In the Deep

by White, Loreth Anne

  “Something to eat, then?” His smile deepened. “To help soak it all up.”

  I realized his accent was Australian. With maybe a hint of British. Underscored by Canadian, or was it American? And there was no judgment in the way he said “soak it all up.” The moment—his manner—was curiously intimate, casual, easy. Simple. I hesitated as some vestigial thing reawakened deep inside me. I glanced back in the direction Dana had gone. I thought of my cold North Shore house across the bridge. All packed and boxed up and hollow. Chloe’s empty room. How long had it been since a man had noticed me in this way? I’d put on so much weight after Chloe, and it was not all off yet, but he didn’t seem to care. What I saw in his eyes was approval. It felt good.

  “I’m in town for this convention,” he explained, “and it’s been a brutally long day. I need to decompress, and I could do with your company.”

  I knew they served brandies by the fire in the dark pub, and one wall was lined with bookshelves of first editions behind glass doors. The chairs were deep and comfortable.

  “I’m Martin.” He held out his hand. “Martin Cresswell-Smith.”

  “Ellie Tyler.” I placed my hand in his.

  “So, Ellie Tyler, how about the drink and a bite to eat?”

  I hesitated and held his gaze. Had I sent out the wrong signals? Inadvertently invited the wrong kind of attention? He didn’t look like a serial killer. And I was safe inside this hotel, right? How wrong could this go?

  You can be whoever or whatever you want, Ellie . . .

  I smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

  THEN

  ELLIE

  I looked for a ring. There was none. It didn’t mean he wasn’t married, but I’d decided in the washroom that if he sported a wedding band I was out of here. The server arrived bearing a cheese board with two glasses of port. Martin had selected a low table in front of the fire with two chairs turned partially toward the hearth. It felt private. Intimate.

  “I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty,” Martin said, gesturing toward the food and drink. “We can change the order if you don’t like—”

  “It looks wonderful.” I reached for a glass, relieved to see he also seemed a little nervous. It suggested to me that picking up women on the way to the bathroom was not something he did routinely. Perhaps he really had seen something special in me.

  He raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass to mine. “To chance meetings.”

  “To chance meetings.”

  I liked the shape of his hands. And in spite of the hint of nerves, he possessed the air of easy authority that often came with established wealth. Thanks to my father, I’d met many men who carried that aura. And judging by his bronze Rolex and gold cuff links engraved with the initials MCS, combined with the elegant cut of his clothes and the Bolvaint shoes, Martin Cresswell-Smith was accustomed to financial success. I felt something inside me begin to open up. Hope. A possibility that I could live—really live—again. Laugh. Love, even.

  “What are you thinking, Ellie?”

  “That you don’t look like a serial killer.”

  He laughed. Loudly. The sound rich and infectious. He leaned forward, a mischievous light twinkling in his eyes. “But I could abduct you. I could take you away from here to a dark and remote place.”

  “Too risky. Too public. CCTV cameras.” I wiggled my hand toward the roof.

  He glanced up. “Are there?”

  I hesitated, not yet ready to share with him how much I did know about this hotel that bore our family name. “Well, I imagine there might be. In the lobby, at least. And you’d have to take me through the lobby, right?”

  “Hmm.” He swirled the rich burgundy liquid in his glass. It caught the glow of the fire. “Maybe a rear service door?”

  “Opening a back door would sound the fire alarm.”

  He made a wry face. “Okay, you win. Abduction is out.”

  I chuckled, reached for an artisan cracker, topped it with soft cheese, and popped it into my mouth.

  “So where is the accent from?” I said around my mouthful.

  “The better question is where isn’t it from.” He fell silent for a moment and I had a sense he was debating how much to tell me about himself. “I was born in Australia. Melbourne. My mother was originally from Canada. My father is in property development. Shopping malls. International resorts. So we traveled a lot when I was growing up. We spent three years in England, and I went to school there. Some time in the States—Nevada, New York. Then Portugal and France. A year in the Caribbean. Some months on the Red Sea living at a diving resort for a project my dad was working on there. A lot of time in Toronto. I live there now. My business is based in Toronto.”

