After pocketing the key card, he left the motel and crossed the road, using the public access to the beach. A few people were wandering about so he just lowered his head and kept walking. He slowed when he neared Calvin’s house. It didn’t look any better from this angle. He traversed a small boardwalk over swaying beach grass two houses down. Lights glowed from inside so he quickly ducked past the windows to the next house. It was dark. Hopefully the homeowners weren’t around. He paused before he reached Calvin’s and drew a ski mask from his pocket. He’d walked right past the store display before he stopped and went back for one. At the time, he thought he might need it if Granny sent the police after him. Now it would work if someone saw him break in. If he remembered correctly, there was a side door that led to a mud room. He’d been a pretty good lock-picker in his youth, though his skills were now rusty. Not much chance to practice in the slammer. When he reached the door, he checked inside one more time. Still no movement. He slid on a pair of gloves—he’d learned something from Gibbs watching all those reruns of NCIS—and wiggled the handle, surprised when it turned in his hand.
He eased inside and closed the door behind him. The house smelled musty with an overlying odor of sour milk. It reeked, but not as bad as Granny’s cat-infested bungalow. Hands on hips, he surveyed the room. He had no idea where to start his search. Calvin’s room had been on this level, so he’d start there.
A noise had him spinning around. It sounded like gravel crunching. A vehicle. Someone was coming. He hurried back to the mud room and ducked down behind a wall. He knocked over a shovel and winced at the clatter. Hopefully whoever was coming hadn’t heard the racket.
#
Hillary slept through the night with no nightmares. She’d taken Kota out for another run at dusk and the exercise had worked its magic. She decided to make them a nightly ritual. She enjoyed watching the sun rise in the morning, so she would run twice a day. The extra cardio would be good for her and Kota loved the outdoors.
She’d spent the day visiting shops in the small towns up and down the coast, picking up kitschy gifts for her coworkers. She found a charming mermaid lamp for Daphne Demarchis. Daphne had become like a little sister to her and they texted regularly. Daphne felt responsible for Hillary’s injuries, no matter what Hillary said. Daph had spent many hours at the hospital with her and she appointed herself Hillary’s caregiver until she could do the tasks for herself. She adored the young woman.
Hillary had also snapped hundreds of pictures with her DSLR camera, which stood for digital single-lens reflex camera, a term she knew thanks to Daphne. Under the younger girl’s tutelage, she discovered she loved photography. Daph sometimes used film and developed the pictures in her darkroom, but Hillary was perfectly fine with digital. It was more forgiving to novices like herself. She could take as many shots as she wanted and just delete the ones that didn’t turn out. No need to spend money on film or developing. Daph had an amazing artistic eye and Hillary had no doubt she would succeed as a photographer if she chose that route after college.
Grabbing the keys off the counter, she slid them into her waist pack and checked to make sure her gun was in place. She carried a smaller SIG Sauer than her regular service weapon. Though it was compact, it was just as deadly. A cold bottle of water from the fridge and she was good to go.
Kota presented her his leash without her asking. She smiled and praised him as she clipped it to his collar. The sun was setting, the intense orange and red giving way to dark purple and deep blue. She took off along the sand, packed solid from the receding tide. After they’d gone a few miles, she gave Kota the signal that he was off duty. With an excited yip, he danced in place, his barks joining with the cries of circling sea gulls. She loved when his playful side came out. She hated that her weakness affected him, but it did. He could sense her moods and was quick to offer comfort when she started to spiral. In the short time she’d known him, he’d helped her heal.
“You thirsty?” she asked her companion. He dropped to his belly, ready for a post-run drink. Removing the collapsible bowl from her bag, she filled it with water. Kota lapped it up greedily. She finished off the bottle, screwed the cap back on and replaced it in her pack so she could recycle it when she returned home. When Kota was finished, she tossed out the remaining liquid, shook the bowl to remove any drops and folded it back into her pack.
