by Mary Brady
THE TONE OF his voice spoke unyielding restraint and Addy’s chest suddenly tightened until she had to force in air.
Not because he may admit all his wrongdoing off the record and unavailable to her, but that he might have done the things he had been accused of doing.
“What do you mean?” she asked even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
He was going to tell her something important, something that would give her answers, help her understand more about the man and his company.
She wanted to know the man, what drove him, what troubled him, what made him the man she wanted to spend time with, maybe fall in love with.
Well, that was crazy. They had been thrown into close quarters and had acted on feelings they never would have considered had they met in his office or on the yacht in the harbor. Her fantasy man was tall and dark with a part of his soul taken by evil forces that he battled every waking hour. He... Oh...
None of that mattered. The man who had unexpectedly touched her heart, offered her his humor, his thoughts, the real Zachary Hale, was closing up in front of her eyes.
The seconds passed, and as they did, his expression changed to something like hard resolve. She had seen that look on his face, when he was trying to get rid of her, when he barely spoke to her. She couldn’t let things between them go back to clipped answers and historical presentations.
“Zach?”
He looked over at her. “You can’t be involved in this.”
“I already am.”
“It will swallow up everything you want. Back away now. No one in Bailey’s Cove will tell anyone you’re here. When the storm lets up, go. Be the objective reporter of facts.”
“Zach, I don’t need protecting.”
“Everyone needs protecting once in a while.”
She suddenly wanted to be protected—protected by him. Being so might somehow make the hard days easier and the long nights less fretful. What would the world be like if someone had her back, if she could leap and someone would catch her?
She cleared her throat. “The best stories aren’t found along the garden path or from the shelter of a bunker.”
“If you’re too close to this, it will ruin things for you.”
“I’ve been sticking my neck out for a decade now.”
“Much longer than that, I suspect.”
“Agreed. Talk to me.”
He gave her a look that said that wasn’t going to happen.
“So who else are you going to talk to besides Hunter Morrison?”
He smiled at that and she let him sit with it.
“Carla is a brilliant woman.” He began speaking slowly and deliberately. “We used to talk for hours about what we’d do when we got out of college, the businesses we’d start whenever we could put together a plan investors would buy into. Because of family commitments, I went on to my grandfather’s shipping business, but she was always into the markets. And what made her good at it was that she loved the game.”
He wasn’t looking at her, wondering what she thought. He was speaking from some deep memories, from places she wanted to know about.
“Carla must have been aware someone would do jail time if the amount of the fraud was big enough.”
“That’s why you think she’s being influenced?”
“There were other things she could have done, other ways to steal money. She wanted to get caught.”
“How did you feel when you found out?”
He stopped. “When I realized I was a source of outside investors and feeder funds that channeled assets directly into a scheme like that, it made me want to take up a lumberjack’s ax or a fisherman’s lobster traps as the tools of my trade.”
“How could you not know what she was doing?”
“You’ve heard of a Potemkin village?”
“It’s a facade, built up to look like the real thing in case someone came snooping around.”
“Without the records I don’t know for sure, but Carla must have set up a bogus paper trail of transactions and accounting reports. I should have been there for her when she began to get into trouble.”
“What did you mean when you said ‘it was me’?”
Pain flashed across his features before he began to speak. “I was the last line of defense the investors had. All I had to do was open my eyes. I could have seen Carla’s misdirection, not at the outset, but eventually, in time to stop her, in time to turn things around. I was as responsible as anyone for the failure of Hale and Blankenstock to protect its clients.”
Relief rushed through her, unwarranted because the admission or the realization obviously caused him such pain, but gave her a reason to confirm her suspicion that he was not guilty of the wrongdoing at Hale and Blankenstock.
“You said Carla pulled back.”
“We were close friends until she got married.”
* * *
“DO YOU WANT to talk about that?”
Zach had not expected to like any reporter, and he particularly had not expected to like one who chased him from another state.
“Your turn. You’re a freelance reporter and you have a sister who used to work for Hale and Blankenstock. What else?”
While she thought about what to say, he got up to put another log on the fire and then turned back to where she sat looking lovely, sexy, in the fluffy robe. Perhaps her clothing was dry now, or he could find something that fit her that would make her look less attractive. Once he’d had a taste of her, he couldn’t seem to get enough. If she weren’t so bright and so inquisitive, so open and honest he would have been able to resist her. Heaven knows he should have, anyway, but it was too late now.
He sat down beside her and pulled her against him.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Celeste Rile?” she asked.
“Celeste Rile was a woman from Connecticut whose son insisted she be kept alive by extraordinary measures in the hospital so he could collect her Social Security payments and live in her home. Your series about her launched elder-abuse and social-security-fraud investigations all across the country.”
