Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  He heard another voice. Lower. A man. Footsteps. “Anyone here?”

  Zelia, still grinning, obviously quite pleased with herself, dragged her forearm across her mouth, removing the gleam of his come, her eyes dancing with merriment. “Be with you in a minute,” she called as she rose to her feet. It took her only a couple of seconds to straighten her clothes, and then she sailed through the doorway into the front of the gallery, back straight, head high, regal, like a queen.

  * * *

  * * *

  THE FOOD WAS cold by the time her customers had left, but she had sold one of Kendrick’s sculptures so all was well with the world. Having indulged in impromptu oral sex with a handsome hunk? Well, that was an added bonus that made her slick and wanting when her mind alighted on the memory.

  She scraped the last crumbs of the lemon drizzle cake off her plate with the side of her fork. “So good.” The perfect balance of tart and sweet. “Thanks for lunch. That was lovely.”

  “My pleasure,” Gabe drawled, a slight smile on his lips, his eyelids at half-mast. “Am happy to oblige, anytime, day or night.”

  “Okay, okay.” It was remarkable how seeing him had lifted her spirits. “Away you go. I’ve work to do.”

  “I can help.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but not necessary. I can manage and you’ve got a book to write.”

  He got to his feet, poetry in motion. “Want to grab dinner after work?”

  She hesitated. Mary’s cautioning started traipsing through her mind, and on the heels of that came anger. “I’d love to,” she said defiantly.

  Thirty-eight

  MARY KEPT HER lashes lowered, her body still. She knew how to do that. Make herself small, invisible. The blond man was talking to a tall, gloomy-faced man through a crack in the door. He seemed agitated. What was his name?

  “No, Fredrick. I told you. A doctor is not necessary.”

  Guillory. Mr. Guillory. And he called her Tati. Why? Who is Tati?

  “Send him away,” Guillory hissed, then shut the door and latched it.

  She could hear the sound of two male voices murmuring softly in the hall, the words indistinct, not penetrating through the glossy burled-wood door. Their voices were further muffled by the sound of the blond man pacing back and forth and muttering. “Idiot. What an imbecile.” Beyond that she thought she could hear the sound of footsteps retreating.

  There was another rap on the door, which caused her to flinch. Luckily, Guillory had spun toward the door and hadn’t noticed. She could see him though, and the violent expression on his face caused a tremor of terror to ripple through her. Her husband, Kevin, had looked like that right before his fists would crash down, or that final time, when he’d drawn back his steel-toed boot and launched it like a baby-seeking missile into her belly, over and over.

  “Sir.” The voice came through the door again. “A moment please. I need to clarify.”

  Guillory didn’t answer. Just stared at the door, eyes intense, unblinking, lips in a feral snarl.

  “I’m alone, sir,” the voice pleaded. “I sent the physician to the aft deck to enjoy a light meal and a glass of wine. You see, sir, he’s not local. I had the helicopter pick him up from Seattle.”

  She saw the blond man’s posture soften.

  “No one knows he is here,” the voice through the door continued. “He doesn’t even know where he is, sir. I was very discreet. However, the woman”—she could hear him pause, clear his throat—“Tati, she is still unconscious, and I was worried, sir. Very worried.”

  “Oh, Fredrick”—the blond man moved forward and unlocked the door—“I’m so sorry. I never should have doubted you. Come in. Come in.”

  The gloomy-faced gentleman entered the room. Mary couldn’t risk him noticing she was awake, so she gently lowered her eyelids the rest of the way, keeping her breathing slow and even.

  “I didn’t realize you were so worried,” she heard the blond man say. “I would have told you immediately. Around fifty minutes ago Tati woke up.”

  “She did?”

  “Only for a brief moment. But she opened her eyes. We spoke.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She wanted to know where she was. She seemed surprised to see me, but happy, too. She’s going to be okay, Fredrick. I know it. It’s such a relief to have my baby sister back in my life. Like a dream come true.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m very happy for you. What a blessing.” But there was some other emotion in Fredrick’s voice. Mary could hear the subtle notes of it. Something hidden.

  One thing she was certain of. Until she found a way to escape, she must play along. Above all else, she must be extremely careful not to arouse the deadly violence that seethed just beneath his skin.

  Thirty-nine

  IT WASN’T UNTIL the wee hours of the morning—after they had made love two more times, slow and sweet, skin against skin, without any protection, and had collapsed in a sweaty tangle of limbs—that Zelia was wrenched from her sleep, fear thick in her mouth. An image of her bare office floor kept appearing, over and over again, like one of those old record players when a vinyl had a scratch. She’d tug her mind away only to have it return to the image. “Why?”

  “Why what?” Gabe murmured, a warm voice in the dark, lulling her away from the image, back to her bedroom.

  She lay back down, snuggling into the comfort of his arms, inhaling the clean male smell of him. He felt so right. As if she’d found a box containing the missing pieces to a puzzle that she had given up on a long time ago. “I had a bad dream.”

  “What about?” he asked, pushing to his elbow, moonlight on his face, eyes tender.

