Dangerous Deceptions: A Christian Romantic Suspense Boxed Set Collection

by Lisa Harris

  So many questions. Absolutely no answers.

  And from the looks of things, not a soul was going to believe her.

  Chapter Five

  Quinn woke Saturday morning almost as exhausted as she had been when she crawled in bed. Sleep hadn’t come until nearly midnight and even then it was broken with nightmares of dead bodies walking in and out of her house. For a while she lay there, sun streaming in through the sheers—she had forgotten to pull the blackout curtains—listening to the water sloshing on the shore and one particularly song-filled sparrow that had landed somewhere on the balcony. Her sleep-deprived mind quickly busied itself replaying the night’s events, and in addition to all the other emotions wracking her, Quinn found herself feeling one she hadn’t felt last night.

  Sadness.

  Shane wasn’t the first person she had run into from her former life in Seaglass Cove. But he was the first one who had been intimately connected to everything that had made her want to leave the town in the first place. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know something like that would happen eventually. But until last night, she had somehow, blissfully, avoided it. Now with Shane involved in the investigation of last night’s events, she would have to see him again. The thought made her stomach drop.

  Around seven fifteen, accepting she couldn’t put the day off any longer, she threw her legs over the edge of the bed and resolved to face it. If this had been a Sunday, she could have crawled back under the covers until it was time to get ready to leave for church, or if Monday, she could have stayed there pretending none of it had happened since that was her day off. But in her business, Tuesday through Saturday was the standard work week, and with lots of renters typically checking in and out on Saturday, she had plenty lined up to do and needed to get at it.

  Terri, the office manager, would be at the office by eight thirty, ready to go. If Quinn buckled down, she might finish up by early afternoon and be able to squeeze in some paddling. She asked Riki for the weather report, who replied it was supposed to be a gorgeous day—sunny and 81 degrees. Perfect for some time on the water. Quinn’s spirit buoyed at the thought of climbing in her kayak and gliding along in the cool waters overhung by the cypress trees in Cove Springs National Park, just her and nature. She could use a little of that right now.

  Determined to make it happen, she bypassed her normal routine, which most days involved scrambling an egg and making her own Peet’s Medium Roast from her French press, adding a splash of milk and two cubes of sugar, then savoring both on the back porch while reading the day’s entry from her devotional book. The passages always seemed to settle her. Center her for the day ahead. But today called for getting out there as quickly as possible, so instead she showered and pulled on cropped navy pants, a white short-sleeved tunic top and light-grey jacket. After applying minimal makeup and gathering her red tresses into a loose, low ponytail, she grabbed her keys and scooted out the door.

  She promised herself she would read the devotional passage later using an app on her phone while skimming along the water, with nothing to distract her. The kayak was such a spiritual place for her anyway, and a perfect place to soak in God’s word. It wouldn’t hurt to hold off for a few hours.

  The coffee, however, couldn’t wait.

  The Little Red Shed was a half mile east of The Green, also right on Highway 98. Previously, it actually had been a shed of sorts, the main building of a landscaping nursery that went out of business. The siding of the large, one-story structure was painted barn-red, with clean white trim accents, and expansive windows. It sat at the back of a gravel lot surrounded by scrub oaks, longleaf pines and several magnolias. Pebbled paths meandered in multiple directions from the lot, winding through the wide variety of plantings around the sides and back of the building, including palmettos, wildflowers, benches and fountains, creating a garden almost park-like in its serenity.

  Quinn had been briefly delayed when she stopped at Bello Breakers Number Two to say goodbye to the Garbers and assure them she was fine. Now, at a little after eight, several cars were already in The Shed’s lot, but Quinn was able to park in one of the front spaces. She hopped out, the fragrant scent of something flowery greeting her as gravel crunched beneath her steps. She pushed open the single door on the side of the building that served as the primary entrance and a cowbell suspended over it clanked noisily.

