the dock.

Time to rip some more shingles.