Читать книгу The Seducer - Jule Mcbride - Страница 8

One week ago…

AS SHE SWUNG OPEN the carved oak door to the New York brownstone she shared with her husband and where she still tidied her three sons’ rooms daily even though they’d long ago left home, Sheila Steele felt the sticky summer heat gust inside, dislodging loose gray strands from her pinned-up hair. Anxiously smoothing them, in case this was another officer asking her to come to police headquarters to talk about her husband, Augustus’s, disappearance, she peered out, heart clutching.

When she saw the man on the stoop, her heart sank. A lost tourist, she decided, taking in the khaki shorts, Hawaiian print shirt and shaggy blond hair. Dark blue eyes surveyed her from behind black-framed glasses, and a camera was slung around his neck. As a female New Yorker related to four cops, Sheila was safety conscious to a fault, and so, despite her husband’s disappearance, which was consuming her with worry, she was also regretting that she’d be unable to let this poor stranger inside to use the phone, if that’s what he wanted. He looked honest, like the kind of young man who’d get robbed on city streets if he wasn’t careful. “Can I help you?”

He squinted. “Ma? It’s me, Rex.”

Her lips parted in frank astonishment. “I didn’t even recognize my own son!” Underneath the disarming attire, her son Rex was as dark and swarthy as a pirate.

“I came as soon as Sully called with the news about Pop.”

Sheila pressed a hand to her heart as her middle child stepped into the foyer, giving her a hug and kissing her cheek. “Don’t feel bad about not recognizing me,” added Rex, who’d worked undercover for years. “Nobody does, you know. That’s the point.”

Despite the circumstances of the meeting, Sheila leaned back to study the son who most shared her passions and temperament. “Hard to believe the tall, dark, handsome man I gave birth to is really under that costume somewhere.”

“He is,” Rex assured. Without the wig, contact lenses and cheek pads, he had dark unruly hair and hazel eyes that shifted between shadowy, moody colors—gray, blue and green. His cheeks were shallow, his lips full, his body sculpted from the hours he spent in the precinct gym. “My big case broke yesterday,” he explained, “so I spent this morning riding the F train.” The Mr. Nice Guy outfit was designed to make him an appealing target for pickpockets who rode the subway, hoping to fleece tourists.

Sheila managed a watery smile. Under other circumstances, she would have laughed. “My son,” she murmured. “The professional victim. How many times have you been robbed this morning, sweetie?”

“Three,” Rex admitted. “But I arrested them all, Ma.”

“Good for you.” She took a deep breath. “Well, c’mon inside. Everybody else is in the courtyard.”

He followed her down a long hallway. “Everybody?”

“Both your brothers. Sullivan got here first. And Truman brought the woman he’s been dating, Trudy Busey.”

“The one I met the other day at lunch? From the New York News?”

Sheila nodded. “Truman was with her at the newspaper when I called him.” Sheila grasped Rex’s hand for support. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Pop’s gonna be fine,” he said, his voice reassuringly soft and yet grimly masculine, his eyes focused on the summery light at the end of the hallway. Through a screen door, riotous leaves sprawled in a courtyard garden that was one of Sheila’s passions.

“I can’t imagine what’s happened to your father.” She sighed. “You were supposed to go on vacation tomorrow, right?”

“To Seduction Island. Just off Long Island.”

“That’s where the boat was anchored before it…”

Exploded. Rex didn’t blame her for not wanting to voice the word. “Pop knew I was going there as soon as my case broke.”

“Maybe he wanted to meet you there,” she probed, her voice catching. “Are you sure he didn’t tell you why he was going there? Or who he was going with? Did he say anything about what he’s involved in?”

“Nothing.” Augustus Steele had begun his career as a beat cop in Hell’s Kitchen, graduated to arresting gangs in Chinatown, then landed a job in administration at Police Plaza. Since he no longer worked cases, no one knew how he could have wound up aboard a boat that exploded near Seduction Island, New York. Or where he’d gone afterward. If he lived. Rex pushed aside the thought.

“If he needed help,” Rex murmured, trying to ignore how much it hurt to admit it, “Pop would have gone to Truman or Sully. You know that, Ma.” In the deepening warmth of her gaze, Rex felt her quiet understanding. He and his father had never really bonded. “I’ll do whatever I can,” he continued. “This is Pop we’re talking about. Starting tomorrow, I’ve got a month off.”

