Midnight Seduction
Auteur·e
Justine Davis
Lectures
19,7K
Chapitres
15
One
The tide had to turn soon. Didn’t it?
Emma Purcell tried to tune out the noise of the jet’s engines and concentrate. Her business was barely staying above water anyway, and at this rate, with Frank Kean’s demands for higher rent, Safe Haven was going to go under soon. Unless she found a sizable life preserver, they would—
Emma cut off her thoughts and smothered a sigh. Ever since she’d left the attorney’s office, she—who didn’t even like the sea—had been thinking in watery metaphors. She’d wanted a distraction from the aching grief of her cousin Wayne’s untimely death and the financial woes of her beloved animal shelter, Safe Haven, and now she had one. A big one. And it was all wrapped up in one huge question.
Why on earth had Wayne left his ocean-hating cousin a boat?
Maybe I can sell it, she thought as the pilot announced the presence of the remains of Mt. St. Helens on the right side of the airplane. Might get enough to keep us going for a couple of months. Maybe even more, with luck. Hey, maybe I could even get a haircut!
But she would fulfill Wayne’s request first, she told herself. As he’d asked of her in the cryptic letter she’d received—eerily—three days after he’d died, she would look at the Pretty Lady in person before she did anything. She owed him that much at least.
Emma fought the wave of sadness threatening to swamp her again. She made herself look out the window as they neared SeaTac airport. It looked beautiful here in the Pacific Northwest, she admitted. She’d never been to this part of the country before, and now she wondered why. It was true she wasn’t fond of the ocean, but this was different. From the air Puget Sound seemed more like a huge, calm lake, dotted with islands and edged with peninsulas large and small.
The ocean had always seemed so vast and frightening to her, and had since her childhood. Silly, of course, but there it was. But this felt safer somehow. It wasn’t just the lack of crashing waves, it was that you were never out of sight of land here, and that was comforting to her landlubber’s soul.
“This won’t be so bad,” she told herself as she signed the papers for her small rental car. “Maybe this can really turn out to be like a vacation after all.”
And then the smiling young man behind the counter blithely told her it was a breeze to get to her destination from here, she simply headed up I-5, got off at exit 177 and headed for the ferry that would deposit her on the other side within a few miles of the very marina she wanted.
Ferry? Other side?
Images of Charon and his dark boat gliding across the River Styx flitted through her suddenly panicked mind. She shoved aside the image and studied the map on which the young man was drawing her route.
Once she was outside the terminal, she pulled out her cell phone to place the promised call to Sheila, her indefatigable assistant at Safe Haven.
“I’m here, safe and sound,” she said. “How are things there?”
“Fine. I stalled off the county, and Mrs. Santini’s son came and picked up Corky.”
“She’s going home?”
Emma could almost hear Sheila smiling. “Yes, tomorrow. He wanted Corky there to greet her.”
Warmth flooded Emma at the thought of the reunion between the sweet, gentle elderly woman and her beloved terrier. This was what made all the work, the long hours, the strain of approaching strangers and begging for money or supplies, worth it. This was what Safe Haven was for, to take care of pets when their sick or injured owners couldn’t.
“I’ll check back with you tonight,” she said.
“Don’t you dare,” Sheila said sternly. “You’re on your first vacation in two years.”
“But—”
“You trying to insult me, girlfriend? Saying I can’t run this place without you?”
Sheila’s anger was feigned, but Emma knew the sentiment was not. She also knew Sheila could handle things quite competently, that it was only her ambivalence making her nervous. She let the woman reassure her, and disconnected with a promise not to call again unless it was an emergency.
As Emma drove she tried to distract herself. She made herself focus on her surroundings, thinking she owed it to Wayne to at least open herself to whatever he’d found here that had made him stay so far from home.
