Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  Michael said, “Based on how it felt, I'd guess that the coolant ran out several hours ago. We've still got a window to save everything, but I'd have to fix it now. Your call.” Considering her options, Nicole looked around as though the trappings of the room would supply an answer.

  Then she looked at Michael and saw his neutral expression. His casual stance. She recalled the way he had saved her life on the beach, and all the laughs and dinners they had shared since. This was a man who read books and made chili. Surely she could trust him.

  “Okay,” she agreed finally. “Could you do it now, then? I really have to run. Just lock up when you leave, okay? Don't worry about setting the alarm and all that; just turn the lock on the back door when you go.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “I'll be back soon anyway.” She went to grab her jacket, then shrugged it on. “Actually it might be just as well, because I'm kind of worried about Puddle. I think she's depressed maybe. I'd hate to leave her all alone for too long.”

  “I'll hang out with her, no worries.”

  With relief, Nicole sighed. “Thanks, Michael. You're really helping me out. I'd say that I owe you...but I know how uncomfortable you are with praise,” she finished with a bright, sardonic smile.

  “See you later,” he said, smiling back.

  As soon as the door closed, Michael sprung into action.

  First, he reached behind the refrigerator and screwed in the tiny pipe he'd loosened the night before. Nina Corday’s fridge was an older model, and not a complicated one. Michael had managed to get the timing right (if he had simply unplugged the refrigerator, the light would’ve been out and Nicole might have realized something was wrong way too soon).

  He pulled a white cloth from his pocket and wet it with warm water.

  Quickly he went to the foyer. He checked through the narrow window by the front door to make sure Nicole had past the sidewalk. Soon he spotted her careening down Orchard Street on a blue bicycle. Michael turned back around, determined. Paused, glanced up the stairs, then behind the stairs—where he knew was the library and Nina Corday’s art studio.

  Studio first.

  Just as he reached the closed door, he heard a noise. It was like a creaking, and Michael paused to listen. He waited. There it was again. Squinting, he strained to hear, because the sound was so faint now, one could miss it altogether.

  And then he realized that it was a cry. A strangled, muted kind of cry—

  Puddle.

  No, the dog was fine; he'd only left her a minute ago. She was probably whining because she was hungry or maybe she had to take a leak. He'd check on her afterward.

  When Michael entered the studio, he stepped into a room that was white and nearly empty. In here, the hardwood floor was scuffed and worn. A lone easel stood by the window, holding a canvas with streaks of orange and gold, as though Nicole's aunt had been testing the colors. A white sheet was folded neatly on the wooden table against the wall.

  Distantly, he heard Puddle whine again, but ignored it and crossed over to the easel. Lifting the canvas, he turned and held it up to the window so it could absorb the sunlight. Nothing. He could see straight through the translucent screen, telling him that nothing lay beneath it. After he set it down, he gave one more look around. With no other items for him to examine in this room, he headed to the library.

  He knew that art smugglers often covered an expensive work of art with something else—a contemporary painting that was in reality a top-cover, not the true acquisition. It was then sold off to a knowing buyer. Typically this would be a multi-person operation in which every player had his key role.

  With this in mind, Michael surveyed the paintings hanging, framed, on the library wall. Out of these, there were several possibilities. Damn. Puddle again. Guilt edged around his gut. Maybe something was really wrong with her. It'll only take a minute, he reasoned and left the library. Doubling back, he made his way to the kitchen where he had left Puddle.

  She was still in her bed, but no longer sleeping. She was just laying there with her eyes slanted half open. Michael's forehead creased as he studied her. “Holy shit,” he muttered to himself, “that's the saddest face I've ever seen.”

  He squatted down and reached for her, stroked her fur behind her neck and when she didn't react, he gently lifted her paw, then released it. It flopped down with a thud. In fact, the only signs of life were Puddle's slow blink and another tinny little moan.

  “C'mon sweetheart, what's the matter?” Michael said, running his hand gently over Puddle's back. “You're sick?” He hadn't had a dog since he was a little kid, but anyone could see that Puddle here was in pretty bad shape.