Dismay was in her voice. “But your vacation…” She knew Rex lived for the times when he fled to unknown beaches, often registering in hotels under assumed names so no one but her could find him. For one month a year, he pursued interests unlike those of his father, brothers and many Manhattan law enforcement officers—reading, writing, painting and cooking. Hobbies he loved, but that, in the Steele household, had often gotten him pegged as a sissy by his father. Not that his dad didn’t love him, but Augustus had strict ideas about what constituted manhood, none of which involved interests in the arts.

“My vacation doesn’t matter,” Rex replied, wishing he could take the uncertainty from his mother’s eyes. “Family first,” he assured. “C’mon. Let’s see what Sully’s found out.”

It wasn’t good, Rex realized, after seating his mother and himself at a round table shaded by a leafy oak. He glanced at Truman, who’d come in his uniform, then at their oldest, suit-clad brother, Sullivan, who was captain of the precinct nearest the house. Both brothers, with their light brown hair and whiskey eyes, were the spitting image of Augustus. Rex looked like Sheila. Her hair had been as dark as his before it turned gray.

“My boss Dimi’s refusing to run the article I’ve been writing about your family and the NYPD,” Trudy was saying, her blue eyes snapping with indignation, her straw-blond hair blowing across her cheeks with the breeze. “It was supposed to be in tomorrow’s News, but Dimi won’t publish anything until he’s sure Mr. Steele’s done nothing wrong.” She groaned in frustration. “I can’t believe this! Now, more than ever, your names should be in the paper! We need to figure out what’s happened!”

Rex squinted at his brother’s girlfriend, who was a reporter. Along with the news about Augustus, Rex had been apprised that Trudy and Truman had just cracked what the tabloids had dubbed the Glass Slipper Case. Judging from the light in Trudy’s eyes when she glanced at Truman, she’d fallen for him while they were working together. Despite the circumstances, Rex felt a rush of happiness for his baby brother. “What was the article about?”

“For the past two weeks, Trudy’s been on a ride along in the patrol car with me,” Truman explained, rising from her side. He started pacing, the hands on his hips slipping down to a billy club and holstered gun. “That’s how we wound up solving the Glass Slipper Case. Anyway, the article was supposed to be good PR for the city. You know, a day in the life of a cop. It was going to press tonight.”

“I remember you mentioning it,” said Rex.

“I was at my desk writing it,” Trudy added, “as well as the Glass Slipper story, when Sheila called.” Pausing, her eyes darted to Sheila’s. “I’m sorry I was so angry when I came over earlier today.”

Rex was less concerned with what had transpired between the women than with collecting facts pertaining to his father’s disappearance. “You say they’re pulling the story?”

Truman nodded, stepping behind Trudy, placing his hands on her shoulders and massaging them. “The rumor’s that Pop’s on the take.”

“Ridiculous!” Sheila exclaimed. “Earlier, when Trudy came over, I’d just gotten a call from Police Plaza. They didn’t even do me the courtesy of coming by the house to tell me he disappeared! And he’s been on the force thirty-three years! He’s never taken a dime, except from his paycheck, but they made me go all the way downtown to tell me he’s…he’s…”

Rex’s fingers closed over hers. “It’s okay, Ma.”

Looking unconvinced, Sully thrust both hands deep into his trouser pockets and relaxed against an oak tree. Red painted lines on the bark marked their heights as kids, but Sully, now thirty-six, towered over the marks. “That internal affairs woman who’s been on my back is heading up the investigation.”

Rex cursed under his breath. “Judith Hunt?”

“Yeah,” returned Sully. “According to her, the money in the city’s Citizen’s Contribution fund is missing. She took a crew to Seduction Island to dive for whatever’s left of the boat.”

“The Citizen’s Contribution fund was set up so that private citizens could make personal donations to the police without any question of impropriety,” said Trudy.

“Do they really think your father could steal public money?” whispered Sheila. “After all his years of loyalty and service?”

Sully sighed, his eyes lighting briefly on his brothers. “I hate to have to say this, but they’ve got Pop withdrawing money at the bank. On videotape.”

Sheila was dumbfounded. “Your father withdrew money?”

Sully paused, then said, “In light of some of the tragedies we’ve had in Manhattan, the account’s bigger than ever. It was…seven million.”

