He knew what was wrong. All the signs were there—the wary sidelong glances, the distrust. He'd blown it.
Somehow she'd recognized him. The air hung heavy with her unspoken accusation. Murderer, her eyes screamed at him.
He should never have told her his name. Now she believed she was trapped here with a criminal. And he was going to let her keep thinking that.
Playing a notorious gangster gave him an in to every sleaze-ball international cartel the Project wanted to bring down, but it wouldn't help him impress the object of his desire.
And she was going to stay an object of his desire. Nothing more than a distant fantasy to haunt his dreams.
What had gotten into him? He couldn't blame his indiscretion on the hypothermia. He'd been in tight spots before and he'd never lost control so completely around a woman. He'd never felt this dangerous impulse to bare his soul before.
Some part of him had wanted her to know the truth—the whole truth about him. But this wasn't the time or place for self-revelation, so he'd ended up giving her just enough information to scare her, but not enough to let her know who he really was.
Now he was caught in limbo between the safety of anonymity and the dangerous truth. And he was stuck there. Until he left the Project and came back to the normal world. He doubted that would ever happen.
His partner George had urged him to give up the Shadow. It had served him well. It had served the Project well. But it had cost him years of his life. He had wanted it that way. No home life. No connections to anyone or anything but the task ahead of him. His job became all-consuming, and he had thought himself satisfied by work rewarded only with the friendship of fellow agents and the pride in a job well done.
But now he'd returned to the town that never wanted him, and all the old questions came rushing back.
The Shadow had been so easy at first. A faked crime, a false rap sheet, and college student Matt DiPietro was gone. In his place stood the murderous Shadow, working deep inside a network of meth dealers supplying every college campus in California. And he soon had his revenge for the innocent lives destroyed by that organization's cheap thrill. But after that syndicate fell, there was another case, and another. The years had spun past, until he was no longer sure where the Shadow ended and Matteo DiPietro began.
He watched Lori open the refrigerator and take out a carton of milk. Her hands shook. She was alone with a murderer, and knowing that he could wipe away her terror with one sentence—but knowing he would let her suffer—stabbed an ache deep into his heart.
He couldn't let go of the Shadow. Not now. Not yet. There was just this one case to solve.
And then?
She turned around to face him, and he saw the fear in her eyes.
And then there would be another case. And another.
He should go back to bed and leave her alone. She was an innocent caught up in this, and he shouldn't keep inflicting himself on her.
But he wanted to be closer to her. He loved to hear the sound of her voice. He loved how even when it was clear she was terrified of him, she still stood up to him, giving as good as she got.
She was more addictive than any drug. He should stay away from her, but he couldn't.
He'd already learned that she was smart, tough, and loved history; that she crinkled her nose when she was annoyed, and that her epilepsy had kept her from doing what she wanted to do with her life. And that the last fact bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
He watched her plop into her seat at the kitchen table, set her bowl of cereal in front of her, and stare down at it.
What other secrets were hidden inside that remarkable mind of hers?
He pulled himself up out of the settee. He felt like he'd been stomped by a linebacker. But he had finally stopped shivering. And he didn't feel so woozy any more.
He took a step toward the kitchen and she looked up, startled.
"We probably won't be stuck out here much longer," she volunteered.
"Really?" he responded. "Why's that?"
"Fishermen come by here all the time. All the time," she repeated, pointedly. "Even with a small-craft advisory, the big boats are out on the bay."
Of course he knew that. He knew the life of a fisherman. Nothing short of an earthquake would keep them ashore. They had boat loans to pay. Families to feed...
"Hardly a day goes by without someone stopping by just to say hello," she added.
...Attractive lady lighthouse keepers to visit. He noticed how that one blonde curl was drooping down over her forehead again. Like flies to honey, every fisherman for miles around would be throwing himself on the rocks to get a peek at Ms. Lorelei York.
Like an addict going for one more fix, he made his way to the kitchen, and sat down at the table opposite her.
•••
She felt like she was going to scream. Why wouldn't he leave her alone?
"What's your favorite Shakespeare play?" he asked.
She sighed. He was really pushing her to the limit. But he didn't know he was doing it. He had no idea she'd recognized his name. And she couldn't let him find out, or he could become dangerous.
If only she were a stronger person. He was grateful she'd helped him. Now he was bored and wanted to talk. She should put the horrible stories Aunt Zee had told her out of her mind and just relax. Be pleasant. Make small talk. Wait for the storm to pass.
She looked up and met his soulful brown eyes. And whatever you do, don't fall for this gorgeous monster.
"Romeo and Juliet," she said, trying to pretend she was talking to a normal human being. "Everybody loves that play."
He looked appalled.
"What? Oh, don't tell me—you hate Romeo and Juliet."
"Anything but that play." He said that play like he was discussing a slimy eel or something. "A bunch of sentimental pap about how romantic death is."
"That's not what it's about. It's about true love. Sheesh, you don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you?"
He smiled. "Nope. Not a one. But I don't see any rings on your finger, Ms. York."
