Deadly Reunion

Chapter 2

Ike walked in the darkness to his courtyard room, and in the glow of a moth-covered porch light, let himself in. After clicking on the lamps, he shut the door and tossed his duffel on a nearby chair.

His head was pounding like a freaking kettledrum. Digging some aspirin from his pack, he strode into the tiny bathroom for water to wash them down, bending to drink directly from the tap. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Now he had other images banging around in his head—not just Ricky and a boatload of hope and guilt. Now…now she was there, and she was there with a vengeance, strangling him with memories that were best shoved aside.

Dammit, he should have phoned her instead of driving up here. Even if she’d wanted to, she wouldn’t have hung up. She had too much class for that. But the little pot-stirring troublemaker in his head had insisted that his chances for success would be better eye-to-eye, and idiot that he was, he’d listened.

Ike yanked off his cowboy boots and let them clunk to the floor, then stripped off his shirt, jeans and socks and added them to the pile. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he stilled. He took a tentative step closer and stared gravely at his reflection.

Did he look older than his thirty-six years? Or just…grimmer? His hair was still dark brown—no gray ones yet—and the sun creases beside his eyes were barely noticeable in his tanned face.

Still, he hadn’t had a decent haircut in months, his beard stubble had reappeared and his dark eyes looked as haunted as some of the skips he picked up. Add the bumpy scar on his hip from an old bullet wound, he decided sarcastically, and he made one hell of an appealing package.

So why did he even give a damn how he looked tonight?

You know the answer to that one, hotshot.

Ike yanked his gaze from the mirror, bristling defensively and telling himself that he didn’t give a damn. He hadn’t driven up here to impress her. His “beauty” regimen was as simple as it got. No frills, no thrills. He showered, shaved and wore clean socks. That was it. Anyone who expected more could stuff it.

Cursing beneath his breath, he shed his underwear, then turned on the shower spray and snatched up the soap and tiny bottle of shampoo that housekeeping had placed on the vanity.

He was grateful for the amenities. He hadn’t packed much more than a change of clothes, his laptop, files and a razor, and the last thing he wanted to do was shop for the things he’d left behind.

Stepping inside the shower, he yanked the curtain closed, shut his eyes and let the water beat his face and shoulders. Let it pound his chest. These days he was thankful for the little things.

Because if there was one thing he’d learned in the last two years, it was that the big things—the important things—had gotten away from him.

Lindsay had barely said goodbye to her mother and returned to the mudroom to finish cleaning her paintbrush when the phone rang again. She sighed. She couldn’t take another bitter dissertation on the evils of Ike Walker, not tonight. Not with Ike’s troubling request still nagging at her. Not with her heavy heart still aching after seeing him again.

Quickly wiping her hands on a paper towel, she returned to the dining room. It was a relief when she checked the phone’s caller ID window and saw a local, though unfamiliar number. After her mother’s tirade, even another phone solicitor would be a welcome break tonight.

But it wasn’t a telemarketer looking to sell her more magazines.

John Fielding’s mellow voice had a smile in it when he identified himself. The bookstore’s courtly new owner was a recent arrival from Boothbay, and a decade older than Lindsay’s thirty-two years. When she’d met him at his shop’s grand reopening, she’d liked him on the spot, and it must have been mutual because he’d asked her out the very next day. She’d had her first date with him last weekend when they’d driven to Portland for dinner and the theater, then afterward, lingered over lattes and biscotti at a cute little coffee shop to discuss their love of books.

“Hello, John,” she said, glad for a reminder that she was making some changes in her pitifully out-of-balance life. Since she and Ike had parted, she’d filled her days with work, time with her mother and the occasional outing with friends. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks,” he said, a little hesitantly. “But forgive me, you sound tired. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

It was barely eight-fifteen. Lindsay let his comment about fatigue slide, though she did feel drained—and she knew exactly who to blame for the condition. “Of course it’s not too late. What’s up?”

“Well,” he said, happily warming to his topic, “last week you mentioned that you’d scheduled some vacation time to work on your home. I was hoping you’d set aside one of those days for me. Even a few hours would be wonderful.”

Lindsay waited through his chuckle.

“I don’t mean to be unkind,” he went on, “but my predecessor’s tastes were a bit pedestrian. How would you like to help me plan a store layout with a little more panache? Possibly help me move some books around and collaborate on a window display? It would give us time to get better acquainted, and later, I’d be delighted to take you to dinner at any place you name.”

“Sure,” she replied, wishing the prospect excited her more—and knowing where to place the blame for that, too. “When would you like to do it? I work tomorrow—Friday—then I’m free for two weeks.”

