Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense)

by Jill Winters

  Danny Keegan still looked wary, fidgety, like a trapped rat. Silent, Vickie blinked, waiting to hear what Todd had to say. What a difference from her normal demeanor with him; now she was actually listening to him. Soon it would be like the old days and she would love him again.

  “I'm not looking to trap you two or have a confrontation about your...consorting with one another. What's done is done. My only goal here is to make this more enjoyable—for all of us.”

  At that, Vickie jerked her head so hard, Todd wouldn't be surprised if she pulled a muscle. “Huh?” was all she managed to say.

  “Yeah, what the hell is this?” Danny demanded.

  “I know about you two—obviously. And I'm not angry,” Todd lied. Of course he was angry. Who wouldn't be? After years of unfaltering support, this was how his wife repaid him. By sleeping with a man over ten years her junior, and not even giving Todd the opportunity to try to please her sexually.

  Well, that was about to change.

  Meanwhile, Vickie stood, astonished, waiting for him to explain. Todd had to admit, he relished in the attention she was suddenly giving him.

  “I realize that you have evolved in your sensuality over the years,” he said, speaking directly to his wife. “And now, as your husband, I want to avail myself to you in that regard—to foster a sensual relationship of your design. One I can partake in, with no restrictions, no recriminations. Let us both make love to you—”

  “What!” Danny burst in. “What the hell are you saying!”

  “Wait a second,” Vickie interjected, waving a hand in the air as if to clarify. “Todd...are you saying...no—the three of us?”

  There was unmistakable intrigue in her voice. A kind of stimulated curiosity, Todd hoped. He seized the moment and took her hands in his. “Yes. Let us both take you at once—think of the ecstasy I can bring to the equation. Far heightening the experience you would normally have with Officer Keegan.”

  “Holy shit,” Danny muttered, shaking his head. “This is a new one...”

  Again, Todd briefly wondered what her wife saw in this uncouth weasel. Then again, maybe “uncouth” was what turned her on these days. Hey, Todd could be uncouth, too...

  Moreover, he could fulfill her emotionally and mentally. Something Danny Keegan could never do. Probably he'd convinced Vickie to have the affair. Led her to believe that an exciting sexual liaison had to occur apart from her marriage. Well, those rules had just changed. Much to his wife's obvious delight.

  “Okay!” Vickie chirped all of a sudden. Then clapped her hands together and beamed a smile. “Why not? I'll try it.”

  “Wait...what…” Danny was obviously still adjusting to the idea.

  Vickie went on, “But, Todd, you take me from the back. I want Danny doing me face-to-face. Oh! You know what would be even better?” Her eyes lit up and she rubbed her hands together enthusiastically. “Danny—you and I can sixty-nine, and Todd you can do me from behind!”

  “Excuse me?” Danny said, his tone incredulous.

  He wasn't the only one thrown off Vickie's reaction. Granted, Todd was hoping this would please her...hoping his wife would want to make love with him again, but...well, he hadn't expected her to be so guttural and crass about it. Perhaps it was just a tough veneer that she felt she needed to adapt in order to protect herself emotionally?

  “Nice,” she said now and peeled her top off, revealing a lacy bra with nipple cutouts. Before Todd could react, she dropped her jeans to the floor, revealing a white g-string. When had she gotten a tattoo right above her bikini line?

  “Todd, I can't believe you came up with something like this!” Her eyes were practically shining with feral delight, as she kicked off her strappy shoes and stepped out of her jeans. “C'mere Danny,” she cooed, toying with the string of her panties. “Come over and let me suck your cock so good—”

  “You know what,” Danny interrupted, his palms in the air. “I'm outta here.” He headed straight for the door. “This shit is too weird for me.”

  Stunned, Vickie watched him go, all the eager excitement draining right out of her face. “Wait...” she began, but it was too late. Officer Keegan had barged out, muttering, “Psycho,” before he escaped into his car.

