Читать книгу One True Secret - Bethany Campbell - Страница 8

HEAD HIGH, Emerson led the way to the patio’s gate and unlocked it. She did not so much as glance at the two men behind her, but her heart beat a herky-jerky rhythm.

Merriman, the photographer, didn’t alarm her. He seemed to have surrendered completely to the visual charms of Mandevilla.

But she sensed a menacing edge in Eli Garner. He had what she thought of as gunfighter’s eyes, keen and permanently narrowed in watchfulness.

Yet he was handsome, as well. Nana was right; this was a man with sex appeal, possibly more than should be legal. She must be on guard against it.

She let the men enter the patio, then followed, closing the gate behind her. She turned to face them. They both stood by the pool, whose water glittered and quivered like a live blue gem.

She walked to the white wrought-iron table and stood behind the master chair, setting her hands on its back to claim it for her own. It was the largest of the four chairs, thronelike. It would give her the air of command.

“Sit,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Please.”

Merriman, busy gawking at the foliage and flowers, mechanically sat in one of the smaller chairs. Giving her a calculating glance, Eli Garner took another.

He was lean with strongly carved features. His high cheekbones seemed sharp enough to cut diamonds. His dark hair waved nearly to his collar, and he was so tanned that he looked more like an outdoorsman than a writer.

She gave each man a cool smile. Merriman, gazing entranced at the hibiscus tree, didn’t notice. Eli returned the smile but made it several degrees cooler than hers.

Before they’d arrived, she’d placed a silver tray on the table. On it were a carafe of turquoise crystal and three matching goblets.

“Lemonade?” she asked. She meant to be hospitable, but only minimally.

“No, thanks,” murmured Merriman. He was absorbed by the garden’s flowers.

“Please,” said Eli, not taking his eyes from her.

She filled two of the goblets and handed him one. A gold pocket watch lay on the tray beside the remaining glass. She opened it and set it on the table so both he and she could see its face.

“I said I’d talk to you for an hour today. I’ll begin by stating the ground rules.” She turned to Merriman. “You can take all the exterior shots of the house and grounds you want. On your other visits, you may take pictures of the paintings, the studio and some of the more interesting family pieces. No pictures of the family itself.”

Merriman seemed to jerk back into reality. He blinked his cobalt blue eyes. “Not even you?”

“No pictures of the family,” she repeated.

He shrugged amiably and went back to contemplating the flora.

She faced Eli Garner, whose gaze stayed fastened on her with unnerving steadiness. “I’ll be the main person you’ll talk to. Day after tomorrow, my grandmother will speak with you for half an hour. No more.”

One of Eli’s brows lifted, just a trace. “I hope she’s not unwell.”

“No. Her health is fine.”

“Will I talk with your sister?”

“No. She doesn’t choose to speak with you.”

He sat back in his chair and sipped from the goblet. She noticed that he had a tattoo on one sinewy forearm. It was a picture of a dancing Hindu god with four arms and an elephant’s head.

Emerson recognized it—Ganesh. The sight unsettled her, for she had an expensive figurine of Ganesh in her bedroom. He was the deity invoked to help overcome obstacles. She’d bought the figurine when she’d made her first solo trip to New York to take over her father’s job.

It agitated her to see a symbol she’d chosen for herself etched on the arm of a man she thought of as an opponent. She pulled her gaze away. Don’t think about it.

He ran a knuckle over his chin thoughtfully. “Your sister is shy, perhaps. Maybe she’s picked up a reclusive gene from your grandfather.”

This was close enough to what Emerson feared about Claire that she blinked in irritation. “No. She doesn’t choose to speak to you. That’s all.”

His mouth crooked in a mocking smile. “This isn’t going to be much of an interview if you just keep repeating yourself.”

Don’t let him control this conversation, she told herself sternly. She tilted her head, gave him a flirtatious glance. “Why don’t you ask me questions that don’t force me to repeat myself?”

He nodded as if he were humoring a troublesome child. “All right. Your father was your grandfather’s agent. He knew he was a very sick man. He trained you to take his place. Did you know how sick he was?”

