The Secret Thief

by Nina Lane

  “Well, you do tend to inspire… er, obedience.” I wince inwardly. Why did I say that?

  He arches an eyebrow. “Obedience?”

  Okay, not the best choice of words.

  “Just doing my job.” I pick up a gel pen and start to write Find Firebird stories in my organizer, but the pen is out of ink. I mutter under my breath and fish around for a pencil to finish the sentence. “Will there be anything else?”

  “No.” He studies me, his nostrils flaring slightly. “What’s that smell?”

  Oh, dear. Is he one of those people who has a sensitivity to certain scents?

  “Maybe it’s my lotion?” I suggest.

  He furrows his brow, as if I just spoke a different language. “Lotion?”

  “For my skin.” I gesture to my arms. “I use an apple-lavender scented body cream after my shower in the morning.”

  He shifts his eyes from my face down to my neck, all the way to my arms bared by my short-sleeved blouse. A slight flush crests his cheekbones, as if he’s imagining me smoothing lotion into my skin.

  What if he knew how much I enjoy applying it? Sliding my hands over my breasts, my palms slick with rich, thick cream, drops of water still dripping down my thighs…

  Eve!

  “If it’s too strong, I’ll stop using it,” I assure him.

  “No.” He jerks his gaze back to my face and clears his throat. “You don’t need to… uh, stop using it. But that’s not what it is.”

  He picks up the thermos from my desk and sniffs. “Peppermint.”

  “Oh.” I’m mildly disappointed that he wasn’t so attuned to me he caught my scent. “I usually have tea at two o’clock, but my old thermos doesn’t keep it hot that long. So I’ve been having tea with my lunch.”

  Flynn sets the thermos down and frowns. He points to the remnants of my PB&J and saltines. “What’s that?”

  “My lunch, of course.”

  A line appears between his eyebrows. “You’re eating peanut butter and crackers? Why?”

  His words are clipped. Though I’m not sure why he’s interrogating me about my culinary choices, I remind myself he’s my boss. Employees have to indulge their boss’s eccentric ways sometimes, but his irrational annoyance scrapes my nerves.

  “You did tell me I’m allowed to set my own breaks and lunch hour,” I remind him. “And frankly, there are labor laws about employees being able to eat and—”

  “I mean, why a peanut-butter sandwich?” A scowl creases his face. “Why don’t you bring something more substantial?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I like peanut butter.”

  “Every day?”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “But what?” His tone is hard, almost angry, and I have the unpleasant sense he’ll interrogate me with increasing force until he’s certain he knows the truth.

  “I don’t…” Fresh warmth rises to my face again, but this time from the embarrassment of admission. “I can’t afford much right now.”

  Flynn’s expression turns from a scowl into a thunderstorm. “You don’t have enough money to eat?”

  Bristling, I lean back in my chair. “Of course I do. Peanut butter is a perfectly healthy option.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you need money?” Anger flashes in his eyes, metal striking against stone.

  “Why else would I need a job?” I reply stiffly. “And I don’t need money… well, we all do, of course, but I’m not living in poverty.” Not yet anyway. “I’m just being fiscally careful at the moment.”

  “Stay here.” Flynn stalks out the door.

  Where else would I go? I still have four hours of work left.

  Shrugging off his apparent peanut-butter aversion, I pick up a box cutter to open a box. I’ve been inputting book data into the system as I open each box, but now I’ll have to change my strategy and keep unpacking until I find the Firebird books.

  The cottage door slams open again. Flynn stomps in like an irritated bear.

  “Come here,” he snaps.

  Do this. Do that. Stay. Come.

  “I’m not a dog,” I mutter, though I drop the box cutter and approach him.

  He smirks. “I know. Dogs don’t use body lotion.”

  I can’t help chuckling. “You’re the strangest boss I’ve ever had.”

  “Funny. You’re the only employee I’ve ever had. Come on.”

