His father must have called him at least ten times. Ken’s number came up twice. He ignored them both. They could wait.
This was important.
The highway was a ghost town compared to how busy it was earlier in the evening. Boone pulled off to the side, like Tommy told him to, and threw on the hazards so that none of the few drivers whizzing by came too close to the car.
Tommy didn’t even wait for Boone to put the car in park. The second it stopped, he threw open the door, stalking out into the night. His bodyguard hurriedly followed him, checking his gun in its holster and pulling it out, just in case.
“What did you see?” he asked.
Tommy was staring into the darkness. “I remembered seeing these before. It didn’t mean anything then, but…shit. Why are these here? What do you think?”
Boone drew up next to him. “The cones?”
“Right. Did you bring a flashlight? A good one?”
“In the glove compartment.”
“Get it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Boone returned a minute later, a military-grade flashlight in his hand. He slapped it into Tommy’s waiting palm.
The light blinked on, so bright that it illuminated the entire patch. There were three cones spaced unevenly on the road.
But that wasn’t what caught Tommy’s attention.
He looked at the dirt beneath the cones and nodded in satisfaction. “That’s what I thought. Look. They’ve been dragged. See?” Tommy used his flashlight to gesture at the lines. Tire marks split the obvious drag lines into three. The tire marks weren’t clean, though. Dirt scattered back over them. “They weren’t picked up and moved. Someone dragged the cones one way, drove through, then dragged them back into place. Someone who wasn’t strong enough to quite lift them off the ground.”
Someone like his dainty ballerina.
Hiking up his pant legs, Tommy squatted low to the ground, studying the tracks closer. He couldn’t be sure, but his gut told him that these were one-way tracks.
“She went this way. I’m sure of it.” Standing up, he pointed down the narrow pathway. “Let’s go.”
Without a word, Boone picked up the cones and tossed them easily out of the way. Once the path was clear, he joined Tommy in the car and leaned back in his seat while Tommy took the exit.
It was narrow and bumpy and Tommy was beginning to think that his gut was way off on this one when the road in front of him just… stopped. There was a path to the right, and a path to the left, but the road he had been driving on died suddenly.
He hit the brakes and parked the Jag.
The two men stared at the monstrous valley that stretched in front of the car. It was a cliff, or maybe a giant pit. Something. No rail. No sign. Just a big fucking hole.
“Come on,” Tommy said, grabbing the door handle. “Let’s check this out.”
Leaving the car running, Tommy approached the valley. Boone hovered right at his elbow. Always on guard, always on the job, he stayed within inches of his boss as if he was afraid Tommy might slip and fall.
The road gave way to packed dirt about three feet from the edge. Tommy kept going until the tip of his Louboutin Greggo flat peeked over the side. He glanced down.
Pit, he decided. And a bottomless one, too, he was sure. Reaching inside his suit jacket, he pulled out his pen. He held it high, cocked his head, let it fall. It was immediately swallowed up by the darkness below.
Boone whistled. “Holy shit. What the hell is this?”
Tommy nodded, speaking more to himself than in answer to Boone. “It’s a warning.”
With one last glance at the pit, he got back in the car, Boone making sure to follow close behind him. Once they were seated again, Tommy peered through the windshield.
He noticed that the path to the left was more overgrown with less of a sign of recent travel. The path to the right? The cobblestones appeared more rundown, more used. If Grace swerved around the giant pit, this would be the way she went.
A couple of minutes later, he was proven right.
“‘Welcome to Hamlet’,” Boone read out loud. “I’ve never heard of it. You?”
Tommy shook his head. And that, he figured, was exactly the point.
Drawing his leg back, he kicked at a rock in the road. It bounced off the wooden post, the force of the hit making the hand-made sign list a little to the left. He wanted to scream, and not just because his uncharacteristically rash impulsiveness left him in pain.
Instead, he stamped his foot, shaking off the sting; his leather shoes were expensive, but they barely protected his toes when his temper flared and he lashed out by kicking rocks.