“A week from Sunday? I’m anxious to begin, but I’d rather not be all torn up during the week, especially since I just opened, and I’m closed on Sundays anyhow. Besides, waiting would give me time to make some of the preliminary moves. Would that work for you?”

Lindsay mustered some enthusiasm for him. “Next Sunday will be fine. By then, I’ll probably be glad to leave the sandpaper and varnish behind.”

But as she hung up a few minutes later, a hollow spot opened in her chest as she recalled something Ike had said when they’d just begun dating…when their hormones were in overdrive and she’d felt her pulse race just hearing his voice. When she’d asked him what was up, Ike had answered very differently.

“What’s up?” he’d murmured, making her knees go weak and her tummy float. “My temperature, thinking about you. When can I see you again?”

Sighing, determined to put Ike and the evening’s events out of her mind, Lindsay prepared to leave the room. Then her gaze caught the family photo of herself, Ricky and their mother atop her computer hutch. It had been taken two years after her father’s death, when she was sixteen and Ricky was eleven. Her heart lurched painfully as she reached for the beloved photograph.

What a darling little boy he’d been—her parents’ miracle child after doctors had informed her mom and dad that there would be no more babies. Then Ricky had shown up, all pink and wrinkled, and the three of them had showered him with love—especially Lindsay. She was his big sister, his doting protector. Then one afternoon as her dad was driving Ricky to a Little League game, a drunk driver hit their car head-on, and in an instant, Richard Hollis was gone. Her father’s death had devastated the whole family, especially nine-year-old Ricky, who was left with a pile of survivor’s guilt. After that, he’d struggled to find his place in the world.

Lindsay stroked her baby brother’s face through the glass, tears filling her eyes again, feeling the pain and helplessness again. Feeling the big-sisterly guilt. She’d failed Ricky, too. She’d promised to take care of him, and she hadn’t.

Releasing a trembling breath, she replaced the photograph and wiped her eyes before the tears could gain a foothold. Ike was right. They needed to know if Ricky’s death was connected to yesterday’s shooting. They needed to know if it was a random act of violence, or a cold, calculated murder.

Ten minutes later, she’d changed into faded jeans and a navy sweatshirt, and was striding down the dark, sloping road toward the harbor. Krafty Millie’s Café came into view first, the white-sided building brightly lit. Music and chatter filtered into the night as patrons left through the plate glass door and walked to their cars…and next door, sharing the same spacious parking lot, The Spindrifter Motel’s flashing neon sign said they had a vacancy.

Lindsay’s heartbeat quickened. Ike’s black Explorer was parked outside a room where light seeped under the closed drapes on the wide window, and a porch light attracted a squadron of moths. It was the only room near his SUV that appeared to be occupied.

Inhaling deeply, she crossed the gritty asphalt lot, walked up to the door and shooed away a few little fliers.

Suddenly it flew open, and she was tugged, gasping, inside.

“Sorry if I startled you,” Ike grumbled, quickly shutting the door and flicking the wall switch beside it. “I heard you walk up, and I’d rather the moths found another place to crash for the night. I should’ve turned off the porch light earlier.”

“No problem,” she said shakily. Her hand tingled from his touch, disturbing little sparks zipping up her arm. That tingling quickly moved to other places when she focused on his face and realized he’d just showered. His hair was wet, and the fresh hunter-green shirt he’d pulled on hung open, showing a tapering mat of chest hair. For a second her gaze followed that soft hairy trail downward where it disappeared behind the brass button on his jeans, then she jerked her attention back up to his face.

A heady awareness flowed between them, and in that moment of silent appraisal, Lindsay knew she shouldn’t have come. The earthy chemistry they’d never been able to ignore was revving up again, bumping her nerve endings. Giving her tightening stomach ideas. And the close, heavy humidity from his shower wasn’t helping.

She glanced away as he buttoned his shirt, taking in the generic decor, flickering television screen and the nautical prints on the walls.

“I hope you’re here to say you’ve changed your mind,” Ike said. There was a white towel slung over his shoulder. Taking it off, he tossed it on the back of the only chair in the room. The seat held his duffel bag, a bulging file folder and the black valise containing his laptop, one of the tools of the trade that was always at his fingertips.

On the rare occasions that he wasn’t chasing a bail jumper or doing legwork for a Portland private investigator, he was tracing skips online. He’d once joked that he could work naked from their bed. All he needed was a phone and an Internet connection.

“I’m not happy about it,” Lindsay replied, “but yes, I’ve changed my mind. You were right. If someone arranged for Ricky’s death, that person has to pay.”