A soft wind blew off the ocean, cooling her skin heated from the run. There was something so rejuvenating about being by the water. Therapeutic. Bad memories faded, time marched on and the tides ebbed and flowed every day. If only her worries and fears could dissipate so easily. But they were lessening, getting weaker every day. They didn’t hold the same power they once had over her. Dan Bradley kept telling her she just needed to “get back on the horse”, so to speak, and he would know. Her coworker had been injured on one of his first cases, and the girl he was protecting had been kidnapped, much like her situation. His turned out okay, too. Though his injuries hadn’t been as serious as hers, it took his mental ones longer to mend, he told her. He’d doubted himself and his abilities. But they did heal and the best thing to do was get back in the game.
She knew Dan was right. She was well-trained and capable. She’d fought for Daphne, almost to death. It wasn’t her lack of ability that got her shot. She was outnumbered and outgunned. She’d managed to kill two of the kidnappers and wound a third.
Her eyes closed on an inhale, letting the tang of the ocean air seep into her soul. Kayla had been teaching her yoga and she couldn’t imagine a more perfect place to practice. She’d have to pull out her mat and run through some poses when they returned home.
She glanced at the houses that faced the water as she neared her cottage. Excluding hers, most were at least two-stories. Another level would be nice to overlook the water. For the most part, they were all well-kept and alluring, except for the house next to hers. It had been grand at one time, but now the shingles were warped and rotting from the constant lash of salt air. The roof looked like it leaked in several places and the boards around the deck were in disrepair.
Movement caught her eye and she squinted into the darkness. A large shape moved out onto the deck. She couldn’t see the face but awareness shot through her—not the creepy vibe she felt yesterday when she thought someone was watching her from the window. This was a more visceral hit to her senses. Judging by the size, it was definitely a man, and he looked to be tall, well-muscled and fit. Though she couldn’t begin to see his eyes, she felt them on her. His gaze was like a physical touch.
As she neared, she debated on what to do. The neighborly thing would be to go up and introduce herself. Kayla wouldn’t hesitate. Nothing intimidated that woman. Hillary was more reserved. She was jerked from her internal debate when a shape unexpectedly appeared behind the first one. Girlfriend? Wife? Her eyes widened in horror. The newcomer lifted a shovel.
She tossed Kota’s leash and waved her hands to get his attention. “Behind you,” she screamed, pointing. The man spun around just as the attacker swung the shovel at his head and he dropped like a felled tree.
Chapter Three
Reed Steele pulled up to the ramshackle beach house he would be restoring for the next few weeks, cut the engine and peered through the windshield. Even in darkness, he could see the shabbiness of the exterior. Once-grand shake shingles were rotted, quite a few missing all together. He’d replace them with a fiber cement siding that was durable for the beach and wouldn’t have to be painted or maintained. The roof was decaying, shingles missing from there as well. The front porch sagged and he knew from pictures, the back deck was a hazard. And that was just the outside. This would be quite the job.
As soon as he stepped out of the truck, he was hit with the smell of the ocean: clean air with a hint of fishy. He could hear waves crashing against the sand just steps away. While the house might not be in the best shape, the location more than made up for it.
Pocketing his keys, he jogged up the steps to the fr
ont door. One of the risers gave with his weight and he prayed the porch would hold up. The project wasn’t scheduled to start until next week, but Reed had some time and what better way to spend it than at the beach, even if it was too chilly to surf the East Coast waves.
Connie Ellis, his producer, had booked a house nearby for him to stay in during renovations, along with his project manager and foreman, Neil Farmington. Connie would be staying there as well with her two assistants. She’d booked rooms in a hotel down the road for the remaining crew. Some were driving RV’s or campers and bringing their families. Reed would’ve liked to check into the house early, but Connie beat him to the punch, bringing her family for a vacation before filming started. While he adored her three-year old twins, they had drunk-on-Red-Bull levels of energy and he’d never get any rest. Besides, this house was sitting empty with the utilities hooked up. No way would he siesta on someone else’s mattress, but he had a sleeping bag in the back of the Ford Super Duty he’d rented, so he’d just camp out here. If the house wasn’t wired for Wi-Fi, he hoped to piggy back off a neighbor’s feed. Not like he’d be looking at porn or anything nefarious. And he could enjoy the beach.