“Yes,” she lied. She hadn’t known. He’d always had a weak heart, but his decline had come swiftly and inexorably. Learning he was doomed had made her feel as if she were dying, too. But she would not tell that to this stranger, this intruder.

She was saved from elaborating on the lie by Merriman. “There’re some interesting cloud formations blowing in. If you don’t mind, I’d like to start those exterior shots. Go down and take a few from the beach. You’ll excuse me?”

“Of course,” she said and gave him her most dazzling smile. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood and pulled his camera from its case as he went out the gate.

She turned her attention back to Eli, who was still watching her as a cat watches a particularly tricky mouse. She smiled at him, hoping coquettishness might make him forget that she was journalistic prey.

“We were talking about my father. We were a close family. And private. That’s why I’m not very good at being questioned. I’m afraid I give a bad interview.”

For all the effect it had on him, she might as well have smiled at a boulder. “Your father died of cardiovascular disease. Is this something that runs in the family?”

She sidestepped the question. “My father was born with a heart defect—congenital, not hereditary. He looked very healthy. Strapping, even. But he always knew he might not live to old age.”

She and Claire had known that, too, from the time they were little girls. But they hadn’t realized it. People would say, “Damon has a heart problem.” To Emerson and Claire, the words generated a vague fear about something that seemed far away and was not truly possible.

Eli frowned. “Your mother died when you and your sister were quite young. Would you tell me about it?”

Oh, hell, she thought, how can I try to flirt when he keeps asking questions about everybody I love dying?

She decided to use tears. She could cry at will if she thought of sad things. Her father had always said she could have been an actress. So she thought of her father’s funeral and her mother’s, and the tears welled up.

She tossed her hair as if exasperated at her own weakness. “I really don’t like to talk about those things.”

To prove it, she let a tear spill over and slide down her cheek.

He stared at the tear with the air of a scientist examining an interesting bug. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket and held it out to her. “Could you try? To say just a little?”

She let two more tears fall then, her voice breaking, said, “No.” Stalling for time, she added, “I’ll be all right in a few minutes.” She dabbed the tears away but kept clutching his handkerchief as if one more such question would reduce her to a sobbing heap.

The dark eyes studied her, but she thought she saw unexpected sympathy in them. He reached out and put his hand over one of hers. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. His touch sent unexpected tingles through her.

She looked down, astonished that he’d do such a thing. She found herself gazing at the Ganesh on his arm, dancing on one foot, his four arms waving merrily. Eli’s hand felt good wrapped around hers—it actually felt comforting—but she drew back as if unready for such intimacy.

“Excuse me,” he said frowning again. “I didn’t mean to be forward.”

“It’s all right. It’s just that remembering makes me emotional.”

His expression was slightly dubious, but he said, “Let me see if I have it straight. After your mother passed away, your family came here. You lived with your grandparents. Your grandfather’s agent retired that same year, and your father took over his job.”

Emerson nodded her head yes. She sniffled and squeezed the handkerchief. Her fingers still prickled from his touch. “Yes. Felix Mettler was the agent. We called him Uncle Felix. He died, too. Of pneumonia. Fourteen years ago.”

That, she thought, was information Eli probably had anyway, and it wasted his time. She stole a glance at the watch. He’d been here a full ten minutes, and he hadn’t pried anything out of her yet.

She was doing well, she told herself. She was doing just fine.

This man wasn’t so formidable, after all.

FOR TEN MINUTES Eli had let her fend him off. If he gave her five more minutes, she’d get cocky. And when she got cocky, she’d get careless. And then he’d spring his trap.

She was an amateur, but he had to admit she was good. For a few disturbing seconds, he’d believed her tears were real. Well, they were real, but his gut instinct was that she’d summoned them by willpower.

So she’d played the tears card, which was dirty fighting, and he’d played the sympathy card, which was just as dirty, but it gave him an excuse to touch her. Because from the moment she’d opened the door, he’d wanted to touch her. He wanted it so much his blood pounded with it.

Good Lord, but she was something. When she pulled her flirtatious act, he had to control his expression until his face ached from it.

