The Colton Marine

by Lisa Childs

No. It wasn’t.

  And for some reason River Colton’s face came to her mind. Even with that scar and patch, he was ridiculously handsome—not that she’d seen much of his face tonight with how low he’d pulled that hat.

  But she remembered how he’d looked on news reports. His hair was thick and brown but always worn in a short, military-style cut. His eyes—eye—was a bright green, his gaze so piercing that it could nearly cut through a person. At least that was how he’d looked at the reporters and photographers bold enough to take his picture.

  He hadn’t quite met her gaze tonight—until that moment before he’d gone off to investigate. Then he’d looked at her and leaned close, close enough that for a moment she’d thought he’d been tempted to kiss her.

  Or maybe she’d only imagined that, like she’d imagined seeing those eyes glinting at her from the darkness. At least she was going to convince herself of that, since she had to go back.

  River had said he would go back with her in the morning to thoroughly check out the place. Had it just been coincidence, like he’d claimed, that he’d been out riding when he’d heard her scream?

  Or did he have some other motive for showing up at La Bonne Vie tonight?

  But River wasn’t the only one she suspected wasn’t being completely honest with her.

  “What’s your plan?” she asked her boss. “What do you intend to do with the estate?”

  There was a long moment of silence—so long that she thought the call might have been lost—and then he replied, “I’m not sure...”

  Neither was she. She wasn’t certain he was telling the truth. But before she could pry any further, he clicked off the phone.

  She gripped it tightly, tempted to toss it, before she calmed her frustration and slid it back into her purse. Despite the warm night air, a sudden chill swept through her—raising goose bumps on her skin.

  She felt as if she was being watched. But when she glanced to the house, Uncle Mac was sitting with his back toward her. He wasn’t watching her.

  But someone was...

  Chapter 4

  The scene played out in slow motion—like it always did. He was just about to make the call—just about to send everyone in—when he felt it. The wrongness of it. The feeling was like a heavy rock lying low in his guts.

  Something wasn’t right.

  But Henry jumped the gun and headed in—and as he did, he tripped the wire stretched across the entrance to the abandoned hotel. The blast knocked River back, lifting him off his feet. His shout rang out—too late—as he flew through the air with the dust, the debris, the shrapnel and the other bodies.

  Before he hit the ground, though, someone caught him, wrapping slender arms around him, holding him down. That had happened that day, as well; someone had held him back from going in—from trying to find the others.

  He’d fought that person. Today he didn’t fight. Instead he jerked awake and stared into a pair of big eyes dark with concern.

  “Are you okay?” Edith asked.

  She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her arms wrapped around his bare chest. She was nearly bare, too, but for an exercise bra and brief shorts. Her skin was as slick with perspiration as his.

  His heart had already been racing from the dream, now it beat even harder and faster as desire rushed through him. His throat thick with passion, he could only nod.

  “I was just getting back from a morning run,” she said, “and I heard you shouting.”

  He cleared his throat. “Dream—it was just a dream.” And maybe so was this—her being here with her arms wrapped around him.

  As if just realizing she held him, she jerked back. “I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have...”

  He released a ragged breath. “Guess we’re even now,” he said. “I rushed in last night when I heard you screaming and now...”

  Had he been screaming? Sometimes, when he relived the explosion, he felt the pain all over again. Self-conscious now, he touched his face. At least he hadn’t taken off the patch before he’d fallen asleep. But he had taken off his hat. With the sun shining through the bedroom window, his scars were clearly visible.

  She wasn’t staring at his scars, though. She wasn’t even looking at his face. Her gaze was trained on his chest. The vest had protected that during the explosion. He had no scars beneath the dusting of dark hair. Just his—and Henry’s—dog tags dangled from around his neck.

  Finally, she glanced up and met his gaze. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she stammered again. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine,” he assured her.

  Now that she was looking at his face again, he could see the doubt in her beautiful dark eyes.

  What the hell had she heard?

  The heat that had rushed through his body with her touch spread up to his face now. He was embarrassed over her catching him in such a weak moment.

  “When are you heading back to La Bonne Vie?” he asked.

  She blinked, breaking their locked gazes. “Right after I shower.”

  New images flashed through his mind, of her standing naked beneath a spray of water. He groaned.

  And she reached out but pulled her hand back just before it touched his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  He nodded. He would have stood up, but the sheet tangled around his hips was all that hid his reaction to her closeness, to her touch. Even all sweaty from her run, she smelled like she had last night. Like fresh air and flowers...

  “What is that smell?” he asked.

  She stood up and stepped back, away from his bed. Then she touched her own face now and wiped away some of the perspiration. “I was running—”

  “Not that,” he said, although even her sweat smelled sweet. “The flowers. What kind of flowers do I smell every time I’m near you?”

  “Gardenias,” she replied as she backed toward the door to the stairwell that led to the stables below.

  “Gardenias,” he repeated as she slipped through that doorway. He smiled as he heard how hard her shoes slapped against the steps.

