Next she led the group to Artist House to tell the story of Robert the Doll, encouraging them to check out the East Martello Museum to see the doll and many other artifacts of Key West history. She followed that with the story of the children who’d died at the old theater and several other local legends, then led them to the haunted Hard Rock Cafe, where she told them the story of the Curry family and the tragic suicide by hanging of one member of the family in the building that now housed the restaurant.
She waited until everyone had ordered something to drink, sodas or one of Key West’s famous libations, then left the group happily talking about the ghosts of the past rather than the present.
“Good job,” Dallas told her as they started back toward the Siren of the Sea.
“You think?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “Absolutely. Just the right amount of history, and no ridiculous emoting, but enough drama and enthusiasm to keep the crowd riveted.”
She laughed. “Well, thanks.”
They walked through milling crowds of shoppers, partyers and lovers until they turned the corner. Moments later Hannah opened the door and stepped inside, where she was immediately assailed with the notion that someone had been in her home.
“What?” Dallas asked her, apparently sensing her unease.
“Nothing,” she said.
“We’ll do a walk around,” he told her.
It was more than evident then that the man was an agent. He moved through her house as if he knew it inside and out. She followed a little nervously. “Anything out of order?” he asked a few times.
“No, nothing—I don’t think,” she told him.
They wound up back in the parlor.
“Would you, uh, like something? A drink? Tea...water. Anything?”
“Sure, tea sounds good,” he said.
She fled to the kitchen. Setting water on to boil, she looked around. “Melody? Hagen? Come on, please. I need you to forgive me and get back here.”
There was no answer. When the water had boiled, she set out a tray with cups and tea bags, milk and sugar.
When she walked back into the parlor, she nearly dropped everything.
Melody was elegantly perched on the sofa. Hagen was standing by the mantel. And Agent Dallas Samson was seated across from Melody, looking as if they had just been deep in conversation.
Dallas turned to Hannah. “I’ve just met your charming residents,” he told her, then continued with a slight rebuke in his voice. “It would have been polite to introduce us.”
6
Machete was watching the house again. He’d left it fifteen minutes ago, even though he hadn’t found what he was looking for. Still, he’d known what time she was due back, and he hadn’t wanted to take a chance of being caught.
So he left.
And he watched.
She didn’t come back alone.
Damn. He sure as hell couldn’t go back in again tonight.
Not when she had a Fed in the house. He realized it wouldn’t bother him a bit to kill the Fed—he’d killed before, and he would kill again.
He just didn’t want to kill her.
And it was more than the fact that he had a crush on her. Every man had his ethics. Machete killed those who were in the game. Those who knew what they were risking—like the Fed, who knew he was putting his life on the line every day—or other criminals. He didn’t kill children, and he didn’t kill women. Although the Wolf always told him that women wanted equal treatment and therefore they should be murdered just as often as men.
Machete was too old school. He just didn’t see it.
Not that his feelings mattered at the moment. There was a Fed in the house, which meant that what he had told Wolf was even truer now. They had to hold off. They needed safe access to the house until they found what they were looking for. He was close—he knew he’d been close.
The lights remained on in the parlor. Maybe the Fed would be leaving soon. Maybe she would go to sleep. Maybe he could slip back in tonight, after all.
But the Fed didn’t leave, and it finally occurred to Machete that Hannah O’Brien ran a bed-and-breakfast. The Fed wasn’t leaving. He was staying.
As a guest, of course.
Then Machete began to wonder.
Was he just staying as a guest? Or was something else going on?
The thought made his stomach churn. Buff stud, beautiful woman.
He told himself that meant nothing. She couldn’t be falling for that agent. She loved music and art and books, and he...
He probably loved steroids and boxing matches and punching bags.
They couldn’t possibly be together. In truth, Machete would rather have her dead than with the Fed.
Than with anyone.
His phone vibrated, and he quickly answered. It could only be one person, and he braced himself.
“Do you have it?”
“Not yet. I told you it wouldn’t be easy.”
“Are you still in the house?”
“No. I had to get out. She was on her way back.”
“Go back in. One good thing—the guests are gone.”
“No, there’s a new one.”
Wolf was silent for a long moment. Machete could almost feel the other man’s anger.
“The Fed?”
“Yes.”
Machete was afraid the Wolf was going to tell him to go back inside anyway. He imagined himself waiting until they went to bed, then quietly entering the house, slipping up the stairs and then up to the attic. But it was an old house, and old houses creaked. The Fed would hear him.
New scenario number one.