The Pretender

by HelenKay Dimon

  “So, you headed off to London and stole a bunch of stuff.” But Damon didn’t sound angry. The comment didn’t carry the heat of an accusation.

  “I liberated some items, yes.” When Damon started to talk, Harris held up a hand. “For my legitimate job. There’s paperwork and everything. Hell, I even worked with Interpol, who is convinced art theft is being used to fund the international drug trade.”

  “Not your thefts, of course.”

  Harris ignored the sarcasm. “Drug stuff is an actual crime. I’m not interested in that.”

  Damon smiled then. “Never change, Harris.”

  “I don’t plan to.”

  They started walking again. A lawn mower whirred to life in the distance. Harris couldn’t see it but he heard the steady hum of the motor. Looking around, he searched for Gabby. He still didn’t know how she’d react to seeing him after last night . . . and he wasn’t quite ready to tell Damon about it.

  “What am I working with here?” Damon asked.

  “A falsely accused woman.”

  He snorted. “Maybe.”

  Harris was getting a little tired of defending her. He couldn’t imagine how frustrating it must be for her to tell the same story over and over and have no one believe her. “I was here that afternoon, Damon. She wasn’t in the house.”

  “She could have killed her sister then snuck out.” Damon talked with his hands. “Maybe she came back later and made it look like she was discovering the body for the first time in case anyone was watching.”

  He might not be an investigator but he sure sounded like one. “What goes on in your head?”

  “It’s not that strange. People do shit like that all the time. It’s actually kind of clever. Sometimes it throws the scent off.”

  That sounded like something Wren would say. Since Harris didn’t want that advice from either of them, he threw in a few more facts. “Maybe but you didn’t hear her when she found Tabitha. You can’t fake that sound.”

  “You, the caretaker guy Kramer, and Gabby were on the island when Tabitha was killed.” Damon counted the number out on his fingers. “That makes the circle of suspects pretty small.”

  “I saw both Gabby and Kramer come running after I found the body. Neither of them were in the house.” Harris stopped and grabbed Damon’s arm. “No, look. Don’t shake your head at me. There has to be another explanation. Someone who was paid and got out before I saw them. Someone who took a boat or swam, like I did. We need to think outside the circle you named.”

  “It’s amazing how often the answer is the most simple one.”

  Oh, good. Cryptic bullshit. “Meaning?”

  “You’re suggesting that someone wanted to kill a recluse living on an island, one without an enemy in the world, as far as I can tell. Wanted this murder to happen so badly that he or she came up with this convoluted boat or swimming plan. All while ignoring the fact there were other people on the island at the time.”

  It sounded ridiculous when he spelled it out like that. “It could happen.”

  Damon rolled his eyes. “There is one thing you’re missing. One more person.”

  “Who?”

  “Wren did some checking. When Gabby’s parents died the majority of their estate passed to people who worked for them and to charities. Gabby got enough to pay off her college loans. That’s it. Tabitha received the remaining bulk in a substantial trust, including this island.”

  Damon was winding up to something. Harris could feel it. “And with her gone?”

  “Gabby and Uncle Stephen share the trust proceeds, with the uncle receiving twice the amount that Gabby does.”

  A piece of Tabitha’s estate likely was more money than most people could comprehend. Harris knew the island property alone was worth more than twelve million. Harris could guess at the number for everything, every last asset and bank account, but didn’t want to.

  He needed to stay focused, especially because he had a new problem. A motive for Gabby to kill. If none of the money went to her it was hard to see a reason for her to kill her sister. But money was a huge motive for a lot of people. It would not be a hard sell to a judge, jury or the public. “So much for the theory that she’d been disinherited.”

  “Apparently she was until right before her parents’ plane crash three years ago, which is why some people suspect her in that, too.”

  Damn. The evidence did pile up against her without much effort. Even he had to admit that.

  But that was about things that might have happened. The woman he’d spent time with, listened to as she described her sister as sweet, Harris still couldn’t see as a cold-blooded murderer.

  He shook his head. “She didn’t do it. I’m not buying it.”

  “Huh.” Damon made a strange clicking sound with his tongue. “That was quick.”

  Harris knew he shouldn’t ask . . . was desperate not to ask . . . “What?”

  “How you stopped thinking with your brain and started thinking with your dick. You’ve known her, what . . .” Damon closed an eye as if he were pretending to think of the right answer and didn’t know it right off the top of his head. “Twenty-four hours?”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “Put away the fake outrage.” Damon leaned in closer and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ve seen photos of her.”

  Her face. Yeah, that was one thing Harris didn’t want to think about. That and her ass . . . those legs. “I’m not the type to get conned by a pretty face.”

  “Because you’re usually the one leading the con?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  Damon nodded. “Then it’s good I’m here.”

  “If you say so.”

  “For the record, I’m going to start walking again because it seems to be taking two years for us to reach this house. Stop me one more time and I punch you.” Then Damon took off at his usual brisk pace. “While you’re busy studying her—or at least sleeping in the same house with her—”

  “How did you know that?” A knocking started in the back of Harris’s head.