  Immediately to her left was an L-shaped reclaimed-wood counter with rattan stools stretched down its length. Shiny coffee and espresso machines lined the back counter. On the wall above that was an enormous blackboard with multi-colored chalk script detailing the menu, featuring breakfast and lunch fare tweaked with local touches. To her right was a sitting area filled with overstuffed chairs and rustic tables—many already occupied—and bookshelves lining the walls with a free-to-borrow library. The remainder of the huge interior of the old nursery was divided into sections dedicated to a myriad of other activities, including a stage, art studio and game and craft area. It was essentially Seaglass Cove’s version of a local pub, and though it had only been around for six months, had quickly become a favorite hangout.

  It also had the best coffee in town, which was what was on Quinn’s mind when she waltzed up to the counter, her fuzzy head begging for a thousand cc’s of caffeine, stat. Waiting for her was the person she had been thinking of the night before at Pepe’s Taco Truck, when Miguel had interrupted her mental inventory of people she regularly interacted with in Seaglass Cove.

  Ian Wolfe.

  Ian owned The Little Red Shed and, as far as Quinn knew, worked there every minute it was open because she had never been there once when he wasn’t. And since Quinn craved a good cup of coffee pretty regularly, and wasn’t opposed to a blackberry muffin with homemade cream filling or avocado toast made with freshly baked Challah either, she had fallen into the habit of stopping in at least every other day. Which was how Ian had made the shortlist of people she saw routinely.

  “Hey, Quinn,” Ian said, his smile stretching into his deep-set dark eyes. The six-foot-plus, early thirty-something had heather brown hair, cut closely on the sides, but longer on top, creating thick, wiry waves with tips that curled, a random end sticking out here and there. Narrow sideburns reached to the midpoint of his ear, where lean cheekbones drew to a refined nose that—

  Stop gawking, Quinn. Say something.

  “Hi, Ian,” she replied, plopping her purse down on the counter. “What’s good today?”

  The aroma of roasted coffee and baking bread mixed pleasantly with the slight, inviting mustiness of the used books on the shelves in the sitting area, and the soothing scent of lavender emanating from pots on the windowsill next to the counter.

  “The special is orange biscuits with honey, and a poached egg on the side with bacon.”

  “Sold,” she said, slapping the counter with one hand, then bringing it up to stifle a yawn.

  Ian let a small, amused snort escape. “I’m guessing you’re needing a jolt today? Vanilla latte, sprinkle of cinnamon?”

  “You’re a mind reader.”

  He smiled wryly. “Nah. You’re just a bit predictable when it comes to your coffee.”

  “Guess I’ll have to work on that,” Quinn quipped as Ian scribbled on an order pad, then pushed the slip of paper onto the ledge of a large window behind him that opened into the kitchen, where the cook snatched it up.

  As Ian started on her latte, Quinn rolled her head, trying to fend off the ache she was already beginning to feel at the base of her skull. It was apparently going to be a long day. Silently she prayed this wasn’t going to trigger one of her migraines.

  “You all right?” Ian asked, his back still to her as he fiddled with the espresso machine currently dispensing a steaming stream of liquid.

  She stopped mid-head roll and eyed the back of him quizzically. “Um, yeah. Do I not look it?”

  “No, it’s just…well, the yawning. And,” he turned around, nodding his head at her, “your jacket’s inside out.”
/>
  Heat flashed across the back of her neck as she looked down and saw the seams of her jacket. “Good grief,” she moaned, wriggling out of it and twisting it right side out before sliding her arms back in. “I’m not running on all cylinders. I had a long night.”

  Behind Quinn a chair scraped hard against the wood floor. She turned to see Meghan Carne, an ebony-haired woman a little younger than Quinn, dressed in a sundress and sandals, sashaying up to the counter. She squeezed in between a couple of bar stools a few spaces down from Quinn and leaned her forearms on the countertop.

  “Hi, Quinn,” Meghan said, sparing Quinn a quick glance before zeroing in on Ian.

  “Hey Meghan,” she replied, but the woman wasn’t cued in to her any longer.

  “Ian,” Meghan started, “the coffee was great as always.” Her voice was low, almost husky, in sharp contrast to her dainty features and pixie nose.

