by Meg Tilly
She didn’t return to the house. Stubborn bitch. She started crying. Noisy, unattractive, gulping sobs. Apparently, she’d waited up all night, was disturbed to find him standing by the burn barrel, wearing nothing but gumboots and covered in blood.
The therapist had told him he needed to work on his empathy, on seeing things from her point of view.
Fine. He would have preferred to practice his empathy fully clothed, but he closed the distance between them, even though it was bloody cold that far from the flames, and patted her on the back. “There . . . there,” he said. “Enough with the tears. It’s not all bad. Hey, I got an idea. Why don’t I cut us some roasting sticks, and we can toast some marshmallows.” But that just made her cry harder.
Thirty-nine
EVE’S LUNGS MOMENTARILY stuttered to a stop when she pulled her car into the Intrepid parking lot and saw a shadowy hulking figure of a man. His shoulders hunched, hands cupped around his eyes as he peered through the back window of the building.
“Hey!” Rhys yelled, yanking the passenger door open and vaulting from her car before she’d come to a complete stop.
The man whirled, hands up. “Not doing nuthin’,” he said, backing up against the door, the light over it illuminating his face.
“Larry. What the heck?” Eve snapped, adrenaline running through her. “Why are you lurking around the building at this ungodly hour?”
“I—I work here,” he stammered, looking guilty as hell.
“Not for two hours, you don’t.”
“I just thought”—he kept his head down, unable to meet her eyes—“with Maggie gone and all that, you might need a little extra help setting up.”
“We’ve got it covered,” Rhys said, his face a granite mask and his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Why don’t you tell us the real reason you’re here.”
Larry flushed. He mumbled something, but Eve had no idea what it was.
“What’s that?” Rhys demanded, getting in Larry’s face.
Larry’s gaze darted over Rhys’s shoulder to her. He took a big breath, looking embarrassed but determined. “I had a . . . feeling,” he said. “I get them sometimes, and when I do, I’ve learned not to ignore them. Like that other day when someone broke into your apartment—I had a feeling then, too. It’s sorta like a flash.” He puffed out a breath, his cheeks filling with air and then deflating.
“And what did this feeling say?” Rhys asked, steely-eyed, jaw set. “I think it would be a good idea to break into Ms. Harris’s apartment? To stalk and harass her?”
“No!” Larry said, glaring at Rhys in outrage. He turned back to her. “It was nothing like that. You gotta believe me.”
“No. She doesn’t,” Rhys countered.
Eve put a hand on Rhys’s forearm. “I’ll handle this.” Miraculously, Rhys snapped his mouth shut and took a half step back. “Go on, Larry.”
“I was uneasy all evening, couldn’t sleep. Didn’t know why. And then this voice told me I needed to come to the Intrepid. That something was wrong. That I need to stay close to you, Eve.” Larry nodded his head at her, his fists clenched. “Need to keep you safe.”
“Larry,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “I appreciate your hard work and your dedication to the Intrepid. However, it is not appropriate for you to continually be on or around the premises after hours.”
“But—” Larry started to speak, but she raised her hand and forestalled him.
“I don’t want it to happen again,” she said sternly. “If it does, I’m afraid there will be consequences.”
“Con—consequences?” Larry asked, eyes wide, bushy eyebrows shooting upward.
“That’s correct,” said Eve briskly, stepping forward and unlocking the door.
The minute she crossed the threshold, there was a sense of wrongness. As if somehow the place had been violated. Invaded. Unease lifted the fine hairs on her arms and on the back of her neck.
She heard Larry moan behind her. “Quiet,” she said, a little sharper than was warranted, slipping her keys into her palm. She closed her fist so that the individual keys protruded from between her fingers like porcupine quills. Her other hand flicked on the light.
Everything seemed normal.
Nothing was out of place.
She exhaled and stepped into the kitchen.
“You okay?” Rhys asked, catching sight of her face as she turned to hang her jean jacket on the coatrack.
