Deeply, Desperately

by Heather Webber

  Sean smiled reassuringly. “We need to ask him about the bracelet.”

  Shannon seemed lost in his compassionate eyes.

  I couldn’t blame her.

  “What’s wrong with the bracelet?” she asked. “It’s not fake, is it?”

  “No, it’s not fake.”

  “Good. It’s like my prized possession. My good-luck charm. I never take it off.”

  Shivers ran up my spine.

  According to Faye Dodd, Sarah had felt the same way.

  14

  “I can’t stay,” Sean said as he pulled up in front of my cottage.

  “I wouldn’t have been here anyway,” I said smugly, pushing open my door. The cold air stung my cheeks, stole my breath. I braced myself against the wind whipping off the water.

  Sean came around the car. “Why not?”

  “You first.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Cara. Had to be. I arched an eyebrow. “You don’t either.”

  He set his hands on his hips. A smile tugged his lips. “Is that how it’s going to be?”

  “Yep.” I turned for the house.

  Something hard hit me in the back. I spun and snow exploded in my face.

  Sean’s laughter carried as the remnants of a snowball dripped down my chest. “Is that how it’s going to be?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  I gathered up snow, formed a ball, and went after him.

  He dodged between trees, but I managed to hit his shoulder. He returned fire with a shot that missed me by an inch. I ran for the safety of the arbor.

  I quickly made five snowballs, my back pressed against the lattice. Slowly, I rose up, peering around a shrub.

  A snowball zoomed by my ear. “Close!” I yelled, laughing. “But a miss.”

  “Are you taunting me, Ms. Valentine?”

  “Absolutely.” I aimed toward the area where his voice came, hitting nothing but a tree trunk. “All’s fair in love and war, right?”

  Carefully, I edged around the corner of the porch, looking for a flash of movement. Nothing. I inched slowly forward, armed to the teeth with icy ammunition.

  An attack came from my right side. I turned to fire, but before I could raise my arm, Sean was there, tackling me to the ground, laughing—a sound that resonated deep within my heart, banging this way and that, loosening inhibitions. “Right,” he said.

  He lay on top of me and for a minute I couldn’t breathe just from the sheer pleasure. Slowly, he rose up, bracing his knees on either side of me.

  I smiled up at him. “You throw pretty good for a boy.”

  His eyes shone with happiness. I was pretty much a goner, my sappy self falling that much harder.

  “I like when you look at me like that,” he said, lowering himself to his elbows.

  “Like what?”

  His eyes flickered to hot, desire darkening his gray irises. “Like the way I’m looking at you now.”

  “Oh.” I reached up, brushed snow out of his hair, and let my hand linger on the nape of his neck. His skin burned under my touch. “I like that too.”

  He lowered his head and kissed me. I barely noticed the cold, the snow. All I felt was heat, blistering its way along my skin, teasing places that ached to be teased.

  More. I wanted more. I wanted it all. Everything. The heat, the ache, the release. I wanted him, his heart, his love …

  A shudder rippled through me. Was I asking too much?

  Sean gathered me in his arms. “Cold?”

  I brushed his jaw with kisses. “With you around? Never, Mr. Donahue.”

  It was then that we heard the crash from inside the house.

  Spar was too trendy for its own good, a modern-day supper club. It was all sleek and black, hot and sexy. The bar was a square in the middle of the room and, in its center, a boxing ring was set up, but there was no one sparring and I had to wonder if it was just decoration.

  A jazz band was playing, a brassy backdrop to hundreds of voices raised in conversation over appetizers and cocktails. Marisol and I were at a back table, hidden behind two menus. It was rumored the food here wasn’t all that good, but no one came here hungry for food.

  All around women slinked by in minidresses clinging to toned bodies, necklines plunging low enough to see belly buttons. Men wore form-fitting pants, expensive shirts, designer cologne, and lascivious looks.

  “I feel kind of dirty,” I said.

  “In a good way?” Marisol asked.

  “Is there a good way?”

  “Of course.”

  I rolled my eyes and wished I were somewhere else. Maybe with Sean. In bed. Naked. Moaning. Okay. Maybe there was a good way.

  The crash had scared me half to death. In my mind, the sender of the Handmaiden had finally come for me.

  Turned out, Grendel had knocked over a vase.

  It was hard to blame Grendel for ruining a perfectly wonderful moment between Sean and me when I knew what was really behind the ruckus: Cupid’s Curse. There had to be a way to break that damn curse. Had to.

  “You look as good as I feel,” Marisol said, watching me closely.

  I knew how I looked, so she must have felt like shit. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Butch broke up with me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Said he was sick of me talking about Em and Aiden all the time. He said he thought I was using him for his looks.”

  Even though it was all true I said, “His loss.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Right.”

  She snuffled. I patted her hand.

  Morosely, she said, “I think I’m done with men for a while.”

  I gave her two days. Three, maybe. “They’re jerks,” I said, feeling she needed some empathy.

  “I know. I’m not sure what I ever saw in Butch.”

  He looked like Matt Damon was what, but I kept that to myself. I glanced around and slunk down in my seat. “Joseph is here.”