Now he toyed with the blue goblet as it sat on the table, turning it first one way, then the other. For a moment he didn’t allow himself to look at her. Why hadn’t Merriman fallen down at her feet and begged to take her photo? Was he gay? Crazy? Was it possible he was the world’s only blind photographer?

“So,” he said, his voice neutral. “Your grandparents had a big part in raising you.”

“Mmm. Yes. They were wonderful. In every way. He was such fun, and she was so sweet—”

He cut her off as he kept playing with his glass. “Did you know, when you moved here, that your grandfather was a famous artist?”

“My sister and I knew he was an artist. I don’t think we understood he was famous. To me, famous meant being on television. Or in movies. Mickey Mouse was famous. Mel Gibson was famous. We knew the Captain was kind of important, but we didn’t know why.”

He let her babble in that vein a bit, knowing she thought she was running down the clock. He would treat her gently for a while, asking simple questions. He stared at the light dancing on the blue goblet and tried his best to look harmless.

“And his nickname was the Captain because he grew up around boats? In Maine, yes?”

“Yes. His father had a fishing boat. When he went off to college in New York somebody nicknamed him the Captain. It stuck.”

“But he didn’t finish college. A bit of a rebel, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Most good artists have a rebellious streak. He took off to see the world. He wanted to study non-Western art. And to go to Paris. Don’t all painters want to go to Paris?” She sounded relieved, as if these questions weren’t as bad as she’d feared.

Eli stole a look at her, and the sight of her slammed him like a blow. She sat in that ornate white chair, wearing that simple, perfect turquoise gown and holding a goblet the same color. Something really was wrong with Merriman. Very wrong.

His breath stuck in his chest, but he got his question out with no change in tone. “He went to north Africa first?”

She nodded, and he watched her lips as she answered. “Morocco. Egypt. Tunisia. Algeria. Oh, yes. He spent time in all of them.”

“And then he went to Paris and met your grandmother…”

“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, and Eli knew better than to push much further. Nathan Roth had always been vague about how he had met and married his wife. She had avoided the spotlight, even in the days her husband had gloried in it.

Still, Eli had to seem to try. “I’ve heard conflicting stories. That she wasn’t actually born in France. That her family came from Egypt? Algeria? Morocco?”

Emerson smiled vaguely. “That’s something you should ask her.”

He allowed himself to smile back. “Will she tell me?”

She raised the goblet to her mouth. “Perhaps.”

“Tell me,” he said, “when you were a child, what did you think of the paintings? Or is that too personal for you to say?”

The will-o’-the-wisp smile touched her lips again. “I thought they were squiggles. Pretty, but just squiggles. I didn’t know why people bought them.”

He nodded to encourage her. “Now you do. Because you sell them.”

“No. The dealer sells them. Gerald Krystol. He and I talk over the prices and so on. I’m only the agent.”

“What do you think of the paintings now?”

She sat a bit taller in the chair. A look of pride crossed her face. But there was something more, as well. He realized it might be love. “They’re great. They’re a national treasure.”

Suddenly, she rose. “Would you like to walk on the beach? It’s one of the Captain’s favorite places. This may be your only chance. The weather’s supposed to get worse the next few days.”

He gazed up at her, her gown rippling in the wind. His throat tightened. “Yes. I would.”

“Then come with me,” she said, moving toward the gate. She turned and glanced over her shoulder, then made a beckoning motion.

Suddenly he wondered if he really was the one in charge here. He followed her as if powerless to do otherwise.

COMING BACK from the beach, Merriman met Eli and the Roth woman on the path. He grinned, feeling uneasy. She was pretty, but in too flamboyant a way. He liked faces that were subtler; they were more interesting to him.

Besides, Emerson Roth struck him as too edgy. She and Eli had been engaged in a complex fencing match from the get-go. Eli might relish such games, but Merriman did not.

He said to Emerson, “I’d like to do some more exterior shots, but closer up. That okay with you?”

Her eyes went wary, but only for a split second. She gave him a nod of permission. “As long as there are no people. Not even the groundsman. And he’s been told not to talk to either of you.”

