True to his word he kept his distance, letting her do her thing. Watching with fascination as she approached person after person.

Some brushed her off, others declined with a smile, but every now and then she snagged a fish on the line and was engaged for either a few minutes, or, in one case, the better part of an hour.

Each encounter Marshall saw a change in her. A gradual lift in her spirit that brightened her features until she shone, radiant and compelling as the sun. And it wasn't a transformation visible only to him, but to everyone around, as well.

Five days in, Marshall had come to conclusion that Eva Turner didn't have a single lazy bone in her body. She crammed every second of every minute. When the weather turned or the crowds thinned, she was in the black room, processing prints from her rolls of film.

When he'd asked her why she didn't outsource the job her answer of seeing the birth of the images as they appeared in the solution had charmed and impressed him.

They worked through the days, from morning to afternoon. Breaking only to scarf in some food, the pushing through to the early evening.

While she worked, Marshall took notes and, because he had a fair hand with a pencil, some sketches, too. Not entirely against the rules, he thought. A sketch wasn't a photograph or a video, and not like he planned to show anyone. These were for him and him alone. Something to do. And look at.

He'd caught her from different angles and vantages. She really did have a striking face, with those large, incredible eyes that said everything and nothing all at the same time. And the way the humidity and breeze teased at her mess of hair, creating waves and thick, coiling spirals that made the odd shape and cut almost...flattering.

After a long, and by his opinion, successful day, he'd managed to talk Eva into stopping by the seaside bar and grill for a bite since they'd pushed through the afternoon with little pause or rest.

The establishment was crammed with bodies, some local but mostly red-faced tourists of the young college variety, starved after a day of roasting on the beach.

Why anyone insisted on rolling every fifteen minutes on the hour while baking in the sun like a rotisserie chicken was an enjoyable way to pass a gorgeous afternoon boggled him.

"Get any good stuff?" Marshall asked, tucking in to their shared platter of fries smothered in gravy and cheese curds.

Mouth full of burger, Eva turned around the screen on her digital and scrolled through the first dozen. She'd gone for candids, today. Most were of entire faces, but he imagined she'd hone in on features, or background elements, to convey her artistic message.

Further in the batch she'd switched over from faces to concentrate on hands and body language. And when the mood struck, brought in the surrounding environment to enhance the atmosphere.

Finding what she was searching for, Eva handed over the camera. The impact was immediate, and the image hadn't even gone through any tweaking or editing.

"This is great. Look at the texture." He pushed at the buttons on the camera until the picture zoomed in on ripples in still water where smooth grey stones sat. Just above was a cast shadow of a hand, broken and twisted and...brutal.

Leaning closer, his eyes skipped over the details, the nuances, the subtle veins of light and...something. He could almost see the water move. The air. And that hand, gnarled and twisted and distorted in reflection, was reaching out to drag him in.

Pull him under.

"I think this is going to be a favourite," Eva brushed her finger along the screen to show the flow of movement and play of light. "He was a real bruiser, this guy. But underneath the hardness was such...regret. The way the water distorted his hand really reflected his inner torment."

Marshall nodded, setting the camera aside to defer to his notes that he'd jotted down while she had sat and spoke with the subject. And read out a segment of dialogue that he'd jotted down.

I always say that I've done a life sentence-in installments. I've done three state bids and numerous stints. You get sucked in young the cycle of recidivism is tough to break. When you finally get out, you got nothing: no home, no family, no money, and no job. No respect. In prison, they called me 'Pops.' I got privileges. People respected me. I felt valued. When I got out, I had to start over. Met a nice woman who changed my world. But every day I'm afraid the old life will snatch me back. Pull me down. And I'll fold like a bad hand. Dragging my loved ones with me.

Between the blurb Marshall's mind wove in descriptive flourishes, touching on the way the Pop's shoulders had hunched, his hands worrying the knuckles, popping and cracking like an addict itching for another hit of something to chase away the demons.

The way the cloud cover had softened the light and sent slats of shadow to fall over him, like bars, the quiet lapping of water against the wall of stone. How Eva had sat at his side, so quiet and patient and understanding as he poured out his innermost fears. And, most importantly, when they'd parted, how the guy had seemed...lighter. Easier.

"Didn't realize you were paying such close attention," she said, eying him over her coke.

Marshall closed the notebook, shrugged. "Gave me something to do. Besides, if I'm going to spotlight the art, helps if I can give some context to the piece."

