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Connor answered easily enough since he was telling the truth. “Because he’s crotchety Old Man Mitchell and his illiteracy has been a shameful secret up to now. We’ve got to take this slow.”
“I see. Yes. I understand.” Her words were clipped. She was waiting for him to go.
He took the books and started to the door. “I’ll pick you up. What’s your address?”
She closed her eyes for an instant and he thought she was giving in. Instead, her lashes lifted and she stared him down. “Did you forget? I’m taking my own car. After all, I barely know you.”
“You’ve seen my ID.”
“Which proves nothing.”
“What kind of lawbreaker do you take me for?”
“That’s yet to be determined.”
He laughed. “Well, then, thanks for the free books.”
“Don’t be smart with me, Mr. Reed.”
“Yes, Marian.” He looked back once more from the open doorway and saw that she was muttering to herself. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she said the word smuggler. He shrugged to himself. Smuggler was better than some of the names he’d been called lately.
TESS WAS GRATEFUL the library had emptied for the usual early-afternoon lull. She’d get a trickle of patrons wandering in and out the remainder of the afternoon and a final rush before closing time—which consisted of anywhere from two to five stragglers, most of whom would hurry in with a movie to return.
She wasn’t sure why she’d let Connor Reed talk her into scooting off to meet his grandfather right after work, except that her heart twinged when she thought of the old man, alone for all those long, lonely winters in the lighthouse and not being able to read. She’d have gone crazy if she hadn’t had books to keep her company all this time on her own, and she was nowhere near as isolated as a lighthouse keeper.
She went into her office, a small room on the other side of the entryway. It was a nook really, formed out of a coat closet and several borrowed feet from the dining-turned-periodical room. There was space for a desk and little else. Usually the office felt too tight, but for the moment it was a welcome haven.
With a few probing questions, Connor Reed had turned her inside out.
Suddenly she felt out of sorts with what had been a cozy, settled life. Was it because she found Connor disturbingly attractive, or that his questions had brought up old memories of the time before Jared?
Both, most likely. The attraction was interesting, even exciting. The other…
She thought of life now as A.J., After Jared, forgetting that she’d once been a different person. A girl. Silly, lighthearted and ambitious—even a little bit daring. Connor’s curiosity had brought all that back to mind.
Tess’s gaze went to the framed photo beside her computer. It was a classic pose—a proud young man in flannel and jeans holding up a gleaming rainbow trout, the lake behind him speckled with sunshine. Jared Johnson—her fiancé. Forever a fiancé, frozen in time because he’d been killed in a car accident the week before the wedding.
Tess stopped, making herself breathe, remembering when the thought of Jared had caused her actual physical pain. She was long past that now, but somehow she’d never quite moved on.
She’d been just twenty-one, Jared two years older. Young to marry, but the timing seemed right. She’d graduated from college that spring and Jared had immediately proposed. She knew he’d been pushing for marriage mostly because he didn’t want her to accept a job out of the area, but she hadn’t felt stifled. She was in love. An entry-level position at a large library system far from home wasn’t as appealing as she’d once imagined it to be. Whereas the prospect of marrying her high-school sweetheart and officially joining the large, boisterous Johnson family had been irresistible.
Tess propped her chin on her hand. Eleven years had provided enough distance for her to see that marrying Jared had been the safe choice. A good choice, a happy and probably satisfying one—especially when she thought of the children they might have had—but mostly safe.
As the only child of divorced parents, security was important to Tess. Her father was long gone, barely a memory. Her mother had moved away more than a decade ago right after Tess’s high-school graduation, satisfied that she’d finished raising her daughter and was therefore free to leave a town she despised. Tess had been okay with that—she was busy with college, and besides she’d had Jared’s family, in many ways closer and more supportive than her own.
Then the accident had happened and the wedding was canceled, and she’d realized just how alone she really was. The Johnson family hadn’t wanted anything to do with her because of her part in Jared’s death. She might have been even more stricken by their abandonment if the mere sight of them—especially Jared’s brothers, who looked so much like him—hadn’t made her fall apart. The only way she’d survived was to cut herself off from contact with the life that had almost been hers.
