“Then leave. They will follow you—and the trunk.”
Jack shook his head. “If I could believe it would end with that, then yes, I would go and let you be—but I don’t trust that someone will not come back here.”
Olivia sighed. Slumping back against the counter, she offered, “Let me look up this logo—this E on the back of the chair. I should be able to find a match.”
Exasperated, Jack wanted to reach for her shoulders and shake her. He was offering safety. “Why not let the police research the logo?”
To that he received an unladylike snort.
“I don’t understand you. You should want their help. It’s better than the support of a stranger.”
He caught her eyebrow cock as she muttered, “barely.”
Instead of elaborating, she squatted down onto her swivel desk chair, tapping the power to her laptop.
“The local cops don’t like this place,” she explained. “They think it’s haunted.”
***
Maybe that admission would scare this man away. God knows, nothing else was working.
“Haunted?”
Judging from the look on Jack’s face, he wasn’t leaving. There was no slack-jawed surprise−no gaping fear of the unknown−no furtive glances to see if any of the drapes came to life in shiftless forms. No, there were only his icy gray eyes boring into hers with ardent resolve.
“That’s what they think,” she challenged, sitting straighter. “And they think−”
“What? What else do they think?”
Livvy spun away from him. Instead, she focused on the keyboard. “They think,” she added softly, “that I’m crazy.”
To her surprise a short bark of laughter erupted behind her. “Oh really?”
Screwing up her face in indignation, she almost had to chuckle at the candid grin she glimpsed when she turned around. It was appealing on a man who had done nothing but scowl since she met him. The fact that the humor was at her expense ticked her off−a bit.
“And why do they think that?” he probed.
Oh, let’s see. I’m a loner in a haunted house and I’ve suffered from a great tragedy that has undoubtedly screwed me up for life.
“I chase them off the property with my trash can lid.”
That drew a full smile to his lips. The guy was starting to look real attractive.
“Your mental state is not the problem here,” he remarked. “I’m worried about the physical part of you.”
Why did that notion make her stomach execute a swan dive? Perhaps it was his measured gaze that took a slight dip as he uttered the vow. Or maybe it was the swell of his shoulders as he crossed his arms.
“Look,” he added. “Do you have some family you can go spend the night with…a boyfriend, a girlfriend…anyone?”
Her head twitched. Finally her mouth cooperated. “No.”
“No one? Not even a great aunt?”
***
Olivia’s cool look threatened him to drop it.
Well, that was it. If she wasn’t going anywhere, then he either needed to find an excuse to linger, or he needed to force the police on her for her own protection. Whoever trashed this place had been unsuccessful in locating the trunk. There was no doubt in his mind that they would be back. His uncle’s urgent command to stay away from the authorities bore more credence. This trunk contained the remnants of a national news event, and someone wanted it kept secret…in a big way.
But what to do with Olivia McKay−an innocent, albeit eccentric woman? And with eyes the color of a dramatic October sky.
“So who haunts this place?” he asked mildly. “Seafarers? Old lighthouse keepers.”
She snorted. “Yeah, the old lighthouse keeper.”
There was finality to that statement. Do not pursue.
Olivia McKay was isolated. Alone in this lighthouse−with evidently no one close enough to spend time with while this storm played out. It was no reason to stick a ‘crazy’ tag on her, though. She was just reclusive. And she fascinated him. At any other juncture in his life he might enjoy peeking under this woman’s shield to seek out what he suspected was something very attractive beneath. But there was no time for that.
There was just so little time. If there was a chance his uncle was still alive, he could not afford time.
A flurry of fingertips on a keyboard distracted him. “Grrr, help me think of some search terms. Big E logos? Steel rod chairs? This thing looks like something you might find at a barber shop.”
A barber shop. If only.
“It’s a bridge chair.”
She glanced over her shoulder, curiously. “I don’t think my grandmother played cards in one of those.”
Grabbing a wooden straight-back chair from the corner of the kitchen, he dragged it up alongside her desk and sat down. “It’s mounted on the bridge of a ship. A command post for the man in charge. The captain. I know—” he hesitated, but then plundered on because her curious fingers were inevitably going to discover the truth, “—because I’ve been on many such ships, and—” being under her exclusive focus was jarring, “—and—” he cleared his throat, “—I recognize the logo.”
A plump bottom lip dropped.
“Well hell,” she tossed her head back in a plea to the cracked ceiling. “You could have just told me that.”
Outside the sky started to blush. In no time at all the sun would plummet into the ocean, and then what was he going to do? Every sunset made him one day removed from that phone call. One more day without answers.
A throbbing pain volleyed between his temples, but he ignored it. He had not been punched in the face. He had not disappeared at sea. No, he was not a victim like the two innocents, his uncle and this charter operator.
He needed to try that British woman’s phone number again. That call had been the only tangible link to the mystery of his uncle’s disappearance.
“So, what’s the logo?” Olivia broke into his thoughts.
Jack looked out the window, blind to the picturesque sunset.
“The Eclipse Line.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Oh my−not the cargo ship that sank last year?”