“Sure.” She smiled ruefully as she slipped her apron over her head and tied it at the waist. “Seem to be jumping at shadows this morning.”
Once Rhys was settled at the ovens and Larry was sweeping the leaves off the front walk, Eve went into the utility room. Between the furnace and the hot water tank they’d had a broom cupboard built with a false back, where the safe was housed. She opened it. The cash from the week was still neatly stacked inside.
“Thank God.” She closed the safe, spun the lock, and shut the false back. She straightened, allowing the relief to trickle through her. Larry had spooked her. Everything was fine. It was time to get to work. She grabbed the mop and bucket.
She filled her bucket with hot soapy water, put Adele’s 19 CD on, and started mopping. She left Rhys’s work area untouched. Didn’t want him to slip on the wet floor. Once he had all the ovens going and took his coffee break, she’d give that area a thorough washing.
By the time she’d finished mopping the kitchen, Larry was back inside and unloading the dishwasher. She dumped the dirty water from her bucket, refilled it with clean, and headed to the front of the house. Working hard and fast, singing along with Adele, she kept her head down and focused on the work. She could feel the burn in her muscles more than usual. Probably on account of our nocturnal activities, she thought, a smile cajoling the corners of her mouth upward. A feeling of contentment spilled through her at the memory of the taste and feel of Rhys’s skin. She dragged her forearm across her face to wipe off the sheen of sweat gathering there.
Eve had a system for washing the floors. She liked to work her way backward through the room. Once she got to the front door, she’d walk around the building to the back entrance and reenter, where the floor would’ve dried.
It wasn’t until Eve straightened to stretch out her lower back that she noticed the gaping empty spot on the wall.
She must have screamed. Didn’t remember doing it, but both Rhys and Larry burst through the swinging doors, faces pale.
“What is it? What happened?” Rhys demanded.
“My . . . my—” She couldn’t get the words out, pointed at the wall.
“Her painting,” Larry roared, charging over to the blank wall. “Midnight Moon. Someone stole it.” He slammed his palms on the wall as if somehow that would bring the painting back, and that’s when Eve noticed the money.
A neat stack of bills tied with a red satin ribbon was sitting on the table underneath where the painting had hung. There was a red rose and a foil-wrapped chocolate kiss resting on top of the cash.
“What the hell?”
Rhys must have seen it, too.
“I think,” Eve said, feeling a little nauseous, “I’ve just sold my first painting.”
Forty
RHYS CROUCHED DOWN by Eve’s seat, tucking her cold fingers around a mug of hot coffee. “How you doin’?”
She smiled weakly. “Been better.” She noticed the mug in her hand. “Thanks.”
“Drink up,” he said. He could see slight tremors running through her. “The warmth will help settle you.”
She took a sip. “What did Luke say?”
“He agrees with me that Larry should go.”
She stared down into her mug. “It’s going to break his heart.”
“A temporary suspension until Jake has run Larry through their systems. Maggie weighed in as well. It is clear you have a stalker, so
ensuring your safety is of paramount importance, until we get the green light on Larry.”
“He’s just so sensitive . . .”
“He was found at the scene of both break-ins.”
“I know,” she said, waving her hand wearily. “You’re right. Better safe than sorry.” She sighed heavily. “It makes me sad is all.” She placed her coffee mug on the table, rose to her feet, and squared her shoulders. “I’ll go tell him.”
* * *
• • •
EVE DASHED THROUGH the swinging doors loaded down with dishes. Glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned. It was only 11:15 a.m., and she was already exhausted. She wasn’t sure how much of the fatigue was the extra workload created by sending Larry home and how much was guilt weighing her down. To say Larry was distraught would be a massive understatement. “But I’m your A-one worker,” he’d sobbed. And then his mom, Rose Shumilak, dropped by on her coffee break, still wearing her smock. She’d pretended she’d had a sudden craving for a dozen jam-dot cookies, but really, it was to plead Larry’s case. That had been difficult. Eve hated disappointing her. Rose had looked so tired and worn. She’d had Larry late in life, an only child, and the apple of her eye.