  She was running again—away from him.

  But she hadn’t looked horrified—like he’d thought she had been last night when she’d first seen him. Instead she’d seemed almost flustered, as if she’d been as affected by his nearness as he had been by hers.

  He pushed his hand over his face, down over his scar. Hell, he must have still been dreaming. She couldn’t have looked at him like he had imagined—like she was at all interested in him.

  For one, just as she must have heard him shouting through the open window of the apartment, he had heard her through it, too—last night when she’d been talking to someone on her cell phone.

  Her boss or her boyfriend?

  The affection in her thick Southern drawl had been apparent, and he wouldn’t have expected someone to have such an affinity for an employer. She had definitely been talking to whoever had bought La Bonne Vie, though. Apparently even she wondered why the man had purchased the estate. Along with the affection, River had also heard frustration in her voice. Whatever her relationship was with the caller, it was complicated.

  So River doubted she had any interest in him. She had more than enough to handle already. And he knew he had no future with anyone until he’d retraced his past and discovered who he really was. Since Edith was distracted with her difficult job and her difficult boss, she might not notice his snooping around the estate.

  His stomach muscles clenched with dread over the thought of going back to La Bonne Vie. But it was the only place that might hold the answer to who he really was.

  * * *

  Edith’s skin was chilled—from the cold shower she’d taken. She had needed it to bring her to her senses, though. She couldn’t believe she�
�d been ogling River Colton like she had. The man was wounded; he had very obviously been through hell. And she’d been attracted. Of course she had been concerned, too.

  But then she’d noticed his body—his hard, muscular body. She had never seen so many sculpted muscles, his slick skin stretched taut over them. Her pulse quickened even now, thinking of them.

  Or maybe her pulse was quickening because she was about to unlock the front door of La Bonne Vie. It shouldn’t have been as scary now, in the bright light of morning, as it had been last night, cloaked in darkness and full of shadows.

  But now she could see the neglect of the last ten years—in the paint peeling away from the door and the fascia and the window frames. Moss clung to the brick walls. The landscaping was overgrown, vines climbing up the lattice in the windows to cover them—like that black leather patch covered River’s right eye. Trees overhung the roof, some big limbs even lying across it.

  She’d told Declan it was going to be a big job to get the place ready. But even she had underestimated the amount of work it would take. She wasn’t going to undo ten years of neglect in a few weeks’ time. But Edith had never shied away from work before. She would get the job done—just like she’d told Declan she would, just like she always did.

  Of course working as hard as she did left little time for anything else—like a personal life. Like friends. Like men...

  She thought of only one man, though—of River Colton, his chest bare and heaving with his pants for breath. He was the last man with whom she could get involved even if she had time. He had issues she wasn’t prepared to deal with again.

  And she had La Bonne Vie.

  She slid the key in the lock, but before she turned it, the knob turned—easily. The door hadn’t been locked. But she was certain that she had the night before when they’d all left together.

  Why wasn’t it locked now?

  “Damn this house...” She pushed open the door but hesitated before stepping inside the foyer. She reached into her purse instead, but her fingers fumbled across notebooks and pens, her wallet and plastic makeup containers. She couldn’t find the hard metal of the pepper spray canister. Then she remembered she had dropped it last night. It was under the basement stairs.

  “Not going to do me a whole hell of a lot of good down there,” she murmured.

  She peered around before stepping across the threshold. “Hello?” Her voice echoed throughout the two-story foyer—off the marble floor and the ornate plaster ceiling. The paint was peeling off the plaster like it was the exterior and several crystals in the chandelier were shattered, fragments lying on the scratched marble floor.

  What were Declan’s plans for the house? Did he want it restored?

  From estimating previous projects, she had an idea how much money it would take to return the mansion to its former glory. More than Declan would probably be able to get out of it—if he intended to flip it, like he had other properties. He wasn’t just CEO of SinCo; he’d built the company from the ground up. So maybe he was going to develop the land instead. The three hundred acres might get him a return on his initial investment if he turned it into a housing subdivision or something. But she grimaced at the thought of Uncle Mac’s ranch adjoining a real estate development.

  “Hello!” she called out again. Nobody else’s voice echoed back at her. She heard nothing else. No creaking. No footsteps. Not even the scurry of rodent feet.

  She shuddered at the thought of dealing with rats or mice. But no doubt animals had moved in when the humans had moved out. That was probably what she’d heard and seen the night before—some nocturnal creature like a raccoon or possum.

  She probably hadn’t actually locked the door last night, either. As rattled as she’d been, she might have turned the key the wrong way before pulling it out. Maybe instead of locking it, she had unlocked it.

  She expelled a slight breath of relief at the rationalization. Of course she knew that was what she was doing—trying to convince herself that everything was fine. She had been doing that most of her life, so it was second nature to her now.

