by Rebecca York
The firm sand of the beach was the perfect place for a man to run. And his mind was free to range where it would. He’d told himself he needed a vacation, and yet he knew it was more than that. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for him in this place—something unknown. Part of him wanted to flee back to Maryland. And part of him was damned if he was going to try and outrun his destiny.
As he’d passed a row of palatial houses, he’d wondered who owned them. One place in particular had caught his interest because of the fencing around the property. What kind of person would buy a house along the shore and then block access to the water?
Previously he’d seen an old guy, usually wearing a Hawaiian shirt, standing out on the patio and scanning the beach or perhaps staring out into the blue water. Now he could see two other men dressed in knit shirts and jeans on the veranda. They were big, tough looking guys poking around inside the storage boxes that served as part of the seating and leaving the cushions where they’d scattered onto the veranda. One of them picked up something Zane couldn’t see and stuffed it into his pocket.
As Zane watched, he was unable to tamp down his detective’s curiosity. Something was out of pattern here, and he’d like to know what.
He could have assumed that these men were friends of the old guy, but they weren’t treating his property very kindly.
He jogged farther down the beach, then cut to the right, away from the ocean, onto the grounds of a nearby house. Ducking into the tropical vegetation, he made his way back toward the fence in time to see one of the newcomers open the gate and step onto the sand. He shaded his eyes, as though he were trying to see if anybody was observing him and his companion before heading back to the veranda. It was getting dark now, and it looked like they were planning something. Perhaps the wolf could get close enough to figure out what.
###
Francesca wasn’t sure how long she had stayed hidden. It seemed like years, but she knew it could only have been a few hours.
Was it safe to come out? She wished she knew. She hadn’t heard any noises in the house for a long time, but that didn’t prove anything. They could be lying low, waiting for her to think it was okay to make a run for it.
She was still trying to decide what to do when she detected an acrid smell. It took a few moments for her to realize it was smoke, not the welcoming scent of a campfire but the nasty tang of burning domestic materials.
Oh Lord, the house must be on fire. And she had to assume the two men had done it.
She picked up the flashlight and leaped to the front of her hiding place, shining the light over the vertical surface, but she could see nothing that looked like a latch. Was it something that worked by pressure. She tucked the flashlight under her arm and slid her hands against the wall, trying to find some mechanism that would open the hidden door. Again nothing.
As the smoke seeped into the space behind the closet, she struggled to keep from coughing and giving herself away. Although panic threatened to cut off logical thought, she knew that she didn’t have much time to save herself. She’d read somewhere that you had about three minutes to get out of a burning house because the furnishings and the building materials were so flammable.
In the distance she could hear the wail of sirens. The fire department was on the way, although it would be too late to save her. She had to get out of the house, but she couldn’t escape the compartment at the back of the closet by the way she’d come in. That meant there had to be another exit. Again she shined the flashlight over the walls, this time focusing on the remaining three. In one of the short walls, she saw a small chink at the corner. When she pressed on it, the panel slid back. She wanted to dash out, but what if one of the killers was waiting on the other side? Cautiously she peered through and saw a long narrow passageway. Behind her more smoke seeped into the room, and it felt like the walls were getting hot. With no other choice, she stepped into the tunnel and ran along the passage. It ended in another blank wall, but this time when she shined the light over it, she detected the same kind of crack she’d seen before. If she stepped through, would one of the killers be standing there?
The crackling of flames behind her warned that she couldn’t’ delay. Clenching her teeth, she pressed on the latch, then held her breath as the wall slid open. It was almost dark outside, but as far as she could see, she was alone, staring into dense tropical foliage. With no other choice, she stepped out beside a bush with green and yellow variegated leaves. She seemed to be at the side of the house. And as she recalled the view of the mansion from the circular drive, she thought she must also be at the back side of the garage.
Moving cautiously through the bushes and flower beds, she peered out and saw the fence. Could she get to it? Would the gate be locked? Or had the men left it open for their own escape.
They must be watching for her. Or maybe they had decided it was too dangerous to stay with a fire truck coming.
She thanked God when she saw the gate was open a sliver. She made a dash for it. Before she reached it, one of the killers stepped from behind a clump of bushes. When he raised his arm, she saw the gun in his hand.
Chapter Three
“Got ’ya.”
The man pulled a gun, but before he could fire, a large dog sprang from behind a palm tree and leaped on the thug. The gun discharged as he went down, but his aim was wild.
Still, the noise brought his partner running. The man rolled on the ground, crying out as the dog chomped on his arm. The other man was trying to get a shot at the dog, but there was no way to do it with his friend and the animal shifting positions.
Francesca didn’t know where the animal had materialized from or why it had come to her rescue. But she saw it give one last chomp to the thug’s arm before suddenly leaping on the other man and knocking him to the ground.