  As the engine revved, Todd closed the bungalow door. He tried to comfort his wife with a gentle look of compassion. This was really bad. If there was one thing Vickie would not take well, it was rejection. Abruptly, she started picking up her clothes. Her face scrunched into a profound sulk, as she hastily got dressed again and shoved back on her strappy shoes. Her cheeks were flaming pink and she was cursing under her breath.

  There had to be a way that they could salvage this, Todd reasoned. After all, the upside of what had just happened was that now Vickie could see herself that Danny Keegan's feelings did not run that deep. Whereas he had abandoned her, Todd was still there. That was the important thing for her to focus on here. He was about to say something to this effect when Vickie suddenly yelled, “You fucking bastard! How could you humiliate me like this?!”

  “No...really, it's not humiliating,” Todd replied, trying to touch for her but she jumped out of his reach. “We can still share and explore all the sensual delights you crave—”

  Furiously, she just shook her head. Now her face was a burning, beet-red. “This is the last straw. I've been putting off telling you this for a long time, but here it is: I want a divorce! I’ve already talked to a lawyer and you will never change my mind. So please just drop dead!”

  With that, she brushed past him, grabbing his set of keys off the table, and stormed out. She slammed the door behind her.

  Suddenly, Todd wobbled, his knees almost buckling as an overwhelming tide of nausea rose up from inside him. He heard the car start and the tires squeal. Vickie had left him here—and she was going to leave him altogether.

  It couldn't be, not after all he had done for her. Clutching the doorknob, Todd was stricken by loss. For the first time in years, he began to sob.

  As he choked and sputtered, his legs collapsed under him, and he sank to the floor. He buried his wet face in his hands and cried loudly. It was the first time he'd managed to notice that his world was caving in.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Sometime later Nicole's lashes fluttered and her green eyes blinked open. Feeling fuzzy, she squinted into the fluorescent light. “Puddle...” she said, her voice cracking, rusty from disuse.

  “Nicole.” A chair scraped against the floor, and suddenly Michael was standing by the bed. “You're awake,” he said unnecessarily.

  With great effort, Nicole swallowed. Her mouth was distastefully dry; her voice box felt hard and stuck, like a tennis ball Velcro-ed to the inside of her throat.

  Suddenly she remembered all that had happened leading up to the fall. Including who Michael really was—and what he really wasn't. She wasn't quite sure what he was doing here, or if she was okay. “Where's Puddle...?” she managed.

  “She's okay, she's at your neighbor's house,” he explained, and reached down to take Nicole's hand. Weakly, she shifted it away.

  “Nicole...” he began. Quickly, she averted her gaze because there was something about the way Michael was looking at her now that made her want to forgive him, want to believe whatever he told her, something so apologetic, so sincere in those deep, chocolate-brown eyes of his—and she couldn't dare believe anything about him again.

  “What...am I...?”

  “You knocked your head,” he told her. “They did stitches, but the doctor says your okay. They just want to keep an eye on you for a couple of days. Does it hurt?” he asked then, and reached up to touch his fingers to her forehead, then her temple.

  She didn't bother to shake off his touch. It would have hurt her head too much anyway. “It hurts a little. Like there's pressure. What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think? I was worried about you.”

  “No,” she corrected, and directly met his eyes. “What are you doing here—i
n Chatham? Why did you really come? For that painting?” As she recalled the details of that man, Lucius, and the confrontation that had taken place in her kitchen, she said, “I'm trying to understand. I mean...all of this was an act? Our whole...” She stopped short of using the word “relationship” because even in her groggy state, she felt almost foolish calling it that. But it had been a relationship to her.

  Suddenly, tears crept behind her eyes. Damn it, she didn't want to get emotional and weak, not now. She wanted to be angry and scornful, not heartbroken. “I don't get it,” she whispered. Cleared her throat, or tried to; Michael reached for the pitcher of water beside her bed, but she shook her head no.

  The truth was, there was so much about this that she didn't get. Who had told Michael and that guy Lucius that there was an original Demberto painting in her aunt's possession? Why had the plan to steal it been so elaborate and drawn out? Those were just a few of the conundrums still in her mind. Yet, for the life of her, she couldn't get past the other thing—the personal, intimate thing. Right now she couldn't seem to dwell on anything but that. “That was you in the restaurant, wasn’t it? In Boston, a couple of weeks ago?” He nodded. “What were you doing there—checking out your ‘mark’?”