“I understand,” said Merriman, mentally adding Your Highness. He saw Eli looking her over, as if trying to figure out exactly who lived behind that glamorous face. Merriman shrugged a goodbye to them both, then trudged back up the path. The wind was rising, and the clouds rolling in thicker and darker.

The pool area had a garden next to it, and the garden lured him. He liked the lushness of its tropical flowers, their startling spectrum of colors.

But he stopped before reaching the house and glanced again at Eli and Emerson Roth. Their backs were to him. Beyond them, the sea stretched, colored like steel, and the sky had turned dark gray. Even the sand looked grayish.

Eli wore wheat-colored jeans and a red shirt. The woman was a splash of turquoise beside him. Except for the muted greens of a few plants, he and she offered the only bright colors; they caught the eye and held it.

To hell with it, he thought. Permission or no permission, he’d take a few shots. She couldn’t object to having her back photographed could she? He raised the camera and snapped them, one, two, three times.

Then he turned toward the house and let himself in through the iron gate. He sniffed the air and could scent the smell of oncoming rain mingling with the heavy fragrance of the flowers. He walked slowly through the garden until an unbelievable tree caught his interest.

The tree was huge, but looked as if dozens of smaller trees had grown together, fusing into one. From above it dropped dozens of new roots to the ground, so that it seemed like a one-tree jungle. It was surrounded by a colorful stand of other plants.

He tried to make his way around this bizarre tree, to see it more closely. But then a flower caught his eye, a peculiar flower of gold and purple and scarlet.

Momentarily distracted, he dropped to his knee and began to take shots of this odd blossom. Suddenly he heard a rustling in the foliage. It sounded like the rustling of something large.

Merriman went still as a stone, wondering if the Keys were so tropical that they harbored things like anacondas or man-eating pythons. He knew there were alligators or crocodiles, but would they come this near to a house?

The rustling came closer, and Merriman held his breath. Of course, alligators crept around buildings—weren’t there always horror stories in the paper about them eating pet poodles and the occasional hapless tourist?

He vaguely remembered, from watching Peter Pan, that alligators had yellow eyes and could move with lethal speed. Something made a scuttling sound, almost next to him now, and Merriman whirled and stared down—into a pair of glinting yellow eyes.

After a split second of horror, he was relieved to see that the eyes belonged to the fattest cat he’d ever seen. Blue-gray, with a white nose, breast and paws, it stared at him with a disdain as massive as its body.

Well, thought Merriman, if he couldn’t snap the family, he could snap the family cat. This rotund beast had a fancy collar, and a tag shaped like a mouse. Say cheese, thought Merriman, looking through the lens.

Then, from behind his tree, Merriman heard light footsteps. The cat heard them, too, and cocked its head in that direction. It hunkered lower to the ground, as if trying to hide.

“Bunbury! It’s no good. I see you.”

The voice was feminine and breathless—and nearby. More rustling, and the animal cringed lower, its ears flattening. A pair of slender hands struggled to grab the cat by its fat middle.

Merriman found himself looking into a young woman’s face. Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a small, perfect O of shock.

“Oh, goodness,” she breathed, and she looked paralyzed, crouched there, her hands motionless on the cat’s gray fur.

Merriman lowered his camera. The sight of her was like a kick in his chest. She was lovely. Her hair was the dark golden brown of honey, and so were her eyes. Her skin was a paler shade of honey, and she wore a T-shirt that matched her hair.

A woman made out of honey, Merriman thought illogically, but his system, ignoring logic, said Yum.

She seemed in dismay, almost terror. “You can’t take my picture.”

“I—I wasn’t,” he stammered. “Just the cat’s.”

“You can’t take the cat’s picture.” Her voice was panicky.

“I’m sorry,” Merriman said with all the sincerity he could muster. He meant it. She was such an appealing creature, the last thing he wanted was to upset her. “I didn’t know the cat was here. When I saw him, it was an automatic reflex. I didn’t mean—”

She snatched the cat up and clutched it protectively against her breast. She seemed too upset to gather her thoughts. “He’s not supposed to be out here. I was supposed to get everything inside.”

