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as she’d hoped it would be. Though she’d retired from her illegal activities, she didn’t want to be floating aimlessly for the rest of her life. The bulging manila envelope that sat unopened on the dining room table might have given her some direction, jump-started her progress. The name on the outside—Genevieve Walker—was the name of a stranger. She’d reinvented herself as Eve Caplin long ago and that was who she was now, for better or worse. Ruthlessly, she taped the envelope to the bottom of the table. It would be secure enough until her safe was installed. Until then, she wasn’t ready to open it. She might never be ready.
    Home improvements were the best form of procrastination. She put away the tape, pulled out a pile of paint chips, and started debating between Swiss Coffee and White Dove.

 
     
     

Chapter Four
     
     
    Hudson rounded the point and slowed from a brisk jog to a fast walk. He’d tacked an extra two miles onto his regular beach run, and his thighs were burning. The sharp sea air cooled the sweat on the back of his neck and he felt invigorated, if no less frustrated.
    He’d started the day the way he spent every Thursday morning, volunteering at Chelsea’s single convalescent home. Tomorrow, he was giving blood; he’d stop at the diner on the way home for a burger, to fortify his iron. He’d done something unusual after returning home from reading to Mr. Rosenbaum and holding the yarn for Mrs. Sinclair’s knitting project: he’d gone into his studio. Once in there, he’d sat down at his desk and started fiddling around with some images that had been rolling around in his head. They weren’t only Eve’s face, which he’d sketched over and over since he’d met her, each time not quite right. It had been nearly two years since he’d gone to his studio to do more than drink a beer and watch the rain fall outside the large plate glass windows that made up the entire northern wall.
    Giving in to the need to sketch Eve had somehow reminded his fingers there was some life in there yet. The strangest thing remained how the large-scale abstracts he’d built his career on, that had fascinated him from his infancy as an artist, were nowhere to be found in the small pile of sketches. They were of chins, eyes, ears, recognizable features of the weathered looking man he’d seen at the gas station that morning, of his smallest niece, Caitlyn, even of Mrs. Sinclair, knitting needles and all.
    He clearly had an itch, if only he knew where to scratch. If he was honest, that itch had started the day he’d set eyes on Eve Caplin, and hadn’t let up.
    Her rejection still stung. He couldn’t console himself with the idea that he could ask her on a date. Dating had become as infrequent as studio sessions. If he could even begin to start thinking about painting again, then he could certainly manage a drink or dinner. Maybe after she got to know him, she’d reconsider. She couldn’t be blamed for being wary. She was a beautiful woman, and busy, besides. Modeling wasn’t everyone’s thing. It could be very hard work, which if she knew art, she’d be aware of. He could tell she’d been interested; she hadn’t let herself say yes.
    He blew out an aggravated breath. He wanted to see her again, even more than he wanted to paint her.
    He considered asking Will if he needed help completing her security system installation, since Eve had asked his brother to rush the work. But Will was close to done, plus the ruse was too hokey to work. He didn’t want to see her again as an employee, anyway. He wanted to see her as a man.
    He had her phone number from the day he’d let her into her house. He fished his cell phone out of the pocket of his running shorts. It would be a simple matter to press the buttons, let it ring, ask her to meet him for a drink.
    He thought of her snooty little accent, her elite gallery experience, the way she’d icily dismissed his request, and he let the phone drop back into