  I follow him out of the workroom. We’re halfway down the corridor before I realize we’re actually going into the cottage. The only rooms I’ve seen are the bathroom and the separate building containing artifacts of the lighthouse’s history. The cottage and tower are both his private living quarters.

  Flynn steps aside. Though I can’t be certain, I think I hear him inhale deeply as I precede him into the kitchen.

  I stop, taken aback by the room’s charm. The wooden floor gleams with age, a weathered table sits near a window overlooking the cliff’s plateau, and the walls are lined with blue cabinets that speak to the house’s nautical history. The countertops and appliances are all polished and modern, but somehow both old and new mesh in a way that suits the building perfectly.

  “This is lovely,” I remark.

  Flynn shoots me a narrow glance. “You sound surprised.”

  “With you being all scruffy and mysterious up here, I didn’t know what to expect. Did you do the renovations yourself? Sorry, sorry. No questions.”

  “The answer is yes.” He spreads a hand to the stove and refrigerator. “I’m amending clause three of the contract. You’re no longer allowed to bring food into the workroom. Peanut butter, in particular, is banned. Instead, you’ll use the kitchen and whatever food is here. You can bring your tea and make it here too. There’s a teakettle around somewhere. Eat at the table instead of your desk.”

  “Thank you, but I’d really prefer bringing my own food.”

  He frowns. “You’ll eat what’s here, Eve. Is that understood?”

  Frustration shoves at my chest. Given what I endured through the investigation, being told what to do scrapes my nerves raw. But Flynn’s dictates don’t inspire the same kind of impotent fury that other people’s have.

  Maybe because—stomping and glowering aside—he appears to want to make things a little better for me. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he cares, but he certainly notices.

  “All right,” I concede. “I’ll eat lunch in the kitchen. I just hope you don’t only have Spam.”

  His mouth twitches. “I promise you’ll have more than Spam. More than peanut butter too.”

  He starts back down the corridor. I follow, unable to help being pleased at the idea of taking breaks in such a warm, homey kitchen.

  We return to the workroom. Flynn stops by the door and reaches into his sweatshirt pocket, producing a thin envelope. He extends it to me.

  “What is this?” I take the envelope.

  “Advance on your first two weeks’ pay.”

  I take a check out of the envelope, shocked by the size of the number. “I can’t accept this.”

  “You can, and you will,” he replies shortly.

  “Oh my God.” I choke out a laugh. “Do you seriously think ordering me around will get you what you want?”

  “It usually does.” He crosses his arms over his chest and levels me with a stern look. “I’m your employer. I decide what I’m going to pay you. You will accept it.”

  “I don’t need your pity.” I press my lips together. “I intend to work hard both to earn a paycheck and for personal reasons, but I won’t take charity.”

  I fully expect him to argue and lay down the law again, but instead he regards me with a curious intensity. Then he nods.

  “Advance on your first month’s pay,” he concedes.

  “Done.” Relieved, I slip the check back into the envelope. “Thank you.”

  I wait for him to turn and leave, but he doesn’t move, his gaze still on me. Penetrating. Deep.

  I clear my throat. “Will there be anything
else?”

  “Yes.” He uncrosses his arms and steps toward me. His presence fills me with heat.

  “Okay.” My voice trembles a bit. I take a step back and come up against the wall.

  He stops a scant few inches away and places his hand on the wall behind me. For a heart-stopping instant, I realize this is the closest we’ve ever been. My whole body tingles.

  He leans forward to look me in the eye. He’s so close I only need to reach out slightly to rest my hand on his chest. So close that he only needs to lower his head just a little to…

  “I have a new contract clause.” His iron-gray eyes are serious, his whiskered jaw set.

  Really? I blow out a breath of exasperation. “What is it, sir?”

  “You are required to use apple-lavender body lotion before coming to work.”

  Then he straightens and leaves, closing the door behind him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fuck me fuck me fuck me…

  Just a few hours after work, I’m on my knees, my face buried in the pillow and my hand working between my spread legs. I’ve given up all pretense of decency or inhibition.