Damn it.
Running his hand through his hair, Tommy turned his back on the sign. He took a deep breath, his suit jacket rising and falling on his shoulders. He needed to focus.
He needed Grace.
“Boss?”
Tommy lowered his hand, reaching for the tie around his neck. He adjusted the knot, tightening it until it was a perfect Pratt. Then he firmed his lips into a thin line.
Facing his bodyguard, he said, “Call Pope in. We’ll need more manpower for this one.”
Though Tommy got the sense that Boone wanted to argue, the bodyguard knew better than to try. He might be able to get away with it when Tommy was in a more rational mood. When it came to Grace Delaney, though, he was never rational.
So, instead, the big man pulled out his phone, started to dial. He waited for a second while Tommy stared angrily at the welcome sign, then tried again. He pocketed his phone. “Can’t. Phone’s not working, sir.”
“Is it dead?”
Boone shook his head. “More like no service.”
“What?” The composure he struggled to regain shattered like broken glass. Tommy slipped his hand inside his jacket, grabbing his own phone. Disregarding the list of notifications—a litany of missed calls and text messages from his both family and his business associates—he narrowed his gaze on the signal bar at the top. “No service? You’ve got to be shitting me. This is the newest model. I’m supposed to get service everywhere.”
“Except here.”
So it seemed.
Another exhale. And then a reluctant smile. The wry grin curled his lips as he tucked his expensive brick back into his pocket. She’d found a way to slip out of his grasp once more.
Well played, Grace. Well played.
“Get in the car, Boone. No use in staying here right now. We’re going back to the hotel, and then we can call in some help.”
“You sure? It’s only a hundred-ninety people. I don’t need Pope. I can find her.”
Right. Tommy was betting on it.
“Let her think she’s escaped. A place like this is a perfect mouse hole for her to hide out in until it’s time for me to take her home again.” He chuckled under his breath, suddenly more amused than he had been seconds ago. A mouse hole. What could be better for their game of cat and mouse? “Once you get service back, call in Pope. O’Dell, too. Park them nearby, have them take shifts. Anybody bolts from this hole, we know about it.”
“Got it.”
“Good. You’re with me.” Of course. “We’re gonna stay in that suite until one of the fellas can get at her for me. It’s close enough, and I have plenty of other arrangements to make.”
After all, their wedding was coming up shortly. This game? It would be their last. As soon as he got his hands on Grace, he’d do whatever he had to to make sure she never got away from him again.
Let his bride hide if it made her happy. He’d come for her when he was ready. For now, she was tucked away safely, and he knew exactly where to find her.
That’s all he asked for.
10
The first week of Grace’s stay in Ophelia seemed to fly by.
To her surprise, Maria’s Sly didn’t come back her first night. Instead, she got a proper introduction when he showed up bright and early the next morning to join them for breakfast. Introducti
on, sure, and one hell of a shock when he strode into the cozy kitchen wearing a uniform exactly like the one the cop she met last night had on.
The only difference? The star-shaped badge pinned to this chest below his nameplate.
Turned out Maria’s boyfriend Sly was Sheriff Sylvester Collins, head of the Hamlet Sheriff Department.
And, over eggs, potatoes, and a floral tea that, as much as she enjoyed it, made Grace wonder if she was sipping perfume, the sheriff decided to get to know her. Which was a nice way of saying he interrogated the hell out of her.
Her name? Grace Delaney.
Full name? Grace Louise Delaney.
Where was she born? Connecticut.
How old was she? Twenty-eight.
Her line of work? A retired ballerina.
Her reason for coming to Hamlet?
Grace hesitated. It would’ve been her first lie and she could tell that, despite the way he shot the questions at her between taking bites of his food, he would call out any attempt at being less than honest.
“I know Maria’s brother. Lucas. He was a neighbor of mine. We were talking one day about small towns to settle down in and he told me about Hamlet. I was interested in moving—” true “—and he suggested I visit Hamlet, give Ophelia a try.”