He’d grown up in Nebraska, about as far away from the ocean as you could get. He’d been drafted into the major leagues his junior year of college, but chose to finish his degree before heading to spring training. He’d spent his entire career—short-lived as it was—in Los Angeles, with a condo overlooking the Pacific. There was something so calming about the crash and retreat of the waves and the cries of seagulls.
He was glad he’d decided to finish his degree when his career abruptly ended thanks to an illegal rolling slide by Chris Morgan that shattered his knee. His dream had always been to play major league baseball, so he didn’t even consider anything else. He figured when he retired years down the road with several World Series titles under his belt, maybe he’d coach. But he’d worked in his father’s construction company from the time he could hold a hammer and with his degree in architecture, his agent had negotiated a television deal for him while he’d been lying in a hospital bed, feeling damn sorry for himself.
At the time, he’d told Will Fontaine, his high school buddy-turned shark of an agent, to shove the offer. He didn’t want a television show rehabbing houses. He wanted to play ball again. But faced with a knee that was more robot than human, he finally roused himself out of his depression to look over the details. He’d be the host of a show that renovated houses with a crew to do the work. They’d use his designs. He’d call the shots. It’d been an offer he couldn’t refuse. The network wanted to capitalize on his baseball fame, so they called the show Home Run Homes and offered him a contract that rivaled his baseball one. It seemed that after the door slammed on his pro ball career the window had opened for him to crawl through to a new life.
Usually the shows featured a redo of three rooms, most often the kitchen, living space and a master bedroom/en suite combo. The network billed this job as a kick-off-to-summer special. He’d be revamping the entire beach house, stem to stern. The owner was none other than his former teammate, Josh Hannigan. Josh had just purchased the house for a steal a few months ago, based on the location. It needed major work, but once they finished, it would be a showstopper. This was, by far, the biggest project he’d tackled to date. He’d seen pictures of the house, and drawn up plans accordingly, but this would be the first time he’d be physically walking through.
He slid his fingers along the top of a porch light and found the key his foreman left for him. Neil had flown out to tour the house a few weeks back. He’d taken pictures and measurements and logged tasks that were the most urgently in need of repair. A lock seemed like overkill when the door looked like it would blow open with a strong wind. Proving his theory correct, a breeze ruffled his hair and inched the door wide with an ominous creak. He chuckled as he stepped across the threshold. The house smelled like it’d been closed up for months with an overlying musty scent and the aroma of something soured. If pictures were any indication, the roof leaked and they could be looking at water damage and possibly mold.
He flipped a switch and light flooded the room. What a disaster. But, nice bones. The entry led to the living space and a wall of windows, but the entire area was in disrepair. Paint peeled off walls, boards were warped and rotted on the floor. The furniture was ancient and musty. He peeked in the kitchen. Avocado green appliances. Cabinet doors hung by one hinge. It was closed off from the rest of the house. He planned on taking out the wall separating the kitchen from the great room to open the space. He knew from studying the plans that off to the left was a small bedroom, the only bathroom in the house and a mud room that led to a side exit. His redesign called for an overhaul to include a laundry room and an updated bathroom. He’d also install an outdoor shower to rinse off sand from the beach. The bedroom would be left as is, with new floors, windows and walls.
Upstairs was one big space. The front facing the ocean was used as a master bedroom and the back for storage. He planned on adding a master bath and splitting the storage area into two bedrooms with a Jack and Jill bathroom between. The two-bedroom one-bath house would become four bedrooms and three baths when they finished.
As if called by Mother Nature herself, he padded to the sliding glass door leading to the deck. After killing the overhead lights, he eased the door open, inhaling the fresh air. He knew from pictures that the deck also needed replacing, but he stepped out anyway, the waves calling to him like a Siren’s song. He’d learned to surf on the West Coast and he itched to grab a board and ride the whitecaps. It was dark out, but the light from a waning moon cast a golden glow over the water.