Not that Wayne had anything to come home for, she thought, her mouth twisting. It was hard not to be more bitter than ever now. His family’s cruelty had driven Wayne away long ago, and now he was dead with that rift never mended. Not for lack of trying on her part; she’d tried countless times to be the go-between, to help Wayne establish some kind of relationship with his family. But she’d failed. Even her parents hadn’t been much help.
It didn’t matter anymore, she told herself before the old anger could build. Wayne was dead, so he could no longer be an embarrassment to his stuffy, self-righteous parents.
Emma bit her lip to stop the tears that threatened to flow yet again, and tried to stop thinking about it. When that minor pain didn’t work, she thought about the fact that she would soon be driving this little roller skate of a car onto a boat that was going to head out to sea. Well, not exactly out to sea, but still…
That seemed to work, and kept her occupied until she had to steel herself to actually drive onto the huge green and white Washington state ferry. It was so big it seemed silly to be afraid, especially when she saw how casually the other passengers took it all, chattering happily as they headed upstairs for a snack or a drink.
“The drink part I understand,” Emma muttered to herself, thinking uncharacteristically of something alcoholic. And the last thing she needed was a snack, not when she was trying to get rid of those extra twenty pounds she’d somehow picked up.
But by the time the boat actually left the dock she had a muffin in her hand, and she was surprised to note she actually felt like eating it. And had no desire to dull her senses with anything liquid.
Maybe this boat thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
They’d told him it would take time. What they hadn’t told him was how much.
Harlan McClaren rubbed at the polished chrome cleat on the Seahawk’s rail, although it had been gleaming spotlessly for some time now. He rubbed at it with full concentration, as if it were a complex task instead of mindless routine. He rubbed at it as if his life depended on it. He knew his sanity did.
He also knew it was going to exhaust him. That was what boggled him more than anything else, how utterly exhausted the simplest of tasks left him. He’d just turned thirty-nine but imagined this was what seventy must feel like. It was as if he was constantly moving underwater, as if the air itself had taken to resisting his every move.
Yet he welcomed the exhaustion. It kept him from thinking too much, and if he could make sure he was tired enough, he sometimes slept without dreaming. Or without dreams he remembered, anyway.
His shoulder was starting to ache, a souvenir of the mess that had landed him here. He flexed then stretched it instead of stopping the work that aggravated it and going for ice and a compression wrap, as the therapists had told him he should. Which, Harlan thought wryly, would surprise no one who knew him. Especially Josh, owner of the Seahawk, who had sent Harlan to recuperate on the boat with stern instructions to behave during his forced recuperation.
“For once in your life, Mac, do the safe thing,” had been his actual words. Joshua Redstone knew him as well as anyone.
He heard the creak of the gangway as somebody headed down to the dock. He thought about dodging inside the cabin, not feeling up to casual conversation with any of the marina regulars today. But after a moment the quality of the steps, the hesitancy in them, reached him. He looked up. And frowned.
The woman coming down the slanted wood walkway was holding on to the pipe railing as if her life depended on it. She hadn’t, as some he’d seen this summer, worn ridiculously high-heeled or platform sandals to visit a marina, but she was walking as if she had done just that. Tiny steps, as if she expected the boards beneath her feet to collapse and spill her into the chilly sound at any moment.
He turned back to his polishing once she was down on the dock itself, expecting her to stop at one of the boat slips long before she reached the large one near the end that berthed the Seahawk. Instead the footsteps continued, coming closer and closer, until his movements stopped and he crouched frozen beside the well-polished cleat. He could see a distorted, fun house mirror sort of reflection in the shiny surface, only enough to see that she had short, sandy-blond hair.
He held his breath. He was expecting no one, was here to avoid dealing with people just now. He’d had no visitors since he’d been here, and he liked it that way.
Puzzlement overcame him when the woman continued down the dock past the two empty slips between the Seahawk and the next boat. The boat that was at the visitor’s berth, the side tie at the end of the dock. The worse for weather Pretty Lady.
The boat that belonged to a dead man.
