by Nalini Singh
How could this city cop know that Golden Cove was branded into every cell in her body, that even when she’d slept in a soft bed in an expensive terraced house in London, while manicured grass grew in their shared city garden and designer gowns hung in her closet, she’d dreamed of this tiny town perched on the edge of an ocean so pitiless it had taken more souls than the devil?
Box stowed, she turned to hug Josie again, then got in the Jeep to drive toward that same pitiless ocean, and when she passed a narrow road that led inland, she deliberately didn’t look its way.
There was nothing for her down there.
The old-growth forest on the edge of town closed in around her for five minutes before it began to thin out, let in flashes of the sea. But the cabin that stood on the far side of that growth, overlooking the sand below the cliffs, was shadowed by a huge rata tree. Sunlight only speared through on the brightest days, but that was all right. There was plenty of light on the beach once you made your way down the precariously narrow track.
Bringing the Jeep to a stop facing the side of the cabin, she just sat and stared for a long while, but nothing changed. There was no one there. No one would come out with a big smile and wave her in for a cup of tea. No one would invite her for a walk on the beach. And when Christmas came and the rata bloomed as scarlet as fresh blood, no one would sit with her under its shade.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, then made herself open the driver’s-side door and get out. Leaving her stuff where it was, she crossed the short distance to the cabin and walked up the steps to the small porch. Leaves crunched underfoot and she saw a spider, legs furred and long, scuttle across the wood. Thick spiderwebs hung on the eaves, a thinner web around the doorknob.
Turning it, the mechanism stiff, she opened the door.
And walked into a thousand memories.
5
Will took a long drink of his beer, while beside him, Nikau nursed his. “She’s something, isn’t she?” the other man said.
Will didn’t have to ask to know who Nikau was talking about; he’d learned quickly enough that there was only one woman in town who put that tone in a man’s voice. “She’s a little young for you, Nik.” He looked over at where Miriama Hinewai Tutaia held court, her hair flowing past her waist and men buzzing around her like bees around a honeypot.
A woman that attractive to men didn’t usually have many female friends, but Miriama did. They buzzed around her, too, wanting her attention, wanting her laughter. She handled their need with generous ease, giving just enough that no one felt left out, no one felt as if they weren’t enough. And so that the black-haired man with thin wire-frame spectacles who had his arm possessively around her waist felt as if he mattered the most. “Dr. de Souza has also beaten you to the punch.”
“You realize he’s older than I am?”
“Only by a couple of years.” Far too young a doctor to end up a general practitioner in a desolate West Coast town, but when Will had checked up on Dominic de Souza, he’d found no black marks, no problematic history. Seemed like the man was here for exactly the reason he’d said: in a big city, he’d have been the junior in a big practice, but in Golden Cove, he got to be his own boss.
“She’ll get tired of him sooner or later,” Nikau predicted. “A woman with that much life in her, she’s not going to be happy with a podunk doctor. She’ll want wilder and I’ve got it.”
“Hate to break it to you, but the podunk doctor lives in a nice part of town and owns a flash European car. Have you seen the state of your place?”
Nikau shrugged. “If Miriama just wanted money, she’d have hooked up with one of the rich tourists who pass through here.”
Will couldn’t argue with that. Even in just three months, he’d seen more than one out-of-towner take a single look at Miriama and fall at her feet. Not all were young backpackers, either; Golden Cove also got the rich travelers who came for the pottery or to stay in the refurbished B&B, which had recently earned a place in a high-end travel guide as a “hidden gem.”
“I hear she’s leaving.” That was the thing with this town—the way the gossip flowed, you’d think you knew everything. But there were secrets here, a thick tide of lava beneath the surface. Will felt them, and once, when he’d been a detective who dug and dug and dug, he’d have begun to poke around. But if he’d still been that man, he wouldn’t be here, so the point was moot.
“Six weeks to go.” Nikau took a sip of his beer. “Plenty of time.”
Snorting, Will returned his gaze to the bottles behind the bar. There was no fancy lighting here, no glass shelves. It was dark wood and solid, the bottles lined up neat as soldiers. “She’ll burn you up.” Will was grateful he’d never felt a tug toward Miriama; she was too young, too shiny, too innocent.
Will had lost his innocence so long ago that he barely remembered the taste of it.
“Man likes being burned now and then.” Nikau turned his attention back to the bar. “What about you? How long you gonna turn down the invitations coming your way?”
“Let’s say I’m not in the mood.” He wasn’t in the mood for much, not even living.
“You still got a dick?”
“Last time I looked.”
“Then you’re in the mood. Go grab Miss Tierney of the big blue eyes and the big tits and heat up the sheets. She’s been shooting you ‘come to me, cowboy’ looks since we sat down.”
Will had nothing against the schoolteacher who worked in the next town over, but he had no desire to screw her, much less date her. It was like that part of him had switched off thirteen months ago. Will wasn’t even sure he wanted it to switch back on.
Deciding to change the focus of the conversation, he said, “You ever going to tell me what you’re doing in Golden Cove?” Will had run a background check on the other man the day after he took up the position of local cop—Nikau had looked like trouble and Will had wanted to know how bad it was.
