by Kay Hooper
“Afraid you’ll have to count me out, Amber. I have to drive into Portland this afternoon.”
“Oh.” Amber summoned a smile and clearly hoped it was devastating. “Some other time, then.”
“Sure.”
The blonde offered Holly another of those half-defiant looks, then left them and walked across the veranda toward the building.
“Do you suppose she learned to walk that way by watching old Mae West movies?” Cain mused.
“I think she just lets her hormones rule,” Holly said. “That and wearing heels three inches too high. You shouldn’t encourage her, Cain. Hearts break very easily at eighteen.”
“Encourage her? I was sitting here minding my own business and waiting for you to come back when she came over and practically dropped into my lap. What was I supposed to do? Offend one of your paying guests by being rude to his daughter?” He reached up a hand to touch Holly, but she shifted away with a faint shrug of impatience, and Cain’s eyes narrowed. “Obviously, you think I should have chased her away.”
Instead of claiming Amber’s former seat at the foot of Cain’s chaise, Holly sat down on another one near his. “I think you charm without a second thought,” she said.
“Holly, she’s a kid, just a kid. And twenty years younger than me.”
“All the more reason for you to be careful.” Holly looked down at her clipboard, frowning.
Cain laced long fingers together over his flat middle and looked at her for a moment. He wore an expression of acute detachment, with only his brilliant green eyes alive in the stillness of his face. “Okay. Noted, for future reference. Now, hadn’t we planned a walk along the cliffs before that phone call interrupted us?”
“I can’t.”
“Let me guess. The call was from the master?”
Holly looked at him, still frowning. “It was Scott. Why do you have to be so mocking whenever you mention him?”
“Because I don’t like him,” Cain told her pleasantly. “And I don’t like the way you drop everything and run to him whenever he whistles.”
“That isn’t fair. He’s my employer. And he’s having a tough time right now,” Holly said. “Since Caroline was killed—”
“Since Caroline was killed, the entire town’s been heaping sympathy and understanding on poor Scott’s grieving head,” Cain said, definitely mocking now. “And the son of a bitch is milking it for all he’s worth.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Isn’t it? And a genuine pity it’s true.”
Holly surged to her feet, hugging the clipboard as though it were a shield. “Look, I just came back out here to tell you I have to meet Scott at City Hall and go over some things about the new wing for the clinic. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. If you’re still here then—”
“I won’t be. Like I told baby Amber, I have to drive into Portland.” Cain didn’t move as he looked up at her. He sat relaxed, watchful—and Holly had no idea what he was thinking.
She never did. It was enough to drive a woman crazy.
She nodded. “All right, then. Lunch was … fun.”
“Yeah. Of course, it would have been more fun if we’d ended up in my bed for dessert. But you don’t seem to have the time—or the taste—for sweets these days, do you, Holly?”
“You’re busy too,” she said defensively. “How many times have you had to go to L.A. or New York in the last weeks? Stop making it sound like it’s all my fault we hardly see each other.” She heard herself sounding like a neglected woman and made a fierce effort to keep that note out of her voice. “Look, we both have careers, and—”
“We were both busy a few months ago and still managed to find the time,” he said, his voice hardening. “Before poor Scott began to depend on you for everything.”
“You’re not being fair,” she said, knowing she was repeating herself.
“No, probably not. But then, I’m a selfish bastard myself. You’ve told me so often enough.” He shrugged, dismissing the conflict as though he really didn’t care whether it was resolved. “You run along and help Scott with his current problem. I should probably conserve my strength anyway. It’s a long drive to Portland.”
Holly turned away and took two steps before stopping. Damn, damn, damn. Hating herself, she turned back. “Are you staying long in Portland? I mean—will I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll probably be back late tonight,” he said.
She waited for an instant, until it became obvious that was all he was going to say. Then, reaching for dignity, she nodded. “Have a good trip. Drive carefully.”
Those brilliant green eyes softened just a little, and he nodded. “We’ll none of us ever be quite so nonchalant about driving as we were three months ago, I suppose. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
It was harder, this time, to turn away from him, but she did it and left the veranda briskly. She felt his eyes on her until she was inside, but she didn’t look back or even pause. She had a job to do, after all, she reminded herself. She worked for Scott McKenna, who owned The Inn as well as various other properties and businesses in Cliffside, and if he needed her help in planning the new wing for the town’s clinic, well, then she’d help him.
She could feel the rift between her and Cain widening.
Holly was halfway across the quiet lobby when the front doors opened. She heard one of the bellmen outside saying something about bags and parking a car, and then a blond woman came in. Holly stopped dead in her tracks, vaguely aware that her mouth had dropped open, that she was staring incredulously, but she was so surprised she couldn’t seem to do anything about it.
The blonde came several steps into the lobby, saw Holly, and stopped a bit uncertainly. She was about Holly’s own height, an average five-six, with lovely honey-gold hair pulled back off her face in a simple style, and her casual slacks and sweater showed off a slender, almost delicate figure. Her face was more heart shaped than oval, her unusual tawny eyes large and dark-fringed, and she had a sensitive, vulnerable mouth.
