The Pretender

by HelenKay Dimon

  “And a sociopath, apparently.” She couldn’t imagine the kind of person she’d have to be to cut a swath through her family the way people claimed.

  “The only other piece of information I know is that you’ve been disinherited.”

  “You forgot the part where I faked my own kidnapping when I was nineteen.” Everything started there with the allegations she had set it all up to get her parents’ money. Once people believed that, they would believe any horror story about her.

  She could still hear the claims. The spoiled college kid and her friends trying to rob the poor, innocent rich couple. That was the spin the magazines and newspapers put on the story. Never mind the truth.

  He shrugged. “I just hadn’t gotten to that one yet.”

  His light tone kept her anxiety from spiking. She never talked about family. Certainly didn’t discuss rumors with strangers. But sitting there with the cool breeze hitting her face, rocking back and forth with her head resting against the chair, the rest of the world fell away.

  His voice, so soothing, almost inviting, had the tension unspooling inside her. If he was judging her, he hid it well. If this was an interrogation, he wouldn’t get anything out of her anyway. The truth was the truth.

  “My list of supposed sins is pretty long,” she said.

  He nodded. “You do have quite the colorful history.”

  “I actually don’t. That’s the point.”

  He leaned forward with his elbows balanced on his thighs. “Every family has secrets, Gabby.”

  “You say that as if you think all family secrets are the same.” She almost laughed at the thought. “My great-aunt Barbara married her brother-in-law, but that’s not what we’re talking about here, are we?”

  “Naughty Aunt Barbara.”

  The back-and-forth, the verbal sparring, felt oddly good. Gabby couldn’t remember the last time she joked with anyone. “Did I mention she was still married to Uncle Thaddeus at the time she took on his brother, too?”

  “I hope there wasn’t a third sibling. The poor woman would have been exhausted.” Harris looked up at the porch ceiling. “For the record, would that be trigamy?”

  Laughter escaped her and she almost didn’t recognize the sound. “Probably. Try to top that.”

  “I’m not trying to get into a competition with you.” He took a deep breath. “I’m just saying circumstances can stack up and sometimes people mistake a pile of innuendo and happenstance for facts.”

  She lowered both feet, stopping the chair midrock. “But you don’t?”

  “I make my own decisions about people.”

  No, too easy. The camaraderie, the gentle back and forth. She didn’t have to work at talking with him or weigh her words. They’d known each other for all of an hour, probably less, and her usual defenses crumbled. She didn’t feel the rushing panic to shut down the conversation before she said too much. That scared the hell out of her.

  She mentally slammed on the brakes and retreated to that place where she questioned every nice gesture and doubted every intention. “Well, I hope you’re being paid well for your time, Harris.”

  The snap returned to her tone. He must have heard it or sensed a change because for a few seconds he sat there not talking. His gaze roamed over her face, as if he were assessing her.

  “My services aren’t free.” He sat up straight again. “But your uncle is not paying me. I’m independent.”

  That didn’t even sound real. “Sure you are.”

  Harris shook his head. “You sound so skeptical.”

  It was possible Harris didn’t fully understand his role, but she doubted it. He struck her as a smart guy. He knew what to say and when to pour on the charm. It was hard to imagine him being caught up in her uncle’s scheme without knowing it. “Uncle Stephen is going to try to use you for intel. He’s determined to gather enough information to have me arrested.”

  “Is there intel to gather?”

  Now, that sounded like a guy on her uncle’s payroll. “As you pointed out, we all have secrets.”

  “I’m here to do a job.” He held up a finger. “One job. Following you and reporting back on how many hours you sit on the porch isn’t part of it.”

  Possibly, but she still intended to be wary. “The investigator is coming. We have a caretaker and his son here, working to keep the property in order. A boat comes back and forth.”

  “Meaning?”

  “There are about to be a lot of people in and around this piece of land.”

  “Good thing there are plenty of beds.”

  The comment spun around in her head. “You’re staying here?”

  Harris groaned. “Your uncle didn’t tell you?”

  “Believe it or not, we don’t share a lot of information.”

  “Yeah, I can’t exactly imagine the two of you having brunch.”

  “Depends. Do people scream at each other at brunch?” She’d survived a decade of yelling. It had been exhausting. Now that only silence surrounded her, she missed the yelling.

  “They did in my family.”

  She wanted to ask, to know more about him and what that meant. She clamped down on that instinct, too.

  “My parents were big fans of the quiet condemnation.” She shook her finger in the air. “We’re disappointed in you, Gabrielle.”

  He whistled. “Ouch.”

  “Right?” She crossed her legs then uncrossed them. When she realized she’d started shifting around in her chair, she forced her body to still. “Are your bags already inside the house?”

  “I was told to take the guesthouse.” He leaned to the side and pulled a set of keys out of his front pants pocket. They jangled in his hand.

  “That’s usually where I stay.” A lump gathered in her throat and she had to choke it back.

  One of his eyebrows lifted. “You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Tempting, but no.” She stood up then because the energy pinging around inside her had her ready to break into a run. “Enjoy your appraising.”

  This time his gaze dipped past her face. Lower, down her body to her legs and back up again. “Oh, I intend to.”

