Heather Graham Bundle: The Island / Ghost Walk / Killing Kelly / The Vision
“A seventy-five-foot motor yacht,” he agreed. “You should have come aboard. She’s one glorious lady.”
She turned to him. “You could show her to me in the morning.”
He seemed surprised by the suggestion. “I could, yes.” He watched her curiously for a moment, a slow smile creeping over his lips. “Ah. You’re going to check her out. Look for bodies or evidence of evildoing.”
Beth averted her eyes. “No such thing. She’s a beautiful boat. I work at a yacht club.”
“So you see lots of beautiful boats.”
“I love to be able to discuss them with the members.”
He laughed easily. “You can check her out. No problem.”
“Which means, of course, that if you were concealing something, it would be well hidden,” she informed him.
“Did you study criminology?” he demanded. “Or do you suffer from an overdose of cop shows on television? If you’ve been paying attention, one more time, Ms. Anderson, it’s smart to keep out of things that don’t concern you.”
“So I shouldn’t go on the boat?”
He groaned. “You’re more than welcome to see the boat. I told you—we’re not pirates.”
“Does that mean you’re not pirates but you are some other kind of criminal, or that some people are pirates, even though you and your friends aren’t?”
“If I say good-morning when I see you and the sun is up, will you be dissecting those words, as well?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He stood, reaching a hand down to her. “Well, I suggest we get some sleep and find out,” he said.
She hesitated before accepting his hand. As he helped her to her feet, she came up against him. The length of her body brushed against his. When she was up, she remained close, thinking—hoping?—he was going to touch her.
She thought she might lose all sense of reason and reach out and touch him, place her fingers on his face.
“No line,” he said softly. “You are…like a flame. I’d give my eyeteeth to be the moth that was consumed.”
She blinked. His voice was deep, sincere, and yet he was distant. He didn’t even try acting on his words. If anything, they were wistful.
“Don’t worry,” he assured her, and a dry smile twisted his lips. “I know how to pine from afar.” He hesitated. “You really don’t need to be afraid of me,” he assured her.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.
“You’re not?”
“Only a little.”
“Actually, you should be. I’m dying to touch you,” he said.
The breeze whispered. The ghosts of the island, she thought. The cool air caressed her flesh. She was tempted to step forward and tell him that she was afraid, but willing to take her chances anyway.
Just to be touched.
To her absolute amazement, she heard herself say, “Maybe you should be afraid. Maybe I’m dying to touch you, too.”
His hand rose. His knuckles and the back of his hand just brushed over her cheek. His eyes met hers. For once there seemed to be honesty in them. “You’re like a dream, perfect in so many ways.”
She swallowed hard. “Not perfect,” she murmured.
He laughed, dropping his hand, easing back a bit. “Smart, gorgeous, sexy…and good on a boat. That’s a dream to me. And I’m insane for saying this. I don’t think that I’m what you want. I don’t know if I can be.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “And now we should get some sleep.”
They stood there for what felt like forever but was probably no more than a dozen seconds.
“Still want to see the boat in the morning?” he asked.
“Yes. And I’m not a complete coward, you know.” What did she mean by that? She wasn’t certain herself.
He smiled and stepped back, and she could almost believe she had imagined a moment more intimate than any she had ever shared.
“In the morning, then,” he said, and she wondered if his voice was as husky as it sounded, or if she only wanted to think so.
“Yeah…in the morning.”
“Should I see you back to your tent?” he teased.
“I’ll be fine. It’s only a few feet away.”
He smiled the rueful half smile that seemed to tear away sanity. “I’ll just keep an eye on you from here,” he assured her. “Apparently you didn’t bring your pepper spray.”
She shook her head, studying him, and lifted her hands. “No pepper spray. Should I have carried it?”
He groaned, then laughed. “Good night, Ms. Anderson. It’s been a lovely evening.”
“It is a lovely evening,” she murmured.
Suddenly he pulled her close, and she thought he was going to kiss her, take her in his arms and really kiss her, and if he did, she didn’t know what she was going to do.
