The Love Shack

Chapter TWENTY


A FEW DAYS AGO, THE MERE act of looking at Gage had begun to cause Skye pain, each glance setting off an ache that pulsed beneath her breastbone, not unlike a second heart. But this beat didn’t cause blood to travel through her veins, instead offering only a cold taste of the loneliness to come. So she kept her head down now, and turned over one of the photos on the desk, rechecking the dates written in an old-fashioned hand, probably Edith’s. Maybe Max’s.

Gage’s footsteps were nearly silent on the hardwood floor, but she sensed him coming closer, walking warily as if she were a cornered animal.

He should know; he’d put her in that corner.

Being around his family while privy to things they were unaware of made her miserable. Of course, just knowing what she knew made her miserable.

Still, though it was nice to take a breather away from the rehearsal dinner, she’d planned to go back.

Because despite her growing low mood, she’d given up on distance. Instead, she continued to hold Gage’s hand when she could, kiss his mouth when possible, share his bed every night. With the sand running out of their hourglass, what other choice was there? She could deny herself his company sooner, of course, but what was the point of that, when either way the days without him stretched endlessly ahead, like the vast Pacific on its infinite journey toward the horizon?

“What did you find?” he asked, coming around the desk to look over her shoulder.

“I’m not sure.”

The fingers of one big hand stroked through her hair while the other flipped the photo back to its image side. “Edith and Max?”

She nodded.

“On the deck of Beach House No. 9,” he said.

Nodding again, she studied the pictured pair. Max, debonair in white slacks and shirt, his dark hair slicked back. Edith, in a lightweight flowered dress, was half turned to gaze into her husband’s face, her hand resting over his heart. Her devotion to him was palpable.

“I think they lived there for a while, probably to get away from the sounds of hammers and saws.” Skye tapped on the set of plans, the paper yellowed and brittle. “About the time they got out of the movie business, they added a couple of rooms to their home. My home. The one where we’ve never found the Collar.”

His hand stilled, midstroke. “What are you saying?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, then quickly looked away. So handsome. So dear to me. “If I match the date on the renovation plans to the date on the back of this photo to the date on the letter Edith wrote to Max...”

His fingers tangled in her hair, tugged. “Are you saying she may have hidden the Collar at No. 9?”

“Maybe. It seems a possibility, though whether it might still be there...” She shrugged.

He turned her then, stepping close so that she could count each of his sharp black lashes and the silver striations in his turquoise eyes. The back of his knuckles caressed her cheek. “Be honest about something else, will you?”

“What?” she whispered, his tender touch tightening her throat. His body, tall, strong and aligned with hers, made her feel small and safe at the same time. A harbor. His warmth enveloped her, his exotic scent stirring up everything female inside her. She wanted to press herself to his bare skin, rub her face along his tanned throat, nip a path down his chest. Trembling in sudden need, she dropped her forehead to his shoulder, the single point of contact enough to almost settle her jittering pulse.

“Do you want to go home now? Skip the rest of the party? I can make your excuses.”

She glanced up, surprised he was offering her an out after insisting she attend. “What makes you ask that?”

“I’ll feel like a shit if the transitory nature of...of this thing between us is making you unhappy.”

His intent gaze turned her heart over. “I thought you said we had forever if we framed it right.”

A wry smile played at one corner of his mouth. “You know I would have said anything right then. I was dying to get into your pants.”

The admission startled a laugh from her. “You’re horrible!”

“I am.” He nodded.

What was he saying? “Are you...would you rather we stop things here?”

“Hell, no! You know how selfish I am. If I have my way, I’ll be breathing you in until the very last second. But, baby...” His fingers gently combed through her hair and then he kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth. “Talk to me. Tell me the truth.”

Three words gathered on the tip of her tongue. They’d be so easy to release. They wanted out, like wild birds caged in an aviary. Terrified she’d say them, she swallowed hard. “The truth is...” They welled up again, clogging her throat like tears. She swallowed them back once more, then spoke in a rush. “The truth is, everything’s okay and we should get back to the party.”

She didn’t breathe easy until he nodded, took her arm and led her in the direction of Captain Crow’s. She’d thought she wanted to take a break from the family event, but now she figured being around his relatives was the best way to keep her from a dangerous confession.

* * *

THE INSTANT GAGE SHEPHERDED Skye back to the long table at the restaurant, Tess insisted on a full report. While a train of servers began delivering steaming plates of steak and seafood, Skye reported on what she’d found. Gage’s sister was all for turning the meal into takeout and heading down the beach for a full frontal assault on No. 9’s mysteries, but it was their mother who put her foot down.