  “And you’re here as part of the AGORA convention?”

  He nodded. “A chance to pitch a development proposal in New South Wales. We had backers, mostly out of China, but red tape between the Australian and Chinese governments recently forced my financiers to pull out.” He sipped his drink. “So now I’m looking for some new equity partners and have done a few pitches here.”

  “What sort of development is it?”

  He looked into my eyes, weighing me, and I wondered what he saw—a tipsy and brainless female unworthy of an in-depth explanation, or someone seriously interested.

  “It’s a resort and residential development along the coast about four hours’ drive south of Sydney,” he said. “A very high-end marina with a lodge and rental-cottages component on an estuary.” He glanced at the fire for a moment, then smiled and said, “It’s just north of an area I loved to visit as a kid. We spent several family holidays there. A place called Jarrawarra Bay. We’d go after Christmas each year when I was around nine, ten, eleven, and the last trip was when I was twelve.” He paused. “Those years in some ways were the best part—the truest part—of my life.”

  I chilled inside. I’d had almost those exact same thoughts just moments ago—that the years just before and when I was nine—before my mom died—those had been the truest, most real parts of my life. I’d even mentioned this to a magazine journalist who’d written a feature on the “Grieving Hartley Heiress.” It had been a sympathetic piece, for a change. The journalist had lost a child of her own and had understood me. I stared into his baby-blue eyes, memories surging over me.

  “What is it?” he said, attentive. “You look like a ghost just walked over your grave.”

  “It’s nothing. I . . . just . . . it’s like you read my mind.” I smiled, feeling a deepening kinship with this warm, attractive, attentive, charismatic man who shared my sorts of feelings. “I’ve thought the same thing before. Tell me about those holidays?” I reached for my glass and sipped, absorbing him wholly, the evening of drinking lending a pleasant warmth and evaporating the last of my reserve. “Why were they so happy?”

  “Oh, I guess it was because I still got on with my father, before I disappointed him.”

  My pulse quickened.

  “Sounds crazy,” he said.

  “No, I understand. Really, I do. What about siblings?”

  “Older brother and older sister. I’m the baby.” He made a rueful face. “And yeah, the family disappointment, as it turned out.”

  “Why?”

  Martin leaned back in his chair and cradled his drink. “My whole family are—or were—über athletic. Glorious human specimens, really. Unlike me, especially as a child. My sister was a minor tennis star before she became a top corporate executive. My brother’s sport was rugby. He could have gone far professionally had it not been for a boating accident the family blamed on me.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn’t listen to the ‘captain,’ which happened to be my father. We were going out from the river mouth, and big waves started to break over the sandbar which had formed at the tidal mouth of the river. When a bar breaks you need to time everything just right—it’s when most boating accidents happen—going in or out when the bar is breaking. I didn’t listen t
o an order, got in the way . . . and the end result was the boat hit a wave as it was breaking, and we went nose-up into the air and the boat flipped over backward. My brother was hit, broke his back.” Martin’s face and voice changed as he spoke about it. Pain showed. Unresolved pain. My heart squeezed.

  “Anyway . . . Jeremy—my brother—ended up okay in the long run but unable to play rugby. He went into real estate development with my father, and my dad spent everything on him—time, money, love . . .” His voice faded.

  “To make up to him?”

  Martin took another sip of his drink. “In part, yes, I think so. And also to shape Jeremy into his own image, equip him to take over the empire, so to speak. I was cut from my father’s life. Nothing I did could meet his approval. God knows I tried one crazier scheme after another to get his attention. I just ended up screwing up.” He laughed, but there was no mirth this time. “I was the runt, the little black sheep. A tad too tubby, not at all athletic, nor handsomely chiseled, nor quite as tall as the rest of them. Including my mom.”

  But I liked this runt. I liked the substance of what he’d grown into. I’d never been partial to perfect features or skinny triathlete types anyway.