Before Holly could gather her wits, the woman gave an uneasy little laugh and asked a question in a soft voice with a strong Southern accent.
“Was it something I said?”
Holly blinked. How strange to hear such an alien voice come out of a mouth that was all too familiar, she thought.
“Oh—no. God, I’m sorry. It’s just that you look an awful lot like someone I used to know.”
“Used to?”
“She died a few months ago.”
“Now I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. We weren’t … close.” Holly smiled and stepped forward, holding out her hand. “I’m Holly Drummond, manager of The Inn. Please call me Holly.”
The blonde shook hands, her grip firm. “Nice to meet you, Holly. I’m Joanna. Joanna Flynn.”
“Well, Joanna, welcome. If there’s any way I can help make your stay with us more enjoyable, I hope you’ll let me know.” The words were conventional and professional, but Holly always meant them, and that sincerity came through.
“I will, thanks.” Joanna Flynn smiled. “What I mostly want now is to settle in, unpack, and get the kinks out of my legs from the drive. Maybe I’ll see you around later?”
“I’m usually around,” Holly told her with a laugh. She watched Joanna head for the front desk, and after an instant continued on her own way. It was a fairly short walk, just a couple of blocks to City Hall, and Holly needed both the exercise and the air—to clear her head. And to figure out how to warn Scott. Hell, how to warn the town.
Hey, guess what? There’s a new guest at The Inn, and if you colored her hair dark and put in blue contact lenses, she’d be Caroline! How about that …
“Dammit,” Holly barely heard herself whisper, “what’ll he think when he sees you, Joanna Flynn? What’ll he feel … ?”
The fourth-floor suite was lovely; it was composed of a sitting room, a bedroom, and a bath, and it was spacious and comfort
able. Despite its quaint name, The Inn was a full-service hotel complete with twenty-four-hour room service and cable television, according to the friendly bellman, and if there was anything she required to make her more comfortable, anything at all, she had only to ask.
As soon as he left, Joanna began settling in. She unpacked and put away all her things, turning on the television to CNN for background noise while she briskly worked. When that was done, she went to the French doors in her bedroom that opened out onto a little balcony, and stepped out to contemplate her ocean view.
Down on the right was the tile roof that partially shaded the veranda; down and straight ahead were a couple of acres of green lawn, then the rocky cliff tops and, beyond them, the ocean. There was a beach at the base of the cliffs except at high tide, the bellman had told her, but it was narrow, the path down to it somewhat difficult, and few guests ventured down there more than once.
Joanna turned her head to the left, her gaze following the cliff tops south. She froze, hardly breathing, and for a long moment just stood there staring. Then she eased back into her room as if careful movement was required to keep something dreadful from happening. She went into the sitting room and sat down at the little desk where she had placed the notebook.
She had never kept a journal before, but it had occurred to her that it might be a good idea here. To organize her thoughts. To keep things clear. Drawing a breath, she opened the notebook carefully and smoothed the page. She used the pen thoughtfully provided by The Inn and dated the top of the page. She didn’t really think about what she wanted to say, she just began writing.
Today I arrived in Cliffside. Here at The Inn my bedroom has a little balcony overlooking the ocean. And from that balcony, just exactly as it was in my dreams, I can see the house.
Even from a distance, it was an impressive house.
Joanna sat on a smooth-topped boulder atop the cliffs about halfway between The Inn and the house from her dreams, and stared at it. It was still nearly a mile away by her judgment, and from this angle the trees between it and Cliffside’s main road hid part of the beautiful landscaping she had seen from her bedroom balcony, but it was still beautiful.
Vaguely Victorian in style just as The Inn was, it had a roof with many peaks, countless windows sparkling in the sunlight, and a wide, ocean-side porch with, no doubt, a spectacular view. From where Joanna sat, the house should have looked bleak; it seemed almost to perch on a rocky promontory, standing in lonely isolation, with frothy ocean waves crashing against the base of the cliffs far below. Yet it didn’t look bleak so much as … dignified.
Still, Joanna’s feelings about the house were distorted, shaped by the dream that had tormented her for so many weeks. It seemed to her dark and menacing. It made her wary, almost afraid.
Joanna drew her knees up and wrapped her arms loosely around them, listening to the thunder of high tide battering the cliffs and feeling the cool ocean breeze. The sun was setting over the ocean, making the windows of the distant house glow reddish, and Joanna felt a faint chill that had nothing to do with the falling temperature.
Caroline’s house. She didn’t know how she knew she was looking at the house where Caroline had lived, but she was positive of that fact. And there, presumably, lived Caroline’s husband and daughter.
In the three months since her death, they had no doubt begun to cope with her loss, but Joanna knew her own appearance was bound to cause some … distress. Even the bellman and desk clerk at The Inn had been startled by her, and as for Holly Drummond, the attractive brunette had looked as though her knees had nearly buckled in shock.
Joanna hadn’t thought very much about her impulsive decision to come here during all the busy days of preparation, but as she sat there on the rock gazing at Caroline’s house, she felt more than a little panic. What did she hope to gain by coming here? Would her being here exorcise the ghost of Caroline McKenna from her dreams—if it was the dead woman’s ghost?