The killer screamed and dropped his weapon. Both men were on the sand now, neither of them equipped to shoot the dog.
Taking the opportunity to escape, she slipped into the crowd of people who had gathered between the house and the Gulf, their gazes glued to the fire. As far as she could tell, none of them had seen her or the animal attack. For a split second she considered running up to one of them and explaining what had happened.
Then she tried to think logically. This had started—with a shooting. But she hadn’t seen it. Was she going to sound crazy if she tried to explain? Or would the cops believe her? Wasn’t the person who found a murder victim the prime suspect? Maybe she had shot her uncle and started the fire to cover it up.
Of course, she had another problem. She’d been so cautious about coming down here because her father had always implied that her uncle was a dangerous character who ran with bad company. She’d prayed he had changed. Apparently not. Scumbags had killed him. Well, she hadn’t seen it, but she had heard what they were saying. It sounded like he was in an illegal deal, he’d tried to double-cross someone they’d called “the boss,” and he’d been executed.
Those conflicting thoughts followed her down the beach as she took off running. Afraid to look back, she kept trying to put distance between herself and the murder scene. Just as she’d decided to slow down, she heard footsteps rapidly catching up with her.
Oh Lord, one of the bad guys had gotten away from the dog and was about to grab her.
She tried to put on a burst of speed, but she was already exhausted.
“Wait.”
She struggled on.
“Wait, I saw what happened. I want to help you.”
Saw what? The fire? The gun? The dog? Still afraid to trust anyone, she looked toward the houses that ran along the shoreline, wondering if she could slip between them and get away. The movement slowed her and the man who had called out put a hand on her shoulder.
“Stop running.”
The hand sent a zing of reaction through her, but she simply couldn’t give in to it, not after everything that had happened. When she tried to wrench herself away, she stumbled. She would
have landed in the sand, but the man caught her, pulling her against his body. He felt solid and well built—well muscled without being a weight lifter type, and his arms around her were reassuring in a way she couldn’t articulate. He could have easily locked her in his grasp, but he wasn’t holding her tightly. The knowledge that she was free to step away from him kept her standing in his embrace, comforted by the sturdy feel of him.
As his hands soothed over her shoulders and down her arms, she struggled to stop trembling.
###
“It’s okay. I can help,” Zane said again, hearing the thick quality of his voice. His natural impulse had been to help a victim. Yet as he cradled this woman in his arms, he was feeling a lot more than the need to offer aid.
She didn’t answer, and he understood why she couldn’t rely on him—or anybody else right now. She’d escaped from a burning building, only to see two men try to capture her. They’d been taken down by what looked like a large dog that had appeared out of nowhere. She didn’t know the dog was a wolf, and the wolf was him. And he couldn’t tell her he was the one who had rescued her. He wouldn’t give away that information to anyone he didn’t trust implicitly.
He’d left the men rolling on the ground, bleeding and nursing major bites. And he’d made sure some of those bites were in their hands so that firing a gun would have been almost impossible. As a wolf, that had been the best he could do to disable the thugs without killing them. Then he’d found his running shorts, shirt and shoes where he’d left them in the bushes and changed back to human form, pushing through the transformation before taking off after the woman.
She raised her head, looking dazed, and maybe that gave him his best chance.
“Let me help you.”
She focused on his face, and he knew she was trying to get a sense of him beyond the superficial exterior of a lean, fit guy in his early thirties who had come dashing down the sand after her when nobody else had turned away from the fire.
He tried to project honesty and calm.
“Who are you?” she asked in a shaky voice.
Your life mate. The answer leaped into his mind, stunning him. Yet he pushed the crazy notion down into the depths of his soul as soon as it had surfaced.
She spoke while he was still feeling dizzy with the possibility of truth.
“Why would you help me? What’s this to you?” her question only reinforced the emotions clanging through him.
By an effort of will, he kept his gaze steady. He couldn’t deal with the life-changing idea that had slapped him in the face, but he knew he had to cope with the immediate situation.
“It’s my job. My name is Zane Marshall. I’m a private detective. I work for an agency called Decorah Security.”
“I never heard of it.”
“We’re in Maryland, but I came down here on an assignment, and when I was finished, I decided to stay in Naples for a couple of days. I was running on the beach, and I saw something happening up at your house.”
“Not my house—my uncle’s,” she said, giving him a piece of information he hadn’t previously possessed.
“You live with him?”
“No. I just came down from . . . outside Boston.”
He could see it had taken an effort to get that much out. When she wavered on unsteady legs, he pulled her toward him, holding her in his arms, not tightly but enough to keep her upright.
“Were you trapped in there? He asked.
“No, I was hiding.”
“From those men?”
“Yes.”
She said no more. She must have been holding herself together by force of will. Now she started to shake.
He gathered her closer, and he could feel her fighting tears.