He'd done it again—turned this conversation back on her. "I've been in love. It just didn't work out."
"Why not?"
She tried to think of a short explanation for her relationship with Richard. "Because he wanted to take care of me."
"Well, I can see why you dumped him," he said dryly. "Any man who would want to take care of you must be a creep."
"I can take care of myself."
"But if a man loves a woman, he wants to take care of her."
"I'm not helpless."
"I didn't say you were. But when you love someone, it's your responsibility to keep them safe."
"I'm not anyone's responsibility. Everybody always thinks they have to take care of me, but I can take care of myself. Nobody is going to tell me what to do."
"That's why you're out here all alone? To spite him?"
"I don't have to prove anything—to anyone."
"Uh huh. He wouldn't let you do this, so you ran away?"
"Let me? I'm not a child."
"Okay," he said calmly. "So why would you, an apparently intelligent adult, come out here all by yourself and risk getting killed? It's pretty stupid."
"Pretty stupid?" She stood up from the table. "You've got a lot of nerve."
"Okay, it's not pretty stupid. It's extremely stupid."
"As opposed to going kayaking on the bay right before a storm hits?"
"That's totally different."
"Why? Because when you do it you're an adventurer? An adrenaline junkie? An X-games hero? Those are just words for people who risk their necks for fun. I'm not doing this for fun."
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Then why are you doing it?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"Have you ever been told you can't climb a ladder? Have you ever been told you can't drive a car? Go to school? Hold down a job? Take a bath? Walk down the street? Travel? Live on your
own? Ride a bicycle? Make a cup of tea? No. You've never been told those things. You risk your life for some stupid thrill. I'm not trying to die. I'm trying to find a way to live."
"But do you have to do it here? On an island where you have no one around to help you?"
"You couldn't possibly understand."
"Haven't you ever read Donne?" he asked. She must have looked confused at the sudden turn in subject, because he continued: "Let me see if I can remember it." The chair creaked as he leaned back and closed his eyes. "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main."
She put aside that odd feeling it gave her to have this murderous thug reciting poetry at her again and said, "so what's your point?"
He opened his eyes. "You don't get it? There's no such thing as being independent. We're all stuck on this planet together."
"So why were you out in a kayak by yourself in the middle of a storm?"
"It wasn't storming when I went out."
"That's not the point. It's not your place to judge me." He started to say something else, but she cut him off. "I'm going to go lie down. You'll have to find some way to entertain yourself for a while."
She marched out of the room. Shadowfax got up from his place by the stove and trotted down the hall after her.
"You're deserting me, too, pup?" she heard him say, but she—and apparently the dog—ignored him.
The dog followed her into the bedroom. "And what do you want?" she asked him, but he just plopped down by the door and went back to sleep.
She didn't have as much luck. After throwing the covers off the bed, she lay down and tried to stop thinking. It didn't work.
If it weren't for the thunderstorms in her brain she wouldn't be trapped out here on this stupid rock.
She thought back to the Christmas tantrum that had changed her whole life....
Mom had said a winter ceremony would be best because Lori's favorite colors of burgundy and forest green would be perfect for a January wedding. Mom had picked out gorgeous green velvet gowns for the bridesmaids, and deep claret roses to line the reception hall, and Lori had honestly felt no opinion about the arrangements. That should have been a warning something was wrong. But she was so used to being discussed in the third person by her family, she didn't even notice no one seemed to be asking her opinion. As usual, she just drifted along in the direction her family led her.
They—her parents, her fiancé, her doctor—had all agreed on what her life would be like. She would live with Richard in the house he would build for her, near to her parents' house. She would have a maid to clean so she wouldn't have to risk falling off a ladder while washing windows, and she would have a chauffeur to drive so she wouldn't have to risk an embarrassing seizure while taking public transit, and she would have a husband who would happily take over the care of little Lori from her family.
She would have a life a lot of people dreamed of. Wealth, and comfort, and most of all, security. She would be safe and protected. And she would be forever somebody's burden.
'I like taking care of you,' Richard had said, patting her on the shoulder, as if his willingness to coddle his childlike bride-to-be was the important issue.
He cheerfully wove a cocoon around her. Her family had trapped her in their lovingly crafted cage throughout her childhood, and Richard had honestly thought that was what she wanted from him. Maybe it was.
But something that had been building up inside her for years had finally exploded when she was informed at Christmas that Richard had passed parental inspection, so he would be 'allowed' to take over the care of 'little Lori' on their wedding day with her parents' blessing.
She was so sick of being patted on the head by him, by everyone. She was an adult, and just because she had an annoying habit of falling flat on her face every once in a while, that didn't mean she'd be content to be helpless little Lori for the rest of her life.
It was only fitting that Aunt Zee had been visiting for the holidays. Only Aunt Zee (being the one member of the family to properly appreciate theatrical flair) had applauded Lori's performance: first when she threw her engagement ring across the living room in the middle of Daddy's toast welcoming Richard to the family, and then as she stormed out of the house, slamming the door dramatically behind her...
