Sanctuary by Nora Roberts Page A

she would begin to understand.
    Then she would decide what to do.
    The crunch of a footstep made her look up quickly. The sun was behind him, casting him in shadow. A cap shielded his eyes. His stride was loose and leggy.
    Another long-forgotten picture snapped into her mind. She saw herself as a little girl with flyaway hair racing down the path, giggling, calling, then leaping high. And his arms had reached out to catch her, to toss her high, then hug her close.
    Jo blinked the picture away and the tears that wanted to come with it. He didn’t smile, and she knew that no matter how she worked to negate it, he saw Annabelle in her.
    She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “Hello, Daddy.”
    â€œJo Ellen.” He stopped a foot away and took her measure. He saw that Kate had been right. The girl looked ill, pale, and strained. Because he didn’t know how to touch her, didn’t believe she would welcome the touch in any case, he dipped his hands into his pockets. “Kate told me you were here.”
    â€œI came in on the morning ferry,” she said, knowing the information was unnecessary.
    For a difficult moment they stood there, more awkward than strangers. Sam shifted his feet. “You in trouble?”
    â€œI’m just taking some time off.”
    â€œYou look peaked.”
    â€œI’ve been working too hard.”
    Frowning, he looked deliberately at the camera hanging from a strap around her neck. “Doesn’t look like you’re taking time off to me.”
    In an absent gesture, she cupped a hand under the camera. “Old habits are hard to break.”
    â€œThey are that.” He huffed out a breath. “There’s a pretty light on the water today, and the waves are up. Guess it’d make a nice picture.”
    â€œI’ll check it out. Thanks.”
    â€œTake a hat next time. You’ll likely burn.”
    â€œYes, you’re right. I’ll remember.”
    He could think of nothing else, so he nodded and started up the path, moving past her. “Mind the sun.”
    â€œI will.” She turned away quickly, walking blindly now because she had smelled the island on him, the rich, dark scent of it, and it broke her heart.
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    MILES away in the hot red glow of the darkroom light, he slipped paper, emulsion side up, into a tray of developing fluid. It pleased him to re-create the moment from so many years before, to watch it form on the paper, shadow by shadow and line by line.
    He was nearly done with this phase and wanted to linger, to draw out all the pleasure before he moved on.
    He had driven her back to Sanctuary. The idea made him chuckle and preen. Nothing could have been more perfect. It was there that he wanted her. Otherwise he would have taken her before, half a dozen times before.
    But it had to be perfect. He knew the beauty of perfection and the satisfaction of working carefully toward creating it.
    Not Annabelle, but Annabelle’s daughter. A perfect circle closing. She would be his triumph, his masterpiece.
    Claiming her, taking her, killing her.
    And every stage of it would be captured on film. Oh, how Jo would appreciate that. He could barely wait to explain it all to her, the one person he was certain would understand his ambition and his art.
    Her work drew him, and his understanding of it made him feel intimate with her already. And they would become more intimate yet.
    Smiling, he shifted the print from the developing tray to the stop bath, swishing it through before lifting it into the fixer. Carefully, he checked the temperature of the wash, waiting patiently until the timer rang and he could switch on the white light and examine the print.
    Beautiful, just beautiful. Lovely composition. Dramatic lighting—such a perfect halo over the hair, such lovely shadows to outline the body and highlight skin tones. And the subject, he thought. Perfection.
    When the print was fully fixed, he lifted it out of the tray