  “I don’t remember. It has mostly faded.” His fingers were trailing through her hair, gliding gently over her scalp, calming her mind. “Just an image remains. My office. The floor bare.” A small puff of a partial laugh escaped. “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but I woke really scared.”

  His fingers continued their peaceful caress, pulling her toward sleep again. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

  She smiled in the darkness. “Or maybe it was only a dream.”

  “Either way, I’ll go with you to work tomorrow morning. We can sit in your office and see if anything arises.”

  * * *

  * * *

  THEY WERE STANDING in Zelia’s office. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her hands resting on her shoulders, which were slightly hunched, as if she were cold. She’d been subdued ever since they’d arrived at the gallery and it had become clear that Mary hadn’t returned to work yet. Zelia’s teeth were worrying her lower lip again.

  “Anything jump out at you?” Gabe asked.

  She took a glance around. “Not really.”

  “Walk me through yesterday morning.”

  Zelia blew out a breath, long and slow, as if centering herself. She dropped her hands so they were tucked into the crooks of her elbows, arms still wrapped around her chest. “When I arrived at the gallery, I noticed the back door was unlocked and slightly ajar. I walked through the building. She wasn’t here. Fine. ‘Went for coffee,’ I thought. Then I came into the office,” she said, gesturing toward the room. Her voice seemed pretty calm, but he could see a slight quiver in her hand. “The first thing that struck me was that the desk chair was against the far wall instead of in front of the desk. ‘That’s odd,’ I thought. Then I looked down and noticed the rug was missing.”

  “The rug?”

  She nodded.

  “You didn’t tell me that yesterday.”

  He could see her mouth tighten as if trying to hold words back.

  He waited.

  “I didn’t want you to think badly of her. I was hoping she would come back, that my rug would be in place, and she’d have a reasonable explanation as to why she was gone.”

&nbs
p; “And she still might.”

  “I just . . . I don’t want to cause trouble for her. I decided a missing rug isn’t that important.”

  “Maybe it isn’t.” He shrugged, keeping his manner casual, but alarm bells were ringing. “But maybe it is. You dreamed about it. Sometimes when I’m working on a book, characters show up in my dreams and lead me to unexpected places. Have you gone through the gallery? Is anything else missing?”

  “No. Not that I’m aware of. Just the rug.”

  “How big was it?”

  “I don’t know the exact proportions, eight by ten maybe. It covered most of the floor.”

  “Was it expensive?” he asked.

  Zelia shook her head, her expression adamant. “I know what you’re thinking. Mary is no thief.”

  “Was it expensive?” he repeated gently.

  “Not in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t a flawless diamond and ruby necklace passed down through generations.”

  “So, the rug was expensive.”

  Zelia’s gaze dropped from his, her eyes troubled. She nodded. “The rug was a splurge.” She reminded Gabe of a helium balloon the morning after a party, ribbon dragging on the floor, ebullience gone. “But she wouldn’t . . .” She trailed off, her lip caught between her teeth. Then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Some of my previous employees, yes, I wouldn’t be shocked to discover they had absconded with goods, but Mary?” She seemed to be struggling with an internal debate. “I . . . I liked her.” Sad. Disappointed.

  “We should call the cops.”

  “No.” Her head jerked up, eyes blazing. The word had shot out of her mouth like a bullet. “We leave the cops out of it.”

  “Zelia. Your employee has gone missing, along with an expensive rug. The police should be informed.”

  “I don’t care about the rug. Mary will come back. She always does.”

  “She’s disappeared before?”

  Zelia gave a short nod. “It’s only happened a few times and—”

  “A few times?” Gabe couldn’t believe his ears. “And you kept her on your books?”

  Zelia thrust her chin out. “She’s my friend and a damned good worker. Besides, I’m not convinced she stole my rug. Someone could have come in while the place was unlocked, knew rugs, and helped themself to it. If Mary were going to steal something, why not grab the artwork? She knew what they were worth, could have easily walked away with a few select pieces and pocketed several hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Stolen art is difficult to unload—”

  “She didn’t take it.” Zelia seemed to be trying to convince herself, but he could see the traces of doubt in her eyes.

  “So, where is she? And why is your rug missing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Forty

  EVEN WITH HER eyes shut Mary knew exactly where he was in the room. Didn’t matter if he was in motion or absolutely still, it was as if her sixth sense had kicked into high gear. Right now he was lounging in the armchair, just sitting there, watching her. It was creepy.

  If she could have, she would’ve stayed there on the bed pretending to sleep, but she had to pee something fierce. She pushed to a seated position and swung her legs around, her feet on the floor. Her shoes had been removed, and her feet were bare.

  She kept her gaze averted, but still, she felt him lean forward in his chair.

  “You’re awake.” He sounded joyful. She felt him start to rise to his feet.

  Head still tilted away, she thrust her palm out, stopping his upward momentum. “I need to use . . . the bathroom,” she rasped.

  “Right.” He sat down again.