Her new job as the one and only librarian of the Alouette Public Library had been a godsend. The structure and duties had helped her through the worst of her grief. Eventually, she’d found her place in the world again and had learned to be happy with all she had—friends, a home, her health, a steady job.
But she’d had eleven years of that now. Maybe she was a little bored. Her escalating fantasies could be a sign that she was ready to step out of her comfort zone.
Right off, it was apparent that nothing about Connor Reed would make her feel safe. Thrilled, fascinated, aroused, but certainly not safe.
Of course, he wasn’t really a pirate or a smuggler, even though she couldn’t help thinking that he’d look good in a pair of gold hoop earrings and breeches. But then, who was he?
A click of the mouse of her tangerine iMac brought it out of sleep mode. She had a suspicion. When she’d mentioned the rumor that the lighthouse had been purchased by a famous writer, Connor hadn’t actually denied it. She couldn’t place him, but hadn’t he seemed familiar?
No, not familiar, really, except for a mental jog at his name. It was more that she’d been sharply, disturbingly aware of him. As a woman. But it was the librarian who’d solve the puzzle.
She logged on to a search engine and typed in Connor’s name. In seconds, data flashed onto her screen. Success!
With dawning horror, she scanned the information. The hollow in her stomach deepened as she clicked on the first link, which led her into the archives of a popular weekly newsmagazine. Graphics popped up, followed by text, then pixel by pixel, Connor’s photo, taken outside a courthouse. He was surrounded by reporters. His hair was shorter and he was dressed in a suit and tie, but the face was the same—drawn, serious, haunted.
She read the headline with a dry mouth. Crime Writer’s Evidence Sets Murderer Free. Roderick Strange to be released from prison. Victim’s family outraged.
My God! This wasn’t fantasy—it was real-life drama.
Beyond her wildest dreams.
CHAPTER THREE
WHILE THE WOMEN who ran the B and B debated in loud whispers that carried from the next room, Connor stood in the middle of the Bay House foyer and looked around with dull disinterest. Under normal circumstances, he’d have paid more attention to the stately Victorian architecture and tasteful surroundings. But it was growing impossible to focus on details. His eyeballs were scratchy and his lids seemed to be lined with lead. If they didn’t give him a room soon, he’d end up curled in a ball under the potted palm.
He took a few steps to the open doorway that led to a sunlit dining room, intending to hurry the process along. The hushed conversation stopped him.
“I won’t let you do it, Claire.” That was the older woman’s voice. Connor had momentarily forgotten her name, but she was short and round with dumpling cheeks and a severe gray braid that pulled her forehead taut.
“We have no other space to offer. I hate to turn away a guest when we’re struggling to turn a profit.”
“What about the attic? Won’t one of those rooms do?”
Claire Levander, who was the manager Tess had told him to seek out, made a discouraging sound. “Noah and Roxy are repairing the damage from last winter’s frozen-pipe burst.”
The innkeeper frowned at Claire. “I wish you’d stayed put. I didn’t have to worry about the prophecy going into action when you were living at Bay House full-time.”
Connor swayed on his feet. He was too tired to figure out riddles.
“Yeah, because Noah and I had sucked up all of Valentina’s wedding karma.” Claire gave a wry laugh. “Now that we’re living together and practically engaged, your ancestor needs a new victim.”
“Oh, you,” the older woman fretted. “Hush. That’s not the way to convince me to give Mr. Reed the bridal suite.”
Connor stepped forward, putting a hand on the door trim and clearing his throat. Both women whipped around. “I need a room,” he pleaded. “I’ll pay whatever you like. I don’t care if it’s a bridal suite as long as it has a bed.”
Claire, a thirtyish brunette who was very well put together, turned to the other woman. “Emmie—c’mon. What can it hurt if I give him Valentina’s bedroom?”
Emmie’s face puckered with indecision, but stubbornness won out. “No.” When Claire opened her mouth to protest, she repeated, “No. You know why.”