Sheila was reeling. “Dollars? Of public money? And a bank let him take it? There’s got to be a mistake! He’d never…”

“He wire transferred the money from Citicorp,” countered Sully, “then picked it up elsewhere in two suitcases. He works with the accounts, so he knew the numbers.”

Sheila stared. “He took the money in suitcases? That’s impossible. Your father could never do such a thing. He’s an officer. He knows how that would look.”

“The videotape’s incriminating,” agreed Sully.

Stricken, Sheila whispered, “What if he’s dead?”

“C’mon now,” chided Rex gently. “Pop’s too tough to die.”

“You’ve got a point there, Rex,” agreed Truman.

“We’ll figure this whole thing out,” Sully assured.

“I just don’t get it,” interjected Trudy, lifting her hands to twine them with Truman’s. “He’s an administrator at Police Plaza. He doesn’t even work on cases. The only logical explanation is that he stumbled onto something.”

Rex raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Trudy shrugged. “Who knows?”

Rex rifled a hand through the blond wig he wore, wishing it didn’t itch in the summer heat. “Even if Pop discovered someone mishandling funds—say, from the Citizen’s Action account—taking the money himself is a strange way of fixing the problem. He had to know he’d be seen on tape. Maybe he posed intentionally,” Rex mused. “Why wasn’t the money invested, anyway? Isn’t that the responsibility of the Dispersion Committee?”

Sullivan shrugged. “All good questions, Rex. But the fact is, we haven’t got any real clues as to what’s happened. Not yet. All anybody knows for certain is that the boat, named the Destiny, docked at the Manhattan Yacht Club and Pop was on deck when it left the slip.”

Rex visualized the mile-long sidewalk fronting Battery Park, overlooking the Hudson River and the Statue of Liberty. “On Wall Street?” he murmured, imagining his father exiting Police Plaza, then walking along Centre Avenue. To get to the yacht club, he’d have passed City Hall, the Brooklyn Bridge and the Stock Exchange. “That’s a pricey place to dock. Donald Trump and Henry Kravis keep boats there. Who owned it?”

“Registered under a false name,” supplied Sullivan. “I’m still looking.”

Rex shook his head. “We need to find that out.”

“And if your father’s still alive,” added Sheila shakily.

“No bodies have been recovered,” Rex reminded.

When everyone fell silent, Rex cast brooding eyes into the garden, long enough that his gaze unfocused, making the world appear to be a blur of color. Situated on Bank Street in the West Village, the Steeles’ home had been handed down through Sheila’s family, and from the front, despite cheerful green shutters, the stone edifice was gloomy. The courtyard opened onto another world, however. Hidden from the city streets, the garden exploded with the flowers Sheila tended whenever she had spare time left after community work.

Silently, Rex cursed his father. Why didn’t he bother to notice how often his wife’s face was drawn with worry? She’d strived so hard to make their lives wonderful. And now this. Staring into the courtyard where they had played as kids, Rex could hear his father saying, “We’ve got to toughen you up, Rex. When you join the force, we don’t want them thinking you’re a pansy, do we?”

Nope. Which is why Rex had turned out as tough as shoe leather. He had a scar from a knife fight on the Lower East Side. A black belt in karate. Promotions for daring feats of courage. Commendations. He could outshoot any officer in Manhattan. But deep down, he was a lover, not a fighter. It was he, not his brothers, who remembered his mother’s worry when Augustus didn’t make it home from stakeouts. And the excruciating times—sometimes minutes, sometimes hours—between hearing a cop was killed in the line of duty, then being told the victim wasn’t Augustus. No doubt, things were as Trudy said. Augustus had discovered wrongdoing, then set out in high macho style to catch the perpetrator himself.

Now Rex would have to find him. A far cry from the last time Ma called us here, Rex thought ruefully. Only a few weeks ago, she’d received one of the biggest lottery wins in New York City history, and driven by a good heart and desperate desire to see her sons happily married, she’d made an unthinkable deal. If Sullivan, Rex and Truman kept silent about the money and married within three months, she’d divide fifteen million dollars between them. Otherwise, she’d give the money to a wildlife research station on the Galapagos Islands.