"Guess having your around isn't such a waste of time," she said and dove back in to her burger with lusty gusto, juices and condiments slopping over parchment, a few drops splattering on her shirt.

Most women he knew would have lamented the mess. And whined over the offending possibility of stains. Hell, most women he knew wouldn't have scarfed down a double bacon cheeseburger like a frat boy living on a ramen for a month.

"Where the heck do you put it," he asked as she stuffed her mouth again. Impressed by her voracious appetite.

"Hollow legs," she managed. Smirking around a hunk of juicy beef, Eva wiggled an elbow, gesturing to her thigh. "Its where I keep my second stomach."

Marshall laughed at that, the sound rich and deep and made a little flutter roll through her belly.

"You must have grown up in a household of brothers," he said as her gaze trailed to the end of the bar where a trio of very drunk girls, clad in bikini tops and shorts, were squealing over shots.

Young girls. Probably just old enough to drink.

Chewing slowly, she shook her head no. "Only child."

"Huh. No shit." Swiping up a bit of sauce from her collarbone, just above the swell of her breast. He brought that thumb to his mouth, and sampled. "Damn," he said with a nod of approval. "That's good."

Eva swallowed deeply around a mouthful of burger and lust. Why was that sexy?

"So, back to that guy you photographed," Marshall scooped up a generous spoonful of lobster mac n' cheese, "if you didn't like him, why shoot him?"

Wiping her mouth, Eva balled up the napkin, tossed it in the bowl of chicken bones from the wings they'd demolished. "Because art isn't about me. It's subjective. It's beautiful and it's devastating. I can't be true to my craft if I'm filtering or censoring based on my ideals and morals. The moment I pick up my camera, I check my judgments at the door."

Grinning, Marshall rolled his shoulder, shook out his right hand. Tingling was setting in to his fingers, the dull pins and needles pulsing up this elbow. He'd been pulling long hours with Eva the last few days, lugging and hauling most of her equipment for her and now the strain of that all effort was beginning to take a toll.

"You alright?" Eva asked, watching him curiously as he flexed and massaged his forearm.

"Old war wound acting up," he said giving the neckline of his shirt a tug to reveal the starburst scar bursting beneath the hard line of his clavicle.

Eva edged forward, stunned, and pressed her fingers against the thick scar tissue. The ugly aftermath of a bullet ripping through a body. An angry wound, she thought, the purple fading into silver against the warmth of his tanned skin. It fell just beneath the bone of the joint and could only imagine what the exit wound looked like on his back.

She'd read that an injury had pulled him out of the field, but seeing this-in the flesh-somehow made the reports pale in comparison. It had all sounded so tame on the page.

"Looks painful," she said, moving her hand away when she realized she was still touching him. Her fingers stroking over the scar as if she wanted to take it all away. The hurt and the painful reminder that scar must evoke.

"Can be," he admitted, adjusting his shirt back in place. "Caught me clean through the muscle, bruised a few nerves. I'll be good as new in a year."

Eva understood deflection better than most. And denial. And the need to keep things close to the chest.

Raising her hand, she flagged down the waitress for the bill and pulled out a wad of cash from her back pocket. No purse, Marshall noted. All women carried something. Even the ones who'd crawled belly down in the mud. But not Eva, it seemed. Only a small billfold with cash, and...maybe a debit card, as far as he could tell from the quick flash he'd seen. And not much else.

"You gonna to let me cover at least half of that?"

"Nope," she answered, draining her coke. "We're on the clock. This is business, not a date, and since you're not getting paid the least I can do is pay for the odd meal."

Marshall smiled at that as his attention flickered two of the drunken trio took off with a larger group, parting in a trail of giggles and noisy kisses, leaving the third behind with a boy who'd joined them not five minutes earlier...if you could call him that. Kid was probably in his mid-twenties.

And nowhere near as drunk. But that didn't stop him from flagging down the bartender for another round of tequila. Plying the girl with more booze then she could handle. There were a handful of ways this was going to play out, none of which boded well for the girl.

A quick sweep of the room told him that more than a few of the patrons were aware of the situation, and aside from a shake of the head or a muttered remark to their dinner companions, no one appeared particularly interested in doing anything beyond turning a blind eye.

Paying out the bar tab, the guy nestled in close, arms heavy with his inebriated cargo, steering her for the doors. Sad, he thought, that so many people could easily sit by and watch as these things happened, without even lifting so much as a finger to stop it. Lucky for her, Marshall had never been much of the sit-back-and-do-nothing type.