  It was also how she had survived. So she wasn’t about to change her ways. Even though she was only twenty-seven, she was still too set in them. Or maybe, as some people including Mac and Declan had accused her, she was too stubborn to change. Instead of being insulted, she’d always taken that as a compliment.

  She was tenacious. As she glanced around the damaged house, she was glad that she was. A less tenacious woman might have turned around and walked back out.

  As damaged as the house was, though, it was still apparent how beautiful it had once been. The foyer was quite grand, with French doors opening off it on the left to a parlor and living room and an arched hallway to the right leading to the dining room and kitchen. And in the middle of the space wound a grand staircase to the second-story landing.

  She could almost hear the music from the parties she’d heard had been held here. The murmurs of conversation, the tinkling of laughter...

  What had it been like to grow up here? It was a far cry from the overcrowded foster home where she and Declan had grown up. Was that why Declan had bought it? Did it represent some sort of accomplishment to him?

  She knew it was important to him. She just didn’t know why. But because it was important, she had to get it ready for him. He couldn’t see it like this or he might be horribly disappointed—in the house and in her.

  She turned around again, surveying the damage. “Where do I start?” she murmured.

  The kitchen. She would need the plumbing and appliances functioning in order to stay there while she did inventory of the furnishings, and Declan would need it working for his visit, as well. La Bonne Vie was too far from town to order takeout. They would have to be able to prepare their own meals. When he came, he would have to tell her what he intended to do with the estate. Maybe he just hadn’t said yet because he wanted to assess the property in person before he decided.

  She passed through the dining room, with its elegant coffered ceiling, to the kitchen. Sunlight worked its way through the vines and grime covering the many windows to gleam off the stainless steel counters that looked like they had begun to rust. The wooden floor had buckled near where the sink must have leaked. The doors to that cabinet stood open, as if they’d rotted off their hinges. She could smell the dankness of water damage and mold.

  She would need a plumber for certain and definitely a carpenter. She moved toward the stove, about to check the gas, when she heard the noises again. The basement steps creaked as if beneath someone’s weight.

  Instinctively she reached for her purse again, but then remembered the pepper spray was gone. So she reached instead for the metal pot holder dangling over the island, and she grabbed a heavy iron skillet. Declan had taught her how to swing a bat. She suspected this wouldn’t be much different.

  It would do for protection.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she opened that basement door again. But she didn’t see anything this time. Was it just the sounds of a neglected house settling into disrepair?

  Something scraped across cement, and she knew it was more than the house. Something—or somebody—was down there. But she was the only one with a right to be in this house—in Declan’s house.

  So she started down the stairs with the frying pan held over her shoulder like a bat. She was ready to swing. But when she reached the bottom step, she couldn’t tell where that scraping noise had come from.

  It was farther away than the stairs, than the utility room. She had no idea how big the basement was or where the dark hallway might lead. She needed more than the frying pan. So she moved around the stairwell until she stood beneath it. Cobwebs brushed across her face and clung to her hair, but she felt around in the shadows until she found it—the can of pepper spray.

  Its metal was dented and dirtied with d
ust. As she reached for it, she noticed a bright patch of color lying in the dirt next to it. She picked up the piece of pink lace along with the can. The handkerchief must not have rolled around in the dirt like the pepper spray because it wasn’t nearly as dirty.

  Where had it come from?

  She doubted River had had it on him the night before. But Mac could have; it might belong to the woman he’d started dating, Evelyn. Edith had met her at Thorne’s wedding. She dropped it into her purse so she could ask him about it later. But she held on to the pepper spray yet because she heard that noise again—that scraping noise...

  Someone else was down here. This time Edith would find the intruder and deal with him once and for all.

  * * *

  Why had it taken ten years after seizing the estate for the FBI to sell it? Why now? For a decade, it had sat empty—abandoned.

  Now there were too damn many people coming in and out, poking around.

  Trembling fingers reached for the volume on the speakers, turning them down. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear that echo—of that damn scraping noise.

  What the hell was going on?

  The person didn’t tremble with fear but with rage. With fury.

  Those shaking fingers reached for other things now—for the gun lying atop an old bureau. Or the knife...

  Even from down here, in one of the secret rooms, someone might be able to hear a gunshot. And if they came to investigate...

  He or she would have to die with whoever was investigating now. That scraping sound was against one of the walls of the secret room. Too close.

  So close that whoever it was might accidentally trip the switch to open the door. And if they did that, they would have to die.

  The person picked up the knife and gripped it tightly. Yes, it would have to be the knife.

  It would be quick and quiet. And there were other rooms where a body could be hidden...where it might never be found.

  Chapter 5

  Excitement coursed through River. He was so glad he’d rushed over to the estate while Edith had been in the shower at Mac’s, so he’d had time to investigate before she showed up. This had to be one of them—one of Livia’s secret rooms. The wall wasn’t thick enough to be an exterior one. It wouldn’t have been installed to support anything, either. He’d found it at the back of the wine cellar. Maybe it was just a place to store more expensive bottles.