She’d looked so beautiful that day, too, with humorous lights dancing in her eyes. Unlike the stiff gray suit she’d chosen for today’s trip to Police Plaza, she’d been wearing a vest embedded with tiny mirrors and a brightly patterned skirt, dressed for her volunteer work with CLASP, an organization for the homeless.

Rex could still hear what Truman had to say once the men were alone. “Fifteen million! That’s five million each.”

Sully had shaken his head. “If Ma hadn’t shown us the letter from the lottery board, I wouldn’t have believed something like this could happen.”

Rex had chuckled. “Don’t be so suspicious, Sully. This is Ma we’re talking about. Not a criminal.”

“Beg to differ,” Truman had countered. “Didn’t Ma say she expects us to find wives? And if we don’t, she’s going to give all that money away to a foundation that saves sea turtles?”

“They also save marine iguanas,” Rex had reminded.

“And don’t forget flightless cormorants,” Sully had said.

“Oh, right,” Truman had whispered. “Flightless cormorants.”

At that, the brothers had stared at each other in shock and, a moment later, they were hooting—clapping each other’s backs and wiping tears of merriment from their eyes.

But Rex had meant what he’d said. As far as he was concerned, the Galapagos Islands could have the money. Like his brothers, he’d been weaned on stories of the mysterious volcanic islands just off the coast of Ecuador. Close to a mainland rich with a history of Inca warriors, Amazon explorers and Spanish conquistadors, nature had been left to thrive on the islands, becoming home to wildlife that existed nowhere else on earth. Rex had spent more than one summer vacation lounging on the rocky beaches, sketching the animals.

“We can’t find soul mates in three months,” he’d argued that day, intrigued by their mother’s inventive way of encouraging them to find spouses.

“She said wives, not soul mates,” Truman had argued.

But for Rex, they were the same. Besides, to him marriage was just a piece of paper. Maybe because he was a lawman, he wanted something that transcended legalities. He wanted mystery. Romance. Poetry. Soul-searing sex. A lover whose warm body would twine with his, melting his heart. Each year, on his annual sojourn, he imagined he might find that woman. He envisioned meeting her while wandering in the dunes near a deserted beach and making love to her in the hot sand while sea foam washed over their bare bodies.

Not that it mattered. Sure, he’d love to see his mother’s face light up with the news that he’d found someone, but Augustus was missing, which meant Rex would be looking for him on Seduction Island—not love.

Rex said a silent goodbye to the month-long hiatus he got once a year. At least he’d already forwarded his mail to Casa Eldora, the two-bedroom cottage he’d rented on Seduction Island in the name Ned Nelson. According to the sexy-voiced Realtor whose laughter sounded like crystal bells and who had introduced herself as Pansy Hanley, the waterfront place was on stilts, its shingles weathered to silver. It was nestled where sand drifts gave way to otherworldly, deeply cratered dunes. Accessible by a private shell road, the house was off the main drag, Sand Road, but still in view of the ocean.

How many times had he spoken to Pansy? Rex couldn’t recall. But they’d established an easy rapport. When they met, Rex had been planning to do what he always did on vacation—drop the mask. Lose the disguises. Trade in his sidearm for a fishing rod. He’d ask Pansy Hanley to Casa Eldora for dinner…maybe more. Now he squeezed his mother’s hand. “If Pop’s out there, I’ll find him, Ma. Don’t worry.”

No doubt, he’d be busy on Seduction Island, just not seducing. So much for this year’s hopes that Pansy Hanley might turn out to be a dream lover.

“PANSY? LILY? Are you home yet? We’ve got to talk!”

Long before she saw her youngest sister, Violet, Pansy Hanley registered her high-pitched voice and instinctively double-checked the jacket to the all-white suit she’d slung around the back of a kitchen chair to make sure it was safe from Vi. Vi, when excited, was the world’s biggest klutz, and Pansy wanted to wear the jacket to meet her client, Ned Nelson. “I’m here,” Pansy called toward the screen door, waiting for Vi to appear in the dunes. “Lily just got home, too—”

“I know it was my turn, so thanks for making lunch,” said Lily, breezing into the kitchen and plopping down at the table. “I was running late.”

As Pansy washed down a bite of her specialty—almond butter on homemade rye—she studied her sister’s string bikini. “If you get bored on the beach, Lily,” Pansy offered dryly, “you can always take off your bathing suit and play cat’s cradle.”