  So what the hell could he do? This was his prime opportunity to find that painting. Once he found it, he could take it—chances were, without Nicole even noticing it was gone—then he would set up his end, tying things up with Lucius and their mysterious silent partner, and leave town.

  Once he found the painting, he'd be well on his way to dropping this whole pretense and getting out of Nicole's life. The thought sort of disturbed him, suddenly. But he shook off the uneasy feeling, and focused on Puddle. She was eying him now with such a hopeless look, it could break his heart if he let himself focus on it.

  “Okay, come on,” he said, gathering Puddle up into his arms, deciding on a compromise. He wouldn't leave her unattended. He'd take her with him until he'd found what he needed, and then he would see what was ailing her.

  As it was he probably only had two hours, max, before Nicole returned. And while he was hoping the library would be the jackpot, the truth was that the painting could be anywhere in this house. It could be hidden in plain sight, or just plain hidden. Time was crucial.

  As Michael headed down the hallway, Puddle curled deeper into the crook of his arm, and by the time they reached the library, she had completely buried her nose in the bend of his elbow. “Here,” he said, carefully setting her on a sofa cushion. Then he turned his attention to business.

  There were fourteen paintings hanging in this room. According to Lucius the painting they were looking for was about 24 inches by 18—which meant that if it was hidden beneath one of these, the selection was narrowed to ten. The dimensions of the other four were too small. Carefully, he approached each and rubbed the wet cloth over the surface. If an artist were to paint over a valuable work, she would use water based paint. Michael should at least be able to get some smudges on his cloth as an indication.

  Puddle moaned.

  With a sigh, Michael glanced over. The dog was looking straight at him now. Chin flat against the couch cushion, pupils all the way to the side, just staring at him.

  Once she had Michael's eye contact, she cried again, louder this time. “What do you want?” he said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. Of course it wasn't the dog's fault, but damn it, what timing. Puddle just blinked at him, then whimpered loudly, obviously aware of her audience. “Just hang on, okay, please,” Michael urged, “I'll find a vet in town after I'm done here, okay?” Only after he'd said the words did he realize how asinine he sounded trying to bargain with a dog. And Puddle, for one, was unmoved. She cried again. She sounded like she was in pain. But what did he know about this stuff? Maybe she had a cold, no big deal—did dogs get colds?

  He shook his head, unwilling to get sidetracked further. Willfully ignoring Puddle, Michael rubbed the cloth over the third painting, and then peeled it away from the wall. Gingerly, he ran a hand along the back panels—

  Puddle whimpered and Michael sighed and rolled his eyes. Then, in spite of himself, looked back to see if she was okay. Still shaggy and miserable.

  Along the back seam of the fourth painting, Michael felt something. It was a catch in the backing, like a small, inverted dent.

  Suddenly he heard a thud. He whipped his head around. Puddle wasn't on the couch. All he could see in her place were the creases in the cushion. Shit! Had she jumped down—or fallen? Genuinely worried, he hurri
ed around and found the dog standing by the end table. She shook off vigorously and then flopped down on the rug like a sack of quarters.

  “Christ, I can't work like this,” he muttered, annoyed, and shoved the cloth into his back pocket. He reached down, gathered her up. “C'mon, sweetheart, it's gonna be all right.” Sounding grateful, Puddle sighed into Michael's forearm and the two headed for the door. (Until then, Michael hadn't realized that dogs sighed.)

  Later he would ask himself how this had all gone so awry.

  ***

  What the hell? Nicole thought, shaking her head. She had been stood up! Granted, she'd been almost fifteen minutes late, but still, she figured Abel Kelling would show up or at least give her a call if he had to cancel. After waiting forty-five minutes for him, though, Nicole finally gave up and left the Squire.

  Wait...had she stupidly forgotten to give him her cell number yesterday when they had made the plans? Maybe when she returned to the house, she would find a message on the home machine. The wind kicked up, sending a shower of crisp brown and orange leaves down from the trees. She loved the sound the leaves made when they crunched under the wheels of the bicycle, which she was rolling on the sidewalk alongside of her.

