Lost and Found

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “You’re thinking that someone hid here in the garden and waited until she was in the water before he attacked her?”

  “Are you going to tell me again that I have an overly active imagination?”

  “No.” He studied her for a long moment. The otherworldly, up-from-under lighting cast hard, cryptic shadows below his cheekbones and under his eyes. “Like I said, murder by drowning happens.”

  He planted both hands on the edge of the pool and hauled himself out of the water in a single, easy movement. He got to his feet in front of her.

  She was intensely conscious of him standing there big and wet and naked except for a ridiculously small bathing suit that did nothing to hide the bold outlines of his maleness.

  “You’re dripping,” she muttered.

  “Yeah. I am.” He turned and walked to where a towel lay across a white lounger. “Sorry about that.”

  She winced. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that everything about this pool terrace sets my nerves on edge. I don’t like the idea of you swimming alone out here.”

  “What do you suggest I do?” He used the towel to wipe the water off his chest. “Hire a lifeguard?”

  “Think I’m a little over the top here?”

  “A little. But that’s okay. I’m willing to make allowances, given the circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “What with all the excitement at Vandyke’s cabin and your fears that your aunt may have been murdered, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

  “So have you,” she shot back. Then she sighed. “Thanks to me. Mack, I’ve been thinking. I had no right to involve you in this situation. I know it’s outside the boundaries of your usual kind of work.”

  He propped a bare foot on the lounger and applied the towel to his leg. “You know, you’re cute when you go on these small guilt trips.”

  She could not look away from where the dark hair streaked his upper thigh. A heated tension pooled in her lower body.

  “You’re right. I am a little tense.”

  He took his foot down off the lounger and walked toward her, knotting the towel around his waist as he moved. He halted directly in front of her, caught her chin on the heel of his hand and tilted her face slightly so that she was obliged to meet his eyes.

  “Stop fretting about it,” he said. “You’re paying my full fee, remember? For that you get full service, whether you want it or not.”

  She could not move; awareness of him was so keen now it was painful. “What exactly does full service include?”

  “Whatever it takes to get the job done.”

  She braced herself. “About what happened that night at the lodge—”

  His eyes gleamed. “Thought you said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

  “I don’t.” She swallowed. “But I think it’s necessary to clarify one point.”

  “What point would that be?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Regardless of what occurred between us personally. I want you to know that I’m very grateful for what you did for Ambrose and me that night.”

  “Does this mean that you still think I’m a hero?”

  “You’re not going to take this seriously, are you?”

  “I am one-hundred-percent serious about my heroic status. The male pride thing, remember?”

  “For heaven’s sake,” she muttered. “It’s not like you fell off a pedestal. You don’t need to be restored to hero status. You are one. Nothing can alter that.”

  He moved a fraction of an inch closer. “Even though I took advantage of the situation to get you into bed that night?”

  “Don’t push it, Easton.”

  He smiled. “Just wanted to see how far your gratitude went.”

  “You just hit the limit.” Why did she let him do this to her, she wondered. “Look, since you seem determined to bring up the subject of what happened between us at the lodge, I might as well tell you that I’ve been thinking about it and I’m prepared to admit that I might have overreacted. A little.”

  “Go slow. I may hyperventilate.”

  She refused to let him sidetrack her. She had come this far, she would see it through to the end. “I was angry at the time. But looking back, I can see that there were extenuating circumstances.”

  “You think so?”

  “It’s not your fault that we wound up in bed together.”

  “You don’t think that I took advantage of you?”

  “I think,” she said carefully, “that it was very much a mutual thing. We were both stressed out from the aftereffects of danger. We weren’t ourselves, if you know what I mean.”

  “Can’t say that I do.” A reflective expression came and went across his hard face. “I’m pretty sure that I was myself. And you looked a lot like yourself. You think maybe our bodies were temporarily taken over by alien entities that night?”

  “Work with me here, Easton. I’m trying to help us both get past some issues, okay?”

  “You know, I’ve got nothing against the grand old tradition of the rescued damsel throwing herself into the arms of the knight in shining armor, but—”

  Outrage flashed through her. “I did not throw myself into your arms just because I thought it was a nice way to thank you for saving my life, do you hear me? That’s not why I did it.”

  “As I was saying, I’ve got no problem with tradition, but there’s a lot of pressure on the heroic knight in those situations,” he continued, just as though she had not interrupted. “I’m not sure people appreciate that.”

  “Pressure? What pressure, for crying out loud?” She was completely exasperated now. “You weren’t exactly dragging your feet, as I recall. You came over that partition the way Superman jumps tall buildings. In a single bound.”

  “It’s like this: even while he’s enjoying the experience, the hero knows that sooner or later the fair damsel will realize that the armor is a bit tarnished. Worse yet, there’s some rust in places. He knows that when things cool down she probably won’t see him through the same set of rose-colored glasses—”

  “Stop it, Mack.” She put her fingers on his mouth to silence him. “That’s not how it was for me.”

  “No?” he asked against her fingers.

  “You insult me when you imply that I would have gone to bed with whoever rode to the rescue that night.” She took her hand away from his mouth. “Let’s get one thing clear, Easton. I went to bed with you because you were you.”