  Chapter 4

  A few hours later the sun dove behind a bank of clouds and Harris slipped inside the double doors of the boathouse. He tried to ignore the fact it matched the Tudor style of the main house. Like a little replica. One of those rich-people things, he guessed.

  The smell of salt and fish smacked into him as he surveyed the inside of the two-story structure. Not much to see on this floor but the water lapping into the empty boat slip. Kayaks and paddles hung in rows on the wall. He couldn’t imagine a recluse out riding on the water but then a lot about the Wright family didn’t make sense to him.

  Gabby continued to be the biggest surprise. After Tabitha’s murder, in a haze of guilt while he’d been desperate to learn everything about her, he’d seen photos. As the months flowed one into the other he studied more about her life, looked through more images, but those didn’t come close to capturing the punch of the live version. He’d never had a preference for brunettes or any other hair color . . . until now. Her dark hair turned deep auburn when the light hit it. She stood maybe five-seven and every inch of that proved to be a formidable verbal sparring companion.

  And that body. Fucking hell. Those faded jeans hugged every curve of her long legs and fine ass. She wore a bright blue sweater that matched her eyes. It was cotton and bulky but when she moved just right or crossed her arms in front of her, the outline of her impressive breasts came into view.

  Pretty was the wrong word. She had this sexy mix of wise worldliness and girl-next-door cuteness. The big eyes and smooth skin. That underlying hint of intelligence that laced through every word.

  Smoking hot. Yeah, those were the right words.

  Pushing her sexy voice and sharp comebacks out of his head, he climbed the fixed ladder to the second floor. Boxes lined the walls up here. Light streamed in through the windows and through the do
ors to the balcony on the water’s edge, highlighting the layer of dust on the hardwood floor. He strained, looking for signs of footsteps but saw only a room used for storage.

  Back downstairs, he maneuvered around the water’s edge to the doors. He stepped outside and into the grass. After fastening the door, he turned around and stopped just inches before slamming into a man.

  “Holy shit.” That was only a fraction of the profane words running through Harris’s head as the adrenaline kick nailed him.

  The guy’s age was tough to pin down. His skin was tan but smooth. He looked like he could be anywhere from fifty to seventy. The baggy blue utility pants didn’t help narrow the gap. Neither did the graying hair tucked into the fraying baseball cap.

  He held a rake and stabbed it into the ground before leaning on it. “You need something?”

  A little less drama would be nice. “I’m just getting to know the island.”

  Harris had studied the file Wren compiled because of course Wren had a file on the Wright family. Wren probably had a file on anyone who had ever been in the news and a few who hadn’t. Harris could guess who stood in front of him. The island’s caretaker. Had to be.

  The guy took off his hat only long enough to scratch his head then pulled it back on again. “It’s not that big a piece of land, so it shouldn’t take you long.”

  “Harris Tate.” He lifted his hand in greeting.

  The man stared down at the offer but didn’t shake. “Kramer.”

  So much for getting on the guy’s good side. Harris wasn’t convinced he had any side other than the crotchety-old-dude side. “Is that a first or last name?”

  Kramer shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “I guess not.” Harris knew the answer anyway—last name. The full name was Burton Kramer but he only ever went by Kramer.

  Harris admired the older man’s grumpiness. Kramer didn’t try to impress, which meant he should speak his mind if asked the right question. Since Harris would bet most of the cash he had on him that most of his talks with Gabby would follow the same pattern as the one from earlier today—all circular and analyzing with brief breaks of amusement—it would be a welcome change to have someone on the island just say what they meant.

  Harris decided to lay some groundwork for his continued snooping. “I’m here to—”

  “I know who you are. Stephen Wright filled me in.” Kramer picked up the rake then plunged it into the grass again.

  “The uncle.” Sounded like good ol’ Uncle Stephen had been busy.

  “And your boss.”

  Harris had been on the island less than a day and Kramer was the second person to raise the issue of Stephen’s payroll. Apparently the Wright family threw money at problems and people. Harris admitted he possessed many character defects but he didn’t get lured in by people who flashed money. If anything, that kind of entitled behavior made him more likely to liberate an item from a person’s home without them knowing. Taking art or an antique meant he never owed anyone a favor. He held the power.

  “No, I was hired by the insurance company,” Harris said.

  “Waste of time.”

  Not the answer he expected. “Excuse me?”

  Kramer threw out his free arm. “The island, the house, all the stuff here, belongs to Gabby. Why appraise anything? Just hand it over to her and be done.”

  Interesting. Gabby might think no one believed in her innocence but Kramer sounded like a one-person cheerleading squad. Unlike Stephen, who managed to drop ten negative comments about Gabby in the ten minutes Harris spent alone with him, Kramer immediately rushed to her defense. If he thought she killed Tabitha or deserved to be punished, he sure hid it well.

  Grumpy or not, the actions made Harris like the older man. “There are legal issues. There’s also the part about Gabby being disinherited.”

  Kramer made a tsk-tsking sound. “Looks like you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

  “I know about art.”

  “Then you should stick to that.”