  “How's your puppy?” a voice called.

  Startled, Nicole looked over. On the other side of Main Street, a white-haired woman was waving to her. Nicole recognized her suddenly. It was Mimi Frances from the Preservation League of Ladies. “Your doggy!” Mimi added. “How's the doggy?”

  “What do you mean?” Nicole called back. Her stomach tightened, suddenly panicked. “Did something happen to my dog?”

  “She was over at the vet's on Plum Lane,” Mimi replied. “Yours is the shaggy grayish one, right? I was just there, dropping my cat off to get—”

  Frantically, Nicole cut her off. “Oh my God, is she okay? What's wrong with her? How did you know she was mine?”

  “A young man brought her in. Heard him say as much to the receptionist.”

  “Thanks!”

  Hurriedly, Nicole turned away—and then abruptly realized that she didn't know where Plum Lane was. Mimi Frances must have sense it, because she said, “Turn left up ahead at Shore Road, then a right. It's the brick building with the white awning.”

  Nicole thanked her again and hopped on the bicycle. As she pedaled, her mind raced with worry. Poor Puddle—what was wrong with her? Why had Nicole ignored the signs and gone to meet stupid Abel Kelling whom she really didn't give a damn about anyway?

  Right now she had to suck up her guilt and make sure Puddle was okay. She had to find Michael. She was going to owe him again.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Later that night, Michael didn't come to dinner. After the events of the afternoon, Nicole had just supposed that he would.

  After Nicole had found the vet's office on Plum Lane, she'd reached for the door just as Michael was stepping out, carrying Puddle in one hand and a bag of medicine in the other. Michael had filled her in on Puddle's dilemma. “The bad news is: she has a parasite,” he told her.

  “Oh my God...” Nicole murmured.

  “The good news is: she's on antibiotics and she'll be fine.”

  Relief crashed through her chest. “Thank God,” she said. “I'm such an idiot. I should have taken her myself. She was so lethargic. I shouldn't have made it less than it was.”

  As he set Puddle into Nicole's arms, Michael shook his head. “No, she got a lot worse. She was whining and crying—really, Nicole—I wouldn't have noticed otherwise.” He took the bicycle and rolled it beside them, as they walked down the street together. “By the way, the shot he gave her is supposed to make her even sleepier. So don't worry if she's tired later.”

  “Thanks again, Michael.” After a few minutes of walking quietly, Nicole added, “By the way, does it ever end with you?”

  Tipping his head, Michael asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Being indebted,” she replied.

  “Oh...” he began with a brief, rough laugh. Suddenly, he grabbed Nicole's arm and stilled her. “Wait up,” he said, keeping her from crossing the street into an oncoming car.

  God, where was her mind? She felt like she was losing it slightly, becoming more scattered than organized. Which was a disconcerting thought to a librarian. “Thanks,” she said, relieved. Like the rest of him, Michael's grip seemed strong, solid...yet elusive in some way. A thought struck her. “You know, we should really have each other's cell phone numbers. If you'd had my number, you could have just called me about Puddle.” With agreement, he stopped on the sidewalk to take his cell out of his pocket.

  Right there, they programmed each other into their phones, and for some reason, Nicole was charmed by that moment, found it cute and sort of sweet. Maybe it was the little smile Michael had given her as he hit “save.”

  That was hours ago.

  Now Nicole sat in her kitchen, recalling the afternoon, tapping her fork against her plate, thinking how suddenly unfulfilling it was to eat store-bought mac & cheese alone.

  Why hadn't he come tonight? Granted, they hadn't made any plans. They'd said goodbye shortly after returning from the vet's. Nicole had put Puddle to bed, covered her with a sweater, and Michael had gone off to do his own thing, whatever that was. Now she sighed. She wished she was more a part of whatever his thing was. Whatever he did in his real life when she wasn't with him. She wished she knew him more.

  Don't get too close to him. That was what her friends had said to her, and they were probably right.