Lily chuckled. “Or hog-tie the nearest beachcomber, rub him down with Coppertone and force him to have sex with me.”

Pansy tried to look scandalized. “Your mind’s in the gutter, Lily.”

Lily merely grinned. “Too bad every guy out there with a metal detector is pushing seventy and too old for us. What’s Vi so upset about?”

“Who knows?” Pansy shrugged as Vi pushed through the screen door, lifting a shoulder bag stuffed with mail onto the kitchen table. “You’re a mess,” gasped Pansy, taking in Vi’s mail carrier uniform—a striped shirt and gray shorts—splashed with syrupy pink liquid. Pansy’s eyes dropped to the soda can in Vi’s hand just as Vi crushed her stubby-nailed fingers around it.

“Don’t tell me,” quipped Pansy. “We’re fresh out of boards you can crack with your head.”

Ignoring the good-humored gibe, Vi set aside the crushed can and lifted the remaining sandwich. Between healthy, gulping bites, she said, “Thanks for lunch. I’ve got to change uniforms, so I’ve only got a minute.”

It was hard to say how the same gene pool turned out three such different females. All the Hanleys had light brown hair, just a shade down from honey blond, but Pansy’s flowed in sumptuous layers past her shoulders. The curviest of the three, she liked wearing a trace of makeup and comfortable skirts, practical but feminine, nothing she’d have to iron. Today’s white suit was an anomaly, chosen because the client she was to meet, Ned Nelson, had sparked her imagination during their phone conversations, though she wasn’t quite sure why.

By contrast to Pansy, the middle sister, Lily, owner of Lily’s Pad, a stationery shop, had cut the same almost-honey hair in a sharply wedged bob, and it had been years since anyone had seen her wearing anything besides a bikini or a linen shift. Vi, the youngest, was deeply tanned from surfing. She kept her hair short—less wind resistance, she claimed—trimming it above ears studded with tiny silver earrings.

Having quickly dispensed with her sandwich, Vi pushed aside the plate she hadn’t bothered to use and said, “Okay. Now for the news. You two aren’t going to believe this!”

“By the looks of the mailbag, you’re about to get fired,” Lily guessed in an awed voice, still gaping at the soda drips.

“Or get more demerits,” agreed Pansy worriedly. “Did any of that soda actually make it to your mouth, Vi?”

“Not much,” admitted Vi. “The second I opened the can, Garth Garrison’s dog—you know, that chocolate Lab he named Gargantua?—well, he came after me like a hound from hell. I ran, of course.”

“Very logical response,” said Lily.

“I didn’t want to use the Mace,” Vi defended. “Not even Gargantua deserves that. Anyway, I accidently dumped the soda in the bag. But all is not lost.” Grinning excitedly, Vi held up a cherry-stained envelope as her sisters looked on with dismayed expressions. The flap had come unglued, and in her effort to save the letter, Vi had slipped it from the envelope.

Pansy groaned. “You didn’t read somebody’s else’s mail, did you?”

“I had to!” Vi protested. “I had no choice!”

“Violet Hanley!” Lily exclaimed in censure.

“Somebody on this island won the lottery,” Vi blurted, untucking her uniform shirt and using it to dry the letter.

“The lottery?” echoed Pansy, thinking Seduction Island didn’t have a lottery. “What lottery?”

“The New York lottery,” Violet explained, her voice hitching. “Whoever it is won fifteen million dollars.”

Pansy stared in shock. “Fifteen million dollars?” she echoed as if replacing the emphasis might make the words make better sense.

Violet nodded, stunned. “Yeah. Somebody on Seduction Island!”

Lily whistled. “And I thought we’d already had enough excitement for one week.”

“You’d think,” said Pansy, glancing through the screen door toward where a sliver of ocean was visible through the dunes. New York and local police were diving from an outboard motorboat, searching through the wreckage of a yacht that had exploded. Pansy had been thoroughly questioned, since she’d witnessed the fireworks, and then, less than an hour ago, she’d gotten another shock. A wooden plank had been salvaged from the wreck, and on it was the vessel’s name, Destiny. It was the same name as the boat on which Jacques O’Lannaise had met Iris Hanley years ago. Pansy’s heart clutched as she worried over the strange coincidence.

“Who won?” Lily asked impatiently.

