Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

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  * * *

  THE BACK DOOR of the gallery wasn’t shut properly or locked, which was weird, because Mary was the one who insisted it always be locked. Before Mary started working for her, Zelia would leave the back door unlatched. When her arms were full of packing material it made runs to the dumpster easier, deliveries, too.

  Maybe living on Solace Island has finally softened Mary’s vigilant need to batten down the hatches. Wouldn’t that be something?

  “Hey, Mary,” Zelia called as she stepped over the threshold. She slipped out of her raincoat, held the garment outside the door, and shook the droplets off. “I’m back from the big bad city.” She repeated the process with her rain hat, then shut and locked the door, stepped out of her rubber boots, and tucked them in the closet. “I’ve been giving our conversation a lot of thought,” she called over her shoulder as she removed her beloved pair of sling-back leather pumps from her bag and slipped them on. She liked the whimsy of the dark blue shoe with its cream kitten heel and tan piping. Was especially fond of the unexpected choice of the pale tangerine strap, sole, and interior that topped it off. “At the time I found myself resisting what you had to say, but it was important for me to hear. I know it wasn’t easy, and I appreciate your honesty.”

  No answer.

  “Mary?”

  Silence.

  The bathroom door was cracked open. No one was in there. The blinds were pulled up in the office. Zelia could see through the window that it was unoccupied.

  “Mary?” Zelia moved through the main portion of the gallery to the loft staircase. She took the stairs two at a time, hoping to see Mary’s smiling face, earbuds in, bebopping to music while assembling a new piece.

  The feeling of tension in her belly was building, but she wasn’t sure why. It’s probably the aftereffects of the last few days.

  She arrived at the top of the stairs.

  No Mary.

  You didn’t check the storage room. She went down the stairs, through the back room, down another set of stairs into the basement. The door to the storage room was locked, the padlock in place. If Mary were in there, the lock would be open and sitting on the file cabinet.

  Zelia stared at the door. A shiver ran through her. Oh my God. I hope she’s okay. She hasn’t come to some harm, has she? The taste of fear was coating her throat, making it hard to breathe. Nonsense, she told herself sternly. Buck up, Zee. You’re jumping at shadows. This is not the first time you’ve found the gallery unoccupied. Mary is a good worker, but sometimes she’s a flake. She looked down at her hands. So why am I shaking? You are shivering because you’re wet. It was the height of stupidity to get soaked to the bone because you fancied a walk.

  Zelia forced herself to take the stairs back to the main gallery one at a time at a sedate pace. The place felt cold. She checked the temperature. It was normal at seventy degrees.

  Maybe Mary had to leave, locked the front door and forgot she’d left the back open.

  Zelia checked the front door of the gallery.

  It was unlocked, too.

  She pushed the door open, stood in the doorway, and scanned the parking lot. Her stomach had constricted into a hard knot. All right, Zee. You’ve got two choices. You can either allow yourself to be engulfed by this irrational fear, or you can look at the facts. Mary has done this before. Why are you searching for some kind of cockamamie explanation for her behavior? Zelia shook her head, suddenly pissed. It was one thing for Mary to go on a bender, or whatever the hell it was that Mary got up to when she would drop off the map. But to check out when Zelia wasn’t in town and she’d been left in charge? That’s pushing the bounds of friendship just a little too far.

  The minute Zelia had the uncharitable thought, she felt guilty and backtracked. Maybe there’s a good reason. Maybe Mary got in early and went on a quick coffee run?

  Zelia rubbed her hands over her face, suddenly weary. Even so, to leave the gallery unattended and the doors unlocked was inexcusable. Someone could have waltzed in and cleared the place out, bankrupting Zelia in the process. I can’t run a business like this.

  Thirty-four

  GABE HAD SPENT Sunday slogging through the slew of data Mitch was e-mailing him. Mitch was a little OCD, which was one of the things that made him so excellent at his job. However, the never-ending barrage of information landing in his in-box was rather like an undertow had grabbed Gabe by the ankle and yanked him out to sea.