“Order’s up,” Rhys called.
“I know.” Eve scraped the plates, stacked them in the dishwasher, which was already stuffed to the gills, added soap, and started it. “If you could unload this when it’s done,” she said, drying her hands and hustling over to pick up her order.
“No problem.” Rhys removed a pan of brownies from the oven. “Damn. Slight charring around the edge.”
“The icing will cover it, no worries,” she said, adding a scoop of potato salad and a sprig of parsley to the club sandwich.
“Also, Luke called. He booked a private jet. They’ll be heading out as soon as they’re packed and have settled their accounts. They’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”
“Oh dear.” Eve plopped coleslaw and a pickle next to the pulled pork sandwich. “I didn’t want them to cancel their vacation.”
“They wouldn’t be able to relax worrying about you,” Rhys said.
Eve sighed, picked up the plates, and pushed past the doors to the crowded café.
She was sorry her sister had cut her vacation short, but if she was being totally honest, she was relieved, too. Luke had specialized in international security before he’d moved to Solace Island. He’d know what to do. Would find whoever was behind all of this and stop them in their tracks.
Lavina and Ethelwyn were huddled over a teary-eyed Irene, patting her on the shoulder. “Food’s up,” Eve said, setting the dishes down at their table.
“Could we get a sharing plate?” Lavina asked.
“I couldn’t,” Irene said, her voice quavering. “I . . . I have no appetite.”
“You have to eat.” Ethelwyn dragged a spare chair to their table. “No asshole of a man is worth losing your health over.”
“Men are dogs,” Lavina added, looking up at Eve. “She’s just found out that her husband is in love with someone else.”
“Oh dear,” Eve said. “I’m so sorry.” But her words of comfort didn’t seem to help the matter; they just triggered a renewed bout of tears.
“Another set of cutlery, too, please,” Ethelwyn said.
“Absolutely,” Eve replied.
She gathered another place setting, along with a piping-hot pot of Afternoon Blend, a fresh mug, and a dainty creamer of half-and-half. Irene preferred it to the traditional milk. “Here you are.” She placed the items on the table. “Tea is on the house.” She gave Irene an encouraging pat on the shoulder, then headed back into the fray.
It would’ve been hard enough managing the workload without Larry on a normal day, but today the crowds swarming into the restaurant were unprecedented.
“What in the world is going on?” she said as she passed a slightly harried, flushed-faced Dorothy, who was scooping vanilla ice cream onto slices of warm pie.
“You didn’t hear?” Dorothy said, the tail end of her sentence a surprised squeak. “A movie star was spotted at the pharmacy yesterday afternoon. Everybody’s come into town hoping to run into him. This movie star is apparently a super big deal. Marjorie says all you gotta do is look at him once and you’re ready to rip off your undies.” She waved her hand for emphasis, apparently forgetting that she was holding a scoop. The ice cream dislodged and went sailing in the air. “Not that I wear them,” Dorothy continued, happily oblivious. “Undies, that is.”
Dorothy’s blob of ice cream landed on the floor with a splat.
Great, Eve thought, scooping the melting glob of ice cream up and plopping it in the sink. Some weirdo is stalking me. I’ve got Larry’s tearstains on my shoulder, an undies-less waitress, and there’s a scavenger hunt on for Rhys—
“Not that my lack of underwear—” Dorothy boomed.
Eve squeezed her eyes shut and counted to three. God forbid the woman moderate her tone when speaking of undergarments.
“—would suppress my natural urges. If anything, it just adds to them.” She punctuated this unwelcome information with an exuberant belly-dance undulation of her hips for emphasis, eyes twinkling. “A good healthy breeze up the hoo-hah is very good for vaginal health. Speaking of vaginal health . . . If this actor is as hot as they say”—Dorothy cackled happily, her thick gray eyebrows waggling—“I’d better start attending the cinema!” She nudged Eve hard in the ribs. “Maybe if we combined forces we could convince Mackenzie to start showing action movies at the theater, instead of that artsy-fartsy Academy Award shit. Hot men running around half-naked, wielding big guns . . . sounds like a hell of a lot more fun than hanging out Friday nights with my vibrator—”
“Dorothy,” Eve interrupted, before any more unwanted confidences could emerge from Dorothy’s mouth. “You need to serve those pies before they get cold.”