“That’s the thing,” returned Violet. “I don’t know. When I spilled the soda, the ink ran.”

For a second, even fifteen million dollars didn’t have the power to pull Pansy’s attention to her sisters. Her gaze had shifted from the police and the Destiny to Castle O’Lannaise, the romantic white adobe estate perched on a bluff of the north shore, which could be seen from most points of the island. The property had changed hands countless times and had even been owned by a past president, but it was never inhabited long, which, for Pansy, only served to substantiate rumors that it was haunted by the dark, swarthy ghost of Jacques, whose star-crossed lover’s past was so intimately tied to the Hanleys’.

Despite what finding a buyer for Castle O’Lannaise would mean for the realty business, Pansy loved the palatial estate, and for years she’d dreamed of finding a buyer who’d open it as a summer resort, just as Jacques O’Lannaise had planned. She’d felt that putting history to rest would restore Seduction Island’s flagging economy, and she hoped the lottery winner would be interested in the estate.

“Garth Garrison was my next stop,” Vi was saying. “Since the sorters put the letters in order, he’s probably the winner.” She groaned, thinking of the cranky horror novelist who lived in a tumbledown shack near the water. “I hate to think of him winning so much money,” confessed Vi. “He’s such a jerk.”

“A good-looking jerk,” reminded Lily.

“If you like the artistic type.” Vi rolled her eyes as if to say she’d never registered that Garth was male. “Anyway, you all have to look at the address. See if you can read it. If it gets out that I ruined the mail again, I’ll get fired.”

Pansy sidled next to Lily. All three women stared at the business envelope. “That’s definitely the lottery board’s return address,” Pansy murmured, shifting her gaze to forms the winner was supposed to fill out and sign. “And you can make out the word, ‘Mr.”’

Lily grinned. “The winner’s definitely male.”

“Then he’s married,” said Vi. “He couldn’t be single. We’re not that lucky.”

Summer storms aside, meeting so few eligible men was the one drawback to living on this otherwise idyllic island. Most men were salty retired sailors, and by the ripe old age of ten, the Hanleys had tired of having their hearts broken by seasonal tourists, whom they frequently vowed never to date, although they always did.

“Fifteen million,” Pansy whispered, wondering if a buyer for Castle O’Lannaise was about to materialize.

“This is our zip code,” offered Lily.

“What if Garth Garrison is the winner?” Vi said. “You know, Lily, you’re right. He is kind of cute.” Vi paused. “I mean, in a surly, self-absorbed, narcissistic sort of way.”

Pansy frowned. “Did you ask him if he won?”

Vi gasped. “Are you kidding? He’d tear my head off if he knew I dripped cola into the mailbag. He’s never forgiven me for that one manuscript of his I ruined. And it’s not like he didn’t have that book on disk. Besides which, who’d want to read something called Bloodsuckers?”

“You,” Pansy told her.

Vi would prefer not to admit she was a secret admirer of Garth’s lurid novels. “Well, anyway—” she huffed “—I didn’t ask him. I bet he’d complain to Mr. Vincent, and I’d get fired.”

“We’ll send the letter back to the lottery board,” decided Pansy reasonably. “They’ll know how to redirect it.”

Vi shook her head. “The letter’s dated. If the winner doesn’t get it in time, they’ll lose the money.”

Lily chewed her lower lip. “Could that really happen?”

“I don’t know, but it would be terrible,” Pansy agreed, knitting her brows. She’d hate for an accident such as this to cost a stranger the unbelievable sum of fifteen million dollars. “So much for ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire.”’

The Hanleys were die-hard fans of the show. “Hang it up, Regis,” whispered Vi. “This guy’s getting fifteen big ones.”

“Maybe a tourist won,” Lily speculated.

Pansy considered. “Nope. It’s a local. Tourists never forward their mail. Usually someone at home picks it up while they’re on vacation.” She chuckled. “Besides, there’re only two tourists.” As a Realtor and part-time tour guide, she knew this was the worst rental season in history. And on Seduction Island, that was saying something.

“We have more than two,” chided Lily.

“Three?” guessed Vi.

“Nearly five hundred,” corrected Pansy. “But given our proximity to Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard…”

Vi raised a staying hand. “Please,” she warned, “don’t start talking about how this island’s cursed, Pansy. Right now, I’m in real, ordinary, everyday trouble. I don’t need to hear about your ghost pirate. C’mon. Does anybody have any bright ideas?”