Nodding mutely, he glanced at the trunk sitting in the corner of the kitchen, like a castoff from a Captain Nemo movie. “The serial number on that telegraph panel should be able to tell us if it’s the same ship.”
Her lips dropped open again, a trait he had come to recognized as her deep in thought mode. “But−so what? It’s a cargo ship that went down in a hurricane. Everyone knows about it. It was all over the news. It’s not like it’s a great big secret. Why was someone in this house?”
If only I had the answers.
“Look,” he began, “I have two problems. One, I can’t trust you. And two, I can’t trust that you’ll be safe.”
To his surprise there were no irrational outbursts. She just sat back in her chair, studying him calmly. No matter how hard he tried, he found himself staring at the bruise beneath her eye. It bore the same plum shade of the encroaching night sky.
“Did you hit me?”
The question was so soft and unexpected it startled him.
“What? No. Of course I didn’t hit you.”
His heart pounded in protest at the mere thought of her being attacked.
“Fine. I believe you, so you can stop staring at my eye as if I’m a mutant Cyclops. And you can start sharing more of what you already know and haven’t told me, because yes, you can trust me. I am not the one hiding anything. I am the victim.”
Heck, she wasn’t crazy. She was sharp and witty…and she was right. She deserved some form of the truth.
“The trunk comes from my uncle’s ship, the Algonquin.”
He could see the name roll around in her head along with a minor flare of recognition.
“That sounds familiar.”
“Do you watch much reality TV?” he smirked. To this day the whole reality show aspect of his uncle’s career was a source of humor.
&nb
sp; Olivia flicked a glance at her laptop. “Not much. When I’m not working the boats, I’m in here on the computer.”
Jack leaned forward to grab an oven mitt off of the floor. In the process, his shoulder brushed her knee. Hastily sitting up, he handed her the mitt and said, “You need to get out more. You could start tonight,” he offered hopefully.
“Are you proposing a date?”
“No!” Christ, had it sounded like that? “No, I mean you should get out on a mini vacation for a week or so. You said yourself that the business was slow this time of year.”
“Slow.” She regarded him skeptically. “Not dead. I need every run I can get for the next few weeks before it completely shuts down.” Her hand absently settled on the knee he had just touched. The fabric of her jeans was frayed there−soft enough that he caught a glimpse of pale flesh peeking through.
“You were going somewhere with the reality TV topic?” she probed.
The woman was direct. And distracting.
“Deep Weather. It’s a reality show hosted by my uncle, Warren Pennington.”
Nothing registered in her eyes.
“Yeah, well,” he added. “It isn’t very popular. The whole show is more of an inside joke to us. Warren is the CEO of Pennington Marine Science Center. He’s a geological oceanographer. One day he was out in Penobscot Bay hauling in seafloor cores for sedimentation testing when I decided to follow him around with my cellphone camera and narrate his actions. My uncle has a quirky sense of humor. He began discussing benthic creatures and even did impersonations of them.” Jack shook his head and added with a chuckle, “Can you imagine someone turning benthic creatures into characters?”
“No,” Olivia deadpanned. “I can’t imagine that. Of course, if I knew what the hell a ben—behn-thick creature was, it might make it easier.”
It was impossible not to smile at her goading. “Ah there—you see now. You’ve discovered my secret. I work for the Marine Science Center.”
“I thought you were a writer.” Her lips twisted into a smirk. They caught his focus for a little too long.
“I am. I’ve had a few papers published. The most recent was a nail-biter about global warming and ocean acidification.”
Olivia brushed her hair behind her ear. The way she concentrated on him was disconcerting and stimulating at the same time. “You don’t look like a geek.”
“No?” He had to bite. “What do I look like?”
That was a mistake. Now her gaze frisked him, starting with an inquisitive brush across his face and sinking down his torso. Lowered eyelids with soft black lashes leisurely hefted back up. “You look intimidating,” she declared.
“Olivia,” he swallowed, “I’m not here to intimidate you—”
Restless, she waved that off. “There’s more to you than just a geek writer, isn’t there?”
Whoa, her acuity was daunting. Before he could respond, she added with guileful zeal, “I don’t know what is going on here with this trunk, or what it is that you’re looking for, but—” her head cocked sideways, “—you look like you’ve been tackling it all alone. You look like a desperate man, Mr. Morell. I’m not comfortable around desperate men.”
“Fair enough.” Not about to divulge how much her perception affected him, he said, “I’m not comfortable leaving you here alone. So if you won’t relent and stay with relatives or let me call the police, then we have reached a stalemate.”
Olivia looked out the window. “I’m not proud to the point of being stupid, you know. If you explain to me what is going on, then I can gauge how best to protect myself.”
Darkness had encroached and neither of them rose to switch on a light. A nebulous glow from the windows lingered as nightfall invaded this small bungalow. That glow basked over Olivia’s face, turning the porcelain skin to a shade of azure like the finest of ocean oil paintings. Irrationally, he wanted to reach out and caress the texture just to see if it was real. He also wanted to touch the tawny hair that streamed golden waves down her back.