He couldn’t stop looking at her. “Everything?” he echoed.

“All the animals. I couldn’t find him. You know—cats.”

“I know cats. Yes. Independent. I used to be one. I mean, I used to have one. Do you want me to help you? He looks heavy.”

“No. No.” She struggled to rise, but she was trying not to crush the foliage and still balance the cat. She had her arms wrapped round him under his forelegs, so he was staring at Merriman over the great mound of his belly. He looked like King Henry VIII.

The woman almost lost her balance, so Merriman sprang to his feet, putting out a hand to steady her. She went stock-still. “I didn’t know you were out here,” she said. “I looked out and saw Bunbury—”

He kept his hand on her upper arm, just to make sure she was all right and to convey his concern. “Bunbury is?”

“The cat.” She swallowed. “I didn’t see any people. Why were you behind that tree?”

“I never saw a tree like that. I just wanted to look closer.”

“You were squatting down behind it, hiding,” she accused. Her cheeks had flushed an enticing pink.

“There was a flower. A strange flower. That one.” He pointed an accusing finger at it. “I was kneeling to take a picture, that’s all.”

She hugged the cat more tightly to her. It screwed up its face in protest and emitted a sound that was more like a hoarse chirp than a meow. Merriman realized the woman was staring just as intently at him as he was at her. He still had his hand on her arm, but she made no protest, so he was happy to keep touching her.

Her face was gentle, not flamboyantly pretty like her sister’s, but pretty with a natural sweetness that almost hypnotized him. Her hair was brushed in a soft wave away from her face and hung nearly to her shoulders.

“I’m Merriman, the photographer,” he said, extending his free hand. “Please shake hands so I know you forgive me for startling you. I apologize. From the heart.”

From a heart that ached oddly and pleasantly, he realized. She looked doubtful, but then tried to reach for his hand. But that entailed juggling the cat, who protested with another of his weird, grating chirps.

“Let me take him for you,” Merriman said, scrambling to get one arm around the cat. He managed, and Bunbury dangled like a sulky sack of grain in his hold.

Almost shyly, Merriman offered his hand again. She studied it, then, far more shyly, took it. He stared down at her, tongue-tied. Her grasp was light and cool, yet firm.

“I’m Claire Roth,” she said. “I—I saw you walking down on the beach. I didn’t know you’d come back here.”

Merriman reluctantly let her draw her hand away. She was edging back from him, clearly about to make a quick escape. He didn’t want her to go. Desperately, he said, “The flowers—the trees. I’m taking pictures, but I don’t know what I’m taking pictures of. This tree—what is it?”

“A banyan,” she almost whispered.

“It looks like sixteen trees grown together. Those things dropping down, are they roots, or just vines? How big will the thing get?”

“It’s all one tree. Yes, they’re roots. It could grow a hundred feet tall. But it probably won’t.”

Her eyes rose to the sky. “Storms.” She looked worried.

“Hurricanes?” He should have glanced at the sky, too, but he didn’t have to. He could sense the morning darkening and the wind rising. And he couldn’t stop taking in her face.

A gust of wind lifted her hair, revealing a delicate ear that had never been pierced. She nodded. “Hurricanes. Tropical storms. We lose branches.”

Something about her made him feel giddy as a schoolboy. “There’s a watch or a warning. Does it scare you?”

She nodded. “A little. I—I need to go in now.”

“I’ll carry the cat,” he offered.

Her expression went uncomfortable, and hastily he added, “Only to the door. That’s all. Do you have to go in? I’d sure like somebody to tell me the names of all these plants.”

He was pleased to see her hesitate. She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to talk to anybody.”

“I wouldn’t ask you anything personal,” he vowed, forgetting that he owed any loyalty to Eli. “If you could just tell me the names, and I could write them down. Like that thing— I don’t know what it is.”

Still clutching Bunbury in a one-armed hold, he pointed at the peculiar flower of purple and gold. “I’ll get back, develop all this stuff and not know how to look it up.”