But he didn’t. He just held her. She felt the electric heat and force of the length of his body, not at all dissipated by the cotton between them. He brushed the top of her head with his lips, then pulled back again. “Go, go on back,” he told her.
She stepped away, staring at him.
“Trust no one,” he told her.
“Not even you?” she whispered.
“Not even me. Go on.”
Husky had been replaced by something that resembled harsh. She backed away for several steps before turning to head to her tent.
When she reached it, she turned back.
He was exactly where she had left him.
Watching.
Somehow, she knew that when she went into the tent, he would remain there, watching—though for what, exactly, she had no idea.
But he would be there through the night. Of that she was entirely certain.
Just as she was certain she was the one who was the moth coveting the flame. In her life, she had never actually planned anything the way she was planning it now.
But there was an ache inside her.
Whether she burned to ashes or not, she had to touch the fire.
HANDS OFF.
That was what he had warned the others. They had business to attend to here.
But there was the other business, as well. And that kept him thinking, curious—and determined to find out everything he could about their fellow campers.
Clenching his teeth, he reminded himself that it was no surprise that tourists had come to Calliope Key for the weekend. But he couldn’t allow anger to waylay him, nor could he allow himself any emotional involvement. All he could do was seek justice now. And put an end to it all.
Beth Anderson was a distraction he couldn’t afford.
Keith swore softly in the night.
Then he spun, instantly alert at the smallest sound.
Matt, stretching, looking as if his joints ached and he wasn’t ready to pull a shift on guard duty, eyed him cautiously.
“Quite a conversation,” Matt said.
“I couldn’t exactly force her to go back to bed,” Keith reminded him.
“She’s something, huh?” Matt said, and grinned. Then the grin faded and he shook his head. “It’s dangerous. I wouldn’t want her to wind up…hurt.”
“She won’t,” Keith snapped out.
“If she—”
“She won’t,” he repeated.
“Hell of a story you told the other night,” Matt said, sounding somewhat sharp, as if the words were an accusation.
“It’s a well-known legend.”
“Did you tell it on purpose?”
Keith shrugged. “Why not? Throw it out there.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Matt shrugged, looking out to sea—and the yacht. “Nothing?” he inquired.
“All’s quiet.”
Matt nodded. “Actually, what else could we expect?”
“Nothing,” Keith murmured. He looked at Matt. Neither one of them felt at ease.
“Well, I’m up. You can catch a few winks.”
“Yup.”
“You’re not going to sleep, are you?” Matt asked.
“I’m damn well going to try.”
“Don’t worry. I know it isn’t your lack of faith in me. It’s just your nature.”
“Trust me. I’m going to try to sleep.”
“That’s right. You’ve got a date in the morning, don’t you?”
“What?”
“You have to show Beth Anderson the yacht.”
“Oh. Right.”
Great, just great. His entire conversation had been overheard.
“It will be fine. It’s Sunday at last. The working world will return to work,” Matt said. “And we’ll have the place to ourselves again.”
Keith murmured a disjointed, “Not exactly.”
“I don’t blame you, by the way,” Matt went on.
“Blame me for what?” Keith said.
“If Beth Anderson had looked at me with so much as a slightly interested smile, well…I’d forget everything, too.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Keith said.
He left Matt by the palm and returned to his tent.
But Matt had been right.
He lay awake. And listened.
He couldn’t help remembering a picture that was as vivid in his mind’s eye as if he were back at the morgue again, staring down at Brandon Emery’s face. He’d been so young. Twenty-four and so damn good at everything he did. One of the brightest newcomers, filled with all the right stuff, as they said.
Too damn good. He shouldn’t have been out alone. Especially when he had seen something, known something. And he had known something. Keith could still recall the last e-mail he’d gotten from Brandon, word for word.
I think I’ve got it. Honest to God, you’re not going to believe it. I’m going to check it out, and I’ll let you know next time I write.
But there had been no next time.
No next time for Brandon.
Keith had never heard from him again. Not until he had been called to see the body. What had seemed like a fairly easy—even run-of-the-mill—venture had turned deadly, and the image of Brandon Emery in the morgue was one that would never leave his mind.
