by Marta Perry
Cold rage stiffened her spine. “Let me guess. This business meeting…It wouldn’t be Donner Enterprises, would it?”
“There’ll be no charge for the room, of course, or for your dinner.” He attempted a smile, fastening his gaze somewhere over her head. “Maybe you’ll come back another time.”
“And if I did? Would you find the inn full again?”
For a moment his eyes met hers and he was a human being, instead of Trent Donner’s tool. “I’m sorry.” He spread his hands out helplessly. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“Sarah?”
She turned, realizing that Jonathan and Adriana had come out of the dining room. Jonathan stared at her bags.
“You’re not leaving already, are you? You just got here.”
“Not willingly. The manager has suddenly discovered that all the rooms have been booked by Trent’s company. In other words, Trent is having me evicted.”
She probably shouldn’t be so blunt. They were Trent’s friends. She couldn’t expect them to side with her.
Jonathan turned on the manager. “Dunphries, you can’t ask Dr. Wainwright to leave at this hour of the night.”
The man reddened. “I don’t have a choice.”
“You mean you’re afraid to make one.” Jonathan’s black eyes snapped. “Donner provides a lot of your business.”
“It’s not his fault.” She remembered Trent’s stinging accusation. “I was naive not to expect it. I’ll go elsewhere.”
The manager cleared his throat. “I understand Mr. Donner booked all the rooms on the island for this business meeting.”
She’d underestimated Trent. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. “It looks as if I’ll be sleeping on the beach tonight.”
“Don’t be silly.” Adriana’s entry into the conversation startled Sarah. “You can stay in our guesthouse.”
Sarah could only hope her mouth didn’t gape. Adriana had barely spoken two sentences to her in the time she’d been on the island. Why on earth was she extending an invitation now?
Jonathan smiled. “Of course. That’s the perfect solution.” He reached for Sarah’s bags. “Come on. You’re coming home with us.”
“Trent won’t be very happy with you.”
“It won’t hurt Trent not to get his own way for once.” Jonathan picked up her bags. “Our car’s out in the lot.”
She’d better stop protesting, or they might change their minds. “I have my car, so I’ll follow you.”
The manager sprang to open the lobby door for them, probably with a sigh of relief. She’d blame him, but she knew the power Trent wielded here. He was the one who deserved her anger, not people who depended on him for their livelihoods.
Adriana fell into step with Sarah. “Don’t worry about our relationship with Trent.” Her voice was cool and light, almost amused. “Your staying with us won’t make it any worse.”
That seemed fairly ambiguous. What was Adriana thinking? “It’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all.” That definitely was amusement in her tone. “Your presence might make life more…interesting.”
Interesting.
She weighed Adriana’s words later as she followed their car down the black, winding road. Streetlights were nonexistent on the island, and street signs rare. You either knew where you were going at night, or you got lost, just as she felt lost in the tangle of ambiguities and hidden meanings in nearly everything that had been said tonight.
What was Adriana up to? She hadn’t invited Sarah to stay based on her ideas of Southern hospitality. Still, staying with them should open some doors to her. Whatever Adriana’s motives, she had to be grateful for that.
He ought to feel pleased. The problem presented by Sarah Wainwright had been taken care of.
Trent leaned back in his leather desk chair, looking over the computer to the wide windows. A silvery moon rode low on the ocean, sending a path of light toward the shore.
He didn’t feel anything of the kind. He couldn’t rejoice that Sarah was ending an exhausting day by driving off the island to the nearest motel. She’d have to go all the way to the interstate to find one that wasn’t inexplicably full.
No, he wasn’t pleased, but he was satisfied. He’d done what he had to do. Some would say he’d been ruthless, but that was because he did what other people only thought about. Sarah Wainwright would not open up the busy lines of gossip again.
In the long run, he’d done her a favor. She’d have found more grief if she’d stayed here.