  “End result—I left Aus when I was nineteen and never looked back, really.”

  “Although you did go into property development like your dad,” I said. “And there’s the marina project back in Australia.”

  He laughed again. Warm. Everything Martin did was warm. Engaging. “Touché, yeah,” he said in that flat Australian way. “The project of my heart. I should have said that I never looked back until that part of the world started calling a couple of years ago. I realized I still hankered for that coast where we spent such amazing family holidays. Maybe it’s the kid in me.” He finished his drink. “Or maybe it’s because my brother tried to buy that land for development some years back and failed to develop it.”

  I raised my brows. “So this is payback?”

  “Nah. More like, ‘I’ll show you all that I am not a loser. Jeremy failed but I won’t.’”

  “Except the China money backed out.”

  “Yeah. But I’m here. I got some nibbles I hope will pan out.”

  “Hard to see you as a loser from where I’m sitting, Martin.” I reached for my glass.

  Something changed in his face. His gaze locked with mine. The air thickened between us, and I felt heat low in my belly.

  He broke the gaze, cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, maybe it is just another subterranean way for that kid in me to get Daddy’s attention. But it’s a damn good project. Enough about me. Tell me about you, Ellie Tyler.”

  And I did. That I was a children’s book illustrator and freelancing. Divorced, because my marriage hadn’t worked out. I told him I was moving to an apartment because we’d sold our big, empty North Shore house. I refrained from mentioning Chloe. And I did not mention my father. I needed to protect those parts of myself still. I’d learned the hard way, and I wanted new people to know me—the real me—before they thought of me as a product of the Hartley empire. The most wonderful thing about Martin was the way he listened. He gave his whole attention, as though I was all that mattered to him in the world right at this moment, in this warm cocoon of a cozy bar.

  “So you live in Toronto?” I asked.

  “It’s my base. I travel a lot. I’m involved with several developments in Europe at the moment—Spain and Portugal. And in Turks and Caicos. I’ve got something brewing in the Cook Islands. No wife or kids, so I move around where the work takes me.”

  Hope burned hotter. And alcohol had loosened me enough to say, “A guy like you, no wife? I’d have pegged you as taken.”

  “I was in a long-term relationship until very recently. Never married, though. And it’s over now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I . . .” He hesitated, and I caught a flicker of emotion in his eyes. “I wanted a family. Kids—several. I wanted to do the whole white-wedding-vow-traditional thing. She didn’t. Simple as that. And when I forced the issue . . .” His voice faded. He adjusted his tie. I felt a twinge of guilt for pressing him. I’d ruined the mood.

  “I clearly wasn’t her Mr. Right, that’s all. I figure down deep somewhere she was reserving options.” He changed the subject. “So what brought you to the Hartley Plaza tonight if not the AGORA convention?”

  “Oh, just a meetup with a very old and dear friend from art school.”

  “An event that called for high heels.”

  “Serious heels.” I laughed. “Don’t you know that women dress to impress other women?”

  “How about your family—you have siblings?”

  I shook my head.

  He studied me in silence for a few moments, his gaze so direct, so intense, it was like he’d slipped his hand into my shirt and touched bare skin. And I almost wished he would. I felt myself lean in. He lowered his voice to a whisper, and it did things to my insides.

  “I’ve never met a children’s book illustrator. I’ve met a lot of people. But never one who makes children’s books come alive.”

  I took out my phone and showed him some of my work, our heads close. I could smell his aftershave. I could feel his breath against my cheek.

  “Whimsical, Ellie. Beautiful.” His fingers brushed mine as he returned my phone. He looked at me. Really looked, this man who wanted kids. Who’d dreamed of traditional wedding vows. Who’d loved family holidays by the sea. “Truly wonderful,” he whispered. “How did you get into this work?”

  I cleared my throat. “I got a degree in fine arts and literature and followed up with art school. I had every intention of being a fine artist—gallery exhibitions, the works. But I found I loved illustration, especially for children, and I . . . I like the freedom that freelancing offers, to travel, move around.” My heart beat fast. I felt hot, excited, suddenly. I’d just made a decision—yes, I wanted to travel. I wanted the flexibility. This was my new narrative. My choices, my decisions. Adventurous Ellie.