  She stood. Her legs felt shaky. Her head hurt. “Where is it?” She swayed slightly. He was up in a shot, his hand at her elbow, steadying her. Her instinct was to jerk her arm away, but she didn’t. “Thank you. I can manage.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Reluctantly, he released her. “The bathroom is through that door. If you’d like to shower there’s a clean robe on the hook that you are welcome to use. I’ve ordered some clothes. They should arrive later today. Hope I got the sizes right.” He smiled anxiously. “I had to guess, but as you probably remember, I’m pretty good at studying bodies.”

  What the hell does that mean? Panic flared, but she stuffed it down. He’d been looking at her while she was unconscious, estimating her weight, her size. Had removed her shoes. Had he touched her, too? Mary repressed a shudder. No. He thinks you are his beloved sister. You need to keep it that way. She was convinced her survival depended on it. “I’m sure the clothes will be fine.” She headed toward the bathroom door, wanting to run, but keeping her movements calm and measured. She knew from experience that running showed weakness, labeled one as prey. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.” She stepped over the threshold, onto a white marble floor that was cold under her bare feet. She closed the door behind her, then leaned against the glossy, burled-wood surface, her heart beating hard. Slowly, she turned the lock until it had silently slipped into place. His name. What was his given name? She’d need to find out in order to maintain the deception.

  “You’ll need some sustenance,” she heard him say. He’d moved and was standing on the other side of the door. “Any dietary restrictions?”

  She straightened and stepped away, staring at it, staring at the lock, willing it to hold. But the door handle didn’t budge. She listened, heart beating way too loud in the silence that had fallen.

  “No. I eat everything.” Her mouth was so dry, sticking her words to the roof of her mouth. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Very good. I’ll have Chef whip something up.” He rapped a pattern on the door. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tappity-tap. There was an expectant pause. “Remember that?” he asked.

  Panic rising. What the hell am I supposed to say?

  “Tati?”

  “I . . . I really have to go.”

  He laughed, a carefree sound. “Right. Silly me! There will be plenty of time to reminisce later.” She heard the sound of his footsteps crossing the bedroom, another door opening and then shutting solidly behind him.

  Mary raced to the toilet. No sense trying to make a break for freedom when one’s bladder was bursting. She did her business, quickly washed her hands, unlocked the bathroom door, and sprinted across the room. She listened at the door leading to the hall.

  Silence.

  She pulled the door handle downward and tugged.

  Shit.

  The door was locked.

  She ran to the window and yanked back the curtains. The windows were sealed tight, but even if they had been the kind that opened, it was clear she could not escape through them. The Pacific Ocean was cold in February; hypothermia would set in long before she managed to reach the shore.

  Forty-one

  ZELIA WAS ATTEMPTING to work on the layout of the new catalog but was having difficulty focusing. It might have had something to do with the large, powerful male who’d ensconced himself at the small table by the coffee station and was pounding away on his computer. Or it could have been that her unease over the events of the last week seemed to be intensifying.

  She lifted the office phone receiver and dialed Mary’s number again, hoping that this time she would pick up.

  Ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . . ring . . .

  Frustrated, Zelia hung up. It was getting rather embarrassing, the amount of times she had called. She was like a bloody stalker. If she didn’t fire Mary, the woman would probably quit once she got a look at her missed-call feed.

  “No luck?”

  Zelia’s gaze jerked to the door. Gabe was leaning against the doorframe, rather like a large predatory animal waking from a nap. He tipped his head toward the phone. “I
assume that was Mary you were calling?”

  There was no need to answer. Apparently the damn man could read her mind. She turned to her computer screen and started fiddling with various fonts. Pointless really. She always used the same one. Totentanz. Branding and all.

  “You’re obviously stressed about her. Why don’t we lock up and swing by her place?”

  “I’m trying to run a business here.” She didn’t look away from her screen even though she wasn’t actually seeing any of the images before her.

  “We’ll drive by. You can knock on her door. Make sure she’s okay.”

  “Oh God.” Zelia rose from her desk, hand on her mouth. “You’re right. Mary might be sick.” She raced past him to the coat closet. “Need help. Her phone battery’s dead because she’s been too ill and unable to get out of bed to charge it.” Zelia yanked on her raincoat, kicked off her pumps, and shoved her feet into her boots. She ran back into the office and scribbled a message on a yellow Post-it, to place on the front door. She glanced over her shoulder at Gabe, who was watching her with an amused smile. “Well? What are you waiting for?” she demanded as she peeled the note off the pad. “Grab your coat. Pack up your stuff. We gotta go!”

  Forty-two

  ZELIA KNOCKED HARDER on the door. She could hear the cat yowling inside even over the noise of the vacuum that the greasy-haired man was wielding at the opposite end of the narrow hall. “I don’t understand,” she said to Gabe, who was standing beside her, “why Mary chose to rent in this depressing apartment complex. There are so many cute cottages on the island that were available. Or at least she should’ve taken one of the units on the ground floor. She could’ve had a sliding glass door that led out to a little garden patio space. Sure, most of them looked scrappy, but with a little bit of care . . .”

  The vacuum at the end of the hall switched off. The man yanked the plug from the outlet. The cord whipped into the body of the vacuum with a thwack. He grabbed the handle of the vacuum and stomped down the hall toward them, jowls and beer belly jiggling.