  Yet, impulsively, she found herself flipping open her cell phone, and when he answered she blurted, “Are you busy?”

  “Please, what am I busy with? What's up?”

  “Um...well I wondered if you would come meet me on the beach. I have something to give you.”

  “Yeah?” he said, sounding intrigued. “You get on another baking kick?”

  Actually, she had been bluffing, and now would have to come up with something. Roving her eyes around the kitchen, she spotted a decorative candle perched on a corner shelf. It was wrapped in cellophane and a gold ribbon. “No, it's something else,” she improvised.

  “How about this: I'll meet you on the beach, but you don't have to give me anything. You're too giving; we need to work on that during your next Poker lesson.”

  “Fine, but I was going to go for a walk down by the water anyway,” she lied.

  “See you in a few minutes,” he said.

  When she got down to the water's edge, Michael's dinghy was halfway there. The motorized little thing plowed through the water like a rake through soft soil. A shiver skittered across Nicole's skin as she watched him, and she wrapped her arms around herself. The night was blue-black and cold, with wind that cut brutally across her face and nearly carried her scarf away.

  “Hey there,” he called to her once he reached the shore and snugged his dinghy up along a sand hill to secure it. He wore jeans and a dark fleece pullover. Hugging herself as she walked toward him, Nicole felt her nerves take hold of her stomach and wrap it in a knot.

  She took the candle out of her jacket pocket, and quickly re-buttoned the top two buttons that had blown open. If this weather kept up, soon she would need to put away the worn velvet jacket she loved, and replace it with her heavy shapeless bundle of a winter coat that made her look like a blueberry.

  “This is for you,” she said, offering the thing.

  Michael’s brows furrowed for a moment, obviously a bit confused, but he took it anyway. When he reached for it, his fingers brushed against hers. Somehow even in the cold his hand was warm. “It's a thank you gift,” she explained unnecessarily. “For taking care of Puddle today.”

  Immediately, Michael made a tah sound of exasperation and shook his head. “Nicole, you don't have to thank me. Now is the fridge working okay?”

  “Yes, it's fine. Thanks for fixing it—oh! Sorry, I'm not supposed to say that.”

  “That's right, you're not,” he scolded mildly.
/>   She let a laugh slip. “You're so bossy all of sudden.”

  “And you're so sweet it's hard to take,” he muttered. His words caught her by surprise. She looked at him—a little sheepishly maybe—before Michael changed the subject. “So why a candle?”

  “Honestly? It was the first thing I saw after I told you I had something.”

  He gave a brusque laugh. “Holy shit...you lied to me!”

  As her hair whipped around in the wind she managed a saccharine smile. “I prefer to call it 'bluffing'.”

  “Smartass.”

  “But you didn't let me finish. I also thought it was something you could use. Probably not on your boat or anything, but maybe when you get home?”

  “Sure, the next time I have some friends over to watch a game, I'll be sure to light up my new scented girly candle with gold ribbons all over it.”

  Giggling, she said, “See, there ya go.”

  With a chuckle, Michael leaned in closer and kissed her cheek. “Thanks,” he said softly. “And I am allowed to say it.” Nicole wanted to laugh or say something clever back but she couldn't think. Her breath caught as soon as Michael's warm mouth touched her skin. Heat rushed to her face, flushing her cheeks, even after he'd pulled back.

  The wind blew harder, rocking the trees back and forth. They erupted into a sound like the frantic tearing of tissue paper on Christmas. But for this instant, Nicole was impervious to the cold. Blood raged hotly through her body, as her heart beat chaotically in her chest. Face to face, she looked up at Michael, into his eyes, as he looked down—his expression serious, intense—and he inched closer. “Nicole...” he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

  Her friends' warnings played again in her mind. Then she noticed that her fingers were on Michael's arms, digging into his sleeves. Unwittingly, she tore him closer, even as her mind pulled them apart. His warm hand slid over her neck then, and she parted her lips, not to protest or to kiss him, but to gasp, as his mouth drew closer and her heart pounded in her ears.