  “—I’ll watch out for you.”

  For a second Harris wondered if Wren or Stephen—or both—planted listening devices on the island. If so, they might soon get an earful because Harris didn’t plan to sleep on the floor for too many more nights.

  Yeah, it was stupid and he should stay away from Gabby. Hell, he should back off just to keep from giving Damon a chance to say I told you so, but Harris didn’t see that happening. When he saw her, all he could think about was what those long legs might feel like wrapped around his waist.

  Only her quiet mourning stopped him. That and the guilty prickling in the back of his mind that demanded he leave her alone. He’d done enough damage and was here to repair that, if possible. Trying anything else, lying to her any more than necessary, would drop right into asshole territory.

  She might be strong and independent and fully in control of what she wanted in the bedroom—hell, he hoped all of that was true—but she was also broken with grief. She talked about being numb and empty but that was not the woman he saw. If anything, her pain overflowed and washed all over him.

  “She didn’t do it.” Harris repeated the refrain because right then he needed to say it.

  Damon made a humming noise. “Let’s see if you can keep that charming level of wide-eyed optimism as the evidence rolls in against her.”

  Chapter 7

  She’d managed to avoid him all day. Gabby knew there likely was a better, smarter way to play this situation. She didn’t have the energy to figure one out.

  The map was missing. The same one that led the kidnappers to her parents’ home eleven years ago. The drawing of the inside of the house, plus all the notes. She’d buried the packet here, on the property her family used only for vacations and parties. Not their main residence. Not somewhere she’d see the hiding place every day and replay every minute of those lost days.

  Back then she’d dug out the open spac
e in the wall. She knew about it. Tabitha knew. Now Tabitha was dead.

  There was a connection there, but Gabby couldn’t see it. Not other than the obvious one, which was her, but she didn’t kill her sister. Someone else dug up the condemning information. It hadn’t appeared and her uncle wasn’t waving it around. She had no idea what that meant.

  Panic raced through her. It fueled every step she took around the wildflower garden her mother had started the year before she died. Sweet peas had started their spring bloom. She could make out bright pink buds and see vines weave through the latticework of the pergola at the back of the garden.

  Needing to do something, she squatted down and started ripping out the weeds. There weren’t many. She guessed Kramer hadn’t gotten to this garden or there wouldn’t be any.

  The metal closing mechanism on the garden gate rattled off to her right side. She looked up to see Harris step inside the fenced-in area. He stood there among the flowers, wearing jeans and a V-neck sweater with a white T-shirt underneath it. She had no idea how he could make such a simple outfit look so tempting. It took all her restraint not to tear it off him.

  Blame the extra adrenaline or the stress, but she kept thinking about him. Not as an appraiser or as someone in league with her uncle. No, when it came to Harris she saw a man. A willing, charming, sexy man. And for once, she wanted to take something for herself.

  Her gaze traveled from his beat-up sneakers, up those long legs to his face. One of his eyebrows lifted as he watched her conduct the visual tour. She ignored it. If he could gawk, so could she.

  He had to be accustomed to people looking at him. The perfect posture, the confidence that rolled off him . . . that face. No wonder her common sense sputtered out when she saw him.

  None of that explained why she kept opening her mouth and dumping too personal information on him, yammering on about things she never talked about. He brought that out in her. This need to confide, to share the load.

  One reason for her heightened interest level seemed obvious to her. Unlike so many people who had strolled through her life, he actually listened. At least he acted like he did. He watched her with a marked intensity as she talked. Asked questions. Replayed bits and pieces of earlier talks. That level of connectedness was damn sexy.

  Problem was she couldn’t trust him as far as she could dropkick him, and she sure had been tempted to kick him once or twice since they’d met.

  He stood over her now, blocking the sun and casting a shadow over his face. “Are we going to talk about it?”

  With someone else, at any other time, she might pretend ignorance, but she knew what he was talking about. It was hard not to since he’d caught her sneaking around last night and then confronted her about it. “Nope.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “You have to help me here. Is that what mature people do? Ignore issues?”

  Oh, really? “Mature people don’t pretend to be asleep.”

  “Innocent people don’t sneak around in the dark,” he shot back.

  She shielded her eyes with her hand and took a long look at him. “That didn’t take long.”

  “What?”

  “For you to flip sides.” She stood up, dropping the forgotten weeds and wiping her dirty palms on her pants. “Uncle Stephen will be pleased.”

  They stood only a few inches apart now. Tension pulsed between them. She could have sworn she saw it blow back and forth with the breeze. But he didn’t move. Didn’t say a thing, didn’t need to because the questioning frown he threw her way said enough.

  She was about to walk away, find somewhere else to burn off the extra energy buzzing through her. He dropped his hands to his sides and continued to stare.

  Yeah, that’s enough of that. She’d reached her end with people watching her every move. She didn’t need him, the guy who haunted her dreams last night, to be a part of that list.

  She moved to pivot around him when he spoke up. “I believe you.”