  “He is?” She turned and craned her neck.

  “At the bar, far side, near the door.”

  Marisol moved her menu to cover her blatant staring. “He’s alone.”

  And dressed like all the other men in the place. A woman slid up to him, but he held up his hand, waving her off.

  I glanced at Marisol. “How’d you even know he’d be here tonight?”

  “Remember I told you about getting someone on the inside? Well, I made buddy-buddy with the hostess. She takes reservations, so she knows when Joseph is coming in. She promised to call me whenever he calls.”

  “In exchange for?”

  “She has three cats. I promised free care for a year. Look, look!”

  Joseph was on the move. He shook the hand of a younger man, a slick twenty-something, and signaled the hostess. She led the two to a table on the other side of the restaurant.

  The man with Joseph had a briefcase with him. He set it on the table and pulled out papers.

  “Work?” Marisol gasped. “On a Friday night?”

  “Maybe we should go,” I said. It was pretty late, and I needed some sleep if I had to deal with Preston tomorrow.

  “No, no. We can’t. He’s got to be doing more than working. Remember those condoms?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Lucy!”

  “Fine.”

  I ordered wine. If I was going to get through this night, I needed alcohol.

  Marisol ordered a Cosmo, but changed her mind as soon as the server walked away. She hurried after him to change her order and didn’t come back. First it was the bartender flirting with her. Then a man offered to buy her a drink. Soon, she was seated on a stool and lapping up the attention.

  She never so much as looked back at me.

  I glanced over at Joseph. He was still doing his business deal. I dropped a twenty on the table, gathered up my purse. I stopped by the bar on the way out to say good-bye to Marisol.

  I don’t even know if she heard me.

/>   By the time I arrived home, it was well past my bedtime. I plugged in my crooked Christmas tree, grabbed my cordless phone, and plopped down on the couch. Grendel leaped up, looking for love and affection. I was happy to oblige by rubbing under his chin.

  I dialed into my voice mail and had two messages. The first was from Dovie. “LucyD, did you see the picture in the Globe? The Globe!” She squealed. “I have to say I look damn good for going on sixty years old.”

  I smiled. She was almost seventy-five and none too happy about it. Seemed every birthday she took another year off her age.

  The other message was from Raphael. “Uva,” he said, “I don’t suppose you know anything about the delivery of a case of titanium razor blades, do you?” He was laughing as he hung up.

  It was a nice sound to fall asleep to.

  15

  I slept in.

  Sometime in the middle of the night I’d moved from the couch to my bed. I had vague memories of upsetting dreams. If I tried hard enough, I might remember the details. I didn’t try hard.

  Grendel sensed me awake and crept up the bed, meowing loudly, voicing his displeasure at the lateness of his breakfast.

  I threw off the covers, shivered at the chill in the air, and padded into the kitchen. I picked a can of cat food from the pantry and scooped it into Grendel’s bowl. His nose twitched at me.

  “You’re welcome.”

  His tail rose and fell as he ate. I turned up the thermostat and pulled open the drapes. Muted, shady light filled the room. Outside, the snow around the cottage was tamped down and for a second I panicked, thinking someone had been lurking outside, but then I remembered the snowball fight. And smiled.

  The ocean was calm. Too calm. Maybe Mum was right—there might be a doozy of a storm in the forecast after all. I went about brewing a pot of coffee, unable to shake my dreams. One of them must have involved Em because she was on my mind. I picked up my phone, called her. She answered on the third ring, and she didn’t sound right.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It sounds like something.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Em.”

  “Joseph lied to me. He told me he was working late at the office last night, so I packed a picnic and brought it over to him. The office was locked up tight.”

  “But—”

  “When I asked him about it, he said he decided to have dinner with his parents and stayed a while to visit.”

  I snapped my mouth closed. I’d been about to tell Em about Spar when she dropped that bombshell.

  “Why didn’t he just call me to let me know? And why didn’t he invite me to come with him? Why did he lie?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Joseph had clearly been doing business last night at Spar. Why not tell Em?

  “He says I’m making too big a deal about it. Am I?”

  I hedged. “I think you need to trust your instincts, Em.”

  “I just don’t like arguing with him.” She sighed.

  “I’m sure everything will be okay,” I lied. Sometimes lying wasn’t wrong. Like now. Like when it would hurt my best friend to know that she was marrying a sleazy scuzball who had no compunction about lying to her. Marisol was definitely right about him—he was up to no good. We needed to find some solid evidence against him.

  “I hope so. I have a fitting this afternoon, and I don’t want to be mad at him when I try on my wedding dress.”

  The coffeepot gurgled. I poured a cup, sipped. I couldn’t come up with anything else to placate her. The truth was, I didn’t like Joseph. I’d been willing to overlook that fact if Em was happy. She didn’t seem happy anymore.

  Em filled the silence. “Did you hear about Marisol and Butch?”

  “She filled me in last night.”

  “She’s been asking a lot of questions about Aiden. Do you know why? Is she interested in him?”

  Em tried to sound casual, but I saw right through her nosy façade, and it gave me hope. I decided to string her along. “Not sure.”