She met his brown eyes and felt the old pull, the old magnetism, the overwhelming need to step into his arms. But those days were over. She cleared her throat. “None of this is going to be easy. My mother’s still bitter.”

“That was obvious when I saw her tonight.” Ike walked to the complimentary coffeemaker on the dresser and picked through the plastic container filled with tea bags and packets. “Actually, I’m amazed that she didn’t phone to let you know I was on my way.” He glanced back at her. “Or did she reach you?”

There wasn’t much point in telling him about the phone being off the hook. That wasn’t important now. “I spoke to her after you left.”

“Did you get her consent for the search?”

“No, but I asked her to dinner tomorrow night. I’ll bring it up then.”

“Lindsay, the longer we wait—”

“I can’t just drop this in her lap, Ike.”

He seemed to think about that for a moment, then replied soberly, “You’re right. Besides, she wouldn’t have been very receptive tonight.”

Or any night, Lindsay thought, feeling a stab of regret. Not if the night had anything to do with Ike. Once her mom had liked him—rather, she’d liked him as much as she liked anyone who came between her and her children, which wasn’t saying a lot. Since her dad’s fatal accident, her mother had become clinging and needy. Though Arlene Hollis had owned a successful seamstress business, she’d never worked outside their home, so she’d never cultivated a lot of friends. Her life had always revolved around her family. Now their numbers had shrunk to two, and with Ricky’s passing, the survivor’s guilt he’d carried had landed squarely on Lindsay’s shoulders.

Meeting her gaze again, Ike picked up the carafe and nodded toward the two beds. “Have a seat. I was about to make coffee. Housekeeping left two cups.”

Not a chance. Not the way her nerve endings vibrated every time the air shifted. She wouldn’t drink his coffee and she wouldn’t sit on either of his beds. Just looking at them in the lamplight brought back images of other rooms, other beds. And sitting was only one bad choice away from lying down.

She was about to refuse when his cell phone rang.

With a muttered, “Just a second,” Ike picked it off the nightstand, checked the caller ID window, then frowned and turned away. “Hi Brandy, how’s it going?”

Lindsay heard Brandy Maitlin’s loud, laughing reply over the low drone of the all-news channel and was instantly on edge. “It’s going, but it’s not going as smoothly without my number-one hunter. I need you, gorgeous.”

With a furtive glance at Lindsay, Ike inched his thumb up to a side key on his phone, then lowered the volume and ambled a few steps away before he continued. “Sorry, I’m not available right now. With everything else I’m juggling, I don’t have time.”

He listened for a while, then grinned and returned in an amused voice, “Nope, no matter how much sugar’s on the table. I’m up to my ears in skips and legwork for Larry, and I just picked up another project. Give Tank a call.”

A sudden rush of jealousy clicked in, and Lindsay walked to him, took the carafe from his hand, then stepped into his bathroom to fill it from the sink. Their past rose up to greet her again as she turned on the tap.

She hadn’t been around Brandy often, but during their flash-fire courtship and six-month marriage, she’d had several opportunities to see Brandy in action around Ike. The woman wanted him, and she wanted him badly. But there’d been no jealousy in Lindsay then because she’d known Ike loved her. She’d also known that Ike never saw Brandy as anything but the head of Maitlin Bail Bonds. At least, not then, she thought, feeling a pinch again. But eighteen months was a long time for a man like Ike to be without a woman…and beautiful Brandy with the dark, flashing eyes had teased that she “needed her gorgeous hunter.” Take away the playful tone and the words still worked.

Suddenly Lindsay was remembering the two months of arguments and accusations that had preceded their divorce…and wondering if Brandy had been there to soothe Ike’s anger and frustration.

Lindsay yanked herself back to the present as the water in the glass pot gushed over the sides and into the sink. Quickly, she turned off the spigot and poured out some of the water, then grabbed a clean hand towel from the rack to dry the carafe.

When she turned around, Ike was standing in the doorway.

Feeling a flush creep into her cheeks, she walked forward, forcing him to get out of her way. She dumped the packet of coffee he’d set aside into the coffeemaker, added water to the reservoir, then clicked on the unit and faced him.

“What did Brandy want?” Surprisingly, she didn’t feel a bit uncomfortable asking the question.

“She needed someone to go after a skip. I told her to call someone else—that I need time for another project.”

“Did you tell her what the project is?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will?”

“Probably. There are no secrets between us.”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

That brought the conversational volley to an abrupt halt. Beneath her calm tone and delivery, Lindsay’s stomach shook. As for Ike, she couldn’t read what was going on inside his head.

“And if I am?” he asked after a moment.