  “And no long-term relationship, no kids for you?”

  Wham. Just like that he flipped me over.

  I tried to smile. My mouth wouldn’t cooperate. “I . . . I should go.” I reached for my purse at my feet.

  He put his hand on mine. “Must you?”

  Did he expect sex? Would he be angry if I said no?

  “I need to get home. I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow.”

  He hesitated, then quickly took a pen from his pocket and scribbled a number on a napkin. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you, Ellie Tyler.” Not a hint of disappointment in his voice. Which made me like him all the more. Martin Cresswell-Smith was a man who could be my friend. And I realized I would actually like to have sex with him. I wanted it. Very badly.

  “But it hasn’t been long enough, and I’d really like to see you again.” He held the napkin out to me. “My mobile number. Call me. Please.”

  No threat. It was all up to me. My choice to call. Or not. I could just drop this napkin into the trash on my way out. Or I could keep it. I took it from him and our fingers touched. A shiver chased down my spine.

  I cleared my throat again. “Are you going to be in town for a while?”

  “Four more days at this hotel. I’m checking out on Monday. But seriously, Ellie, call. Anytime. Like I said, I travel a lot.” He paused and held my gaze. “But I can make long distance work.”

  We let those words hang between us—a visceral, ectoplasmic, shimmering sense of promise. I tucked the napkin into my purse.

  He called for the check. I saw him sign the tab to his room. I got to my feet and wobbled slightly. He helped me into my coat and placed his hand gently at the small of my back as he escorted me from the bar into the lobby, the pressure of his palm both gentle and firm. Both sexual and benign. Both controlling and charmingly chivalrous.

  He accompanied me outside and made sure I got safely into a cab. I nestled into the warm back seat of the taxi, and he waved good
bye from the hotel doors. As the cab pulled away I pressed my palm against the cold window and watched him through the softly falling snowflakes, feeling as though I were in a romantic movie.

  “Where to?” asked the cab driver.

  Home.

  I gave him my address.

  Except it doesn’t feel like home anymore.

  As the taxi started down the snowy street, a traffic light turned red. We stopped, waiting in the softly swirling snow for the light to turn green. I turned to look back into the lighted windows of the hotel. Martin had gone inside and was standing in the lobby, talking to a woman and a man. A memory niggled through me. Martin said something to the couple and they all laughed. The man peeled away and the woman started to walk with Martin toward the bank of elevators. It hit me—the woman who’d been sitting at the Mallard bar counter earlier. Or was she?

  A hesitation rippled through my fuzzy memory.

  The light turned green and the cab started to move.

  “Wait!” I called to my driver. “Stop!”

  He hit the brakes. I flung open the door and tumbled myself out into the snowy street. I ran carefully on my heels toward the hotel entrance.

  “Hey!” I heard the cabbie yell behind me. I ignored him and pushed through the revolving doors into the hotel, my heart hammering.

  THEN

  LOZZA

  Over one year ago, November 18. Agnes Basin, New South Wales.

  Warm rainwater leaked down the back of Lozza’s neck as she crouched in the darkness, taking photos, her camera flash throwing the floating body into macabre relief. White skin against black water, the empty eye sockets, the nose-less face, open, lipless mouth. She clicked. Flash. Her brain circled around the words she’d heard shortly before they got this call.

  “Ellie is not what meets the eye . . . That kind of woman can be the most dangerous when betrayed or wronged, because you least expect it. They can be deadly. Did you know that she stabbed her ex-husband . . . ?”

  The sheer number of puncture wounds in this floater’s chest—about fifteen, maybe more—whispered of rage, unhinged violence. Red-hot passion—because you didn’t need to stab someone this many times to kill him. But the ropes, the severed fingers—was that planned torture? Sadism? And why no pants? Where was the boat? How’d he get here, into this channel?