  “Sure you do.” But she stopped. Froze there with her shoulder even with his, right at the second before their bodies would have passed each other.

  “Tell me the truth so I can help you.”

  Which truth? She didn’t even know which lie he was talking about. They’d piled up until she could barely see over the top of them.

  “I needed a little space.” She took a few steps and reached out for the latch to the gate.

  “You dug a stone out of the wall.” His deep voice didn’t carry any accusation. He said the words the same way he might recite the weather report, with little enthusiasm.

  Her eyes slammed shut as a shiver of fear moved through her. Anxiety washed through every muscle. She kept her back to him. “You were watching me?”

  “If you were in my place would you have looked?”

  She had to give him points for that. “Of course.”

  “Then why all the huffing and puffing?”

  She turned around and faced him again. “First, I do not huff.”

  “Debatable.”

  “Second . . .” She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. Two figures standing just off the path, right under the clump of oak trees. “Who is that?”

  Harris kept his gaze on her. “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m serious.” She wrapped her fingers around Harris’s upper arm and turned him. “There with Kramer.”

  The guy towered over Kramer. If Harris was six-one, this guy looked to be a few inches taller than that. And lanky. He had blondish-brown hair and wore dark sunglasses. He gave off a too-cool-to-be-here vibe as he nodded in response to whatever Kramer was telling him.

  “Ah, yes.” Harris nodded. “That’s the investigator.”

  “He’s here?” She heard a thunking sound and was pretty sure it came from inside her brain.

  This is happening. A new investigator. A new wave of law enforcement. More questions and allegations. Rounds of denials and that look . . . This man inevitably would wear the same look they all got. She could pinpoint to the second the moment in the conversation where every person looking into her sister’s death—all of them men—had stopped believing her. Some came in believing every rumor about her. Others took days of reading files.

  She dreaded the minute when that doubt would move into Harris’s eyes.

  “He arrived about an hour ago,” Harris said.

  She turned on him. “Are you working for him, which would mean working for my uncle?”

  “Gabby, listen to me.” Harris put his hands on her upper arms and leaned down until they stood face-to-face. “Your uncle did not hire me. I have nothing to do with him. After ten minutes with the guy I decided he was a dick with an endgame. His sole focus is to hurt you.”

  Her breath hiccupped in her chest. “Would him being a jerk stop you from working with him?”

  “No, because I like to eat. But the reality is still the same. I’m not working for him.”

  Her shoulders fell as the tension ran out of her body. “Well, that’s honest.”

  Harris nodded. “Speaking of which . . .”

  “You expect me to, what, just tell you all my secrets after knowing you for less than two full days?” Did he really not understand how much he was asking? She hadn’t told anyone about the kidnapping or the map. It was a secret she’d shared only with Tabitha.

  “You need to start trusting someone.”

  She rested her palms against his chest, fought the urge to run her hands all over him. “Do I?”

  “How is that lone-wolf thing working out for you?”

  She could feel the vibrations against her fingertips as he spoke. His hands cradled her elbows in a gentle caress. That thumb rubbed back and forth over her in a light touch she found mesmerizing.

  It took her a second to find her voice. When she did, it didn’t rise above a whisper. “Tonight.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “You tell me something true and I’ll tell you.”

  The corner of his m
outh kicked up in a smile. “You’ll tell me what?”

  The guy was not dumb. She appreciated that. “Now who has the trust issues?”

  “Good morning.”

  A deep male voice boomed through the solitude and both Harris and Gabby dropped their arms. Here she was, adult and independent and very consenting, and this new guy walking in made her feel like the time her father caught her and Roy Amicker making out in the back of a car. They hadn’t been old enough to drive, but they were old enough to get in.

  The unwanted guest looked from Harris to Gabby. “Actually, I think we’ve officially slipped into afternoon.”

  A slick grin. Those were the first words that passed through her mind. This guy wore the kind of empty smile that said I’m comfortable judging you. And she knew that was exactly what he was doing. This look up and down her body may have been quick, but she caught it. Not sexual but appreciative and assessing.

  She was not in the mood for one more man on this small island. “You’re my uncle’s lackey.”

  His smile looked genuine and amused now. He pointed behind him, back toward the tree. “Maybe I should go out and try to come in again because something about this welcome went wrong.”

  She felt Harris’s hand brush against her back. A fleeting touch, but she got the message. Calm down.

  “Sorry. Knee-jerk reaction.” She tried to wave away the attitude before holding out her hand. “I’m Gabby Wright.”

  “Damon Knox.” He nodded as he took her hand in both of his in a warm shake. “Before you ask the question, I think it sounds like a made-up soap opera name, too.”

  Okay, there was a charm to him. She made sure to note that and keep it in mind because she couldn’t afford to get sucked into the investigator’s informal back-and-forth style. “Understood. The only reason my sister never shortened her name is because we would have been known as Gabby and Tabby, which was just too much.”

  “Your uncle hired me,” Damon said, in a voice that sounded more serious now. “I insisted on being paid through the estate, on an order from the court, to remain as neutral as possible.”