His body had floated up near Islamorada. His boat had been found drifting a few miles farther north. But he hadn’t been anywhere near Islamorada when he had e-mailed.
He’d been here, working off Calliope Key.
And no matter what anyone said, he hadn’t simply drowned.
He sat up in a sweat. Swore.
Ted and Molly Monoco. He hadn’t known the couple, but he’d read about them. He’d never put them in the same arena as Brandon before. Brandon had been part of his work. Ted and Molly had been retirees, off to see the world.
But they’d been here, too. It might well have been damn stupid of him not to connect everything that had happened in the area. But what was the connection? Brandon’s boat had been no great shakes, and it hadn’t been stolen. Had the Monocos’boat been seized? He’d heard rumors that it had been seen. Rumors. And there had been similar incidents in the papers over the last year.
The Monocos had owned the kind of vessel any modern-day pirate might well envy.
Had they died for that reason?
How could that be connected to Brandon’s death, or their own quest here? Had the island itself become deadly, or remained deadly through the centuries, a place near enough to civilization to attract visitors, and yet remote enough for anything to happen? A place to kill and…
A place to hide the dead?
He would never sleep. Because now Beth was on the island. Beth, who wouldn’t let things rest.
It was chilling.
She would be going home soon. She would be in no great danger, once she returned to Miami. Once she forgot the island.
Forgot the fact that she thought she’d seen a skull…
Gotten over the idea of discovering just what had happened to Ted and Molly Monoco?
6
“HEY, DAD, WHERE’S AUNT BETH?”
Ben, who’d been stowing gear, looked up from the tent poles he was arranging as his daughter rubbed sleepy eyes and stared at him.
“Gone,” he said gravely.
She frowned, shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Dad, where is she?”
“I’m serious. She went out to see the yacht with Keith Henson.”
“What?”
His daughter’s incredulous excitement gave him pause. “I said,” he enunciated, “that your aunt went out to see the yacht with Keith Henson.”
“Oh, Dad. I heard you perfectly.”
“Then—”
“Oh, Dad, it’s too cool.” By then, Kimberly had come up behind her. “Did you hear that? She went with Keith to see the boat.”
“Wow!” Kim agreed.
“I didn’t think she had it in her.”
“She’s just so suspicious.”
“This is awesome.”
“Random.”
“Wicked.”
By then Ben was frowning. “What are you two going on about?”
“Oh, Dad. He’s a hunk.”
“Really fine,” Kim agreed somberly.
“I mean, there was…like, thunder.”
“And lightning.”
“Between them,” Amber finished.
“We were trying to figure out a way to get them together,” Kim admitted.
Ben scowled seriously then. “You two butt out, okay? She’s a grown-up, and she’s not going off any deep end over a guy just because he’s got a six-pack, okay? Don’t you two go pushing anything. She went to see the yacht because I raved about it, and that’s it, do you understand?”
“Okay,” Amber murmured.
“Seriously,” Kim agreed.
Then they looked at each other and ruined the effect, bursting into laughter.
“Amber Anderson,” he said firmly. “I mean it. Leave your aunt alone.”
“He’s acting like a male,” Kim murmured to Amber.
“All touchy,” Amber agreed.
“He is standing right here,” Ben told them.
“Sorry, Dad,” Amber said.
“I mean it.”
“We know you mean it,” Amber told him. She nudged Kim. “Hey, let’s go explore.”
He felt a frown furrowing his brow. “No exploring.”
“What?” Amber protested.
“Stay on the beach.”
“Why, Dad?”
Why? He didn’t know.
“Because I said so.”
“But, Dad—”
“Because I said so,” he repeated.
He turned away, because he really didn’t have a better explanation to give his daughter. As he paused to look down the beach, his frown deepened, and he tried to tell himself there was nothing to worry about.
But everyone, it seemed, was looking out to sea.
Not too far away, Matt was standing by one of the palms. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was looking toward the yacht.
Down farther, Amanda Mason was posed in almost the exact stance, staring out over the water, hugging her arms around herself.
And even farther down…
It was Brad. Staring out at the water, at the little boat nearing the majestic yacht.