That’s when he saw her.
She was too far away and it was too dark for him to glimpse her face, but she was tall and fit, moonlight reflecting off a light-colored ponytail swishing back and forth. A dog kept pace at her side, his posture watchful and alert. He detected the exact moment she realized he was watching her. He couldn’t explain the instantaneous attraction that zapped him like a jolt of electricity to his system. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, and he’d accidently been tazed once by a former girlfriend showing off her new toy.
Time slowed as her steps brought her closer and closer. He didn’t know anything about her. She could be heading back to her bank executive husband and three kids. His heart didn’t care as it banged against his rib cage, trying to burst free.
He straightened, shocked that she was waving at him…no, not waving, more like trying to get his attention.
“Behind you!” was all he could make out.
He spun around in time to see the business end of a shovel swinging towards him. He barely managed to get an arm up before it made contact. Pain radiated through his arm and inside his head as the metal grazed his scalp. He heard barking and yelling and then he heard nothing at all.
Chapter Four
“Behind you!”
The man spun around just as his attacker swung the shovel. Hillary winced at the crack she could hear from here and took off at a dead run, one hand reaching for her gun. She gave Kota a command and he barked, hopefully scaring the attacker away.
Any thoughts of inadequacy or inability to do her job fled as she gripped her weapon, dashed up the stairs and across the short boardwalk that led to the man’s house. Though she knew he wanted to run ahead, Kota kept pace with her, his barks sounding vicious and deadly.
“Freeze!”
The shovel-wielding figure spotted her and dropped the weapon, turning to disappear inside the house. From this close, she could see that he wore a black mask and a dark hood pulled over his head. She bounded up the deck stairs and slid to a stop beside the man sprawled lifelessly on the wooden planks. A door slammed, most likely the assailant getting away. She was torn from going after him or seeing to the injured man, who still hadn’t moved. He won. “Kota, guard.” Kota sat instantly, his ears alert, listening for any sound.
Blood seeped from a
wound near the man’s scalp. She ripped off her tank top, leaving her in just a sports bra. It covered more than a bikini, so she didn’t think twice. Head wounds were notorious bleeders, so she applied pressure, hoping to staunch the flow. His arm was already swelling from where he deflected the blow. Probably broken. She checked for a pulse, relieved to find a strong one beating away. Keeping pressure on his wound, she placed her gun on the ground within easy reach and pulled out her cell to call for an ambulance. She wasn’t sure of the address of this house, so she gave hers and told the dispatcher that it was the house next door to the north.
Hillary gasped as a strong hand wrapped around her wrist, causing her to drop her phone. Sparks shot up her arm. She peered into a pair of aqua colored eyes glossed with pain, but burning with rage. Kota growled menacingly.
“Kota, learn.” She needed her dog to know she was okay so he wouldn’t attack the injured man. Kota sniffed his hand, committing his scent to memory. She turned to soothe him. “It’s okay. The attacker’s gone. I’m here to help you.”
His grip relaxed but he didn’t let go. “Runner. Beach. Knew you’d be gorgeous,” he rasped, before his eyes drifted closed again and his hand fell from her wrist.
Hillary’s head jerked back. Did he just call her gorgeous? She might be flattered if he weren’t half-comatose and most likely seeing double from a probable concussion.
Kota rose to his feet and bumped into her, growling a warning. Hillary swiveled to guard the man with her body and picked up her SIG, aiming it at the dark interior of the house. Her heartbeat pounded. She hadn’t been in this type of situation since the shootout in Greece. A calm came over her and she concentrated on breathing evenly, as Dante Costa taught her.
“Police,” a voice called out.
Hillary kept her weapon trained. “I didn’t hear a siren and I have an attack dog and a gun.”
Tough as Nails (COBRA Securities Book 10) Page 3