  My moans echo against the old walls, and I rock my hips frantically back and forth to increase the friction on my clit. As usual, I come blissfully hard, shuddering and quaking, a gasp catching in my throat.

  But afterward, as I sink onto the bed and catch my breath, a strange hollowness opens inside me. Not because I spend every night masturbating alone in bed—although that might get wearisome soon—but because the man making me feel all these delicious sensations again is so forbidden.

  I can’t start imagining what the reality of him would be like. Aside from the fact that he’s my boss and he has an irritating, dictatorial temperament, he’s far too reclusive. And with any luck, I won’t be in town for long. Even if I did plan to stay in Castille, I wouldn’t get involved with the secretive lighthouse keeper. A man’s secrets and lies destroyed me once. I won’t risk it again.

  Not to mention, a volcano of rumors would likely erupt if scandalous Eve Perrin were to hook up with the town’s resident loner.

  With a sigh, I roll onto my back, skimming a hand over my breasts. I hate knowing I’ll let other people’s opinions dictate what I do, but I have no choice. People’s opinions skewered me once. I won’t give them the opportunity to do it again.

  Besides, no one seems to know much about Flynn. He could be anything. A criminal, a mobster, a killer.

  While not impossible, I can’t make myself believe he has a black heart beneath his stoic exterior. My instincts failed me miserably with David, but they’re not wrong about Flynn.

  He’s strange, yes, but not dangerous. He was once friends with Uncle Max. He bought Max’s collection and wants to look at books about the Firebird. He’d noticed how upset I was that day at the museum, and he’d come after me to offer me a job instead of just walking away.

  I refuse to believe that the man who’d both rescued me and earned the trust of my beloved uncle is someone to be feared. It would be wise to keep a distance between us, but I’m not afraid of him.

  Just the opposite, in fact. I’m developing an unfortunate and intense crush on the mysterious lighthouse keeper.

  The next morning after my shower, I smooth apple-lavender cream over my calves and thighs. The daily ritual has a heightened significance now that I know Flynn likes my scent.

  I tell myself this is all good for me—this return to feeling attractive, to liking my body again, even doing a little something because I know it’s appealing to a man.

  I finish getting ready and walk out to my car, pausing at the strange sense of being watched. Skin prickling, I turn to see the dog looking at me from the side of the house.

  Relieved, I ask, “You hover around here a lot, don’t you? You’re like a ghost.”

  He barks.

  “Ghost, huh?” I toss my satchel in the car and pick up his food dish. “Okay, then.”

  I refill his food and water. He’s waiting on the porch when I come back out. He nudges his head against my hand before starting to eat.

  Seems I have a pet now. Or an animal companion, at least.

  I drive to the lighthouse, where Flynn greets me at the door looking so ridiculously edible that my fantasy of last night blooms in my mind with renewed force. I skim my gaze over his worn jeans and unzipped gray hoodie. A faded blue T-shirt clings to his muscles.

  God. What would he think if he knew what went on in my imagination?

  “Good morning.” I set my belongings on the desk and pick up my organizer. “No sign of the Firebird books yet, but I’ll keep looking.”

  “Good. Any questions?”

  “No. I’m going to work on the Hans Christian Andersen tales today.” I sit down. Several unopened packages of clickable gel pens are on the desk. “Are these for me?”

  “Yes.” Flynn rests his hands on his hips, a slight frown appearing on his face. “Isn’t that the brand you use?”

  “Yes, but… you bought me some pens?”

  He shrugs. “Just office supplies. I noticed your pen ran out of ink yesterday. I figured you could use more.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  He turns and leaves. I open the package and take out a pen. They’re all blue ink, the color I always use.

  It’s a little silly to be so pleased by a gift of new pens, but given Flynn’s self-imposed distance from… well, the world, I appreciate that he noticed such a small thing. Not to mention, it’s the first time someone has done something nice for me in a long time.

  I organize my workspace. No lunch today, per my new orders to eat in the kitchen. I did bring my tea set and a selection of gourmet teas, all packaged tidily in a woven basket. My mid-afternoon break will be much nicer with a properly brewed cup of tea.