A sense of unease filled him, like a little inward shiver.
He literally shook himself, irritated.
He dealt with the scum of the earth, so why was he so bothered now?
With a slight groan, he turned away. Good God, Keith’s buddies—including the owner of the yacht—were right there. The Masons were down the beach. Brad and Sandy were unknowns, but what the hell, they were there, too.
Beth was as uptight as an old schoolmarm, worse than he was himself.
Everything was fine.
“Hey there!”
He turned. Lee Gomez was waving to him, heading toward the interior of the island.
“Looking for a few good coconuts,” Lee called to him. “Want any?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he returned.
Down the beach, Sandy had moved to stand behind Brad. She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek on his back.
Brad didn’t seem to notice. He was intent on the yacht. Then he turned, as if aware that he was being watched, and saw Ben staring at him.
Ben waved.
Brad waved back, then turned his attention to Sandy.
It’s all just fine, Ben assured himself.
And it was. They would be getting off the island.
He was amazed to realize he was glad the weekend was nearly over. He usually dreaded going back to work after a break. What the hell. There ought to be some saying about the scumbag you knew and the scumbag you couldn’t quite recognize.
HE LOOKED GOOD ROWING, Beth decided.
She purposely turned her gaze to the yacht they were approaching, dismayed that she seemed to be doing little other than appreciating the physical assets of the man.
Around boats, guys wore trunks, cutoffs, T-shirts, even no shirts. They tended to be bronze, and the club attracted a slew of well-toned, healthy, fit specimens of masculinity.
Keith Henson just seemed to have it all and carry it off just a little bit better.
This morning he was in blue-and-black swim trunks, the kind a million surfers wore, the kind that shouldn’t have been the least bit erotic. He had eschewed a shirt, since the day was hot—nothing unusual in that. But his skin seemed to be an unreal masculine shade of bronze, and his muscles flexed with each tug on the oars. Shades hid his eyes from her view, and she certainly hoped her own hid her thoughts equally well. Suddenly she blushed. She had been thinking about how he was dressed, but now realized that she, too, was skimpily clad in a bathing suit and sarong—an outfit that she would have thought nothing of if she weren’t with him.
But there was something between them.
She couldn’t stop herself from thinking of it as chemistry, though she was sure she never would have felt such a draw if it hadn’t been for his smile. Or the darkness of his eyes. Or the keen mind that seemed to lie behind his every word.
His every lie.
“Well, do you like her?”
They had reached the yacht. He stood, rocking the little dinghy, and tied on. The aft ladder had been left down, and he swung on, reaching out a hand to her. With the dinghy bobbing on the waves, she accepted. She found herself noting the ease with which he helped her. The man was strong. Did that make him some kind of a criminal? And if he was, what kind of an idiot was she to be here with him?
She landed on deck with ease and looked around. She estimated the original price of the boat at more than six figures.
“Really, really nice,” she assured him.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
He took her around the upper deck, then to the flybridge, and finally down to the cabin. She whistled softly.
“It’s like a luxury-hotel suite,” she told him.
“The great thing is that she can do anything. Despite her size, she’s got top speed, and she’s rigged for fishing as well as pleasure cruising.”
“That’s why there’s the global positioning system, sonar, radar, communications—and whatever else is up there and down here?”
“We all like to fish,” he said with a shrug. “What can I get you? Juice, soda…water? Want coffee? It will only take a minute.”
“I’d love coffee,” she told him.
He seemed to be involved in the task, but she had the feeling that he was watching her all the while. For her reactions?
Or to make sure that she didn’t notice something she shouldn’t?
“Make yourself at home,” he said.
“Thanks.” She took a seat on the sofa in the main salon area. She might have been sitting in the salon of a resort. Beyond the windows, she could see the sea, the sky and a glimpse of the island.
“How long do you think you’ll be in this area?” she asked him.
“Oh, a while.”
She laughed suddenly. “Do you ever have a direct answer for anything?”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay, how long are you going to be here? A while. A ‘while’ can mean anything. If someone had asked me about this weekend, my reply would be clear and direct. I go home tonight.”