Sly picked up his glass, took a swig of the orange juice. “Oh? Lucas, huh? How is the doc doing?”
There was something about his conversational tone. Grace couldn’t describe what, though. Only that it made her a little uneasy. And she totally understood Lucas’s worry that too many people back in his hometown would be curious over what he was doing now that he left.
“He’s good,” she said simply. If Maria wanted to elaborate, she could go ahead. That was as much as Grace wanted to get involved.
Maria draped her arm around his shoulder, reaching around Sly to add another stack of toast to his plate. “He’s happy, tesoro. That’s all I can ask for.”
Thank goodness for Maria’s mild rebuke. Sly let the questions go after that. He finished his breakfast, kissed Maria goodbye, and headed off to the station. Once he was gone, Maria turned to Grace and tried to explain.
“So that’s Sly. He’s a Marine, retired, and he’s very proud of being our sheriff. He takes our safety seriously.”
“I see that.”
“Still, I should’ve warned you. Colpa mia. After all the buzzes, from Phil and Erlinda, then Guy Larrabee who’s down by Bonnie Mitchell’s inn… if he didn’t ask a couple of questions, I’d be worried. You’ll be fine now. He likes you.”
Grace wasn’t so sure about that. There was a kindness to Sly that seemed very much conditional. As long as she respected Ophelia—respected Maria—they would get on just fine. From what she gathered, there had to be a reason why outsiders were treated like criminals. Innocent until proven guilty? Not for this sheriff.
It didn’t really bother her. If she was being honest with herself, she liked how hesitant the locals were to invite, or even accept, an outsider into their town. But she had to ask, because she still didn’t know—
“Buzzes? What do you mean?”
“Oh. Right. It’s so easy to forget that we do things our own way. Okay, so I said something about radios last night? Yes?”
A couple of people had. The cop she met. Sly. Maria, too. Grace had had the image of a 1980’s boombox in her head since the cop first mentioned one. She was betting that was wrong.
She nodded.
Maria drew a rectangle in the air with her fingers. “It’s about this big, usually black. Tessa used to call it my walkie talkie. I guess she’s right. It’s how we communicate in town since there’s no cell service. Depending on the settings, you can hear someone’s voice or a buzz.”
“Like when a phone rings.”
“Si. That’s what we mean when we say buzzes ‘cause, well, that’s what it sounds like. Everyone in town uses their radios to keep in touch.”
That made sense. She remembered seeing something like that tucked on the deputy’s belt. The sheriff’s, too. Of course, the Hamlet Sheriff Department would carry radios like that. She just thought they were part of their uniforms.
But then she began noticing them every time she left Ophelia.
She was careful not to go anywhere close to the town’s exit. But that didn’t mean she was going to sequester herself in the Sunflower Room. Even when she was in the city, or in Dayton, she refused to allow Tommy to turn her into a hermit. So she was careful not to leave the safety of the hidden town, while she went out and explored what Hamlet had to offer.
It, uh, wasn’t much.
By the time she was midway through her second week in town, Grace was starting to get antsy. Still no sign of Tommy, which was great. Amazing. Thanks to Ophelia’s security, she slept well at night. Maria kept her fed; she was sure she already put on at least five pounds and, considering how her stress had affected her appetite these last few months, she knew she could stand to put on a good ten more. Her hair stopped falling out as much. She was feeling good.
But she was also feeling bored.
Following Maria’s suggestion, she spent an entire afternoon at Isabella’s Beauty Boutique and got her hair done. It had been so long since she did something just because she wanted to. A trim and a style gave her deep brown hair some life. The manicure was gorgeous. And, after the women in the shop stared at her until she introduced herself, she met some of the locals.
Of course, like she had done with Sly, she kept most of the details about herself under wraps. It was a defense mechanism and she hated that she had to do it. Since she didn’t want to have to go through that again, she stayed inside the bed and breakfast.