“You’re okay,” he murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Hoping it wasn’t a lie, he added. “But you’re too exposed out here on the beach. We should get inside.”’
She nodded against his shoulder but didn’t move. “Those men?”
“A big dog went after them.”
“Why?”
A glib answer came to his lips. “Maybe he’s a guard dog—trained to respond to an attack.”
Perhaps that satisfied her for the moment. When he turned slightly, he felt her stiffen her legs.
“Come on. I’ve got an Airbnb just a few hundred yards down the beach.” When she made no move to go with him, he repeated, “You’re too exposed. You need to get out of the open. Before they come searching for you,” he added, although he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
She shuddered, then turned and looked back the way they’d come, seeing the black smoke rising into the sky where a house had been. There was no sign of the men—or the dog.
She made a small sound of distress, and he knew the smoke had reinforced the urgency of his words.
It seemed that he had to say everything to her twice. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“My place.”
She hesitated, then took a step in the direction she’d been running. Once she had gotten moving, she kept putting one foot in front of the other, looking like a dazed passenger astonished to be walking away from a plane crash. He moved in beside her, then slowly pulled her against his side so that he was partially supporting her. Luckily his short-term rental wasn’t far. It was on the same stretch of beach but definitely not as grand as the one that had just burned down. He took her to the side of the house on a stepping-stone path to the front door where he retrieved the key from a hiding place in the shrubbery, unlocked the door, and ushered her into a small foyer and beyond to a great room. Like most of the houses along the Gulf, the wall facing the beach had large windows. But here there was no fence obstructing the view. She looked for a place to sit and dropped into a high-backed contoured chair.
He closed a set of drapes, then stepped into the downstairs master suite where he quickly pulled on a pair of sweatpants. After a stop in the kitchen he handed her a glass of water. “Sorry I don’t have anything stronger.” He didn’t add that a werewolf’s system couldn’t abide anything stronger than herbal tea.
He sat on a matching chair opposite her, trying not to look like he was studying her—that he wasn’t taking in every detail from her blond hair to her blue eyes to her slender figure, covered by only a sundress.
She took a swallow of water, then set the glass down on a round glass-topped table.
“Feeling any better?
“Yes.”
“What happened—exactly?”
“What did you see?” she countered.
She was still being cautious, and he couldn’t fault her for that.
“I’ve been running on the beach every day since I got here. Most days I saw an older man out on the patio of the house where you were.”
“My uncle.”
“Then, this afternoon, you were out there with him. I hadn’t seen you before, and I slowed down.”
“Why?”
“He’d always been alone before. Not long after the two of you came outside, I saw two thuggish-looking men come up along the beach and break through the gate.”
“Yes.”
He was glad to focus on business instead of examining his reaction to her. “Who were they?”
“I don’t know. Uncle Angelo saw them coming and dragged me to the front hall closet. There was a hidden space behind the back wall, and he pushed me inside and closed the panel. Then I heard them questioning him in the living room.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure. They were being rough with him. It sounded like they wanted something. I don’t know what because they all seemed to know what they were talking about, so there wasn’t much information exchanged. When he wouldn’t cooperate . . . they beat on him. Then . . .” She stopped and took a shaky breath. “They shot him.”
He hadn’t heard anything. Or perhaps he had on some almost subliminal level. “You’re sure?”
“I heard what sounded like gunshots.�
�� She shuddered. “Then they were talking about getting rid of his body.”
She was watching to see how he reacted to her story of violence and murder. He put on his best professional face. He’d already decided when he didn’t see the old man come out of the house after the fire had started that the guy was dead or injured, and this was just confirmation.
“You said you were a private detective,” she blurted. “Can I hire you?”
As soon as she said it, panic flashed across her face. “Oh my God. I just realized, I don’t have my purse. Either it burned up in the fire, or those men took it when they took away my uncle’s body.”
“How do you know they took away the body?”
“They talked about putting it in the trunk of their car.”
She reached for the glass of water and took a gulp, then slumped down in the chair.
He wanted to cross the room, scoop her up and cradle her in his lap, but he stayed where he was. “I already said I’d help you.”
“What does that mean?”
He focused on the immediate problem. “Keeping you safe while we figure out who killed your uncle and why.”
She dipped her head. “I’m sure a bodyguard is expensive.”
“Don’t worry about that. Frank Decorah, the head of my agency, has a fund for clients in need.”
“You mean charity,” she shot back.
“Don’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?” she challenged.
“That the most important thing right now is to keep those men from killing you.”
Her skin turned a shade paler.
Pressing his advantage, he asked, “What else can you tell me?”
“Let me think about it.”
He clenched his fists at his sides. He’d offered to save her life, and she wasn’t willing to help him? Maybe she was too strung out to think straight. Or maybe she had something to hide. Like was she part of some illegal scheme that had gone bad? He hated to think that was true.