Connor’s heavy head dropped forward. He didn’t need this hassle. “Does it matter if I tell you that Tess Bucek sent me?”
The two women looked at each other for one astounded, quizzical beat. Then they turned to Connor. “Tess?” they said in unison.
Emmie’s manner did a sudden one-eighty. “Why didn’t you say so?” she cried, coming toward Connor with her arms open. She gave him a welcoming squeeze. “If you’re a friend of Tess’s, you’re a friend of mine. And you’re in luck, because the best room in the house is available.” That wasn’t what she’d been whispering ten seconds ago, but Connor wasn’t going to argue when Emmie was motioning the inn manager toward the foyer. “Claire will check you right in. Welcome to Bay House.”
With an amused smile, Claire slipped behind a handsome polished desk and retrieved the registry book. She flipped it open, studying him closely. “Here you go, Mr. Reed. Are you a particular friend of Tess’s?” Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she handed him a pen.
Connor took it and signed the book. He knew he looked disreputable at best, so why the sudden interest and approval? Was Tess’s say-so that important? Or were they setting him up for…well, he couldn’t imagine what.
“Nope,” he said. “I met her for the first time about an hour ago. In the library.”
Emmie looked less impressed, but Claire wasn’t concerned. “All the same, we’re very pleased that Tess sent you to Bay House.” She glanced at the name he’d scrawled in the registry and gave a little start.
Connor grimaced. He’d told them only his last name when he’d arrived, but had forgotten and signed his name in the guest book in its notorious entirety.
Claire snapped the book shut before Emmie could lean in for a look. Very smooth. Her smile didn’t even waver. Connor gave her full marks for discretion and for maintaining the warm reception, but he couldn’t make himself care. He was accustomed to awkward reactions. All that he hoped was that when word spread, Tess wouldn’t be besmirched by his unsavory reputation because she’d vouched for him.
A number of tagged room keys hung on a small Peg-Board on the pale gold wall. Instead of reaching for one of them, Claire took a small silver key from her pocket, opened a desk drawer and slowly withdrew a tasseled latchkey, almost as if she were a magician pulling silk scarves from a hat.
Connor was baffled by the significance. A key was a key and a room was a room. Wasn’t it?
His sense of disquiet deepened. Both women were treating him oddly—for whatever reason—but that didn’t seem to be why his scalp prickled. He glanced behind him, then up a staircase that was still grand despite its threadbare carpeting. A flash of movement on the second-floor landing was followed by a series of diminishing thumps.
“Who was that?” Connor asked.
Claire hadn’t even looked. “Only the maid.”
“Never mind her,” Emmie said hastily.
“Shari won’t bother you.” Claire’s voice had gone up two octaves.
Connor knew she was prevaricating and found it all very curious. “She’s not related to Norman Bates, is she?”
Emmie reared back. “Good heavens, no!”
Claire produced a dutiful chuckle. “Mr. Reed was making a joke, Em.”
Maybe not, Connor thought, although he was prone to finding sinister implications even where there were none. A hazard of his profession, where the boy next door was likely a freckle-faced killer.
“There is no crime at Bay House,” the older woman scolded.
“Of course not.” Claire avoided Connor’s eyes so carefully he knew she was wondering if he was here to investigate a story.
“That’s good to hear,” Connor said. “Seeing as I’m on vacation—” he stressed the word for Claire’s benefit “—I’d rather not be awakened by bumps in the night.”
Claire scoffed as she came back around the desk and reached for his gym bag. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee that.” Connor got the bag before she did. She straightened, giving him a genuine smile as she raised a hand to her mouth to whisper, “Shari has a heavy step.”
He nodded, liking Claire. If she’d made an instant judgment on his name, she hadn’t let it color her conduct.
“This way, Mr. Reed.” He followed Claire up the stairs as she rattled on about the history of Bay House and its owners, the Whitaker family. “I’m putting you in the bridal suite.” She put the heavy latchkey into the keyhole and cranked. “The room is named after the family’s infamous jilted bride, Valentina Whitaker. Don’t be put off by any rumors you may hear. They have little basis in reality and are purely speculation.” Claire’s eyes danced. “Or so Emmie makes me say.” She opened the door with a flourish.