  “Glad to hear it, Meghan.”

  Was it Quinn’s imagination, or had Ian’s voice dropped a step or two? The smile he offered Meghan was barely more than a crook at one corner of his mouth, but it was striking, something Meghan apparently thought too, based on the grin she flashed in return. Looking at Ian from beneath her long lashes, Meghan wiggled her red nails as she stepped toward the door.

  In the base of her gut, Quinn’s nerves tingled caustically.

  “See you later?” Meghan asked.

  “I’ll be here,” Ian replied as Meghan stepped through the doorway, her dress rippling in the breeze outside.

  Quinn had seen Meghan in The Little Red Shed several times, though usually in the afternoon, and even had a conversation with her once about a suspense novel Quinn was reading while curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs. She didn’t learn much about the woman during their short exchange, except that Meghan managed The Lighthouse, one of the finer restaurants in town, and usually wasn’t even up until well after noon.

  “She’s in early,” Quinn noted, as Ian turned back to finish her latte.

  “It’s her day off,” he said.

  Quinn’s heart dropped an inch. Even before today, something about the interactions she had previously witnessed between Meghan and Ian suggested they might be involved, or at least headed in that direction. After this little display, and his thorough knowledge of her schedule, it seemed even more likely.

  Oh well, she thought, and then nearly kicked herself for it. What do you mean, “oh well”? It wasn’t as if you were going to do anything about it.

  And that was the truth. The last thing she needed was a romantic complication just as she was re-establishing herself in Seaglass Cove. Besides, she was still healing from the insane events in Tampa. And, her engagement to Simon had ended only five months ago, the proverbial grass-barely-grown-over-the-relationship’s-grave situation. Finally, and most importantly, she didn’t want to hurt anyone else and that was all she ever seemed to do. There was loneliness in that kind of self-imposed isolation, but there was safety in it too. Especially for others.

  Ian pushed the latte toward her, a foamy concoction in a wide brimmed cup, the kind you could wrap both hands around. “The food’ll be up in a second,” he told her.

  “Thanks,” she said, and slid onto a barstool. She could have gotten the food to-go, and right about now, was halfway wishing she had. But it would be easier to gobble it down here, rather than trying to juggle eating a poached egg in the car.

  Ian stood before her, wiping his hands on a bar towel that he slung over his shoulder. “So, late night? Big date or something?” She looked up from the design of a whale he had traced through the latte’s foam—which even included a fountain escaping the whale’s blowhole in curly-cues drawn in the steamed milk—to find him grinning at her.

  “Impressive,” she said, tilting her head at the coffee. She took a sip and the robust flavor hit her as if she had stuck her finger in a socket. She swallowed and sighed. “Um, no. No big date. Not unless you consider your house getting broken into, a date.”

  His engaging grin became a thin, straight line, his eyebrows drawing together in a concerned “V.” “Your house was broken into?” He leaned forward, closing the distance between them to a mere foot or so. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  Am I all right? she asked herself, taking stock. No, I am not all right. And actually it wasn’t simply a break-in. It was a murder. With a corpse left behind on my kitchen floor.

  But she wasn’t going to tell him any of that. What was the point of sharing all the gory details? She didn’t need another person thinking she was seeing things.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” she said.

  “What did they take?”

  Good question. “Nothing as far as I can tell.”

  His nose wrinkled. “Burglars who don’t burgle? That doesn’t make much sense.”

  Exactly, she thought.

  “What did the police say?” he pressed.

  “The sheriff’s deputy said they must’ve gotten spooked before they were able to make off with anything.”

  “And?”

  “And that’s it.”

  The cook rang the bell at the kitchen window as he slid a plate onto its ledge. Ian stepped away just long enough to bring it back to Quinn. It smelled heavenly. She pulled off a chunk of biscuit and savored it.

  “So, you’re really okay?” he asked as she cut into the poached egg and golden yolk ran out. There was a palpable note of worry in his voice that went beyond mere interest and it made her look up.