Faint music filtered through the study door he’d left ajar. Derek must be playing the piano in the living room, since Melissa had already gone up to her room. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad or not that Derek was at his suite of rooms here instead of at his waterfront apartment in Savannah.
Trent’s first instinct, after Lynette’s death, had been to have that grand piano of hers chopped into firewood. He hadn’t, of course. Melissa had her mother’s talent, and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive her of that solace.
Besides, he hadn’t wanted to do anything that might detract from the explanation he’d given for Lynette’s and Miles’s presence at the cottage together. He’d asked them to check out the cottage for possible expansion. That was what he’d told the police, the press, anyone else who dared ask. The police were satisfied that it was an unfortunate accident with the gas heater and only too glad to have a rational explanation for their presence. End of story.
Maybe people didn’t really believe that story, but they pretended they did. No one would dare suggest anything else in his hearing, or in Melissa’s. Or would they? He’d like to believe he’d protected his child from the speculation, but he’d never be sure.
He tilted his head back against cool leather, letting the music soothe his frazzled nerves. He’d done what he had to, all along the line. And if he spent sleepless nights raging at God over this betrayal—well, that was no one’s business but his.
Sarah thought there was another answer, but she was wrong. He’d accepted that, and she’d be better off if she did, too. Her face formed in his mind—the clear green eyes that weighed and assessed everything, the determined set to her mouth, that stubborn chin. Sarah wouldn’t give up easily.
That conviction ruffled his thoughts. He’d gotten her off the island. Word would get around that it wasn’t wise to talk with her, even if she came back. She hadn’t been here long enough to make many friends who’d help her—only the people she’d recruited to help at the fledgling clinic.
Derek had been as close to her as anyone. Maybe Trent had best close that gap.
He shoved back the chair and went down the flight of stairs from the loft to the living room. His half brother played with his eyes shut, lost in the music. With his features relaxed, he had a strong resemblance to their mother—the same curly brown hair and full lips. Music had been a bond between him and Lynette, one Trent had never shared.
“Derek.” He leaned against the piano. It was a piece of furniture, nothing else. He could stand here without remembering the hours Lynette had spent playing it.
Derek played a final chord and then glanced at him, eyes curious. “What’s up?”
“Did you hear that Sarah Wainwright was on the island?”
Derek whistled softly. “No. Why would she come back?”
“She has some crazy idea that Miles and Lynette couldn’t have been involved.” He hated the words. They tasted of betrayal. “She wanted my help to prove it.”
Derek played a random chord or two. “You told her no.”
“Of course I told her no.” Irritation edged his voice. He shouldn’t have to explain that to Derek. “What did you think? That I’d welcome her and jump right into an investigation?”
“Guess not, when you put it that way. Still, you’ve got to feel sorry for the woman. She must be hurting.”
“Poking into the past isn’t going to heal that hurt.” He ought to know. “I’m doing her a favor by shutting her down before
she starts.”
“She probably doesn’t see it that way.”
“Maybe not, but she doesn’t have a choice.”
“From what I remember about Sarah, I’d say she isn’t one to take no for an answer. Where is she staying?”
“Gone.” He clipped the word. “She was at the inn.”
Derek filled in the rest. “You sent her packing.”
“Yes.” She’d be gone by now. He ignored the faint trace of regret at the thought.
“Well, I guess that’s taken care of, then.” Derek lifted his brows, his brown eyes questioning. “Isn’t it?”
“You knew her as well as anyone. She might contact you.”
“And you want me to do what?”
“That should be obvious.” He suppressed a flicker of irritation. “Close her down.”
“Kind of rude, don’t you think?” Derek’s long-fingered hands moved on the keys, picking out something harsh and dissonant.
“You can pretty it up any way you want.” His voice was equally harsh. “Just don’t tell her anything to encourage her.”
“You’re the boss.”
He frowned at Derek’s flippant tone. But Derek, no matter how he felt, would cooperate.