“If you are,” she said lifting her chin, “more power to you. She’s beautiful, and you’re both in the same business. I’m sure you never run out of fascinating things to talk about.”

A flash of annoyance tumbled through his gaze and his voice hardened. “Know what? Maybe we should have our coffee next door at the café. Millie’s open until eleven tonight. Summer hours.”

Lindsay shook her head. She didn’t need coffee. The images her mind was supplying were already burning a hole in her stomach. Images of Ike and his needy lady boss engaged in less-than-businesslike activities.

“No thanks,” she answered crisply, moving toward the door. “I’ve said what I came to say.”

“Some things never change, do they?” he challenged. “Whenever things get a little sticky between us, you run the other way. God forbid you should hang around and talk things out. Somewhere, your mother’s applauding.”

She turned around swiftly. “You know, I wondered how long it would be before you started in on her again.” She grabbed the doorknob. “I’m leaving.”

“Go ahead, you’re good at it.”

That stopped her dead. Eyes filling with tears, Lindsay faced him again. He’d gone too far. His troubled expression told her that he knew it, too.

“Look…” he said through a sigh. “Let’s just go over to the café and talk—get a piece of Millie’s coconut cream pie to go with the coffee.”

But coffee and dessert wouldn’t change anything. There was too much baggage and too many harsh words between them. They’d only end up arguing there, too, and Millie’s customers didn’t need a floor show. Halfway through their pie, Ike would remind her that she’d initiated divorce proceedings, she’d remind him that he’d said the D word first, and they would end up not speaking. That couldn’t happen. They had to work together now, for all of their sakes. “I can’t, Ike.”

“Why not?”

For some perverse reason, she wanted him to know that another man valued her. Maybe because he’d hinted that he and Brandy had a relationship, then left her twisting in the wind without confirming or denying it. But again, she couldn’t imagine him staying celibate for long, even though she had. When they were together, they’d been wild in bed. Wild and wonderful and happy and loving and…

“Because tongues wag at the slightest hint of impropriety in this town,” she replied before the memories could get to her again. “And I’m seeing someone now.”

He didn’t say a word, and she went on. “John’s the new owner of the bookstore—and whether it’s ten in the morning or ten at night, the rumor mills grind away. I don’t see any reason to make him uneasy.”

“Whatever.”

It wasn’t what she expected, and his cavalier reply hit hard.

Then he poured himself a cup of coffee, replaced the carafe and met her eyes again. “So do you want a cup here in Hernando’s Hideaway where no one can see you, or are you really taking off?”

She swallowed. “No, I need to go home and get some sleep. I work the early shift tomorrow.”

“Fine. Let me know what your mother says.”

“I will.”

Lindsay stepped into the cool night, relieved to get out of there, glad for the air on her face. Several doors down, a chattering family carried bags and suitcases into a room where the porch light was shining. A brand-new bunch of moths had homed in on it and were now fluttering helplessly, lured by the pretty glow, and powerless to move away.

She knew exactly how they felt.

“Good night, Ike.”

“’Night. Be careful walking home.”

“This is Spindrift,” she replied soberly. “Nothing bad ever happens around here.”

Lindsay heard the door close behind her. Then she crossed the parking lot and headed for the steep, shadowy walk leading toward the road, Ike’s casual “Whatever” hurting all over again.

So much for letting him know that she was moving on with her life. He hadn’t given a damn that she was seeing John Fielding.

He’d wanted to touch her, Ike thought twenty minutes later, grinding his molars as he let himself back inside his motel room. There, he’d admitted it. He dropped his cell phone and take-out bag on the dresser, along with a metal room key that pinged across the wooden surface.

He couldn’t have cared less if a few moths flew inside. He just wanted to touch her, link with her for a second to see if the old feeling was still there—that knock-the-breath-out-of-you feeling of getting whacked in the chest with a bowling ball.

It was. But he was through shoving his heart through a Cuisinart for her.

Carrying his food to the nearest bed, he kicked off his boots, plumped the pillows against the headboard, then settled back to fish out the first of three cheeseburgers that Millie Kraft had grilled for him. He knew it had killed her not to ask if his reappearance in town had anything to do with Lindsay. But he hadn’t volunteered any information and being the sweet old gal that she was, Millie had simply let the hope in her eyes show and kept mum.

Taking a bite, Ike snagged the remote control on the nightstand and flicked through the channels until he came to a movie he’d seen a few times—one that wouldn’t require much concentration. Lindsay had just about all the attention he was capable of focusing right now.

She was seeing someone. And he hadn’t even looked at another woman that way since they’d yelled their last goodbyes. Hadn’t even wanted to.