He shrugged, pouring coffee into mugs. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be in the area. When we’re fished out, dived out and done, I’ll head back.”
She let out an exasperated sigh. “Back to Virginia?”
Even then, she thought he hesitated. “Yes.”
“Do you have a house there?”
“Yes. There—is that direct enough?”
“What part?”
“Northern Virginia.”
“Does your city or town have a name?” she demanded.
He came around and handed her a mug. “Whoops, sorry, did you want cream or sugar?”
“Black is fine, thanks. Well?”
“A fairly well known name, yes. Alexandria.”
“There, see, it wasn’t so hard. You have a house, it’s in Virginia, in the city of Alexandria.”
“Do you have a house?” he inquired in turn, perching on the arm of the sofa. Close again. The kind of close that made her wonder why she felt the need to analyze everything. Why not just take a chance? Why care so much about exactly who or what he was?
Just enjoy the simple things in life, she told herself. Everything doesn’t need to last forever. She never just met a man and went with him…anywhere. It seemed that she had never been so emotionally confused before. Last night she had lain awake during all that had been left of the darkness, thinking, tormenting herself. She could…no, no, she couldn’t, sure she could, she shouldn’t, mustn’t…and then, why not? This sense of something hanging in the balance was new to her. This kind of need, this kind of longing…She couldn’t actually even remember ever being spontaneous, simply acting on instinct. And yet she was free and single, over twenty-one, always responsible, dependable…
Surely everyone had a right to a moment’s insanity, to fulfill a fantasy. It was Sunday and she would head home, back to the real world, and most likely thought she would never see him again.
“Hey, are you still with me?” he asked, bemused.
“I, um…yes, of course.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
He arched a brow. “House. Do you have a house?”
“Oh! I have a town house, yes.”
“And that would be where?” he asked.
“Coconut Grove, near the yacht club.”
“Nice.”
“I like it.”
“However—”
“Yes?”
“I’ve heard that Coconut Grove can be a dangerous area.”
“Any populated place can be dangerous. As you said yourself, even sailing the islands can be dangerous. But Miami has a bad rep. People are nice there. It’s like any other city. You’re most likely not going to be hit by a drug lord unless you’re dealing or something like that.” She shook her head suddenly, looking into her coffee cup. “You ask a simple question, and I give you a paragraph. I ask a question and get a one-liner. Maybe I’m the one with the problem.”
She was startled to realize that he didn’t laugh, or even smile, as she had expected he might. He was looking at her very seriously. He reached out and touched her. Light, totally casual. He just touched her chin with the tip of his forefinger. “I don’t think you have a problem at all,” he said very softly.
There it was. The moment when she was supposed to stand and say, “I have to go.”
But she didn’t. He eased down from the arm of the sofa, next to her, his scent a mixture of the wind, sea and salt, his flesh still reflecting the heat of the sun, emitting power from every pore, and she didn’t move. She waited.
His sunglasses were gone, and his eyes seemed as dark as ebony, as mysterious as an abyss, and he was studying her, long and intently. Once again she thought it was time to back away, because then he would rise, as well, and the moment would be broken.
But she didn’t move, and his fingers slipped into her hair, cradling the base of her skull. Then, at last, his lips touched hers. At first it seemed like nothing more than a hot and teasing whisper of air; then the fullness of his mouth pressed over hers. She wasn’t avoiding, wasn’t protesting; she was set adrift in a sea of fascination and discovery, her arms rising, hands resting on his shoulders, fingertips awakened by the simple feel of skin. He kissed her hard and deep, and she felt an infusion of warmth and arousal.
It was he who broke the kiss, easing away, and his voice was definitely husky when he spoke. “I think you’re supposed to tell me that you need to get back.”
She nodded. “You should be telling me that this isn’t your boat.”
He nodded in response. “We should go.”
“Certainly. Now.”
“Remember, I told you that you should be afraid of me.”
She shook her head, studying his eyes. “I should be. But I’m not. I mean, I am. But I’m not.”
“Tell me to take you back,” he said.
She shook her head slowly. “I guess I’m just not afraid enough.”