Harlan sat back on his heels, watching now. If he’d thought she hadn’t noticed him, the quick, darting glance she gave him over her shoulder disproved the idea. And the sudden quickening of her pace told him what this particular woman thought of his looks just now.
He frowned at his own thought. Any woman headed for the Pretty Lady was hardly the type to be picky. But then, she didn’t look like the sort that he’d seen on the few occasions when there’d been a female visitor to that particular vessel. Too classy, too pulled together for that kind.
Maybe she was some attorney, come to assess the value of the thing. Which was lessening by the day, he thought. Then he turned away rather forcefully.
It’s none of your business, he told himself, and went back to polishing the cleat that didn’t need it. He didn’t care, and didn’t want to care why someone had finally shown up at the old scow.
And then the image of the woman played back in his head, his weary brain summoned up another image, and he made the connection he should have made the moment he saw her. The resemblance to the man from the Pretty Lady was unmistakable. This had to be the cousin Wayne Purcell had spoken of. The only family member he’d ever spoken of with affection rather than anger or downright hatred.
The thought flitted into his mind that he should go express his condolences. He hadn’t been close to Wayne, but they had shared a beer on occasion—that is until he’d realized that once Wayne started drinking the man had a problem stopping. But Harlan couldn’t bestir himself to move. The thought of approaching a stranger, a woman, an attractive one at that, and being kind and sympathetic seemed as impossible as climbing Everest.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she picked her way with great care up the steps beside the sailboat, grasping the railing as she had above, with a sort of desperate care. When she finally got on board, she moved gingerly to the main cabin and stood looking blankly at the hatchway. She obviously knew little about boats. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say she was afraid of them.
Not your problem, he told himself. And turned to his work once more. Soon the metal was growing warm from his efforts. And he kept at it, repeating to himself that it was none of his business. He finally convinced himself. Until he heard the loud thump.
And the scream.
It was a miracle she hadn’t broken a leg, or worse, Emma thought. Not that that did anything for the ache in her hip or the horrible burst of pain that had erupted from her elbow and dizzied her. She sat up gingerly, cradling the arm that had made her cry out in shock and pain.
Her breathing had just begun to slow down when a sound from above made it quicken again. The slight dip of the boat told her what it was; someone had boarded behind her. Before she could scramble to her feet the light coming in the hatchway vanished as a man blocked the opening.
Calm down, she told herself. You’re not in the big city now, there’s no reason to panic.
And then the man spoke, and confirmed her thoughts; he didn’t sound at all threatening.
“Are you all right?”
In fact, she thought, he sounded tired. Very tired. As if he very much didn’t want to be there.
Well, of course, she thought. He was probably an experienced nautical type, reluctant to come to the rescue of yet another newbie.
When she didn’t immediately answer he came down a few steps into the cabin, and she realized he was the man she’d seen before, on the big, sleek, expensive-looking powerboat in the last occupied slip.
The man whose appearance had made her hasten past him. And here he was, at a moment when she felt more stupid than she had in recent memory.
He came down the rest of the steps in a rush, and she realized she’d waited too long to answer.
“No, I’m all right,” she said, throwing up a hand as if that would ward him off. Then she got a clearer look at him in the light that streamed through the portholes, and she thought she might be able to do just that. He was almost painfully thin, and the deck shoes, jeans and Henley style shirt he wore were very new, as if the thinness was also recent and he’d had to buy new clothes to fit. His thick, tousled brown hair had the golden streaks of someone who spent time in the sun, but he was pale. And his eyes had the hollow look of someone who’d been ill. Or still was.
Or maybe someone who indulged in substances that killed the appetite and revved the motor until this gaunt look was the result, she thought suspiciously. She had no firsthand experience with anyone like that, but you didn’t live in Southern California for long without seeing it. He had that wary, edgy look as well, making eyes that were a striking shade of green alarming rather than attractive. Or so she told herself.