A step sounded on the tile floor, and he turned to see Farrell, the driver-cum-body-guard, standing just inside the door, his heavy face impassive.
“Well?” He’d left the man at the inn to confirm that Sarah went on her way.
“Thought you’d want to know.”
“Know what?” The only thing he wanted to hear was that Sarah had left the island.
“Doc Wainwright. She left the inn, but she didn’t head for the mainland. She moved into the guesthouse at the Lees’.”
Derek played something ominous and threatening, like a storm coming up at sea.
“Stop it,” Trent snapped at him.
Derek lifted his hands from the keys. “It sounds as if Sarah didn’t do what you expected. How enterprising of her.”
“She will.” His jaw tightened, and he turned toward Farrell. “That’s all. You can go.”
She would. No matter how enterprising she was, Sarah wouldn’t find any answers here. He’d see to that.
Sarah rubbed the back of her neck as she turned into the drive at the Lees’ seaside villa. “Tara with hot tubs,” some local wag had called it. Jonathan stopped in front of the pillared portico, she stopped behind and he then came and slid into the front seat of her car.
He pointed. “Just go round the end of the house.”
Oleander branches, thick with blossoms, brushed the car as Sarah pulled up to the guesthouse. The architect had given up on antebellum design here—the cottage was a typical Low Country beach house. Its wide windows had shutters that could be closed against a storm. Between it and the main house, a turquoise swimming pool glowed with underwater lights.
Jonathan heaved her bags from the car. “You feel free to use the pool anytime you want. That’s what it’s there for.”
Sarah followed as he unlocked the front door and switched on lights.
“I’ll just put these in the master bedroom. You make yourself at home. You ought to find everything ready.”
Sarah dropped her shoulder bag on a glass-topped coffee table. Pale cream walls, pale beige Berber carpeting, glass everywhere. The bright cushions on the white wicker furniture were the only splash of color, other than the seascapes on the walls. A living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, two bedrooms, two baths…This little retreat for extra guests was more than comfortable.
Sarah glanced out toward the pool, remembering how it had looked a year ago at Adriana’s party. Twinkling white lights had festooned the trees. Everywhere there had been flowers, music, laughter, the clink of china. All of island society had been there. The heavy scent of magnolias in an isolated corner of the garden filled her mind.
No. She wasn’t going to remember.
Jonathan came back, handing her the key. “Come up to breakfast anytime you like.” His black eyes warmed with sympathy. “Honey, you look plain exhausted. Tomorrow we’ll talk about your problem with Trent. Okay?”
Sarah nodded, her throat tightening at his kindness. “I’ll do that. Jonathan, I can’t thank you enough…”
“Don’t.” Something she couldn’t read moved in his eyes. “I’m not sure we’re doing you a favor.” He kissed her cheek lightly. “Good night.”
Jonathan’s advice was good, but Sarah wasn’t sure how to follow it. Once ready for bed, she couldn’t settle. She turned down the peach spread on the king-size bed, fluffed the pillows, switched on the bedside lamp. Still she felt restless, uneasy, physically and emotionally exhausted but unable to rest.
Finally she wandered into the kitchen, switching on the light. The tea canister was stocked with herbals, so she filled a mug and popped it in the microwave.
A dose of chamomile tea, to be taken at bedtime. Her grandmother used to recite the line from Peter Rabbit whenever Sarah, visiting her at the big house on Beacon Hill, struggled to get to sleep.
Something rattled over the soft hum of the microwave. Sarah paused, spoon in hand. What was it? Something inside the cottage, or out? She listened.
Somewhere an owl called. Beyond the owl she could just make out the muffled murmur of the surf. The main house was between her and the ocean, but that must be what she’d heard.
When she and Miles first arrived on St. James, she’d wake up sometimes, tense, listening, and then realize that it was the quiet that had wakened her.