  Yeah, Harris appreciated the other man’s style. Working around him was not going to be easy. “Is that a warning?”

  “An observation.” Kramer lifted the rake’s spokes out of the grass. “But you’d be wise to follow it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  But Kramer was already walking away. He gave a wave over his shoulder. “You do that.”

  Gabby debated venturing into a second discussion with Harris. The first one had her off balance. She’d gotten so good at ducking topics and engaging in subterfuge that when those go-to moves abandoned her, she got twitchy.

  But the house wasn’t an option tonight and the guesthouse was off-limits, which left her with few refuges now that the sun had gone down. And he’d started a fire. She had almost no defenses against the famous Wright fire pit with its stone rock wall and submerged circle in the center of a special patio area built by the water’s edge.

  Wishing she’d reached for a jacket, she wrapped her sweater tighter around her body and walked across the grass to the pit area. She didn’t have to announce her arrival because he watched every step.

  The fire roared with life. He wore a zip-front sweater that molded to his arms, showing off every line. She’d never actually seen a muscle strain through clothing before but now she knew it was possible.

  No way this guy sat at a desk valuing artwork all day.

  The closer she got the more she could see. He had a bag of something on the bench next to him. The stick . . . and was that a marshmallow?

  Ignoring seating protocol strangers usually followed and leaving a space, she sat down right next to him. The idea of yelling at him over a fire didn’t hold much appeal. “I’ve been watching you for the last few hours.”

  He continued to twirl the stick as the edge of his marshmallow turned brown over the fire. “That sounds like a pretty boring day.”

  “You have walked around the island and lingered around the outside of the main house. I’ve seen you by the water and at the boathouse.” Peeking in on him was no hardship. He moved with purpose. Long, sure steps that gobbled up the ground beneath him. Perfect posture and legs that went on forever.

  She loved the way his pants balanced low on his hips, showing off his long torso. She didn’t know if he swam or rowed or played basketball, but whatever he did to earn a lean, muscular body like that, he should keep doing it because damn.

  He looked at her and smiled. “You could have said hello.”

  Uh-huh. He was missing her point. She guessed that was on purpose. “You didn’t go inside the house, Harris.”

  “And . . . ?” He went back to staring at his stick and toasting the marshmallow.

  “Your job is to appraise antiques and artwork. We keep that sort of thing indoors.”

  “Ah.” He nodded as he reached into the bag and took out two graham crackers and set them on his lap.

  His movements pulled her mind away from the conversation. She was trying to catch him in a lie and make him admit he was there to watch over her, not to value things. Instead, he mesmerized her with those long fingers and strong hands.

  With a small shake of her head she forced her brain back to the topic. “You see my confusion.”

  “I do.” With one hand he opened the paper on a chocolate bar . . . or tried to. “I’m actually waiting for the investigator.”

  “What?”

  All that fumbling had her reaching over to help. She took the chocolate bar out of his hand and ripped the paper back. Broke off two chunks then handed them to him.

  “Thank you.” He trapped one end of the stick between his knees. The marshmallow dipped down closer to the fire. “The items we were talking about are likely worth a lot of money. Poking around before the investigator gets here struck me as a way to get blamed for something I didn’t do.”

  The marshmallow was on fire now. She had trouble concentrating on anything else. “You think someone will accuse you of stealing?”
<
br />   “Your uncle seemed to have the blame gene.”

  “Definitely.” For God’s sake. She grabbed the stick. A quick blow on the end and she saved the marshmallow from a fiery death. “So, your plan is to sleep outside all night?”

  “I’ll venture into the guesthouse eventually. But this setup looked pretty inviting.”

  “My parents added this when I was about sixteen. Tabitha had just turned nine and she loved s’mores.”

  He put his chocolate cracker concoction together and handed it to her. “Of course. Who doesn’t?”

  She waved him off. “Me.”

  “What?” His eyes widened as his hand dropped to his lap. “That’s an outrage.”

  Fake or not, the horror in his voice made her laugh. “Tabitha thought so, too. I think begging for the fire pit was her way of trying to cure me of my misguided ways.”

  For a second he stared at the dessert in his hand. When he looked at her again concern shined in his eyes. “I really am sorry about what happened to her.”

  Sensing he meant it, she skipped her usual smart-ass responses and dodging. “Thanks.”

  “Being here has to be—”

  “Impossible.” Gabby reached over and took a piece of the graham cracker that hadn’t been ruined by marshmallow. “It’s every nightmare, every dark and horrible thought rolled into one.”

  “Sounds like I might not be the only one toying with the idea of sleeping outside.”

  She nodded toward the house. “I’m not going in there.”

  “You mean, ever?” He took a bite of the s’more.

  “Not yet.” She reached across his thighs to the bag and took a full graham cracker this time. “How did you think I was able to spy on you all day? I was lingering outside as well.”

  “Impressive skills, by the way.”

  “I’ve gotten used to looking over my shoulder.” She popped the cracker in her mouth but she really couldn’t taste it.

  “Is this the part where I’m not allowed to pretend ignorance?”

  She was impressed he’d actually listened this afternoon. That was more than most people did. But it didn’t mean that she wanted to revisit any part of that topic.