Beyond the Misty Shore Read Online Free PDF Page B

mourning veil. There was something positively galling in that the man had occupied so many of her thoughts, so much of her time in the past two years, and yet he didn’t know her from Adam.
    “Are you all right?” He shoved the hangers down from near his chin so he could look at her without dumping the armload of clothing onto her head.
    “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”
    “In that case, would you get up? You’re blocking the hall.”
    She gained her feet, hanging onto the doorknob, fearing her cheesy-knees wouldn’t hold her. Why is he here? Why hadn’t Bill Butler warned me MacGregor would be here? Had he set me up? “Charming.”
    “Hate to disillusion you, but charming, I’m not.” He stepped around her. “We’re the only two guests up here right now. Goes that way during the winter, after the last of the leaf-peepers bug out. Let’s make a deal.” He gave her a cold, hard look. “I’ll stay out of your way, and you stay out of mine.”
    No apology? Arrogant ass. What was wrong with the man? Did she look ready to attack him or something? He certainly had nothing to fear there. She grabbed the hem of her brown skirt, which had ridden indecently high on her thighs, and gave it a good jerk down to her knees.
    The glimpse she’d gotten of him at the funeral had been obstructed by heavy coats and a sea of black umbrellas, and what she remembered most of all had been the slump of the man’s shoulders. Here, with her view unobstructed, he wasn’t at all what she’d expected from her memory. He stood much taller, about six-foot-two, lean and well-muscled, though broader. His coat back then hadn’t had padded shoulders after all.
    The man was supposed to look like an artist—intense and sensitive—not like a perfect-nosed, roughened lumberjack with huge hands. Doing intricate work on canvas had to be a hassle. His jeans were obscured by the clothing he carried, but his shirt was a typical, warm-looking L.L. Bean classic in a faded blue that really did wonderful things to his gray eyes, especially in the soft light. A shame he spoiled the effect with his killer glare. His hair was on the long side, jet black and wind-tossed, loosely curled at his nape and plastered to his head in front by the droplets of what likely once had been sleet. Unfortunately, that didn’t do squat to diminish the impact of his face. It was interesting. Strong-boned and distinct, lived-in. Faces that looked as if their owners hadn’t lived in them a while bored her. T.J. MacGregor had lived plenty in his and, from the telling signs on it, he’d laughed and suffered his fair share.
    The devil deserved his due and she’d give it to him. He was dynamite-looking. Sinful that his TNT attitude, which she didn’t like one bit, and the chip on his shoulder the size of Maine’s granite cliffs, ruined him.
    And those sins paled beside his worst: He was a key player in Carolyn’s death. Maggie knew it as well as she knew she stood in the upstairs hallway at Seascape Inn, staring at the man.
    “Oh, I won’t bother you,” she assured him, and nodded to let him know she truly meant it. “I’m tired, wet, cold, and hungry. I don’t want to be bothered myself. But even if I did, I’d find myself another victim. Frankly, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to bother you.”
    “Frankly, good.” He smiled but there wasn’t any warmth in it. “Sounds perfect.”
    The tiny lines near his eyes crinkled and she cursed herself for noticing. The man was an egotistical, arrogant jerk. Tempted to tell him so, she yanked open the door to her room, then hauled her belongings inside. “Perfect,” she snapped, then slammed the door shut.
    Her hands were shaking. She was shaking all over.
    What on earth is he doing here?
    Miss Hattie definitely was at it again.
    T.J. dumped the hangered clothes onto the bed in the Cove Room, wishing he could go right back to the Carriage House suite and hole up until the new arrival finished her