“Lily,” Pansy said, “you’re on the town council and you’re holding the summer meeting for visiting families tomorrow night. Half the locals come anyway, so we could announce this. We’ll just say…that I found the letter.”

“If no one claims it, we’ll post it on one of the bulletin boards. At the grocery store or something,” said Vi in relief. “Perfect. Can you believe someone on our island won fifteen million?”

The Hanleys, of course, knew Seduction Island was public and didn’t really belong to them, but ever since Winston Hanley had arrived in the seventeen hundreds and built the house the women now shared, Hanleys had been taking responsibility for the island and its inhabitants. Besides, everybody knew the island hadn’t become a city dweller’s getaway, despite its proximity to New York City, because Jacques O’Lannaise cursed it when Iris Hanley hadn’t married him years ago. After that, every Hanley had felt doubly responsible for whatever went wrong.

Lily gasped. “What if Lou Fairchild won?”

“Your fellow town councilman?” scoffed Vi. “You have no sense of irony, Lily. It has to be Garth Garrison. Someone as nice as Lou Fairchild would never win so much money.”

“It’s a shame Lou’s not better looking,” sighed Lily.

That was an understatement. Lou Fairchild, despite his name, had a face only a mother could love. But Pansy barely heard. Once more, she was imagining buying Castle O’Lannaise and turning it into the romantic resort it was meant to be. Suddenly, she glanced at her watch. “Oh, no! I’ve got to run,” she said with a start, quickly rising and grabbing her jacket. “I’m meeting Ned Nelson.”

“The guy renting Casa Eldora?” Lily asked, using the name of one of the rental cottages on the water.

“That’s the one.” Pansy had started hoping Ned would be as sexy as he sounded on the phone. Not that a mere man could compare with the fantasies she’d had about her favorite ghost, of course. Pausing at the door, Pansy traced her fingers over the screen, a slow smile tilting the corners of her mouth when she saw Castle O’Lannaise in the distance. “Whoever won the lottery is going to buy that castle,” she announced, excited prickles of certainty washing over her skin.

“Well,” returned Vi pragmatically, “maybe you can marry him and buy it yourself. But not if you bore him with tales about your mystery lover who haunts the dunes.”

Lily mustered a fake French accent. “Jacques O’Lannaise,” she murmured, the name floating fluidly off her tongue.

“Don’t you think it’s odd the boat that exploded out there was called Destiny?” Pansy murmured.

“Explosions,” Lily returned darkly. “A bad omen.”

“I bet it was just a mechanical failure,” said Vi, glancing toward the ocean.

Pansy’s mind had filled with images of her ancestor, Iris Hanley, pacing the deck of a sailing ship, twirling a parasol on her shoulder, her long skirts swishing. According to family legend, she’d been sailing to distant cousins in New Orleans in hopes of meeting handsome suitors when pirates boarded the Destiny. Iris had trembled when one—a strapping man in tight breeches and a blousy white shirt with lace cuffs—stopped before her, his dark, unruly hair blowing wildly in the wind. But he didn’t rob her. Instead the man sheathed his sword, wrapped his arms around Iris’s waist and savaged her mouth, capturing her lips in a kiss like fire. A kiss that ruined Iris Hanley for marriage, since no other man’s kiss ever surpassed it.

Twelve years later, in 1822, when a mysterious Frenchman arrived on the island to build Castle O’Lannaise, it was said he was that same pirate, that he’d arrived under an assumed name, made rich by the spoils of his plunder, to claim a woman he’d seen only once but whom he’d already branded with his fire.

“Pansy?”

Vi’s voice startled her. “Huh?”

“Ned Nelson,” Vi reminded.

“Right,” Pansy whispered distractedly. Feeling whimsical as she pushed through the screen door, she fancied she wasn’t going to Casa Eldora but into the dunes beside the cottage to meet her dark dream lover, Jacques O’Lannaise, and as her sandaled feet touched the sandy porch, she felt the coiled power in the hard body that held her, the brush of bristling black chest hair that erupted between the laces of his blouse and then the rush of blessed, fiery heat as Jacques’s firm, wet mouth covered hers.

A second later, she found herself hoping—much more practically—that Ned Nelson would turn out to be cute.