  Every now and then Gabe would take stretch breaks. Occasionally he’d mix things up and wander to the front window and gaze out. A luxury yacht had dropped anchor in the cove. The interior lights had gone out a little after midnight, but he could still see its dark silhouette bobbing on the water, every once in a while capturing a strand of moonlight when there was a break in the clouds.

  Mostly, however, he would find himself staring out the back window at the moonlit sculptures, wondering where he’d gone wrong. What was the misstep? Why had Zelia recoiled from his offer to stay? He’d spent hours racking his brain to no avail. Then he’d dive back into the rabbit hole of data on Alexus, while consuming the offerings of the minibar. At one point Gabe had attempted to work on his manuscript, but everything that came out was crap and had to be deleted. That was the problem with taking a couple days off from writing. It took that long again to wiggle his way back into the story. It wasn’t until the night sky started to lighten that his brain was sufficiently anesthetized to allow him to collapse in exhaustion.

  When he awoke, he felt like shit. He needed to eat something to help combat the ravages of last night’s excesses. Splitting headache, sandpaper eyes, and his mouth feeling as if he’d slept with a gym sock stuffed in it. He fumbled for the hotel phone on the bedside table. Dialed the dining room.

  “Hello,” he croaked. “This is Gabe Conaghan in the Hampstead Cottage. I’d like to order some breakfast.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the voice on the phone replied. “Breakfast service ended several hours ago.” The person didn’t sound sorry at all. Sounded bloody cheerful about the fact.

  “What time is it?”

  “One thirty, give or take a minute or two.”

  “Fine. I’ll order something from the lunch menu. I’ll have some toast, ginger tea, and . . . Do you have chicken noodle soup?”

  “We don’t serve lunch in the winter months, sir. Just a shortened breakfast service and dinner of course. Would you like to make a reservation for tonight?”

  Gabe stifled an oath. “No thanks,” he said in a reasonably civilized tone and managed to hang up the phone without slamming the receiver down. That was another thing he would recommend his father rectify during the Mansfield Manor overhaul, the lousy room-service hours.

  By the time he’d brushed his teeth, showered, downed a Nespresso and a bag of potato chips from the minibar, he felt a little more human.

  The front porch of his room was in clear view of his parents’ cottage and, as much as he loved them, he needed time to get his bearings. He stuck his notes and computer in his satchel and slung it over his shoulder. He would go to the Intrepid Café, park himself in a corner table, get some food, and perhaps fit in a few hours of writing. He scanned his room and chose a window on the far side, out of view of his parents’ cottage. He opened the window and stuck his head out, took a quick glance around. The coast was clear. He swung one leg over the windowsill, then the other, and dropped to the ground, his satchel hugged to his chest to protect the computer. He was feeling pretty good, despite the headache. Couldn’t help grinning. I’m no longer watching life through my window. I’m jumping out of it. An odd thing to feel proud of, he mused. Basically, you’re a thirty-six-year-old man who just leapt out a hotel window to avoid the possibility of running into your parents. Chastising himself only made the ludicrous feeling of joy expand.

  Once he was safely in the shelter of the trees and heading do
wn the stairs, laughter escaped. He almost felt as if he were channeling Troy Masters. Granted, the man was a figment of his imagination, a character in his book. However, a spur-of-the-moment trip with a beautiful woman, disabling an alarm system, breaking into a building, the hottest lovemaking session of your life, sneaking out of your own hotel room . . . He shook his head. Good God, Gabe, what’s next?

  The image of Zelia’s shuttered face from Saturday dropped into his mind. She’d looked so unhappy.

  Right. What would Masters do?

  Thirty-five

  “I CAN’T,” ZELIA moaned, her fingers flying on her keyboard. “I’m swamped.” Her hair had loosened from its clasp, and tendrils were tumbling around her face.

  Gabe leaned against the doorframe of her office, enjoying the view. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  “I had a piece of toast this morning.”