“You’re sure?” he asked, and she got the oddest feeling he was desperately hoping she would say yes. So he wouldn’t have to do anything, get involved, call for help? she wondered.
“I’m fine,” she told him firmly. “I misjudged the steepness of the steps, that’s all.”
The sensible words seemed to reassure him. He shifted his weight and leaned back until he was sitting on one of the steps that had tripped her up. She wondered if he planned on staying a while, or if she’d been right in thinking he was simply tired.
“Never been on a sailboat before?”
She flushed. But he wasn’t looking at her with amusement, only a mild interest, so she admitted the truth. “Any boat,” she said.
He studied her for a long moment. She got slowly to her feet, grateful that everything seemed to be in working order; she hadn’t been certain that she hadn’t done some real damage. Then he spoke again, stunning her into stillness.
“You’re Emma, aren’t you?”
She nearly gasped. How on earth…? “How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “It was no great leap. Wayne talked about you. And you look like him. Same eyes, and nose.”
She flushed again. Her eyes were like Wayne’s, nice enough, a medium blue she liked because she could make them appear gray or deep blue or even teal depending on what color she wore. But her nose was the bane of her existence and always had been. The upward tilt at the end had doomed her to a life of being called perky, cute, impish and any number of other inane descriptors she had come to hate. Wayne had indeed had that same feature, and had hated it for the same reasons. It was worse for him, he’d always insisted. On a girl it was perky, cute and impish, but on a guy it was cause for endless teasing.
Belatedly she realized the implications of what this man had said. “You knew Wayne?”
He nodded. “Casually. It was hard not to, when he was docked so close and I’m here all the time.”
Realization struck. Her gaze flicked to the tote bag that had slid across the heavily marked teak floor when she’d taken her fall, as if she could read Wayne’s letter through the canvas. Not that she needed to. Eerie as its arrival had been, she remembered it perfectly.
If you need anything, ask McClaren, he’d written. He’s a local marina bum living on some rich guy’s yacht, but I think you can trust him.
Well, the boat she’d seen him on certainly qualified as “some rich guy’s yacht.” And his appearance matched what she’d expect from a marina bum. She wondered what rich guy would trust this ominous-looking man with his boat.
But he had been working when she’d gone past. So at least he was doing something in return for the charity. But she still didn’t trust his looks, and resolved both to get him out of here now, and to avoid him as much as possible from now on. That there might be more to it than wariness, she refused to admit.
“No one else came with you? He mentioned his parents were still alive.”
His expression was faintly puzzled, not a frown but more a vaguely quizzical look, as if a frown would require too much effort. She wondered why he’d even asked if he was so bored. Or so tired, she amended; the dark circles under his eyes seemed to point toward the accuracy of that impression.
She hesitated in responding to his comment, then decided it hardly mattered to this stranger. And at this point she felt little loyalty to her beloved cousin’s judgmental parents anyway.
“He was dead to them,” she said, “and had been for some time.”
He seemed to take a moment to absorb that. “That explains a lot,” he finally said.
Emma didn’t miss the implications this time. She did a quick reassessment. If this man had known Wayne well enough to say that, he could be the best source of information, and she didn’t want to antagonize him.
“What did Wayne do while he was here? I didn’t even know he was up here.”
She knew she wasn’t imagining his withdrawal. His face, which had shown only the slightest interest, went utterly blank. The only thing left was a weariness that made even his strong features seem to slump slightly.
“I don’t know,” he said, and she had the oddest feeling he was lying. About what, she didn’t know, nor could she say why she felt that way.
He began to turn, as if to head back up the steps and out of the boat’s cabin.
“When did you last see him?” she asked, desperate for any connection from someone who had had contact with Wayne recently.
He paused, his head still turned away from her. She thought she saw a shiver go through him, although she couldn’t imagine why. Finally, slowly and with obvious reluctance, he answered her.
“An hour before he died.”