  “Yeah?” He sounded interested but not yet entirely convinced. Skeptical.

  “I don’t know why I’m bothering to have this argument,” she said. “It’s hopeless.”

  “Not at all. Personally, I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones.”

  “Decent of you.”

  “I thought so. What do you say we kiss and make up?”

  He bent his head and crushed her mouth beneath his own before she could register the question in her mind.

  Fantasy Man. Not again, she thought wildly. This was not smart.

  His kiss was a slow, demanding caress. Not the instantaneous conflagration that had ignited her senses at the lodge. This was a building fire that would leave smoldering embers for a long time to come.

  He was still damp in places, stirring unsettling memories. His hair had been wet from the rain that night at the lodge, she recalled. There was something slightly primeval about all this moisture.

  He was also hard, just as he had been that night. She could feel his erection through the layers of towel and swim briefs. Excitement warmed her blood. She inched closer.

  His mouth moved on hers, seducing and persuasive. The hunger she had been trying to deny was suddenly howling at the windows and breathing down the chimney, threatening to demolish all the tightly locked doors. She heard herself make a small sound that she knew Mack could only interpret as evidence of her desire. Probably because that was exactly what it was.

  Drawn by a reckless compulsion, she spread the finge
rs of one hand across his bare chest. Big mistake. Should have known better than to touch him with all this energy crackling in the air. Like standing out in an open field in the middle of a lightning storm.

  A shiver went through her.

  He broke off the kiss, lifting his head just as she was thinking about putting her other hand on him. He was breathing a little harder than he had been a moment ago.

  “If,” he said in a sexy-rough voice that sent a couple of jagged bolts of electricity through her, “you ever decide to change your company policy about sleeping with your employees, be sure to let me know.”

  She stared at him, unable to think of a single coherent sentence

  He gave her an intimate, very knowing smile that made her set her back teeth together. She felt the flutter of nerves in her stomach. Not an incipient panic attack, she assured herself as he walked around her and disappeared into the house.

  Something even more disturbing.

  She had a nasty feeling that she was falling in love with Fantasy Man.

  Sixteen

  In keeping with what appeared to be the unilateral architectural design motif of Phantom Point, the yacht club had been decorated in faux Mediterranean palazzo style. The walls were covered in plaster that had been applied in thick daubs and swirls to give the impression of crumbling age. Soft lighting illuminated sea scenes from antiquity. The chairs were covered in Renaissance hues.

  Nice place for an ambush, Mack thought. Then again, maybe it didn’t actually count as an ambush if you had been warned ahead of time. He could feel the invisible vibes that told him Cady was tense, even though she was trying not to show it. Her brittle mood was probably the result of the not-so-subtle grilling he was undergoing. She was poised on the brink of anticipation, just waiting for him to screw up.

  The good news was that the ex-husband hadn’t shown up.

  Sylvia looked at him across the low cocktail table. She had a chilly gleam in her eyes. He had no trouble envisioning her in a CEO’s chair.

  “What sort of business are you in, Mack?” she asked. “Cady said something about consulting work?”

  “Right.” He reached for an olive. “Consulting.”

  “What sort of consulting do you do?” Gardner asked.

  “Business consulting.” Wonderful word, consulting. It covered a multitude of sins, Mack reflected. So did business, for that matter. He was getting a lot of mileage out of both this evening.

  “Start-ups?” Sylvia pressed. “Venture capital? Acquisitions?”

  “Some acquisition work,” Mack said, thinking of the art and antiques he had recovered for various clients. Recovering stuff was a form of acquiring, he assured himself.

  Gardner gave him a look of polite curiosity that did not quite manage to conceal the thoughtful assessment in his serious dark eyes. “Mid-cap? Small-cap?”

  “Small-cap. I work a lot with private investors.”

  Gardner nodded. “Where’s your office?”

  “I work out of my house these days.”

  “Really…So do I. After it became clear that Vesta was grooming Sylvia to take the helm at Chatelaine’s, we decided to switch places. Kids, you know. Couple of boys. Twins. Someone has to be there when they get home. Make sure they get to soccer games and don’t spend too much time watching television.”

  “I know what you mean. After my wife died, I made the decision to work at home until my daughter left for college. Same reasons.”

  “You have a daughter in college?” Sylvia asked swiftly.

  “Yes. Gabriella. She’s at Santa Cruz.”

  “Good school,” Gardner said. “Excellent academic reputation. But a little eccentric in some ways, I hear.”

  “What can you expect from a campus that picked the banana slug as a mascot?”

  “Any other children?” Sylvia demanded.

  “No,” Mack said.

  “Going to be interesting starting all over again with a new bunch of rug rats, isn’t it?” Gardner asked. “At least this time around you’ll know what to expect.”

  In her chair, Cady went so still you would have thought she had been flash-frozen. Mack pretended not to notice.

  “Mmm,” he said noncommittally. “How old are your twins?”

  “Eight as of the day after tomorrow,” Gardner said proudly. “You’re invited to the party.”

  “Thanks, I look forward to it.”