“We’re having a nice, leisurely meal tonight, then a lovely sunset wedding tomorrow. A search will come after both of those occur—if that’s what Skye chooses to do.”

Tess acquiesced to their mother’s wishes with better grace than Gage expected. “All right,” she said, with only the slightest of grumbles. “But, Skye, if—when—you do decide to rummage around No. 9, can I help?”

Skye smiled at her wheedling tone. “Um—”

“I’ll blend a batch of my special mojitos and we’ll make a girls’ night of it.”

“Well, if mojitos are involved...” Skye said. “Of course.”

Gage frowned down at her as people around them picked up their knives and forks. “Have you ever had her special mojitos?”

“No.”

“She has a very liberal hand with the rum.” At her inquiring look, he further elaborated. “They’ll knock you on your ass. After one of Tess’s mojito parties, there have been verified reports of inhibition shortfalls, not to mention memory loss—which is why she never serves her special concoction in mixed company.”

“Inhibition shortfalls? Memory loss?” Skye gave him a guileless smile. “Sounds good to me.”

Frown deepening, Gage picked up his own utensils and contemplated his dinner. He’d ordered steak, just like his first meal at the cove. A fat, foil-jacketed baked potato sat beside it, topped with a cloud of sour cream and a scattering of chives. Steamed to their brightest summer colors, baby carrots, string beans and yellow squash were drizzled with a sauce that gave off a faint lemon fragrance.

Given that the number of stateside meals he had left was dwindling, he should have fallen on the meal like a hungry wolf.

Weirdly, though, he’d lost his appetite.

His knife cut into his meat and he put a piece in his mouth, but didn’t taste it as he chewed. His mind was on the future: girls’ nights and mojito parties. The idea of Tess keeping Skye company should please him, but the siren’s pleasure at the idea of memory loss curdled the food going into his belly.

She wanted to forget about him.

As for the inhibition shortfalls? He figured she might have some concerns about her physical response to the next man who interested her. And there would be one, he knew that. Because when Gage left the cove, unless she wanted to be alone for the rest of her life, she’d be looking for new male companionship.

He didn’t like thinking about her and new male companionship.

Pushing his food around his plate, he sent Skye a sidelong glance. She didn’t look any more enamored with her red snapper than he was with his sirloin. As if she sensed his regard, she glanced up, looking at him through those big, deep-in-the-cove-green eyes of hers.

Pain pierced his chest. For a second he thought, heart attack, but it was beating just fine, he was breathing just fine. Something inside him was clenching like a fist, though, pounding on his ribs, shouting for his attention.

How can you leave her? What if something happens to her again? How can you go without knowing she’ll be safe?

It was the f*cking dream, he thought, that was messing with his head. It had always bugged him that in it he couldn’t reach her; that although he struggled forward, the tide always tossed him back to shore. But now...now he saw the other side of it. In the dream, Skye was at the whim of the water, too. And it controlled her, sweeping her up in its force, causing her to drift farther and farther away, out of the cove.

To the dangerous waters of the open sea. All alone.

As if she could read his mind, Skye shivered, then rubbed at her bare arms with her palms.

He had to clear his throat to speak. “Are you all right?”

“I’m cold.” She glanced at her nearly untouched meal. “I think I’ll dash out and get a sweater from my place.”

“Let me do it,” he offered. He needed air, space, a fresh breeze to blow that damn dream from his mind and this nauseating anxiety from his belly.

“You’re sure?”

He was already holding out his hand for her keys. Then he slipped away from the table, his fingertips skimming her shoulder but not touching as he passed. The walk did him good. His breath came easier. When he reached her house, the scent of her on the sweater he grabbed from a hook by the door didn’t send him into that cardiac-arrest level agony again.

Still, he lingered on the beach in front of her place for a few minutes, stalling his return to Captain Crow’s. Christ, he thought, rubbing his palm over his chest, which still held a residual ache. He really didn’t want a replay of that pain.

What he needed was some detachment. Why the hell was he finding that so hard? His line of work required it, but now when he could use a little cushion of emotional separation, it eluded him.

F*cking nautical knots. All of them were at work it seemed, the Bowline on a Bight, the Icicle Hitch, the Rat-Tail Stopper, each woven into one elaborate tangle of Big Trouble. He rubbed his chest again, then held out his hand, staring at the empty palm.

That was it! There was the source of his problem. He’d been walking around for weeks, his hands empty of his cameras. Since making those images of Skye, he’d left the devices untouched, packed away in their cases. What had he been thinking? Hadn’t he told Rex how important they were?