What he’d discovered hadn’t been anything like what he’d expected.
“Field research,” was the mocking answer. “Talking of which”—he swung off the bar stool—“your dick might have taken a vacation, but mine hasn’t.” A slap of Will’s shoulder. “Christine Tierney off-limits?”
“Only if she says so. I’ve got nothing to do with it.” He raised his bottle. “Good luck.” Throwing back the last of his beer, he put the bottle down on the stained and scarred wood of the bar and got up. “I’m going home.”
Shaking his head at that, Nikau prowled off toward the group of women that held Christine Tierney. Despite the other man’s question about Christine, Will wasn’t sure who it was that Nikau had in his sights—and he wasn’t sure Nik cared.
Having already confirmed that Nikau was planning to walk home, he said good-bye to a few others, then headed out. The night wind was cold, bracing, the salt water heavy in the air tonight. He strode toward the street that would lead him to the far eastern end of town.
He’d lived in the B&B for the first month, until he got sick of the landlord knowing his every move. So he’d rented a house that belonged to a couple who’d left Golden Cove but hadn’t been able to find a buyer for their property. Not many people wanted to move to such a remote area on a permanent basis.
Spotting a group of teenagers loitering in front of the closed tourism center, he crossed the empty road to them. They immediately straightened. He caught the fading hint of tobacco smoke, decided to let it go. It was the harder stuff that was a real problem—and there was plenty of that floating around in town.
“I think it’s time you went home,” he said quietly. “I heard you guys have an exam tomorrow.” The teenagers caught the bus to a high school an hour away, but that didn’t mean the town didn’t know the details of their studies.
The kids scuffed their shoes. “It’s gonna be stupid basic,” one of them muttered, but when Will met his eyes, the
boy dropped his head.
“I’ll walk you home,” Will said, even though two of them lived out of his way.
The teens weren’t exactly thrilled at the escort, but they were young enough not to give him lip. He knew Golden Cove wasn’t a big city, that it was unlikely they’d get in trouble the way a city kid might—but then again, the most evil monsters often wore a familiar face. Could be he was walking them home to danger, but he knew the parents of all these kids: a couple were apathetic, uncaring of where their kids wandered, but the rest did their best on meager budgets.
Only once they’d all walked through their front doors did he continue on his way, his gaze drawn toward the trees that hid the ocean. He’d heard through the grapevine that the new face in town, Anahera Spencer-Ashby, formerly Anahera Rawiri, had moved into a clifftop cabin that had once belonged to her mother.
The place hadn’t looked safe to him the last time he’d checked it out, so he’d made a few inquiries. The town was too small to have a mayor, but the leader of the business council had assured him the cabin was solidly built. “Though it’ll be filthy,” Evelyn Triskell had said with a shudder that threatened to dislodge the tight silver bun on top of her head. “Probably spiders everywhere. Anahera is braver than me.”
Almost without thought, Will’s feet turned toward the cabin. It was a long walk, but he had plenty of time—he didn’t sleep much—and the night was crisp, the sky above studded with stars. He stopped halfway down the graveled drive to the cabin, able to see it clearly from his position. Light blazed from the window that faced the drive.
A body moved across the uncurtained window right then, the shape feminine.
She froze midmove, staring out at the darkness, as if she sensed him. He knew she couldn’t see him out here in the blackness and he wondered who else might watch her. She needed to get curtains, he thought as she flicked off the light, putting them on an even footing.
Satisfied that she was safe for the night, he turned and left. The crashing thunder of the ocean was his only accompaniment as he walked, the rhythm a steady beat that was a dark pulse.
6
Anahera woke to the sound of tuis outside her window, the talkative birds chattering away at the crack of dawn, their song deeply familiar. She hadn’t gotten much done yesterday, but she had cleaned out the bedroom that had always been hers in this small home—she couldn’t bear to take the larger bedroom for her own.
That had always been her mother’s.
The metal frame of her old bed had survived the years, but the sheets and bedding, mattress included, came courtesy of Josie and had been dropped off by her husband two hours after Anahera returned to the cabin. Except for his short beard, Tom Taufa was as Anahera remembered—big and husky and practical.
Josie had also sent a pillow and a little rug for beside the bed, plus plates, cups, and utensils. Anahera was very glad for her friend because the truth was that she hadn’t thought this through. Her things were currently on a container ship somewhere in the North Atlantic. She’d brought a suitcase of clothes with her, as well as other odds and ends that had seemed important at the time, but she’d forgotten more than one necessary thing.
Obviously, her head was still not where it should be.
Pushing aside the memories, she lay in bed for ten minutes just listening to the birds, the crisp lemony scent of the sheets and comforter around her. It wasn’t until her eyes began to burn that she realized she was waiting for her mother’s soft knock on the door, and for Haeata to come in with a cup of coffee for her slugabed daughter. She’d sit on the bed, her silvery black hair in disarray from the walk on the beach she’d already taken, and her skin cold to the touch but her eyes warm and joyful.