The water boiled. Sarah added the tea bag and a little sugar. When she lifted the mug to her lips, the aroma of the chamomile teased her nose, reminding her of home. Reminding her how far away, how alien, this place was.
Nonsense. Only tiredness made her think that. In the morning, her prospects would look better. She’d have to reassess her plans. She’d hoped that Trent would be, if not happy to see her, at least cooperative.
He must have had some reason for accepting so readily the idea that Lynette and Miles were lovers. Had there been something Lynette said or did that convinced him she was having an affair? If so, he clearly didn’t intend to tell her.
On to Plan B. She’d talk to Adriana to get the local gossip.
Then there was Trent’s half brother. Derek had always been kind, and always less afraid, less in awe, of Trent than everyone else. The difficult part might be getting to him without letting Trent know it, but she’d manage.
And she had to see the police reports. Her parents were right; she’d run away too quickly. She hadn’t the faintest idea how thorough the investigation had been. Surely there were other people she could talk to, other avenues she could explore.
Sarah put the mug down, realizing she’d been standing there, staring blankly at the black rectangle of the window. Thinking about what she had to do wasn’t making her more relaxed, it was making her tenser.
The sound again. Sarah froze. That hadn’t been the distant rumble of the surf. That gentle rattle…she knew what it was. Something, perhaps an unwary step, had rattled the crushed shell that surrounded the guest house. The hairs lifted along her arms as if a chill wind had blown into the room.
Animal? Human? No one should be outside the guesthouse with the elaborate security Jonathan had installed. It must be an animal. She was letting stress fuel her imagination.
She switched off the light, ears straining. Nothing. Darkness pressed against the window glass, seeming as palpable as a hand, but there was nothing else. She was being ridiculous.
A footstep. Just outside the window a step fell on the tabby walk. Something, maybe a hand, maybe a sleeve, brushed the wall inches away from her.
THREE
Stifling a gasp, Sarah slipped away from the window. No one should be out there. If Jonathan had returned, he’d knock on the door. She moved, step by careful step, out of the kitchen, trying to think where the telephone was. Maybe she was overreacting, but she’d rather be safe than sorry.
&nbs
p; Her pulse jolted. She hadn’t noticed whether Jonathan had locked the door when he’d left.
Please, Lord. I’m probably being ridiculous, but be with me.
Heart thudding in time with the prayer, she started across the darkened living room. Maybe there was no reason to fear, but she’d still make sure the door was locked before whoever was outside could reach it. She strained for the faintest sound that would tell her where that person was.
Shadows distorted the furniture. There’d been a glass-topped coffee table, hadn’t there, somewhere between the kitchen and the entrance?
Her shin cracked against the table, and her breath caught at the pain. All right. A few feet more to the door. Arms outreached, she touched a panel just as she heard the telltale crunch of shells outside. Her fingertips brushed a dangling chain. She caught it, snapped it into place.
She stood for a moment, hand on the door, listening. Nothing. The pounding of her heart slowed. She was locked in. Now find the phone, call the main house.
Back across the living room, bumping into the table once more. The phone must be in the master bedroom. Why didn’t she remember?
She paused in the door to the bedroom. Naturally she’d left the light on here, and the drapes were open. The lamp was on the bedside table.
And there sat the telephone, also on the bedside table. She had no choice but to cross the room, in full view of anyone standing outside, to reach the phone.
Quickly, before she could think too much, she raced to the table, snapped off the light and sank to the floor in blessed darkness, pulling the telephone down with her. The lighted receiver listed the house code. She punched the button.
“Hello? Sarah?” Thank goodness Jonathan picked up.
Now that she heard his voice, she felt foolish.
“I heard someone outside the guesthouse just now. Should there be someone in the grounds?”
“Sugar, I should have told you a security patrol checks the grounds during the night.” His voice was warmly reassuring. “We’re pretty safe here on the island, but you never know. It must have been one of the guards, but let me check. I’ll call you right back.”