  I start unpacking boxes, keeping an eye out for Firebird stories or a history and criticism of the tale, as well as any other illustrations by Maria Wood.

  Her name simmers at the back of my mind. Why do I feel like I should know something about her? That I’ve seen her intense, dramatic style before?

  Though my internet phone search about her yielded no results, I write a text to Graham:

  I’m going to start writing about the Maria Wood Red Riding Hood drawing, so I can include the paper with my applications. An artist no one seems to have heard of—vengeful, feminist, breaking taboos—it will be quite provocative.

  I send the text. Excitement flickers inside me. If I can bring to light the discovery of an unknown female artist who shattered social norms and artistic traditions… if that doesn’t pull attention away from my miserable affair and back to my scholarly work, nothing will.

  Close to noon, my stomach rumbles in a plea for lunch. I pick up my tea set and crossword book before heading to the door. After Flynn’s dictates and his contract, I’m still a little apprehensive about crossing the threshold into the cottage.

  Everything is quiet. I walk to the kitchen, peering around the corner to make sure my boss isn’t looming anywhere nearby. The room is empty, a few shards of sunlight gleaming on the hardwood floor, appliances all bright and clean, and the weathered table looking pleasantly inviting by the big window.

  I leave the tea set on the counter and open the refrigerator. My jaw almost drops. The fridge is filled with food. Leafy greens, organic chicken, gourmet cheeses, farm-fresh eggs. The cupboards are likewise well-stocked with rice, pasta, canned goods, fruit, crusty loaves of bread.

  Well, geez. No wonder he wants me to eat here, if he has this much food.

  Unless he bought it all for me?

  No. I dismiss the thought with a shake of my head. That would be silly.

  Still, it’s lovely to have my choice of such delicious food, and none of it peanut butter. I select a shiny apple—ripe, deep red, as if he’d chosen only the best—and rummage in the fridge for thick slices of turkey and cheese. I make a sandwich and eat my lunch at the table while working on a crossword puzzle.

&n
bsp; Beneath the distant sound of the ocean waves, faint music filters through the heating vents. I tilt my head to listen. It’s coming from a different part of the lighthouse. Elvis, “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

  He listens to Elvis. I tuck that bit of knowledge away. The graceful melody and lovely lyrics float in the air, eliciting a longing I’m unwilling to examine too closely. Instead I enjoy the odd companionship of listening to the same music as Flynn while I finish my lunch and he… does whatever he does.

  After cleaning my dishes, I return to work. I unpack another box, which contains a collection called Russian Fairy Tales, compiled by Alexander Afanasyev, and two single-story picture books. The Tale of Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird, and the Grey Wolf, and Russian Tales: The Firebird.

  Success! I set the books on my desk to give to Flynn tomorrow morning when I see him again. Maybe he’s also a scholar of fairy tales, though why would he want to keep that a secret? But it would certainly explain how he and Uncle Max became friends.

  At two, I return to the kitchen and put the shiny silver kettle on the stove before setting out my teapot and cup. As I wait for the water to boil, I gaze out the window, which overlooks the ocean and the secrets wall. The sky and ocean are charcoal-gray, and a cold drizzle has been falling all morning.

  The kettle whistles. I swish boiling water around the teapot to warm it, then add the tea leaves and water. A pleasant, fragrant steam rises.

  “What is that?” Flynn’s deep voice suddenly fills the room behind me.

  “Jesus.” I startle, pressing a hand to my leaping heart. “For a big guy, you have the tread of a cat.”

  I turn to face him. He’s standing in the doorway leading to what looks like a dining room, everything about him as tempting as ever.

  It would be nice, for a change, to look at him and just see my boss, not my gorgeous, hunky, hot-as-hell boss who invades my fantasies every night and makes me come so hard I see stars.

  “It’s tea.” I fight back a heated flush. “Darjeeling Sungma, to be precise. What are you doing here?”

  “I live here,” he replies dryly.