Jack cleared his throat. “Four days ago I received a call from my uncle. He was out at sea on the Algonquin.” Recite the facts. “His tone was urgent. He told me that he had discovered something on the ocean floor, and that his ship had been boarded by hostiles attempting to take his discovery. He believed that his life was in danger, but he also believed that my life would be in jeopardy if I went to the authorities. In fact, he believed that it was the authorities who had seized the Algonquin…not pirates.”
“Oh my—” Olivia’s breath sucked in.
Her arm shot out, and for a second he thought that she was reaching for him. But the fingers ventured beyond his shoulder to grab the chain hanging from the kitchen lamp. A quick yank and the kitchen was bathed in soft amber. The motion draped her close to his body.
A second before she settled back into her chair, the balmy scent of coconut assaulted him. Shampoo? Soap? Whatever it was, the tropical aroma was as alluring and contradictory to their environment as the woman herself.
“What happened?” she probed quietly.
“That’s it,” Jack pronounced. “That was the last I heard from Warren. I did go to the Coast Guard despite his warning—”
“But—”
“I left out the part about his discovery. I left out the part about strangers boarding the ship. I reported his distress call−that is all.”
“You lied?”
“Olivia−” He stared at a lobster refrigerator magnet. “The last thing I heard before the call with my uncle was disconnected−was gunfire.”
Slim fingers wound over her mouth and big blue eyes gaped at him. Good. Maybe the shock would send her scurrying to safety.
“Now do you understand why you need to leave here?”
“This is my home,” she uttered quietly. “I don’t run away. This−” her hand flailed, “−this place grounds me. I have history here. I won’t be chased from it.”
“What happened to the, I’m not proud to the point of being stupid speech?”
Olivia stood and gazed out the window. Her pensive silhouette reflected back at him in the glass. “Because staying−in this case, is not stupid. It is practical.”
At the clearing of his throat she swung her head. “I can’t afford to have people breaking in here every day. I don’t trust that the police will protect my house.” Reading his incredulity, she added. “And this−whatever this situation is−it really has nothing to do with me. I am not leaving.”
Dammit. This obstinacy was a complication.
“I don’t like it. You don’t like it. But you are involved. And if you won’t leave here, then I have to stay as well.” His fist curled atop the corner of her desk. “If you’re not going to consider this logically, I cannot in good conscience leave you here alone tonight. There are too many unknowns.”
“I don’t need your chivalry.” She sounded piqued.
“This is not chivalry. This is you not listening, and me having to deal with that.”
Olivia gave a brief nod. “Fine. Be that way. The couch is intact. Judging by the look of you, you’ll pass out shortly anyway. We’ll head out on the water at first light.”
Jack clamped a hand on the back of his neck.
“So that’s it? You’ll trust a virtual stranger to sleep on your couch all night?”
“Hell no,” she snorted. “But if you’re the enemy. I’d rather keep my eye on you rather than have you lurking outside in the shadows.”
A puff of cold air hit him as Olivia swung open the refrigerator. It was ineffective against the fever in his face.
“At least they spared the fridge,” she remarked, stooping over to retrieve something from the bottom shelf. The motion awarded him with a view of her perfect rear.
God help me.
***
“So tell me more,” Livvy muttered as she hauled out the components for a salad. There were two fresh pork chops in the refrigerator−and that was about it. She certainly hadn’t planned on fee
ding guests.
As she faced Jack, her breath hitched. Under the stark glow from the hanging lantern his features were beveled in shadows. Author? Scientist? Not damn likely. Not with that countenance. Not with the taut command he held over his body. He was a muscular animal coiled and ready for attack−and certainly a better weapon to have around than the lobster buoy.
“Will a pork chop and salad do?” she rasped.
The creature unwound and rose to approach her. “Yes,” he said. “But there is something we have to do first.”
In the tight confines of the kitchen, he literally had her boxed up against the counter. Gripping the granite edge she felt her elbow nudge a cookie jar.
“Wh−what’s that?”
He leaned in. My God, was he going to choke her−or kiss her? Why was her heart pounding like a base drum? And why was she not shoving him away?
Jack’s arm slid past her hip to haul open the freezer door. A waft of frigid air tickled her nose as he drew out an ice tray.
“We have to put ice on that eye.”
Popping a few cubes onto a kitchen towel, he rolled the cloth up and gently pressed it to her face. Helplessly, she stared up into his eyes. So much turmoil and intensity lurked there. That maelstrom sucked her in. Hell, it stimulated her. She wanted to launch her arms around his neck and smash her body against this rugged vista. But no−she was paralyzed. And surely she was delusional.
“It’s fine,” she whispered. “Really.”
“I caused this,” he uttered thickly.
Beneath the towel his thumb touched her skin. It was an innocent caress and yet she thought her cheeks would melt the ice.
“Indirectly,” she reminded feebly.
“I’ll make this right.”
“You need help.”
“Maybe.” He smiled. “But I’ve got to keep Wonder Woman out of this.”
Peeling the towel back, he grimaced at what he saw.
“That bad?”
It took a moment for him to respond. When he did, it was a husky declaration. “The bruise? Yes. The rest of it−no. Not bad at all.”
Each thud of the grandfather clock in the hall matched her heart. His eyes never left hers until she reached to take the ice from his hand.
Mist Page 4