“It’s like armor...it’s a layer between me and what I see.”

No. 9 was only another mile down the beach. Gage jogged the distance, anxious to have the solid heft of a camera’s body between his fingers. Then he could adjust the focal length between himself and the world around him. No matter how close the subject, he could change the focus to make it appear farther away.

As he approached the house from the beachside, he slowed. Puzzled, he noted the elf-sized door that led to the crawl space beneath the raised deck was open. And stranger yet, the automatic landscape lights that usually lit the perimeter of the house hadn’t come on, though it was full dark.

The caterers? The wedding planner? That must be it. Someone had arrived with equipment necessary for the next day’s event. Strolling closer, he placed his hand on the elf door. “Hello?” he called out, bending to peer inside.

A blow to the back of his head staggered him. He lurched around, still gripping the door to stay upright. Two figures wavered in his line of sight. One in a ski mask, another in a baseball cap and bandanna.

Gage blinked, nothing making sense. He put a hand to his throbbing head and saw Bandanna lift a heavy flashlight. Its light blinded Gage and before he could think or move, its metal body slammed against his temple. His legs crumpled and he fell to his knees on the sand.

A voice sounded from far, far away. “Put him under there.”

Under? No, hell, no. Gage worked to marshal his thoughts and control his body. He felt hands on him and he pushed them away and kicked out with his legs. He wasn’t going under anywhere. No more under!

But his limbs refused to cooperate. Inside his head he was screaming around the fracturing pain, yet he still found himself being rolled and pushed toward that dark space beneath the deck. Eyes half-open, he heard the men grunt and curse as they struggled to maneuver his deadweight and he was grimly happy it was hard on them. One of the bastards, the one in the ski mask, was breathing harder than the other, and with an oath, he stripped off the disguise.

As they shoved Gage into the black hole in front of him, rolling him once again, he tried holding on to the image of the man’s face. He knew him, he thought, consciousness dimming. It was the guy from behind the bar at Captain Crow’s, the one who’d been filling the wineglasses...

He tried swimming up from the depths of unconsciousness. He despised the smothering dark, the cloying taste of it in his mouth and the weight of it against his chest. This time it would smother him, and the thought was so wearying that he let the blackness descend, welcoming—

No!

He had to rally. Two men. One in a ski mask, one in a ball cap and bandanna. Where had he heard...

Skye’s attackers. The men who’d invaded her home.

Needed to tell her. Protect her. Stop them from ever having the chance to hurt her again.

Gage realized he was facedown on the sand. As he tried crawling forward, he got some in his mouth and he choked on it. No matter. Move. Get out of the f*cking dark.

But then it descended again.

* * *

SKYE WAS DETERMINED not to spoil the celebratory mood at the rehearsal dinner, and though she didn’t much feel like eating, she enjoyed the happiness circling the table. Griffin’s smugness over his upcoming marriage was both amusing and endearing. He wore a boyish look-what-I’ve-got expression whenever he glanced Jane’s way. As for his bride-to-be, she glowed. And there was the sassiest glint in her eye when she caught Griffin looking.

“Chili-dog,” she chided him, shaking her head back and forth.

He laughed. “You know what I’m thinking, honey-pie?”

“I know what you’re thinking about.”

He’d only laughed harder as Jane’s face went pink.

It made Skye long for such familiar, assured intimacy. The ache urged her up from the table. She murmured an excuse about a visit to the ladies’ room, but instead she wandered about the restaurant, half listening to the complaints of the regular bartender, Tom, who wanted to know where his backup had disappeared to.

It made her wonder the same about Gage.

Another shiver worked its way across her skin and she rubbed briskly at the gooseflesh on her arms. She’d meet him and get her sweater, she decided, descending the steps to the beach.

Of course it wasn’t any warmer outside, but instead of retreating, she walked briskly forward, or as briskly as she could in her strappy sandals. When one ankle wobbled, she paused to remove her shoes, then resumed her walk, the sand cool and silky beneath her bare feet.

It surprised her not to glimpse Gage’s figure striding in her direction. The beach was deserted, though lamps burned in most cottage windows. Fewer of the spotlights designed to focus on the incoming waves were on, giving a checkerboard effect to the surf line. They created a more varied play of shadows on the sand, too, so Skye supposed she was just having trouble making him out.

But then she reached her house and there was still no sign of him.

Frowning, she checked the front door. Locked.