“Sounds like a subject I’m not sure I want to explore.” Connor dropped his gym bag to the floor as he moved into the room. It was bright and airy, decorated with a mix of homespun—rag rugs, a folded quilt, an old-fashioned washstand—and froufrou—a crystal chandelier and a lot of photos in fussy silver frames.
“This’ll do,” he said. The best thing about the room was the bed. A big and sturdy four-poster. He could peel back the pristine linens and delicate lacy stuff and collapse.
Claire gestured. “You have a small balcony and a private bath. And, of course, Valentina.”
Connor looked at the wall she indicated. An oil-painting portrait was prominently featured above the fireplace. A serene blonde posed in her wedding gown, hands clutching a bouquet of white roses. “Uh-huh,” he said. Claire was waiting for further reaction, so he added a salute. “Nice to meet you, Valentina.”
“Nice?” Claire made a face. “That wasn’t my reaction.”
Connor turned away. “I get all kinds.”
“Oh!” Claire looked mortified. She pushed a lock of hair behind one ear, making a dangling earring swing against her neck. “I didn’t mean you. Valentina’s the one I’m not comfortable wi—” She stopped, rolled her eyes, then started again. “What I meant was…”
Connor winced while she fumbled for words. For all that he told himself he didn’t care, he remained hypersensitive about other people’s reactions to him. Claire might be a rare open-minded individual, but few were immune to overwhelming public opinion. The gossip would start soon enough, and he didn’t want to put these well-meaning people in the middle.
He shot a look over his shoulder, interrupting Claire. “Listen, don’t worry. I’m not here to make trouble. I should be checking out in a couple of days.”
Claire’s face was pink and worried. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, but there was a classic grace in her strong bones, tall form and abundant curves. Up to now, her manner had been assured, so he doubted that she was normally so easily flustered. It had to be him or Valentina. And who could be disturbed by a bride, even one who’d refused to smile?
“Please, Mr. Reed. You must stay as long as you’d like. We don’t take reservations for this room, so it’s yours for an extended stay if you wish.”
“All right, thanks,” he said, unsure of his plans but wanting to erase Claire’s worried frown.
“Anything you need, please ask. Emmie and her brother, Toivo, the owners, are usually on the premises. I’m here almost every day. Breakfast is served in the dining room, or you can arrange for a tray….”
Connor nodded her out of the room, sensing that she was on the verge of asking him his business in the area if he gave her an opening. He didn’t. His face was a mask.
Finally she said good-day. He closed the door and pressed a palm to one of the raised panels, leaning all his weight against it as his heavy eyelids closed.
Finally alone. Thank God.
The funny thing was that he used to be what was commonly called a people person. Go back to his college days, even a few years ago, and he was right there in the center of it all, ready to talk and argue and laugh with anyone who showed a glimmer of a fascinating mind.
Now he was so…exhausted.
Not only from defending himself. He was tired of talk, tired of words, tired of the way both could be twisted and distorted. As if it was all just a cruel game.
Be damn grateful you’re no longer a player, he thought, but inside he knew that was a cop-out.
He’d played. And he’d lost more than he’d ever imagined.
A vital part of himself was missing.
TESS’S HEAD SWIRLED with horrific images and words as she drove to the Three Pines nursing home, twenty-five miles from Alouette on a twisty two-lane country road. The highway was a better route, but also longer and busier. She wanted time to think before seeing Connor again.
To think in peace. If she could get the awfulness out of her head.
She’d only scraped the surface of all the information available on the Internet on Connor Reed, though the majority of it—muck included—had centered on his most recent involvement with the overturning of the murder conviction against Roderick Strange. Several years ago, Strange had been arrested for the kidnapping and murder of a young woman in rural Kentucky. He’d also been suspected in several other disappearances, but there hadn’t been enough proof. Finally, in the Elizabeth Marino case, he’d been convicted and sent to prison.