She still acted as if she had reservations. But she said, “It’s a bird-of-paradise.” She paused, then said, “Some people say it looks like a bird in flight. It’s unusual, because it’s actually pollinated by birds, not bees.”

“Really,” Merriman said, as if this was the most fascinating fact he’d ever heard. Perhaps it was, coming from her lips, those words about birds and bees.

He rubbed the cat’s stomach so it would stay peaceful. Merriman tilted his head toward a climbing vine with ornate lavender flowers. “And those? Orchids?”

She pushed a wayward lock of hair from her cheek. “No. They’re passionflowers.”

He rubbed the cat harder. “Passionflowers. Why are they called that?”

“Well…” She still seemed torn about lingering, but clearly she loved the plants and wanted him to appreciate them. “It’s kind of a complicated legend…”

“I’d love to hear it,” Merriman told her with so much sincerity that it made him dizzy. He rubbed the cat until it had no choice but to purr in sensual pleasure.

EMERSON KICKED OFF her sandals so she could walk in the damp sand and dodge the surf when it came foaming onto the beach. It was a game she’d played since childhood, and she loved it.

This, she calculated, would force Eli Garner to keep his distance and try to question her against the wind and over the roar of the waves. That, or he’d have to shed his own shoes and a considerable amount of dignity to stay at her side.

She was surprised when he undid his sandals and set them next to hers. He rolled his jeans up to his shins, stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled to the sea’s edge beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But today the sea was not playful. The waves that came rolling in were rough, and they did not so much collapse in a froth on the sand as throw themselves on it in assault.

The wind was cool and whipped Emerson’s long skirt around her. She had to gather it up and clench its hem in her fist. This left her legs bare to the knee, and Eli gave them a glance that seemed coolly interested. She wished she’d worn capri pants.

The wind blew her hair about, and his, too. He had thick hair, longish and wavy. He reached into his pocket and put on his sunglasses. They gave him a masked look.

She sidestepped a wave more aggressive than the rest and accidentally bumped into him. The water surged around her calves, and she nearly lost her balance when the spent wave pulled seaward again.

His arm shot out to steady her, settling on her waist, bracing her so she didn’t stumble. It seemed a perfunctory gesture, brief and businesslike. His hand fell away almost immediately. She was glad. His touch implied an intimacy she found dangerously intriguing.

“Careful,” he warned.

“I didn’t realize you were that close,” she grumbled.

“I have to stay close to hear you. Looks like we’ve got some weather coming.”

She glanced at the far horizon. There, the clouds were almost black, and a gray veil seemed to spill from them: rain.

She said, “They’ve upgraded the storm back to a hurricane. It’s in the Caribbean and moving fast.”

He studied her from behind the mask of his sunglasses. “Hurricane? When did they upgrade it? It was still a tropical storm when we left Key West.”

“I heard it on the radio right before you came.” She tried to smooth her streaming hair. “It’s growing. And picking up speed.”

“Does that scare you?” he asked.

Few things frightened Emerson, and she hated to admit that anything could frighten her. But hurricanes did. She tried to sound philosophic. “Hurricanes are the price you pay for living here.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Damn, he must sense her uneasiness. “Only a fool wouldn’t respect a hurricane. But it doesn’t scare me until I know it’s close. I’ve seen what they can do.”

“So have I. So what do you do when one’s coming at you?”

“The usual. We have emergency supplies. A propane stove, lanterns, the whole disaster kit. Even a special room. We hope for the best and close the hurricane shutters.”

He looked at the dark horizon, then back at the house. “Maybe you should shut them soon.”

She tossed her head. “Frenchy will. As soon as you leave.”

“I see. And Frenchy would be…”

“The groundskeeper and maintenance man.”

“Frenchy, I take it, is French?”

“No. Frenchy is Norwegian.”

“Then why’s he called Frenchy?”

“I don’t know. Things like that happen in the Keys.”

He seemed to reflect on this. She added, “He won’t talk to you under any circumstances. He’s signed a confidentiality agreement. An ironclad one.”

Take that, she thought. But at that moment, she had to dodge another wave and once again nearly collided with him. Why did he have to stay so close?