  “Oh. Well, I was just curious.”

  “I’m curious too,” I said, sipping. The furnace rattled as heat emanated from the radiator. I wasn’t sure where Marisol was going with the whole Aiden part of her plan, but I knew she had Em’s best interests at heart.

  “I mean,” Em said, “she and Butch just broke up.”

  “I know.”

  “She should, you know, take some time for herself. Not jump into anything else so soon.”

  “Marisol said as much herself last night.” Right before she’d sauntered to the bar, surrounded herself with men, and flirted the night away.

  Em let out a breath of relief. “That’s good. I worry about her.”

  “Me too,” I said honestly. But mostly I worried about Em hating us if she found out what we were up to.

  Preston and I were lost.

  I’d let her drive, and she didn’t have a cool GPS system. We’d been circling Falmouth for the past half hour.

  “I think we should go left up here,” she said, peering at street signs from beneath edgy blond bangs. Big sunglasses covered most of her face, but the corners of her eyes crinkled as she squinted.

  “We went that way already,” I pointed out.

  “We did?”

  “Yes.”

  We turned right. We’d gone this way too.

  “We need to ask directions,” I said.

  “We’ll find it. How hard can it be?”

  I stared at her.

  “What? We’ve only been circling for a few minutes.”

  “More like thirty.”

  “Are you always so argumentative?” she asked.

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled.

  “It’s kind of my job,” she clarified.

  “I thought your job was asking questions.”

  “Sometimes there’s arguing involved.”

  I checked for our turn, an innocuous-sounding “Ocean Point Road.” So far, no luck. “How long have you been a reporter, anyway?”

  “I started working at the Beacon seven years ago, starting when I was sixteen, answering phones. At seventeen I was beat reporting. I work hard.”

  “Never said you didn’t.”

  “You have a look,” she said.

  “What kind of look?”

  “Disdainful.”

  I lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Can’t say I always agree with what you write.”

  “The truth?”

  “Sometimes your truth comes in shades of gray.”

  “What’s true isn’t always black-and-white.”

  “It’s always black-and-white,” I said. “That’s why it’s true.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Is this where the arguing thing comes in?”

  She smiled. “Pretty much. Are you working with the police right now?” she asked, sneaking a look my way.

  “Why?”

  “Just because.”

  “That sounds like a shade of gray.”

  “C’mon, Lucy, you owe me a story. I’m never going to get hired by one of the bigger papers unless I keep writing big stories.”

  She’d written a really big story—on me—not too long ago, and it hadn’t gotten her very far. “Whatever happened to the Herald? I thought you were guaranteed a job there.”

  “It fell through.”

  “Why?”

  “Black-and-white?”

  “Yes.”

  “They wouldn’t hire me because I don’t have a journalism degree. Most papers require one now. But if I can only show them that I can write great stories … Big stories …”

  “Why not get the degree?”

  She slowed around a sharp bend. “It feels like taking a step back.”

  “But wouldn’t it really be like taking a step forward?”

  “Who are you, my older sister?”

  Nope. Not if my father’s reaction was any indi
cation. I thanked my lucky stars for that. “Just seems like common sense.”

  She shrugged. “I prefer to do things my own way.”

  I frowned as we drove past another street that looked familiar. “We should get directions.”

  “We’ve been through this.”

  I groaned while we crept along looking for a street that I now doubted existed. Falmouth wasn’t all that big. “Have you talked to my father lately?”

  “Not really. He’s been on the down low.”

  I didn’t mention the new girlfriend. “I think he may be trying to match you.”

  Her head jerked up. “Me? What makes you think so?”

  “Do you know someone named Cutter McCutchan?” I asked.

  She looked straight ahead. “No.”

  “Well, his name was on your invitation to Dovie’s party. Didn’t you see it?”

  “Didn’t notice.”

  “I think my father is up to something. A little matchmaking maybe.”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” she said tightly.

  “Does that upset you?”

  She laughed. It wasn’t tinkly at all. “No. Why would it?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “It’s just that I’m not really looking for a guy right now. I’m focused on my job. Aha!” she shouted as she swerved sharply onto Ocean Point Road. The sign for the gravel lane was nearly hidden behind an old maple tree. We must have driven past the entrance six or seven times already.

  Preston pulled up in front of the only house on the street. Reaching over her seat, she hauled an enormous purse onto her lap and quickly hopped out of the car. I watched her go for a second, wondering why I had the feeling she was running from something.

  16

  John McGill, Esquire, might have had the best office location in all of Falmouth. He worked from home, a lonely beach house on a spindly point that jutted into Nantucket Sound. The stunning home, all glass and straight lines, was lifted off the ground by twelve-foot stilts. Ample protection from tidal surges.

  Strong waves lashed against the shore, crashing in harmony. I pulled my hands through my windswept hair, trying futilely to tame it.

  “I went into the wrong business,” Preston said, staring in awe.

  The house was a masterpiece, no doubt designed by some famous architect. We walked the stone path to the door. The Cape hadn’t received any snowfall, but frost crunched under our feet.