Anahera swallowed hard and sat up, her gaze going to the window from where she’d felt someone watching her last night. “Curtains,” she muttered to herself. There were no shops in town that sold homewares, but if Josie didn’t have some old sheets that she could use then she’d drive out to the nearest town with a larger shopping district. She didn’t know where the old curtains had gone. Maybe they’d rotted away until the kids who’d probably used this place as their clubhouse and hookup spot had finally pulled them off.
At least the kids hadn’t graffitied either the inside or the outside.
She’d also, she thought after a quick shower, have to have new locks installed. And get a plumber out here to see if they could do something about the thin trickle of water that fell from the showerhead. That last should be simple enough—Tom was a plumber who worked all across the region, but last night he’d mentioned that with Josie so pregnant he was sticking close to town for now.
The one thing she didn’t have to worry about was electricity—she’d remembered to call the electricity company from London. And since the lights had come on and her shower had been hot, the wires had apparently survived the years they’d lain unused, the cabin cold and dark.
Dressed in shorts and a large T-shirt, she set about brewing some coffee in the French press she’d brought with her from London; she’d picked up the coffee after landing. “I guess you know your priorities, Ana.” She hadn’t even packed the glass and metal object particularly well, but it had survived unscathed.
Given the haphazard way she’d packed, it was also pure luck that she had a mix of clothes. Enough to get by even with the reversal in the seasons. She’d boarded the plane on a rainy spring day, disembarked to the first bite of autumn.
Taking a steaming cup of coffee out onto the porch, she stood and watched the sun’s rays paint the sky, the colors ruby red and deep orange and vivid pink with hints of golden cream.
There had never been a sunrise like this in London.
The crackle of car tires on gravel had her looking up her drive to see a small and beat-up old truck. It might’ve once been black, but was now more chips and cracks than anything. The face that hung out the open driver’s-side window when the truck came to a stop beside her own car was unforgettable—but it was new, too.
He got out.
“Nikau,” she said, walking down to join him on the grass that fronted the cabin. “Keeping early hours.”
“I figured you’d have jet lag.” Putting his hands on his hips, he gave her a sidelong glance. The moko he’d had done five years earlier was a thing of sweeping lines and curves that she was sure told a story of his whakapapa—his genealogy and place in the world. Nikau treasured tikaka Māori too much to have settled on the design lightly.
“So,” he said, switching to a language she hadn’t spoken since the day she walked out of this place, “you came back. I never figured you would.”
Anahera returned her eyes to the horizon and to a sunrise that screamed “home” with the same angry beauty that it whispered of the dead. She didn’t speak until the final echo had faded. “Last I heard”—she turned to face Nikau—“you were presenting on Māori culture at international academic conferences.” The words came easier today, the language so much a part of her that even eight years of silence couldn’t erase it.
“Yeah, well, shit happens.” Nikau’s face went hard as he glanced back and to the right, looking not at the drive but at something far beyond. “I guess Josie told you about me and Keira?”
“I was sorry to hear about the divorce.” She’d always wondered what Nikau saw in Keira, but that he’d loved her wasn’t in doubt. They’d been joined at the hip since they were seventeen: quiet, intense, and studious Nik with beautiful but somehow . . . empty Keira. She’d always seemed to echo others rather than being a whole person.
Nikau looked at her, his gaze strangely flat. “That’s all you have to say?”
“I’m not sure what else you expect me to say.” Anahera didn’t have the emotional patience to read between the lines about another bad marriage. “I’m your friend. I’m sorry your marriage broke up. I know you loved her.”
Nikau stared at
her for another disturbing second before he blew out a breath and thrust a hand through his hair. “Shit, sorry. I guess Josie didn’t pass on the dirt.”
The answer to his bitterness lay in her own cold anger. “Did she cheat on you?”
“Worse. She hooked up with that asshole a year after our separation.” A glance to the distant right again. “They got married fourteen months ago.”
That asshole, when added to the direction of Nikau’s vicious gaze, made the identity of Keira’s new husband clear. “Daniel May?”
A hard nod.
They’d known one another all of their lives, Anahera and Josie, Keira and Daniel, Vincent and Nikau. There had been others—Tom, Peter, Christine—but those three had come and gone. It was the six of them who had been a constant, a tight-knit group that had snuck out at night to make bonfires on the beach and that had flowed back together each time the holidays rolled around and everyone was back in the Cove. It hadn’t mattered that Daniel May and Vincent Baker were private-school kids who came from the two richest families in town, while Nikau and Anahera came from the poorest.
Then they’d grown up.
“That sucks, Nik.” What else was there to say? Daniel had used his father’s money and influence to “win” an international exchange scholarship for which Nikau had been far better qualified—and deserving. For Daniel, it had been another line to add to his CV later on in life. For a teenage Nikau, it had been the only way he could hope to travel internationally.
It was the kind of betrayal that could never be forgotten or forgiven. “What about Vincent?” she asked. “Did he turn into an asshole while I was away? I have him on my online friends list, but I haven’t actually logged into my account in months.”
A bark of laughter from Nikau, his coldness melting. “Nah,” he said, “Vincent’s still Vincent.”