"I'll be right back," he said only to discover Eva had long since popped out of her chair. He'd been watching the interplay so carefully he'd failed to realize that so had she.

"Hey," she said, setting herself between him and the doors. "Can't let you leave with her."

"Fuck off, yeah?" The guy leaned forward, his handsome face twisting in a sneer. "Mind your own damn business."

At his side the girl giggled and swayed into him, makeup smearing beneath glassy eyes. "Yeah," she giggled, pushing back a matted lock of dark hair. "This is my boyfriend." And snuggled in tighter.

"You heard her," he said, words thick with an Aussie accent. "Now piss off and leave us be."

"That's a pile of horse shit." Eva held her ground, even though the youth towered over her by a head and at least twenty pounds of testosterone-laden muscle. "You're just a loser trolling a bar and saw an easy mark for a quick lay. She's too drunk to give informed consent and you know it. So you're going to let her go, and walk away, or I'll have to make a scene."

"You got no right telling me what to do. She wants to come with me, than she's coming." As the guy moved forward, Marshall slid in at Eva's side and the youth shot heated eyes up to him, flaming with challenge, and more booze than sense. "What, you gonna start something, mate?"

"Me? No. This lady's got you by the balls. I'm just enjoying the show," he said, sliding hands into his pockets. "But you should know I've made a call to my brother, the island Sheriff. Once he gets here we can verify what's what. You have until then to decide if you're going to go back to your hotel, alone, and jerk off in a sock, or spend the night in a cell? Your call."

The punk sized him up, then slid his gaze around to the dozens of eyes turned their way in rapt fascination. Like any typical coward when faced with opposition that refused to back down, he shoved his catch into Marshall's arms.

Shouldering his way between them, and grunted, "She's all yours, fucking wankers," on his way out.

"That's enough out of you," Eva said, while the girl stammered and staggered, voicing her displeasure. Pouring her into a seat by the bar, Eva angled her head back and snapped fingers in front of her wheeling eyes. "What's your name?"

Trusting that Eva could manage well enough on her own for a minute, Marshall dialled a quick call to Ethan who, by some small miracle, happened to be finishing a call and only five minutes away. Returning with a glass of water and, after a bit of strong-arming with the barkeep, some food to help her absorb the booze.

Between him and Eva, they'd managed to get her to drain the glass and manage a few meagre bits of a grilled cheese by the time Ethan arrived on scene to take over. Checking her ID had confirmed the girl, Gigi Koppal, was a local islander, and a call to a very unhappy father ensured that someone would be by the station to pick her up and make sure she got home safe.

After a night in the Drunk Tank to sober up, which would hopefully teach her a valuable lesson about responsibility and alcohol.

Rolling her head on her shoulders, Eva breathed in a lungful of fresh air and sighed. God that had been emotionally and physically exhausting, and if that was a hint of what she had to look forward to when her own girls were of age, the prospect was enough to make Eva want to curl up into the foetal position with a bottle of wine.

Christ, she'd made some poor and stupid choices as a kid, that was part of growing up. But to think about how close that girl had come to getting into a whole whack of trouble. At the very least she would have had a sloppy one night stand, woke up the next morning with a wicked headache and a serious case of what the held did I do last night. Or at the worst...well, Eva hadn't been prepared to sit back and play the odds.

Gigi was someone's baby. She deserved to be looked out for.

"Come on, champ," Marshall said, setting his hands on her shoulders, kneading the tight muscles. And as those strong fingers Eva bit back on the whimpering moan.

"Let's take a walk on the beach."

Eva looked at the stretch of sea and sand, the beach clear of tanning bodies and chairs and towels, leaving it cozy and intimate.

"Can't," she said, pulling away from those talented hands. "It's getting late and I've got a bit of a long drive ahead of me if I'm going to drop you off at Ethan's."

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

"With your brother tied up at the station, how else are you going to get home?"

"I've been staying at the little cabin by the cove as of last week. You know, the little red one?"

Oh she knew the one. Eva's stomach dropped with a whoosh, rattling somewhere around her knees. There? So close?

"Come on, Eva. The sun is setting, the air is soft, the water warm." He held out a hand. Smiled. "Take a walk with me."

She looked down at that hand, weathered and calloused. Strong, she thought. Resilient and hardworking. You could tell a lot about a person by their hands. Their entire story mapped out between fingers and palm. And because she wanted to take that hand, to slide hers against it, palm to palm, Eva tucked hers away in her back pockets.

"Fine," she said. "Ten minutes."