She had the uneasy idea that by coming to Cliffside so impetuously, she had started something that had immediately grown beyond her control, and for an instant she was sorely tempted to go back to The Inn, get her things, and catch the first plane heading to Atlanta, where she belonged. But before she could give in to the spurt of panic, a voice recalled her attention.
“Excuse me, but you shouldn’t—”
Joanna turned her head quickly, hardly surprised by this time when the man who had approached without giving his presence away broke off abruptly, a look of shock on his face. He was a tall man, broad shouldered and athletic in build. He had very dark hair and very dark eyes, and though his lean face was too rugged for conventional handsomeness, there was something unusually compelling about him.
Beyond him, at the edge of the woods, Joanna saw a Blazer parked on a narrow dirt trail she hadn’t even noticed until then, and though the lettering on the vehicle’s side wasn’t entirely clear at this distance, the large logo was.
“You’re a policeman?” she asked, surprised by the lack of a uniform. He was, in fact, very casual in jeans and a light nylon windbreaker open over a dark T-shirt.
He nodded slowly and took a couple more steps toward her so that they were no more than a few feet apart. The shock had faded from his expression, but he was frowning slightly. “Sheriff. Griffin Cavanaugh.” His voice was deep and just a bit harsh, though whether that was usual or he was emotionally disturbed by her appearance was something Joanna had no way of knowing.
“I see. Am I doing something wrong, Sheriff?”
He didn’t answer immediately, those dark eyes fixed on her face so intensely she could almost feel the touch of them. But then he said almost mechanically, “You shouldn’t sit so close to the edge. It isn’t really safe. We had somebody fall right about here no more than four or five months ago.”
Since heights never bothered her, Joanna hadn’t hesitated to sit so close to the edge of the cliff that if she swung her right leg, it would have dangled out into thin air. But his words caused her to glance down at the jagged, surf-pounded rocks far below, and she shivered a little. Without wasting another moment, she scrambled off the rock and stood before him.
“The person who fell,” she said, “did he or she … die?”
Sheriff Griffin Cavanaugh nodded. “We lose one every five years or so,” he said, his voice still a bit remote. “Tourists without the sense to stay back.”
Joanna felt defensive on behalf of all tourists. “There’s no sign. If it’s so dangerous, why isn’t this area posted, Sheriff?”
His dark eyes narrowed slightly, and this time there was nothing detached in his tone when he said, “Because every time I post it, either the wind or a vandal does away with the sign. You’re from The Inn, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I’m staying there.”
“Then you should have read the warnings posted on the inside of your door. The cliffs behind the hotel have guardrails, and all guests are advised not to wander from that property. You’re on private land now.”
Joanna glanced toward the distant house involuntarily.
“Yes, his land,” the sheriff said, following her glance with one of his own. “It isn’t posted, but trespassing is strongly discouraged. This area can be treacherous, Miss—?”
“Flynn. Joanna Flynn.”
He nodded. “Miss Flynn. We would all prefer it if you confined your walks around the cliffs to hotel grounds. For your own safety.”
“I understand.” She had no intention of saying more, but when the sheriff started to turn away, she heard herself say, “Sheriff? I’ve encountered quite a few surprised reactions today, including yours.”
“You resemble someone who used to live around here,” he said readily enough.
“So I’ve been told. Holly Drummond said that the woman I look like … died.”
“Yes. Three months ago.” Whatever he may have felt about that fact, Griffin Cavanaugh kept it to himself; his expression was calm, his voice without emotion.
“Why do you want to know?” he demanded bluntly.
“It seems I look enough like her to be her sister.” Joanna managed a shrug. “I’m curious.”
“Her name was Caroline McKenna. She was killed in a car accident. The highway was slippery; she was driving too fast and lost control of her car. Anything else you want to know?”
Joanna didn’t let his rather harsh tone dissuade her. “Do I really look so much like her?”
He looked her up and down quite deliberately and thoroughly, then said, “Dye your hair black and change the color of your eyes and her own mother wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.”
She didn’t know if it was pain or anger she heard in his voice, but whichever it was warned her that she had gone far enough. “I see. Thank you, Sheriff—for the warning and for the information.”
“Don’t mention it.” He looked beyond her, where the sun was sinking rapidly. “It’ll be dark soon. It happens suddenly this time of year. You should head back to the hotel.”
Joanna knew a dismissal when she heard one, and she decided to obey. She was here for at least two weeks, after all; there was plenty of time to explore. But before she could do more than begin to turn toward the hotel, he stopped her with a question of his own.
“Why are you here, Miss Flynn?”
“Vacation.”
“In October?”
“I like fall vacations.”
He frowned at her. “You’re Southern.”
“Don’t you like Southerners?” she managed lightly.
The sheriff ignored that. “Georgia, I’d say.”
Without meaning to, Joanna answered the implied question. “Yes, Georgia. Atlanta, as a matter of fact. But we haven’t tried to secede from the Union recently, so I don’t see that you should have a problem with my being here.”