  “That’s it?”

  She slapped her hands down on the desk. “Gabe,” she said, clearly trying to keep a rein on her temper. “I know you mean well, but I can’t just waltz out the door in the middle of my workday.”

  “You don’t eat lunch?”

  “Not today.”

  “Are you on a diet?”

  She hit send with more force than was warranted, then pushed back from the desk and scowled at him, her eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me fat?”

  He took a half step back. “No. God no. I love your body.”

  Zelia’s gaze dropped, and her shoulders slumped. “Sorry. It’s been a lousy morning and I’m taking it out on you. I know I need to lose a good forty pounds—”

  “Are you nuts?” Gabe broke in. “You’re perfection just the way you are. I love your luscious curves, your silky-soft skin, the glorious texture and the creamy color that’s brushed with a hint of peach. If you lost forty pounds you’d be skin and bones.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d be the weight I was in college.”

  “Well, you were too skinny then.”

  “Didn’t seem to bother you. If I recall, you mentioned something about falling for me back then.”

  “I fell for you in spite of you being too skinny. It was your joie de vivre that poleaxed me, the glow in your eyes, the curve of your lip—”

  “Anyway.” Zelia blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing up and then deflating. “As much as I’m enjoying this pointless argument, lunch is out of the question. I have work to do.”

  Gabe turned and headed for the closet by the back door. “I’m not going to let you blow me off,” he called over his shoulder as he opened the closet and removed her raincoat. “Mary can watch the shop for an hour while you grab a bite to eat.”

  Zelia had risen from the desk and was standing in the office doorway, her eyes weary. “She’s not here.”

  Zelia’s raincoat was soaked through. She’d probably get a chill donning it. “When’s she getting back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gabe felt his eyebrows rise. “You don’t know?”

  Zelia rolled her shoulders as if trying to dispel unwanted tension. “It’s the cost of running a business on Solace.” Her teeth worried her lower lip. “Sometimes employees”—she exhaled shakily—“even the good ones, occasionally flake out.” She shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. “So, it’s up to me to hold down the fort solo.” Gabe opened his mouth, probably to protest, but Zelia cut him off at the pass. “Believe me,” she said, keeping her voice and her hand steady. “When Mary shows up tomorrow—or whenever the hell it is that she decides to waltz through that door—we are going to have a serious conversation. I am well aware that it is not okay for her to leave me in the lurch like this.”

  Thirty-six

  “TATI. COME ON, Tati. Time to wake up . . .”

  Mary could feel someone patting her cheeks, his voice tugging her upward out of the darkness.

  “That’s right.” It was a man’s voice, smooth and melodious. She had heard that voice before. Where? “That’s a good girl. Come on now. Open your eyes.”

  Her head was throbbing. She turned her face into the pillow. Pillow. I must be in bed. But why is a man in my bedroom? Her eyes flew open. A slender blond-haired, blue-eyed man was bent over her. He appeared to be in his thirties. He was smiling at her. “Tati,” he said, his long, cool fingers stroking her face. Who the hell is he? He looked relieved. Happy. Shy. Why? Her gaze darted past him, taking in the room over his shoulder. None of it familiar. The sound of rain was loud on the roof.

  “Where am I?” She frowned, confused. Her voice sounded croaky from disuse.

  “On my boat,” the blond man said.

  A boat. That’s why the room was rocking.

  “Our boat.” He smiled again. There was something about his smile that reminded her of a little lost boy. “I’m so glad I found you.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then the memory assailed her. He’d been in the gallery. The unease she’d felt. Seeing the flash of gold out of the corner of her eye before the heavy knob of his umbrella made contact with her head. “Oh Jesus,” she murmured. “In trouble. Big trouble.” Then the pain wrapped its arms around her and pulled her under again.