Of course Aunt Zee's applause could no longer be heard once she was outside the door, shivering in the snow, and realizing she had taken a step she couldn't easily undo.
So here she was. As far away from Mom and Dad and Richard as she could get.
Thanks to her own flair for the melodramatic (no doubt inherited from Aunt Zee), she had made an impressive symbolic stand for independence. And landed herself on a fogbound island with a coldblooded murderer.
"Brilliant move," she said. "Now what?"
Well, she wasn't helpless. She could take care of herself. And the Shadow wasn't going to get the best of her.
But to be on the safe side she got out of bed and shooed the dog away from the door so she could brace a chair against the doorknob. Just in case.
After that she slept.
•••
They remained in their neutral corners for the rest of the day. Twice she left the bedroom, first to let the dog out to relieve itself, and later to get herself a glass of water. Both times she found her houseguest in the parlor. Both times she nodded hello and then scurried back to her refuge.
The next morning she awoke to a strange silence. The foghorn's bellow had finally stopped again. Outside the window, the sky was gray, with high clouds, but she could see to the horizon.
Quickly she dressed, then went to the kitchen, followed by Shadowfax, who seemed to have bonded to her.
The dog's owner was in the bathroom, so she had a few more minutes before she had to put on her friendly face for him again.
"How about some breakfast, pup?" she asked. The dog whined, so she let him out the door, and he scampered off to sniff all the damp bushes.
She glanced outside. Even stressed as she was, the view still took her breath away. The sea churned endlessly to the horizon. Up close, the twisted cypresses created an arch, framing a single fishing boat chugging through the roiling waves.
Escape.
She grabbed a dishcloth and ran outside, the door banging shut behind her.
She waved the white cloth over her head, back and forth, again and again until her arms ached.
Finally she saw the boat turn toward her. She watched it come closer.
A green stripe on its hull. It was one she'd seen before. She felt relief wash over her. That was the Nunes boat. Owen Nunes and his son Zane. Owen was a big, burly guy who, not surprisingly, always smelled of fish when he visited, and Zane was a talkative twelve-year-old with sunbleached hair and a quick smile.
A big, burly guy was just the man for this job. Owen could get her guest down to the dock a lot more quickly than she'd been able to haul him up to the house. The sooner he was off her island the better.
Her hands were so sweaty she couldn't turn the knob on the storm porch door. She wiped her hands on the dishcloth and tried again. She was a wreck. But she'd done it. She'd survived on an island with a killer, and he was none the wiser. Now the fisherman could give them a lift to shore so she could get a shiny new cell phone, and the Shadow could get a shiny new gun or whatever men like that went shopping for. And he would never know how she really felt.
She entered the kitchen and wondered what to say, how to tell that man he could go away now and stop bothering her. To say it in some polite way that didn't even hint that she knew what he really was. To say it in a way that didn't let him know that she'd seen through the manipulation of a charming, clever, evil man. To never let him know what a blow to her self-confidence it was to realize she'd instinctively trusted at first sight a man whose hobbies were extortion, torture and murder.
She opened her mouth to call him, but just then something grabbed her from behind, twirling her body around and p
inning her arms to her sides.
It was him, of course. But not the man she'd seen for the last two days.
He was the Shadow, a monster with pure animal fury glittering in his eyes as he whispered, "You let them in and I'll kill you."
She believed him. He had the look of someone who could kill. Not that she'd ever seen a killer before, of course. But this was someone who'd faced death. He wasn't play-acting to scare her.
He shook her arms, bruising her. He looked so pale she would have felt sorry for him if he wasn't threatening her. Something was really wrong with him.
"Do you understand me?" he asked. His voice was so raspy she could barely hear him.
"No," she said. "I don't have a clue what's wrong with you." She pushed him away, and he let go of her arm. "I thought the whole idea was to get you off this island."
The bruise hurt, and she rubbed it. Some expression flashed across his face—confusion? regret?—but it was quickly covered by his threatening look.
She dashed to the door. He made a grab for her, but wasn't quick enough, and he went sprawling onto the floor.
Finally the doorknob turned and she threw the door open. "You need a doctor. Wait here." She ran outside, and didn't stop to see if he was following.
237 steps carved into the sandstone cliff led down to the dock. That info was going into the tourist brochures, too, but she had no time to stop and appreciate the dizzying view of the sea. Down the steps two at a time, all the while praying she didn't trip.
Owen had just tied up. He was walking slowly up from the dock when she barreled into him at full speed.
He helped her up.
"Owen! Can you give me a ride to shore?" It came out in one breathless gasp, and she wasn't sure he heard her, so she repeated the question, more slowly.
"Um," he began slowly. "I'm not going in to shore now. What's wrong?"
"Can I use your radio, then? My phone's broken."
She didn't wait for his response, but dashed across the dock to the boat.
"Ms. York! Wait! What's wrong?" he called after her.
Zane, his shaggy hair flying in the wind, helped her aboard.
"What's happening?" he asked.
Shadow's Lady (A Pajaro Bay Cozy Mystery + Sweet Romance) Page 9