She read. A lot.
And she thought about what she could do to kill some time. Maria was wonderful, and she spent hours with her in the evening as they shared supper, but Grace needed something to occupy herself when Maria was busy with her art or with Sly. Maria was a sweetheart, but she didn’t sign up to be Grace’s entertainment.
So, when she had nothing better to do, she danced. If the weather was nice, and sometimes even on the afternoons when it rained, Grace would put on her headphones and dance for hours in the peacefulness of Ophelia’s backyard.
Nothing could have stopped her; dancing was who she was. Ophelia was set far enough apart from her neighbors that she had peace when she slipped out back. The yard was bordered with a thick copse of trees. She liked them because there was no way in hell that Tommy would step foot inside of there.
It hit her one morning after she did a warm-up session outside. Leaves crunched under her sneakers as she twirled, leaped, danced with a freedom she’d been eerily missing ever since she first met Tommy Mathers. The longer she was in Hamlet, the more she felt like she belonged. She wanted to give back. But how? And, suddenly, she knew.
As much as the locals treated her as a curiosity, the few she met were nice enough. Kind. And they all seemed amazed that she was a professional ballerina once upon a time.
Dancing. It was her life. Even if she couldn’t perform any longer, that didn’t stop her from enjoying it.
Or sharing her passion with others.
She thought about it all that night. When the niggle of the idea didn’t disappear, she brought up the idea of teaching Hamlet locals to dance.
“It’s not about the money,” Grace explained. Considering the haul she got when she pawned Tommy’s diamond bracelet, she was set for some time. “I just want to feel like I’m doing something, you know?”
“I think that’s a splendid idea. You should definitely do it, sweetie.”
“I just—I don’t know how to start. Is there a community center in town? Somewhere I can get a group together and talk to them, maybe advertise free lessons a little.”
Maria shook her head. “Not like what you’re used to, I’m sure. Most locals meet up at the coffeehouse or Thirsty’s, if they want a drink. There’s Izzy’s beauty shop for some of the lady gossips, plus Dave’s barbershop for t
he fellas. That’s on Main, but I’d avoid them if I were you. They’re even worse than the ladies.”
“What about a school?” She’d already been taking lessons five days a week before she was in kindergarten, but she remembered some of her school friends taking dance classes for fun. “Maybe I can hang a poster... you don’t happen to have like a Kinkos nearby, do you?”
“Kinkos?” In her Italian accent, the word sounded so much more exotic than it was. “I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s like a print shop. Or maybe you have a printer I can borrow. I brought my laptop, but that was all. I could make a simple poster to hang up and maybe get some students interested in a dance class. I would just need to be able to print it out.”
“You want to make a poster?” At Grace’s nod, Maria held up one finger. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Maria left the kitchen only to return a few minutes later with an armful of art supplies. She had a stack of paper, a box of colored pencils, some markers, a ruler, a pair of scissors, and a pen.
Uh-oh. That didn’t bode well for her. Grace could dance Kitri’s variation of the Grande Pas de Deux of Don Quixote with barely any effort so long as she had her toe shoes and a fan. Give her a marker and a blank sheet of paper and she was all thumbs.
“Oh. Wow. Maria? When I said I wanted to make a poster, I was thinking a Word doc and maybe some clipart. I can’t use any of that stuff.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Sit down. Give me five minutes and I’ll have an ad for you that’s better than anything you can get at your Kinkos.”
She wasn’t exaggerating, either. Grace watched in awe of Maria’s artistic ability. She used the ruler to draw a line about three inches from the bottom. Above the line, she sketched a faceless ballerina, arms outstretched, tutu wrapped around her high waist. She used three colored pencils to fill it in—red, pink, and white—then inked it with her felt-tip pen. Underneath, she used simple but elaborately decorated letters to spell out exactly what Grace wanted to offer: FREE BALLET LESSONS.
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