  “How did you and Cady meet?” Sylvia asked.

  “On the internet,” Mack said.

  Predictably, that statement brought an appalled silence that lasted nearly thirty seconds. Mack glanced at Cady and saw that she was concentrating very hard on fishing a bit of cork out of her wineglass. He got the feeling that she was trying hard not to laugh.

  “You’re joking,” Sylvia said eventually. “It was an internet connection?”

  “Beats the bar scene,” Mack said. “At least it does when you’re my age.”

  Cady finally managed to ease the invisible shard of cork out of the wine.

  Gardner frowned slightly. “Bit risky meeting on-line, isn’t it?”

  Mack thought about the events at the Vandyke cabin. “Yes, it is. We got lucky, though.”

  Sylvia gave Cady a troubled look. “I’ve heard some horrifying stories about people assuming false identities on-line to stalk unsuspecting people. Mack could have been a serial killer, for all you knew.”

  “Fortunately, he turned out to be a consultant instead.” Cady took a quick swallow of wine and then licked a tiny drop off her finger.

  Sylvia’s expression tightened. Mack realized that he was starting to feel a little sorry for her.

  “It wasn’t a chat-room meeting,” he said gently. “It started out as a business connection. I needed an expert in European decorative arts and came across Cady’s web page.”

  That was close enough to the truth, he thought. So what if he had done a thorough background check on her before contacting her? No point going into the gritty details.

  “I see.”

  The uneasiness in Sylvia’s gaze diminished fractionally. But it was clear that she was not yet convinced that he was not a serial killer. Or at the very least, a modern-day fortune hunter.

  “Why did you need an art consultant?” Gardner asked with genuine curiosity. “Do you collect?”

  “I was interested in a Spanish piece at the time,” Mack said. “For an acquaintance.”

  Cady apparently decided that the interrogation had gone far enough. “Any idea why Aunt Vesta started seeing a psychic?”

  As a diversion strategy, it worked brilliantly. Sylvia flinched and cast a quick glance around the lightly crowded lounge.

  “Not so loud, Cady. As far as we know, no one is aware of the visits. For the sake of Chatelaine’s image, I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “We think she only saw him a couple of times,” Gardner offered helpfully.

  “But why?” Cady asked again in a lower tone. “I mean, you’ve got to admit that it was completely out of character for her. She scoffed at that kind of stuff.”

  “No offense,” Gardner said dryly, “but your aunt was always a little on the weird side. I wouldn’t put it past her to have suddenly developed an interest in the paranormal.”

  Sylvia turned back to Cady. “We don’t know what was going on between Aunt Vesta and Jonathan Arden. She refused to discuss it. We can only assume that some form of dementia or mental illness was setting in. No one outside the family knows about this.” She paused to give Mack a meaningful nod. “Except for your Mr. Easton, of course.”

  “It’s okay.” Mack put an olive pit into the tiny dish on the table. “Her Mr. Easton is starting to feel like a real member of the family.”

  Sylvia’s hand tightened around her glass. “We would appreciate it if you would refrain from discussing Vesta’s eccentricities outside the family circle.”

  “Mack wouldn’t think of mentioning the subject to outsiders,” Cady remarked. “Isn’t that right, Ma
ck?”

  “Right,” Mack said.

  Suddenly his attention was drawn to two men who were approaching their table. One appeared to be in his early sixties, polished and genial. He paused here and there to greet other polished people scattered about the lounge. Wherever he stopped, there was friendly chatter and good cheer. A natural salesman, Mack thought.

  The man with him was much younger; early thirties maybe, athletically built and well dressed in tailored trousers and a linen jacket. He, too, seemed quite at ease, but Mack noticed that his congenial expression did not quite reach his eyes.

  Gardner followed Mack’s gaze. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t good old Uncle Randall.”

  Something told Mack his luck had run out for the evening. The ex-husband had arrived.

  Sylvia turned quickly, smiled warmly at the newcomer and gave him her cheek to kiss. “Hello, Randall. This is a pleasant surprise.”

  It was the barely veiled irritation in Gardner’s eyes that interested Mack. Sylvia’s mild-mannered husband had not liked that friendly little peck on the cheek, he thought.

  “Cady, honey.” Randall put a hand on Cady’s shoulder in a too-familiar manner and bent down to kiss her. “Good to see you again. I heard you were in Phantom Point.”

  Mack felt something inside him clench. Hard. He suddenly understood exactly how Gardner felt. It was clear that Randall Post was one hell of a close friend of the family.

  The older man arrived in a small cloud of sophisticated bonhomie. Somewhere along the line he had collected a martini from the bar.

  “Evening, everyone. Cady, heard you were in town. Nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Stanford,” she said.

  Her tone was polite, Mack noticed, but there were no pecks on the cheek between Stanford Felgrove and Cady. It was the same with Sylvia and Stanford. Friendly but not intimate.

  “Won’t you join us for a drink?” Sylvia waved a gracious hand at two vacant chairs. “We were just chatting with Cady and her friend, Mack Easton. Have you met him?”

  “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” Stanford stuck out a hand. “Stanford Felgrove. I run Austrey-Post.”