Feet planted on her porch, she glanced in the direction of Captain Crow’s. Had they somehow missed each other? Not on the sand, but perhaps he’d taken the track behind the beach houses that would bring him to the restaurant’s parking lot and front entrance.

Though taking that longer route didn’t make any sense.

Dropping her sandals, she hopped off her porch and strolled to the middle of the beach outside her house, standing almost at the exact center of the cove. Still no sign of a male figure between where she was and Captain Crow’s. Turning her head, she perused the sand in the direction of the southern bluff. Nobody visible in that direction, either, though there were plenty of shadows and dunes that could camouflage a man.

Who had no reason to be hiding, of course.

Still baffled, she continued staring down the beach. Would he have gone to No. 9 for some reason? It was the logical answer, of course, and she decided to head that way herself, some instinct urging her forward.

She moved quickly again, aware of the goose bumps on her arms and legs. As summer ended, the days remained warm, but that changed once the sun went down. The expected overnight low was a nippy fifty-nine degrees.

As she approached No. 9, she noted the landscape lights weren’t on. That fact didn’t alarm her, because she and Gage’s mother, Dana, had discussed turning them off the next day. The wedding was timed for sunset, and there were going to be candles everywhere, protected from the wind by hurricane glass. The low-glow lights might detract from the mood, and so she’d shown the older woman the location of the switch.

The looming shape of the nearby bluff added to the darkness and explained why she stumbled near the steps to the deck. Muttering a curse, she bent down to pick up the shoe that had nearly taken her down. Uneasiness wiggled up her spine.

It was Gage’s shoe, a distressed leather loafer that he’d been wearing with slacks and an open-collar dress shirt. Narrowing her eyes, she inspected the sand around her, in search of its mate. It wasn’t in plain sight, and a second nervous niggle wormed up her back.

Still holding the shoe, she walked to the bottom of the steps. “Gage?” she called. Her voice came out thready and dry. She swallowed, then put her free hand on the handrail. The wood was cool and stickily damp beneath her palm as was the surface of the treads as she ascended. “Gage?” she called again, reaching the deck.

Her gaze roamed the space. Everything appeared as they’d left it that afternoon. The patio furniture had been removed to the garage and there were stacks of white folding chairs ready to be put in place for the ceremony. Then she noticed that the interior of the house was dark, too. Pitch-dark.

“Oh, damn,” she muttered. The electricity must be out.

Wasn’t that always the way? The garbage disposal dying on Thanksgiving, the toilet overflowing on Easter. She started to turn back to the beach, already thinking of the file of emergency repair contractors in the property management office. But then she looked down at the shoe in her hand.

Where was Gage?

Probably trying to locate the electric panel, she thought. Aware it was on the outside north wall, she began to cross the deck, then halted when she saw a flashlight beam roam the living room. “Gage!” she called out. “If you’re looking for...”

Her words petered out. It wasn’t Gage’s figure stepping from the living room onto the deck. It was a different man.

In a ball cap and bandanna.

She screamed as adrenaline flooded her system, fueling her instant reaction: flight.

But her bare soles slipped on the damp surface of the painted-wood deck and instead of racing back to the beach, she found herself on her butt. The jolt of the fall barely registered before she was up on her feet once more.

“Well, well, well,” the man said. “I promised we’d see each other again.”

His voice paralyzed her. A flash of memory layered over the present and she was naked again, made immobile by the bungee cords he’d used to tie her to the chair. His stale-sweat smell was in her nose, and she could feel the scrape of a knife blade tracing her belly. We’re going to have so much fun.

“Stay right there,” he said now, approaching her slowly. “And nobody else will get hurt.”

Nobody else. Who was hurt? Gage? “You stay away from me, you son of a bitch,” Skye said, backing toward the steps. “Where’s Gage? What did you do with Gage?”

Another man emerged from the sliding glass doors, this one in a ski mask. “Oh, shit,” he said, upon seeing Skye.

She didn’t stop her backward movement. “Tell me where Gage is, right this minute.”

“Go get her,” the man in the bandanna said to his partner, gesturing with his flashlight. “If you cooperate, sweet thing, we’ll tell you what we did with your friend.”

“Oh, shit,” the second man said again.

“‘Oh, shit,’ is not going to get us those jewels you promised me, cuz.”

The man in the ball cap’s voice hardened. “And it’s not going to get me my consolation prize, either. Now grab the girl.”

Ski Mask moved and Skye knew she must also. Ready to fly down the steps, she whirled. She had one foot in the air when a hand clamped on her arm, yanking her back.

She screamed again.