  His eyes were full of genuine concern. She offered him a smile and his expression eased. “Yes, I’m really okay. Just tired from staying up to check everything over.”

  The cowbell over the door clanked again as more patrons entered. “Is anybody staying with you?” he asked.

  “No, but it’s okay, really. If it was a random burglar then there isn’t much to worry about. At least the deputies weren’t too worried.”

  “Don’t you have an alarm?”

  Her face wrinkled sheepishly, the fork halfway to her mouth. “I haven’t been using it.”

  “Well, start then.” There was a distinct soberness in his tone as he leaned toward her. He wore an untucked, unbuttoned plaid shirt over a form-fitting white T-shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal lean, muscled forearms. The scent of something woodsy drifted across the counter.

  “Um, well, yeah,” Quinn mumbled, unexpectedly finding herself unnerved by his proximity. “That’s the plan.”

  “Good.”

  Another couple of people came in, causing a line to form at the register. Quinn’s eyebrows rose as she inclined her head toward the waiting customers. “Don’t you think you better…”

  “Yeah, right,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “I’m glad you’re okay, though. And be careful?”

  She nodded, warmed by his sincerity, and gave him a quick, light-hearted two-fingered salute. “Will do.”

  Chapter Six

  While Ian took the other customers’ orders, he kept one eye on Quinn, watching through the window as she got in her pickup, then drove away. But as he continued describing the specials and ringing people up, instead of dissipating, the current of worry that had begun coursing through him at Quinn’s mention of a break-in continued to set him on edge.

  His reaction surprised him. It wasn’t as if he knew her well. Yes, she came in fairly often, and, yes, they always chatted. But it didn’t go any further than that. He knew she was the manager of Bello Realty, had started coming in a little over two months ago, and pretty much kept to herself. Other than speaking to him, and the occasional pleasantries he had witnessed her exchange with other customers, he had never known her to have a meaningful conversation with anyone. He also knew she had killer green eyes and thick red hair that cascaded to just below her shoulders whenever she wore it down.

  But that was pretty much it. He hadn’t made an effort to learn more because, as with nearly all his customers—as with nearly everyone he had met since arriving in Seaglas
s Cove—he maintained an intentional, acceptable distance, walking a fine line between being engaging but private. Keeping everything on a safe, superficial level.

  So why was she still on his mind?

  He was creating a frond pattern on a latte by pouring the steamed milk in just the right way, watching the image emerge as he zig-zagged the little silver pitcher back and forth, when the answer occurred to him.

  Because she didn’t just seem tired today. She seemed a little bit beaten down.

  It wasn’t anything he could point to, really. A shadow behind her eyes, maybe? Had there been a hint of defeat in her voice when she was talking about the break-in that he had subconsciously registered? Or maybe it was just a vibe he had picked up on.

  Whatever it was, his preoccupation with Quinn Bello after her visit this morning suddenly made sense, because being a little bit beaten down was something he could relate to. Being a little bit beaten down—or in his case, a lot—was something with which he was altogether too familiar.

  Chapter Seven

  Maybe it was the jolt of caffeine. Ian did make a pretty stout cup of joe. Or maybe it was the fact that she was coming out of her late night stupor and didn’t like the idea that she was being brushed off by Shane. Whatever it was, a bout of righteous indignation kicked in a few minutes after she pulled out of The Shed’s parking lot, prompting Quinn to make a detour to the Wilson County Sheriff’s Department.

  The main office of the sheriff’s department was a squat brick building on the block behind the Wilson County Courthouse, about four miles inland from Seaglass Cove’s beach. This area resembled the quintessential small southern town, replete with a white historic courthouse at the center of a square boasting large, ancient oaks.

  Quinn marched through the door of the sheriff’s department into a waiting room lined with hard plastic chairs that discouraged anyone from actually waiting in them. She recognized the clerk behind the welcome counter immediately. Maryanne Rowley was a lifelong resident of Seaglass Cove and had known Quinn since she was in elementary school. Which meant she knew all the dirt.