  Thirty-seven

  “THIS IS THE problem with going to the Intrepid Café when ravenously hungry,” Gabe said as he pulled a veritable feast from a large brown paper bag and placed it on the small table in the back room of the gallery. “I overbought.” He shook his head in bemusement, dislodging some of the raindrops that had gathered from his tramp through the rain. He never went overboard like this. “So, take what you like. Don’t be shy. We’ve got”—he pulled some more cardboard containers from the bag and flipped the lids open—“piping-hot turkey mushroom pie with a flaky crust. A delectable ham and cheddar croissant with some kind of chutney, or an albacore smoked tuna salad with vinaigrette, if one is in the mood for something lighter.” As he removed the round containers from the bottom of the bag and took off the lids, the delicious smells were making his mouth water. “Two creamy tomato soups.” He unwrapped the little white pouch, revealing crackers. “With Parmesan crisps, and if that isn’t impressive enough”—he grinned at Zelia, rattling the second bag at her—“I also purchased several desserts.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” She was pretending to be disapproving of his excesses, but he could see the corners of her mouth reluctantly quirked upward as she turned and walked to the drinks station, the sway of her gorgeous hips singing their siren’s song. “I’ll get us some cutlery and plates. Do you want something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Espresso?”

  You, he thought. I want you. “Coffee would be great, thanks. Black.”

  She must have heard something in his voice because she glanced over her shoulder at him. Her gaze slid down to his crotch, taking in the swollen state of him, and her cheeks flushed.

  Her lips parted slightly, as if catching her breath, the tip of her tongue moistened her lips, and he went from swollen to rock hard.

  She swallowed, her gaze rising to meet his, caught. He could see her pupils dilating, making the stormy ocean-blue gray of her irises a thin band around the black. Primal-hot need was arcing between them like an electrical current.

  He wasn’t sure who moved first, or if they had moved toward each other in unison, beginning to rip clothes off themselves and each other. Her hot mouth latched onto his, her fingers running through his rain-slickened hair, tongues tangling. Her blouse half unbuttoned, shoved down to her waist, the front-hook bra was easily managed, her abundant breasts spilling into his hands, her skin silky smooth, her nipples taut.

  “My God, Zelia, you’re so fucking gorgeous.” Her hands had somehow freed him and were wrapped around his hot, hard length, stroking up and over in a twisting move that was about to make his head explode. He started to tug her skirt up, but she dropped to her knees and wrapped her warm, wet mouth around hi
m, her hand continuing to glide and twist, up and over, her lips making room for her hand and then diving back down, sucking him deep into her throat. He watched, mesmerized as his thick, hard cock glistened slick and wet as it drove into her welcoming mouth, her lashes fanning across her cheeks, a slight humming noise arising as if nothing made her happier than the taste of him.

  “Jesus, woman,” he moaned, gathering her hair in his fist, tilting her head back slightly so he could get a better view of her face, of his ruddy stiff cock disappearing between her ruby-red lips. The movement of her head was causing her glorious breasts to undulate, the upturned peach nipples ruched and wanting his touch. Keeping his cock thrust forward into the embrace of her mouth, he reached his free hand down and cradled one of her breasts, playing with the nipple, squeezing it slightly, which caused her to squirm and moan.

  The front door of the gallery chimed.

  He froze. “Shit,” he whispered. “Zelia. Someone’s here.”

  She lifted her mouth from his throbbing cock. “Then you’d better be quick and quiet,” she whispered, a dare in her eyes and a naughty curve to her lips. Then she engulfed him in her hot mouth, deep down into her throat. Her enclosed hand twisted down to the base of his shaft, her other hand cupping his balls. Then her fingers traveled even farther, to stroke the spot between his balls and his asshole.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice called, just as Gabe’s head jerked back and an explosive, knee-weakening orgasm started to slam through him. He tried to pull out, not wanting to drown her, but her greedy mouth followed him, drinking up every last drop while his cock emptied its load down her throat.

  When the pulsing in his cock stopped, she rocked back on her heels and grinned up at him, her lips, her chin slick with his come.

  You slay me, he mouthed, undone by how goddamned beautiful she was, her face glowing at him, luminescent as the moon.