The Secret Thief

by Nina Lane

  “Christ, you’re incredible.” He rolls off me and pulls me against him, his breath hot on my forehead. “I can’t believe you came back.”

  “Believe it.” I run my hand down his damp chest. “Because I’m here.”

  He brushes his lips against my forehead. “Don’t leave.”

  “No.”

  I close my eyes, listening to the sound of his heartbeat and cadence of his breath.

  Come with me, Eve.

  Since the day I followed him here, we’ve been creating a place that belongs only to us. A place of slow-building trust, comfortable silences, hot looks, and fairy tales. And, as it turns out, a place where our imaginations transform and envelop each other. Maybe even a place where dreams come true.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The rest of the morning is hazy and soft-edged like a mirage but infinitely real. Fog condensing on the windowpanes. The aroma of Assam tea, steam scented with raspberry, scones slathered with creamy butter.

  Flynn, his body so achingly touchable I spend lengthy amounts of time running my hands over all the slopes of his chest and shoulders, endlessly fascinated by his sheer strength, the tactility of his muscles.

  I’m rediscovering my own body as well, finding such exquisite pleasure in everything he does to me, everything I do with him, that all my past experiences fade into nothing. Our bouts of love-making are broken by physical explorations as I discover he’s ticklish right near his hipbones, and he finds the birthmark on the back of my thigh.

  I still have questions, but I don’t ask and he doesn’t offer anything beyond what he already has.

  Does he have any family? How did he become an artist? Why has he hidden away from the world for so long? And what the heck does he do with all those secrets from the wall?

  Maybe I’ll have answers one day. But for now, I’m content to leave things as they are between us, intimate and private. I’ve never known a man like him before, one who can turn me inside out, twist me open, take me apart, and then put me back together. One who sees such magnificence in me.

  I spend the night with him, which is both weird and pleasant. I’m not accustomed to spending the night with a lover. Though I had with David, those hours are now ugly, stained memories that can no longer be classified as “nights with a lover.”

  But this? Flynn sleeps deeply, his powerful chest rising and falling with his breath, his body deliciously strong beside mine. Even in sleep, he’s possessive—his leg lies heavily over my thighs, and his arm cradles me close to his chest. Whenever I shift a little to change position, he tightens his grip like he doesn’t want me to escape. I silently assure him he doesn’t have to worry because I don’t want to leave.

  When the gray morning light of the seaside wakes us, he slides his hand over my back and kisses my shoulder.

  “I need to do the rounds,” he says.

  I roll over to peer at him, my heart softening at the sight of his warm gray eyes and stubbly jaw. “What kind of rounds?”

  “Twice a day I drive through the public trails, see if any maintenance needs to be done, check things out. Come with me. I want to show you something.”

  I glance at the clock, startled to discover it’s almost nine. “I should get home and feed my dog.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “You have a dog?”

  “He’s a stray but I think I’ve adopted him. Or he’s adopted me.” I push back the covers. “And I don’t have any extra clothes either.”

  “We’ll stop at your house before we go.”

  We dress and head outside. The sun is rising on the horizon, a pale circle of light burning through the gray sky and throwing shimmers on the ocean.

  We drive in Flynn’s pick-up to Sparrow Lane. Ghost is waiting on the front porch, his ears and tail rising to alert when he sees the unfamiliar truck. He barks.

  “It’s okay, boy.” I jump out of the truck and start toward him as Flynn descends from the driver’s side.

  Ghost takes a few tentative steps off the porch, then directs his attention to Flynn and bares his teeth. Flynn stops, his hands going up. I settle my hand on the dog’s head. He sits on his haunches, lowering his bark in volume.

  “Come inside,” I tell Flynn.

  He climbs the steps, rattling the old wooden boards. Ghost growls. Flynn stops to look at the dog, eyes narrow. For an instant, they stare each other down. Then Ghost retreats, still growling low in his throat.