“Right,” Dorothy said, turning back to her work. She paused, confused. “Hey, where’d my ice cream go?”
Table three flagged Eve. “Excuse me, miss? Uh . . . we’ve been waiting on our food for quite some time now.”
“So sorry. We’re a little backed up. We’re short-staffed right now. Let me go check on it.”
Eve dashed into the kitchen.
Rhys wasn’t there.
“Rhys?” she called.
No answer. Which was weird. If he was going on break he usually let her know. What if he’d been right about Larry and Larry had snuck back to the café and taken Rhys into the alley and was . . . “Rhys!” she yelled, panic rising.
Big mistake.
A gaggle of squealing women burst through swinging kitchen doors, necks craning, heads spinning around as if they were auditioning for a role in The Exorcist. “Oh my God! Where is he? Did you see him?”
“Who?” Eve said, momentarily confused.
“Rhys Thomas, of course!” “The sexy movie star!” Their voices tumbled over one another like wiggling puppies.
Oh shit. That’s right.
“Which way did he go?” “Is he as hot in person as he is on the screen?”
“So sorry. False alarm!” Eve yelled over their giddy chatter. “There is no—I repeat—no Rhys Thomas back here. I yelled ‘ice,’ not Rhys. I’ve run out of ice. Please, ladies.” She shooed them toward the swinging doors. “Please, I need you to return to your seats. I am not insured for you to be back here.”
Once she corralled the ladies through the swinging doors, Eve sprinted over to the cook’s station. Rhys must be in the washroom. She found the order slip for table three and scanned it quickly.
“You can do this,” she muttered as she ran to the fridge. “Food is already made. You just have to assemble and warm them.” She grabbed the cheddar cheese, ham, and the pan of quiche and sprinted back to the counter. She cut an extra-generous wedge of quiche to make up for the de
lay and plopped it on a baking sheet. Then she sliced open a chive-and-cheddar scone, smeared butter on both sides, laying them butter-side-up on the pan. She added thick slices of cheddar on one side and carved a nice slice of ham and placed it on the other. “Did it,” she said, feeling rather proud. She picked up the pan, opened the oven—
“This mean I’m out of a job?” Rhys’s amused drawl came from over her shoulder.
“Where were you?” She whirled around. Must have moved too quickly because the quiche and sconewich skidded off the baking sheet and onto the floor. “Dammit!”
“Not to worry.” He wrapped his arms around her and dropped a kiss on her head. “I can take over.” He scooped the food off the floor and tossed it in the compost.
“They know you’re here,” Eve said, her arms wrapped around her solar plexus. She didn’t want their idyll to end, but he needed to be warned.
“Who?” His competent hands assembled the sconewich. Gorgeous long-fingered hands that knew just how to make a woman’s body sing.
“The women of Solace Island.”
“Here?” he asked, cutting into the quiche. “At the Intrepid?”
“No, but it’s only a matter of time before somebody shows Dorothy a photo of you, and then all hell will break loose.” She smiled apologetically. “Dorothy has a bit of a big mouth.”
“Really?” Rhys grinned at her. “I hadn’t noticed.” He didn’t seem too upset by the news that his cover was blown. Maybe he wasn’t aware of just how enthusiastic the women looking for him were.
“When word gets out, it’s going to be impossible for you to work here.”
He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re so adorable standing there, looking so worried. I just want to gobble you up.” He reached past her and slid the baking sheet in the oven. “I would, too. Set you up on this counter and have my way with you, but it’s going to have to wait because we’re a little backed up.”
“I know. It’s crazy out there. Better go take care of the hungry hordes.” She turned to leave.