  “Something like that,” Michael said, sounding far from proud of himself.

  With disdain in her voice, Nicole said, “Is that what you do? Make women think that—”

  “No,” he insisted. Then he ran a hand over his face, as though tired, frustrated. “Nicole, look—yes, I've scammed people before—I admit that. But corrupt people, greedy people. Not good people like you, and not women—not the way that you're thinking.”

  “Then why did you...” She couldn't bear to finish the question.

  But she didn't have to, because Michael clearly read her thoughts. “Nicole, I slept with you because I'm very attracted to you—obviously.” With a sigh, he continued, “I didn't scheme what happened between you and me. I didn't even think I would get to know you as well as I did. I didn't think I'd have to. And none of this was ever supposed to turn violent, for chrissake. Ideally, I was gonna lift the painting without you even noticing, at least not noticing right away. But...” His voice trailed off.

  “You didn't have to take it that far,” she murmured.

  “You're right,” he admitted with a short, humorless laugh. “I shouldn't have. But I couldn't help myself. I just wanted you so bad. Nicole—”

  “Don't lie anymore,” she said, almost dismissively, as a way to force the conversation to a close.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm not lying about that.”

  “Fine, but just go,” she said, her voice quiet and aloof as she turned her face toward the bed rail.

  “I can't go until you listen to me.” In that moment, she thought he was going to plead his case, beg her forgiveness, maybe even confess his romantic attachment to her; it was an insanely strong flicker of hope, insane because she knew she could never be with him after everything that had happened, and yet, she hoped that was what he intended to do.

  Instead, though, his face turned more serious and he spoke firmly, not pleadingly. “You're not safe here,” he said. “When the cops went by your house, Lucius was gone. I don't know where he is. And since I don't know who Lucius was working with—I don't know what he really wanted with that painting of your aunt's.”

  Confused, Nicole's head began to pound. “What are you saying exactly?”

  “I'm saying that Lucius was working with someone in town, but I don't know who. I have some theories, but nothing solid. Whoever it is, though, obviously wanted that painting of your aunt's—while keeping a far distance—badly enough to set all this up. So, if Lucius didn't hand over that painting by now, his partner might get desperate and come to you looking for it. If Lucius did hand it over, you still might be in danger because you know too much now. Basically, what I'm saying is: regardless of how much you hate me, I need you to trust me.

  “Whenever they discharge you from the hospital, you need to leave Chatham and go back to Boston,” Michael told her. Their eyes locked for a moment. He asked her, “Do you have any idea who might be involved in this? Anyone you've met here that strikes you as a possibility? Or what about Lucius—did he mention anything to you before I got there?”

  How could she answer him, as if they were “working together,” as if they were a team? They were on opposing sides now. He was bad, she was good. He was a liar, she was a trusting fool. There was no alliance anymore; in truth, there never had been.

  As if reading her mind, Michael urged her, “Please, Nicole. Trust me.” When she didn't say more, he must have realized that it was a lost cause, because finally, he sighed with resignation and turned to go.

  She wasn't sure what came over her when she suddenly called his name. He glanced back. “Where are my clothes?” she asked.

  Confused, he furrowed his brow and motioned to a chair in the back. “The nurse folded them for you,” he observed.

  “In my jacket pocket,” she said, just as the nurse opened the door.

  “Sir—visiting hours are over.”

  “Okay...um...let me just say a quick goodbye.” With obvious reluctance, the nurse ducked her head out. Quickly, he reached for Nicole’s jacket and pulled out the letter that she had found with the paintings in the tree house. He didn't bother asking what it was, just stuck it into his own pocket. But he did pause at the door before he left. “Goodbye, Nicole. I'll miss you a lot.”

  ***

  “Ginger, get that dog off Mama's settee.”

  With a sympathetic look, Ginger tried to coax the dog onto the parlor rug, but yet again, the precious thing just blinked at her.