  I murmur a few soothing words to the dog before feeding him. To assure him this is still his territory, I leave the front door open. Flynn steps into the foyer. He pauses and extends a hand to me.

  “Careful.” He prods the floorboards with his boot. “You have a loose board here.”

  “It’s on my list of things to repair.” I follow him into the foyer, stepping around the board. “Which is at least two miles long. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

  As we walk through the upstairs rooms, I wonder what Max would think if he knew Flynn and I are “together.” Would he be pleased? Some deep part of me whispers, “Yes.”

  “This is a great place.” Flynn looks at the view of the woods from the bedroom window. “How much work have you done so far?”

  “Not much, unfortunately, but at least it’s habitable.”

  Now that I have an income stream to take care of more house repairs, I’ve started to notice the architectural beauty of Ramshackle Manor. Scarred wood paneling lines the staircase and lower part of the walls, and a lovely carved mantel surrounds the stone fireplace. Delicately engraved crown molding borders the ceilings and the pilasters on either side of the doors.

  If the house were ever restored to its former glory, it would be beautiful.

  I lead Flynn back downstairs, deflecting a pang of regret. Even if I wanted to consider renovating Uncle Max’s house, I have neither the time nor the resources. I can afford to do smaller repairs, but certainly not any major renovation work. And as generous as Flynn’s pay is, the job won’t last forever. It’ll end either when I finish the work or when I find another job and leave Castille.

  But I don’t want to think about that right now.

  Ghost is in the foyer, his ears up and alert, his suspicious gaze on Flynn.

  “If Max didn’t intend to come back to Castille, why didn’t he sell the house?” Flynn studies the books on the living room shelves.

  I run my hand soothingly over Ghost’s head. “Maybe he thought he would come back one day.”

  “For Allegra?”

  Surprised, I glance at him. “I was wondering if Max had talked to you about her.”

  “He told me she’d always be the one who got away.”

  “That’s what he told me.” A bittersweet feeling swirls through me. “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “No.”

  “They met during his second year as a literature professor at Ford’s.” Averting a stab of sorrow, I scratch Ghost behind the ears. “She was his student. He was about ten years older than her, but they had a romance and fell in love. Then Max received a grant to teach in Germany for a year. Allegra didn’t want him to go, but he knew it might be his only chance, so he left.”

  Ghost licks my hand and trots into the kitchen. I cross the living room to where Flynn is standing.

  “When Max returned from Germany,” I continue, “he found out that Allegra was engaged to William King, the man her father had always wanted for her. Max tried to get her back, but it was too late. She married William. Max returned to his position at Ford’s, and they both lived in Castille for over twenty-five years until he moved to San Francisco.”

  I look out the window at the weed-covered backyard. “Honestly, I don’t know why he chose to stay in Castille after all that. It must have been torture to see Allegra and William everywhere, the golden couple. The woman he loved who married another man.”

  “That’s probably why he stayed.” Flynn wraps his arms around me from behind, hugging me against his broad chest. “Penance.”

 
; “Maybe.” I shrug and turn to face him. “Or they were having an affair, though I hate thinking Uncle Max would have been capable of that. But people are capable of all kinds of things, I’ve learned.”

  A shadow passes across his face, like a crow darting in front of the sun. He tugs a lock of my hair. “You want to change, and we’ll head out?”

  Taking my cue from what he’s wearing, I dress in jeans and a cable-knit sweater, grabbing my parka before following him to the pick-up. He drives through the trails cutting through the woodlands, making note of a rotted tree that needs to be cleared. As he turns onto the road where I’d had the scary close-call with the truck, a shudder rattles through me.

  Should I tell him about that? Why? What could he do about it anyway?

  Nothing. The answer settles like a block of ice in my gut.

  Making an effort to push the incident from my mind, I focus on the trees standing like rows of stalwart soldiers, the thickets of undergrowth where gnomes and fairies live.

  After finishing the rounds, Flynn drives toward the coastline. He parks off the side of the road beside a plateau of rocks jetting into the ocean.

  We get out of the truck and walk down a slight incline. A cold wind lashes through my hair and plasters my coat against my body. The ocean batters the coastline, waves splashing and spraying a freezing mist.

  “Careful.” He extends a hand, and I take it.

  His strong fingers closing around mine spread warmth through my veins. I have the sudden sense he won’t let go, not unless he has to, not unless I pull away first. Like he’s anchoring me.

  “You know, when you said you wanted to show me something…” I pick my way carefully across the rocks behind him, “…I was thinking more along the lines of a nice warm café or museum.”

  “This is a kind of museum. It’s also one of my favorite spots. The intertidal zone.”

  He spreads his arm out to indicate the jutting rocks, the surface pocketed by thousands of tide pools. A distance away, the lighthouse perches on the cliff, hazy in the fog.

  “Why is this your favorite spot?”

  “It’s a really intense habitat, even though you wouldn’t necessarily know that by looking at it.” He crouches beside a tide pool. “But then you see how many species live out here, and you realize that for them, it’s a daily struggle to survive.”

  I pause beside him and peer into the water, which teems with fish, sea stars, anemones, algae, snails and dozens of other creatures. Flynn reaches into the water and plucks out a tiny crab, extending it so I can see the little claws waving around.

  “These creatures are flooded twice a day, then left out in the sometimes blazing sun.” He sets the crab gently back into the pool. “Some of them have adapted to cling to the rocks so they won’t be swept away by the waves, and others need the ability to seek shelter. There are constant predators, temperature extremes, lack of food. It’s all about survival. And at the same time, it’s beautiful. Each tide pool is like a living painting or a collage.”

  “A living painting.” I gaze at the morass of plants and algae floating and dancing in the freezing water. “I’ve never thought of them like that, but you’re right. So many different textures and colors.”

  “They’re entire ecosystems all by themselves.” He points to a huge crab with a mottled shell. “That’s a rock crab. You can see the barnacles clinging to its shell.”

  “Do you come out here often?”

  “Yeah, a few times a week.” He squints out at the ocean where the whitecaps are picking up speed. “This section of the coast is reasonably well-protected from the waves, so there’s a lot revealed during low tide. I was out here a couple times a day when I was working on the third Mirror Mirror book.”

  “Sea Storm.” Realization hits me, and I see an elaborate maze winding through the tentacles of a sea anemone, the shells of dog whelks and periwinkles, the intricacies of a starfish. “Of course. Some of the mazes were underwater sea adventures. Did you actually come out here and do the sketches?”

  He nods. “I do preliminary pencil drawings from nature, then incorporate them into my own illustrations.”

  “That’s why you’re known for such realistic detail.” I shake my head with awe. “Do you do it all with colored pencils?”

  “Pencils and ink. Sometimes watercolors.”

  “You’re amazing. I love Sea Storm. I love all your books.”

  He shoots me an abashed smile. “You’re good for my ego.”

  “I’m just telling you the truth.” I crouch at another tide pool. “How do you come up with your ideas?”

  “I don’t know.” He turns a smooth, rust-colored rock over in his palm. “That’s why I’ve had such trouble writing a new series. If I knew how I got my ideas, I’d just do the same thing over again. But I haven’t come up with anything in years… well, until you.”

  “I’m starting to feel like your muse.”

  “You are.” Flynn puts the rock gently back into the water.

  I smile. “Now that is the most poetic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  We make our way around the rocks, Flynn pointing out different fish and sea creatures. He knows the map of the coastal landscape, every step secure and certain, like this is his second home.

  “I still don’t think The Little Mermaid is your favorite fairy tale.” I cross the terrain carefully. “But is it an ocean tale, like The Sea Maiden or The Great Sea Serpent?”

  “No.”

  “What about the trickster tales Uncle Max liked?”

  A smile edges his mouth. “You think I have the essence of a trickster?”

  “Riddles and puzzles are your thing, right? Or Riley Flynn’s, at least.”

  The sea wind ebbs and flows past us. I feel his gaze on my face, and a sudden chill washes through me. I turn my attention back to the tide pools.

  “So did you grow up on the coast?” I ask.

  “Minnesota, not far from the Twin Cities.” He bends and studies a sea snail. “Max told me you grew up near San Francisco.”

  “A town called Richmond. My mother worked at a hospital there before she became a professor at Stanford, and we moved to Palo Alto.”

  “She’s a neurosurgeon, right?”

  “One of the best.” I crouch beside a tide pool and gently poke an anemone to watch its tentacles flutter closed. “She wasn’t around a lot when I was growing up, and my father died when I was four. I was so lucky to have Max. He visited us at least three or four times a year, and I was thrilled when he was finally able to move to San Francisco. I honestly can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there for me. I’d have been a very different person if it hadn’t been for him.”

  “Me too.”

  A wave crashes against the rocks, spraying us with cold mist.

  “Tide’s coming in.” He reaches for my hand.

  We walk back to the shore. He doesn’t let go of my hand until we reach the truck. We’re both quiet on the way back to the house, but like our teatimes, it’s a comfortable, easy silence that makes me feel as if I’ve found something peaceful in the noise of the world. The eye of the hurricane, a pearl in an oyster, cream swirling through coffee.

  A faint warning flashes in the back of my mind—don’t let yourself fall too hard, Eve—but for the first time in a long time, I’m not scared. Not of Flynn, not of my growing feelings for him, not even of what could happen with us. After shipwrecking and splintering on the rocks, I’m finding solid ground again.

  Flynn guides his truck back along the two-lane road heading toward town, then turns onto Sparrow Lane. There’s a black BMW parked in the drive. My stomach tenses. The car belongs to Jeremy King.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Flynn pulls to a stop beside the car and parks. Jeremy is on the front porch, holding the screen door open. He turns to face us and lets the door close. Even from a distance, I can see the tense set of his shoulders.

  “What’s he doing here?” Flynn’s eyes narrow, like he’s loo
king through a target sight.

  “I don’t know. Let me talk to him.” I grab my bag and climb out of the truck.

  “Jeremy.” I approach the front porch.

  Behind me, Flynn’s booted feet land heavily on the leaf-strewn dirt road. The driver’s side door slams shut.

  “Hello, Eve.” Jeremy descends the steps, his attention darting suspiciously to Flynn before returning to me. “I texted you but didn’t get a response, so I drove out here. You mentioned you were doing repairs on the house, so I thought I could help.” He gestures to a shiny toolbox on the porch. “I brought some supplies.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I thought I made things clear the other day.”

  His responding smile is tight. “You also said you were good with being friends, so I figured you’d be okay with me helping you out. But it looks like you got yourself another friend, huh?”

  “Watch it, man.” Flynn steps in front of me, his broad shoulders blocking me from Jeremy’s view. Tension leashes his muscles. “Stay away from her.”

  Jeremy’s eyes darken. “You don’t get to decide that.”

  “She’s with me.”

  He gives a short laugh. “One in a line of many, right?”

  Flynn starts forward, his hands fisting.

  “Wait a second.” I grab his sleeve and yank him to a halt. “Stop it. Both of you. Jeremy, I appreciate your help, but I meant what I said.”

  A low, rough bark echoes through the air. Ghost bounds around the side of the house. Flynn turns, darting between me and the advancing dog.

  “What the…” Jeremy steps back.

  “Ghost!” I run toward the dog and hold up my hands. “It’s okay, boy. Stop.”

  He skids to a halt, panting, eyes like slits. I put my hand on his head.

  “So you have a guard dog.” Jeremy straightens his shoulders. “Good. You’ll need one if you’re hooking up with him.”

  He jerks his thumb toward Flynn. Ghost growls.

  “This is none of your business, Jeremy.” I tighten my fingers in the dog’s fur. His muscles vibrate with wariness.