He could see her surprise. He’d read the story and had been disgusted by it. Yes, sometimes people did desperate acts; he could even have sympathy for them, sometimes.
“And what about Rasa’s World? Are you familiar with that story?”
He studied her for a long moment. The woman in Afghanistan, the whole story had been a lie. Then he said, “You’re her.”
“I am. And my tale of woe is an example of the bigger you are the harder you fall.” She snapped her gaze to his. “I’m so sorry.”
Having her feel sorry for him was the last thing he wanted.
He started to get back up when she grabbed his hand and pulled herself closer until her nose nearly touched his. Right now was when he needed to make the break between them. He needed to distance her from all this.
“Well, honey,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “Welcome to my world. It’s lonely scraping one’s butt at the bottom of life’s barrel and I’m glad for the company.”
Sharp laughter burst from him, and she grinned and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“If I recall correctly, Rasa was the Afghani woman whose tale captured the hearts and pocketbooks of so many Americans and even gained international fame and backing.”
“Yes, scrape. Scrape.”
“The sound of your butt on the bottom of the barrel?”
“Ah-yuh. That’s what you Mainers say.”
“Ah-yuh. So tell me how your involvement with Rasa got started.”
“Do you miss nothing? Forget nothing? I said to you, ‘Tell me how Hale and Blankenstock got started.’ You’re using my own phrasing to get me to talk.”
He gave her a let’
s-hear-it flick of the eyebrows.
“When I was embedded with an army unit, I had been so focused on researching army life, the needs of the soldiers and journalist survival in the country, I didn’t get very deeply into the culture.
“Rasa was the wife of one of the more radical warlords. Actually, I’m not even sure to this day if that was her real name.”
“How did you find out she made it all up?”
She frowned. “I should have been smarter. I should have listened to Jimmy. He was one of the soldiers assigned to assist me with the locals and warned me I could be taken in. Jimmy was a black-and-white kind of guy. Right or wrong and no in between, so I took him with a grain of salt. Rasa is the one I should have been suspicious of.”
She got up and poked around in the fire until the log fell and sparks shot up. “I heard crying coming from a house that had been blown up. She said she had lived there with her family, a husband and three children. She told me the others had all died when an RPG meant for an American convoy hit their house instead. She was angry with the insurgents, angry they had taken her family away from her.
“She said she held her small daughter in her arms while the child died of her wounds.” Addy put her hands to her head and began to pace. “It was all told in such detail. The blood, the dirt, the pain. The American convoy had not stopped. She said the confusion was so great that people ran all about while her child died. No one helped her. She said I was the first one who had ever inquired about her child and that she was grateful.
“She said it would have been different if her child had been a boy, her friends, her neighbors might have helped her.”
“Have you ever told your story?”
“You mean about Afghanistan?” She shook her head without waiting for an answer. “Once the counter-story broke with irrefutable proof that I had been duped, no one wanted to hear what I had to say.”
“I’d like to hear. What happened next?”
She sighed and sat down beside him. “Rasa blamed her daughter’s death on a group of insurgents no one had heard of before. I thought I was doing a great service. I uncovered a new group of the enemy and I was helping bring the plight of the Afghani women to the world.
“A lot of people followed me. I had over three hundred thousand followers on social media. I was such a fool.”
She crossed her arms protectively over her chest and as all the Adriana Bonacorda bravado left, her shoulders slumped. “There was no faction. I thought I might be spared a bit because the Afghani woman’s plight is still accurate. The story of these women in jeopardy was tainted by my telling it.”
“A fine mess.”
She looked up at him and he smiled. The strength it took to go on after the story in Afghanistan and to chase a swindler up the coast still lived in her.
“A fine mess,” she repeated. “And you were to be my way out.”
“And now I’m not?”
“Zach, if I’m not reading you correctly now, then I might as well pack it in.”
“I hope it never comes to that.”
“Do you mean you’ll give me a juicy exclusive that I can put into print?”
“A man can’t give up all his secrets in...” He pointedly examined the calendar on his watch. “In less than three days.”
She looked thoughtfully at him.
“Let’s see what that would be in real-world time.” She sat up on the edge of the couch so she could see him. “As strangers meeting for the first time, we would have spent from, say 5 minutes to three hours together a day—and that’s being generous. I’d say, we’ve spent weeks together in real-time relationship terms. We’re the opposite of geological time. Every one of our days is in fact a week or so.”
“There might be an odd sort of logic to that.” He studied her face and wondered if there was any chance for a relationship with her in the real world.
A dark dread clenched his gut. There was no way he would ever drag anyone else into the fray that had become his life.
He reached out and lightly traced her jaw line. She was so ferocious and that lightened his heart. She had survived a lot. She’d survive him.
“It’s time to check in on the real world.”
“How so?” she asked, her forehead wrinkling.
“I’ve neglected the house too long. A quick look around shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
“Nope.”
“What nope?”
“You’re not leaving me behind. It’s scary here by myself.”
He laughed. “You scared?”
“All right. You are my forbidden fruit. I can’t let you out of my sight. We have to check the house, together.” She kissed him then, took another taste of his mouth and he could not help himself; he tasted her back.
“Addy, I have never wanted anyone the way I want you. I can’t get enough.” He stood, holding her in his arms, but then set her gently on her feet.
He found them dry clothes, sweatpants which Addy could tie around her waist. The shirt bagged down around her thighs.
“You look adorable.”
She glanced at her appearance and then up at him. “You have a terrible sense of style.”
He chuckled and plucked at the shoulder of the baggy shirt. “I don’t think so. I like what’s under the baggy stuff.”
“Wanna check it out?” She wagged her shoulders back and forth in mock innocence.
“I’m leaving you here.”
He walked away quickly, but before he reached the door, she was holding on to his arm, dancing at his side.
He would miss her a lot when she had to leave.
* * *
AS ADDY ACCOMPANIED Zach she realized she was in deep trouble. Being with him was the thing she wanted the most since they first made love—no, since their first kiss. She had not known she could feel this strongly, let alone this quickly. Maybe there was something to be said for love at first sight—no, that was out for them. How about soul mates?
Were they soul mates destined to find each other?
Did she now believe in fairy tales, too?
Everything they had carried to the breezeway was safe and drying slowly. Her clothes hung on the line, her jeans stiff and her bra a sexy blue with just enough plunge and the right amount of lace was hanging out there in plane sight.
When Zach put a finger under the ever so slightly padded cup of the brassiere she poked him in the ribs.
“Just checking to see if it’s dry.”
“Is it?”
“No. You’ll have to go without it for another day.”
She took the bra down. It was dry, completely. “You are such a liar.”
He continued toward the door to the kitchen. “So they tell me,” he said, and then sighed exaggeratedly.
She nudged him again.
“What was that for?”
She gave a big answering sigh and he smiled and planted a fast kiss on her lips.
“I just need to see to the cellar for a minute. If you check the rooms on this floor, I’ll join you upstairs.”
The kitchen was secure. The quilt draped over the table and chairs almost dry.
Addy moved through the east rooms on the first floor quickly. Minor water damage was visible on the ceiling near the outer wall in the parlor below the four-poster room. That was expected and could not have been prevented in light of the tree having its way with the house.
The west face of the house was sheltered but she examined it, anyway. Though it was raining and blowing hard, she could see the hill behind the mansion. No doubt a month or two of rainfall had come down in the past few days. The trees spaced out over the landscape of the terrain would prevent any mud or rock slides from occurring.
A slide could put the house in danger, especially the
cellar.
The cellar was an old storage space hacked and blown out of rock and dirt, Zach had told her, by some determined settlers with access to lots of black powder for explosives. On the second floor she was relieved to see the tarp held, and now that the storm had lost some of its rage, it would most likely hold until the damage could be repaired.
In the beam of her flashlight she could see a new pile of debris in the middle of the room. When she shined the light to the ceiling it was easy to see why. The damage from the tree and moisture from the storm had taken its toll on the floor of the attic and the ceiling of the bedroom.
Plaster and chunks of wood were strewn over a few feet of the floor and something, maybe a box, was lying in the midst of the rubble.
CHAPTER NINE
THE BOX ABOUT twice the size of her palm and a few inches tall, half buried beneath plaster and chips of ceiling paint. Almost instantly, ideas of what might be in the box filled her head. Gold? Jewels? No. More likely a child’s treasure chest of found objects, a fossil, a feather from a blue jay. A lock of hair or a locket. Not much because the box was so small.
She slowly approached the debris, never letting the beam of her flashlight waver from the target. Maybe it was a treasure map? Bailey’s Cove had it’s own pirate. Oh, but he died before he could live in the house.
She squatted down and reached for the box, but pulled her hand back. She knew she could snatch up the box, hide it in the baggy clothing and whisk it away.
Ye-ah. With it, she could whisk away the last of her self-respect.
What if the box held a story as big as Zachary Hale?
What if she just took a good look and then ran with the story of what she found, never taking the box from the room...
She was depraved.
She reached for the small box released by the devastation from some long-ago hiding place. No one had lived in the house for over thirty-five years, Zach had told her at one point. His mother had told his father she would not live in a museum and Zach had been raised in a home on the south side of Bailey’s Cove.
Maybe the box had been hidden by Zach’s grandmother.
As Addy cleaned off the surface of the box, something inside rattled. Carefully she brushed away the rest of the dirt and dust still stuck to the box’s intricate surface.
