“I said your parents were on a secret mission to free a diplomat’s kidnapped daughter and they got killed. You freed the daughter and got her away, but at the last minute you were shot in the head.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Kellen groped for her mug and took a drink.
“You miraculously recovered because your parents were part of a breeding program that produced superheroes.”
Kellen snorted hot chocolate. That hurt.
“You joined the military to change your identity and escape repercussions. You told the CIA that espionage was your parents’ choice, not yours, and now, despite government pressure, you refuse to return to the life of a spy.”
Kellen leaned back against the seat of the ATV and laughed so hard her sides hurt. “Now that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“They bought it.”
“No. They didn’t. A superhero? I’m a superhero?”
“Adrian said that explained a lot, like how you got through that sabotage in Kuwait with only minor injuries.”
“Minor injuries, my ass. I had surgery on my shoulder. I was unconscious for two days. I was discharged!”
“You said you wanted something original, not the same old forbidden love and jealous husband story. So I went for it!”
“You’re an idiot.” Still smiling, Kellen bent back to her work.
Someone beat on the outer door.
Both women straightened.
Birdie click-released the safety on her pistol.
Kellen went to the door and looked through the camera, realized communications were down and looked through the peephole.
A bedraggled man stood there, and as she watched, he lifted his fist and pounded again.
“Nils Brooks,” Kellen whispered. Like a grain of sand beneath the shell she had so carefully built around her, she experienced a constant apprehension about him. Was the thing that niggled at her nothing more than a pair of gorgeous brown and possibly familiar eyes?
Birdie indicated Kellen should allow him in, but she didn’t lower the pistol.
Kellen shoved the door open and rapidly stepped aside.
Nils hurried in and dragged the door shut after him.
Birdie clicked the safety and slid her firearm into the holster and out of sight. “Mr. Brooks? What are you doing here?”
He faced them, his overcoat unbuttoned, his golf shirt and jeans dripping, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He pulled off his glasses and tried to dry them on his shirt, then realized it was impossible and slid them into his pocket. “Hi.” He gave a sheepish wave. “I had dinner in one of the restaurants, then listened to some music, then came out and got in the ATV… Now I’m lost. I can’t find my cottage, and I hope you don’t mind, but I saw your lights and hoped you could help me.”
The two women exchanged glances and did a mental rock/paper/scissors.
Birdie slid the Glock over to Kellen, stood and got him a towel. “Sure, come on in. It’s really coming down out there. Isn’t there rain gear on your ATV?”
He looked abashed and embarrassed. “Sure. Probably. I remember being told that. I forgot… I should have stayed in the cottage.” He took off his scarf and shook it, took off his overcoat and shook it. He presented a hapless facade, but those eyes… Kellen felt off-kilter when she looked at them, as if she’d fallen into a wormhole and whirled backward in time.
Ceecee. Ceecee. Where are you? Come back to me…
The voice whispered in her mind. She ignored it. “Nice coat.” Kellen watched his face.
Nils looked at his coat. “It was. It’s Burberry and wool. It’s supposed to be water-repellent. But it’s soaked.”
“Yeah…” Kellen nodded. “Guests usually bring raincoats.” Not the most tactful thing to say, but man. Talk about epic unpreparedness.
He tossed the coat over a hook, took the towel and rubbed his head.
The man looked slender until the rain plastered his clothes to his body. Then he showed off muscle definition he couldn’t have gotten from sitting behind a desk. Nice butt, long legs, corded shoulders. He even looked good in goose bumps. And those eyes…
Birdie stood behind him, and while he had the towel over his head, she pretended to feel him up.
Kellen grinned.
Of course, he whipped off the towel and both women had to fake not being two sex-starved, lascivious females.
Kellen replied to the comment he’d made far too long ago. “Mr. Brooks, you did say you intended to stay in the cottage, but from what I saw, you came into the hotel to wander the halls and take notes.” Might as well let him know he’d been observed.
“I’m doing research.” He sounded reproachful. “You understand that. You understand what it’s like to pay attention, to see things and understand what no one else can see or know.”
Birdie and Kellen exchanged glances again, this time with more wariness.
“You’ve got a gun,” he said to Birdie.
“It’s lonely out here,” Birdie answered. “I’d be a fool to trust to human kindness.”
“Yes. Finding that body made everyone nervous.” He shivered. “Any word from the coroner?”
“Nothing yet,” Kellen said. “I expect I’ll hear from our policeman in the morning. Do you want a blanket?”
“What I really want is to get back to my writing.” He patted the pockets of his overcoat and plunged his right hand inside.
Birdie and Kellen flinched.
But he brought out a leather notebook, shook water off the cover, opened it and groaned. “The ink’s run.”
“Happens here in Washington when you don’t wear your rain gear,” Birdie said.
“I’ll take your coat to the laundry tomorrow, see if they can do anything with it.” Kellen found a rain poncho and dropped it over his head. “Come on, I’ll get you back to your cottage now.”
Birdie caught Kellen’s arm. “He’s in really good shape for a guy who lives behind a desk. Be careful.” So even Birdie thought something didn’t add up.
“I will. I am.” Kellen grasped his arm and led him into the storm.
“I’ve been watching you,” he said as he climbed into the ATV. “You’re competent.”
“Gee, thanks.” Was that supposed to be a come-on? Because if it was, he needed to work on his lines.
She dropped him at his cottage, watched him run up onto the porch and try to get in, turn and wave his hands helplessly. He’d lost his key card, so she used hers to open his door. She shoved him inside and headed to her cottage. She wanted to brush her teeth, wash her face, go to bed and sleep in peace, quiet and comfort between cool, clean sheets. Instead, she crawled up the spiral staircase to her loft and stared out toward the west, toward the ocean and the place where they’d found Priscilla’s body.
*
Two miles out of Greenleaf, the rain started. Cecilia watched the first drops hit the windshield and exalted in the knowledge that the summer storm coming in off the ocean would erase evidence, muddy the explosion site…
She didn’t know how to turn on the windshield wipers.
The rain fell harder.
She poked at the controls on the steering column, turned, pushed, twisted. Stuff happened. The headlights came on. The windshield wiper on the back window started a fast, steady swish. If she’d been driving backward, that would be great. Instead, she was driving blind on a twisty two-lane highway. She was scared, dehydrated—and she couldn’t see where she was going. She peered through the sheeting rain, spied a turnout, pulled over and eased to a stop.
She sat, heart racing, eyes full of tears. In her head, she heard Gregory’s voice. You’re not capable of caring for yourself, darling. You’re clumsy. You’re incompetent. He was right. She couldn’t even flee with efficiency.
No! No. She’d find the car book. It would explain how to turn on the wipers. She opened the minuscule glove compartment, pulled out the paperwork, shuffled through it—this was a rental, she hadn’t realized that—looked back into the glove compartment. There in the recesses, she found the thin, floppy book waiting for her, and the Table of Contents/Wipers.
So! Gregory was wrong.
Someone knocked on her window.