But he didn’t seem to notice, and he changed the subject. “So this is the beach your grandfather loved so much.”

She caught his careful wording. “He still loves it,” she said. “There’s no need to use the past tense.”

“He still comes here?” Eli asked, just casually enough.

“Of course.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “It’s the main reason he bought this place. Maybe we should turn back. This isn’t a nice day to be here.”

“I don’t mind.” His gaze swept up and down the beach.

“It’s private here. Very private.”

“Yes. It is.”

“No immediate neighbors. I looked at it on a detailed map. To the south, a mangrove swamp. To the north, a mangrove swamp. To the east, a long tract of wild country that your family owns. And to the west, the Gulf.”

She shrugged. He walked so close now that strands of her hair flicked and danced against the shoulder of his shirt. Her gauzy sleeve, damp with spray, blew against his tattooed arm.

She stopped. “The wind’s getting higher. I feel it. We’ll turn back now.”

She walked to his other side, no longer wanting to play tag with the water. She moved out of its reach, letting her skirt fall to her ankles again.

He kept even with her, and he tilted his head toward the cove. “You’d have a tough time getting here by boat, if I read the charts right. It’s shallow with a rough bottom. Almost impossible to land here.”

“That’s right,” she said, quickening her stride toward home.

“So if a sightseer should come—”

Or a snoop— she added mentally.

“—he could only see this spot from a distance. That wall of trees hides the house. All he could see is the top of the house rising over the branches. Or somebody on this beach.”

“Not many people come sight-seeing,” she returned defensively. “People come to the Keys to fish and boat and party. Not to see an aging painter.”

“I don’t know about that. I did.”

He smiled at her. He had an interesting mouth, a full lower lip for so lean a face. The smile was knowing, and there was a dare in it.

She ignored the dare. “My grandfather’s famous in the art world. But to the general public? He’s not a celebrity.”

His maddening smile stayed in place, bracketed by wry lines. “He used to be. People would see his pictures in the glossy magazines, Vanity Fair, Vogue.”

A prickle of apprehension rippled up her spine. “It got old for him. Stale. He found that sort of thing less and less attractive.”

He stopped, and she started to walk on without him. “Wait,” he said.

She stopped, but turned to stare at him in challenge. “What?”

The wind ruffled his hair, the clouded sky reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses. He held up his hand, as if signaling her to stay. “Hold on a minute. Seven years ago, your grandfather threw himself a birthday party. He’d done the same thing for years. The guest list was twenty-one people. If I remember correctly.”

He remembered correctly, all right, curse him. But Emerson gave him a smile of false sweetness. “Yes?”

“But six years ago, no party. None. And none since. He basically withdrew from the world.”

She’d known it was coming and was only surprised he hadn’t zeroed in sooner. She raised her chin. “He decided to focus more on his family and his work. His dearest friend, William Marcuse, died of a heart attack that year. It affected him deeply, especially since my father had a heart condition, too. So the Captain decided to devote himself to what mattered most. Besides that, my grandmother is a retiring woman. The social life was always a strain on her.”

It was a speech she’d rehearsed carefully and delivered just as carefully. She had said exactly the same thing before, and she never changed it. Still, she found her hands clenched into nervous fists and realized she held her back uncomfortably straight.

His gaze seemed amused. “It was very considerate of Marcuse to die when he did. He provided an excuse. It’s very convenient that your grandmother was always reserved. She also provides an excuse. But, Miss Roth, it’s time to stop the lies.”

“What lies?” she asked, feigning indignation.

He took off the sunglasses. His eyes, hard as obsidian, met hers. “No one outside your immediate family admits to talking to your grandfather for six years or seeing him closely. Something’s happened to him. Something bad. Everyone suspects it. It showed in his art then, and it’s showing more now. Much more.”

She clenched her fists harder. She felt her face turn stiff. The salt spray stung her eyes and pricked like tears.

He smiled at her like a man who holds all the winning cards and knows it. “What happened to your grandfather? What have you worked so hard to hide? Everyone knows there’s a secret, Miss Roth. Everyone. What is it?”