  “And why is she staring at me in that manner?” Hazel demanded, shifting in her seat, and dramatically turning the page in the book she was reading.

  “I'm sure she's just curious and uncertain. From her point of view, it must be scary to come into a new environment.”

  Hazel scoffed righteously. “Ginger, need I remind you—we are talking about a canine here? Not a person, but a wild animal.” Doubtfully, Ginger glanced at docile and domesticated Puddle and shook her head. “What?” Hazel demanded.

  “Nothing,” Ginger assured her and continued her crocheting. At the moment, she was working on an ivory cardigan for Betna and hoped to finish it in time for Christmas. Although Betna was Hindu, her ex-husband was Protestant and so Betna had come to love Christmas. It was always such a special time...for Ginger, too...

  “Ginger, did you hear me?”

  The impatience in Hazel's voice indicated that she was getting rattled about one thing or another. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

  Obviously annoyed, Hazel harrumphed and shook her head. “Never mind. You clearly have no interest in doing what's right.”

  Confused, Ginger angled her head. “What do you mean?”

  “You promised me that you would call the police about that man next door. And you never did—did you? You lied to me.”

  Setting down her crochet, Ginger looked purposefully at her sister. Poor Hazel. Walt Baker had truly been good for her, and with him gone...well, who else would come to love Hazel's demanding ways?

  As if hearing—and understanding—her thoughts, the dog jumped off the settee and trotted right up to Hazel's feet. Puddle began to rub her nose against Hazel's chenille slippers. “Do you mind?” Hazel said to the dog, moving her feet out of reach. “Oh, this is unseemly.”

  Ginger held in a laugh. “You did say that you preferred her to be on the floor.”

  “Yes, but at what cost?” Puddle grabbed an inch worth of chenille in between her teeth and tugged lightly. Hazel's mouth dropped open, as though appalled by the dog's presumptuous behavior. The dog tugged again and lifted her eyes up, obviously seeing if Hazel was paying attention, or maybe if Hazel wanted to play. Now Ginger had to laugh. Just a slight one, but it drew her sister's pointed gaze all the same. “This isn't funny,” Hazel insisted. “We shouldn't
even have a dog here. Did Nicole ask us to take the dog? No, she did not. Yet, we had to leave the Harvest Parade early to baby-sit a canine.”

  “We'd arrived home already,” Ginger pointed out. They had not missed the Harvest Parade one bit, and surely Hazel knew that. “And Nicole's in the hospital, after all. I asked The Hermster to call her family since he had Nina's emergency contact numbers.

  “According to Mimi Frances, Nicole's doing very well. It was a spill and a bump on the head. Which reminds me, I'm going to go pay her a visit first thing tomorrow. I'll bake her some cookies.”

  Hazel scoffed. “Bake her cookies, call her family, watch her dog—what else will you do, Ginger? Because you certainly aren't calling the police as you promised me you would.” To anyone overhearing this conversation, it would undoubtedly sound ridiculous; because if this issue bothered Hazel so much, why didn't she just call? But Hazel had been so shaken up after Walt's disappearance on that fishing trip, and then to torture her more, she had been questioned and re-questioned, and not only by the police, but also by the insurance company and Walt's family...oh, it had been just dreadful for her. In turn, she had become ever fearful of drawing police attention to herself.

  “For all we know, that hooligan out there is responsible for what happened to Nicole today. Maybe we could have done something to stop it, if you—”

  “No, I don't believe so,” Ginger interrupted. “According to Mimi, that young man has been at Nicole's bedside, watching over her. She said the nurses were all saying how sweet it was.”

  “Mmm,” Hazel mumbled with disbelief.

  “Based on what I heard, I think Michael King is about as harmless as a fly.”

  That drew Hazel's curiosity. Arching her brows, she tipped her head at Ginger. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”

  “Well, I ran into Vickie Finn at the fish market a couple days ago. I must have forgotten to mention it. We were looking over the cod and we struck up a conversation. She shared a bit of gossip.” Setting down her crochet, Ginger leaned in a bit and repeated what Vickie had told her: