What had he done?
Gregory walked around the couch, behind Kellen, lifted the pickax, slammed it into her head.
Her skull split. Gore…blood…death. Oh God, death!
Cecilia screamed, stumbled to a halt, covered her face with her arms.
Then…a whiff of gas. And she knew. She looked.
Inside the house, Gregory walked to the drawer where they kept the lighter for the fire.
I’ll kill you and I’ll kill myself.
That was what he intended. But he hadn’t killed Cecilia. He had killed Kellen and now—
He clicked the lighter a few times. No spark. No flame.
Something drew his gaze up and out the window. He saw Cecilia standing there. He looked down at Kellen’s body. Looked up again, his face twisted by a too-familiar fury.
The house exploded.
4
“Captain? You okay? It’s really rainin’ out here. You want to come inside?”
At the sound of Russell’s voice, Kellen shed the grim memories like rainwater. She looked at the man who stood outside the portico, holding an umbrella over her and staring anxiously.
RUSSELL CLARK:
MALE, 46, 5’11”, 220 LBS., AUTISTIC. YEARNING SANDS DOORMAN SINCE HE WAS 16. GOOD AT HIS JOB. WILL NOT GO ON VACATION EVEN IN WINTER. LIKES/NEEDS ROUTINE.
She looked down at herself, at the yellow plastic rain poncho that draped her to her knees and protected her from the worst of the rain, and at the soggy hem of her long black dress and the damp leather of her fashion boots.
She mentally checked her schedule, made sure she had her top-security-I’m-the-acting-manager pass card that would open any room in the resort and said, “Yes, thank you, Russell. It’s time to go inside.”
“Captain, you’re an interestin’ woman,” Russell said.
“A lot of interesting people work at Yearning Sands Resort.” As if the fires of hell pursued her, Kellen hurried into the resort. A familiar feeling—she’d been pursued by a devil before. She walked into the tall, warmly appointed lobby that glowed with golden, color-washed stucco, a lush plant wall, an eccentric floor-to-ceiling gas fireplace that produced flame from artfully arranged metal rods, and comfortable seating areas where, every morning, the resort served a full complimentary breakfast. She was, for the first time, on duty as resort manager.
As Kellen walked through, she accepted a cinnamon roll bite from the servers who were cleaning up the meal and replacing it with platters of cookies and bowls of fruit. The lobby’s comfort and the warmth were dwarfed by the two long window walls. Drawn by the panorama, Kellen walked over and looked, first to the west at the thrashing ocean and gray clouds rimmed with gold, then to the north, toward the towering Olympic Mountains. In every mood, even in this unrelenting rain, the view was stunning. Breathtaking. No wonder Yearning Sands was one of the world’s most exclusive, expensive, out-of-the-way resorts.
A critical voice sounded behind her. “Taking a moment, are you?”
“There are no words to describe this setting,” Kellen said and turned to face Sheri Jean Hagerty.
SHERI JEAN HAGERTY:
FEMALE, AMERICAN/ASIAN/POLYNESIAN, 40, 5’2”, PROPORTIONED LIKE A CLOTHING MODEL FOR PETITE SIZES. EMPLOYED 18 YRS. GUEST EXPERIENCE MANAGER. SHAKES HANDS TOO FIRMLY. RIGID SCHEDULE. STAFF FEARS. GUESTS ADORE. WANTS MY JOB.
Sheri Jean gave the roiling Pacific a cursory glance. “Yes, it’s pretty.”
“Pretty?”
“Grand, epic, blah blah.” Sheri Jean waved a dismissive hand. “I know how to do the tourist spiel—I simply choose not to waste it on you. Don’t you have something more important to do than look out the windows?”
Kellen’s teeth were suddenly on edge. “Sheri Jean, when we meet this afternoon at two fifteen, if you wish, we’ll discuss Annie’s decision to hire me as assistant manager.”
Sheri Jean’s eyes narrowed. She looked like a small tiger ready to pounce. “It should have been me.”
“Yet it was not, and perhaps you should consider why.”
“I could have assumed the role with no training.”
“The employees would have fled the resort.” Kellen watched a man in a suit walk toward them, then step back, away from the confrontation.
Sheri Jean followed her. “No one would be challenging me now.”
“Ladies, excuse me.”
Sheri Jean flung herself around.
The data scrolled in Kellen’s mind.
CARSON LENNEX:
MALE, 64, IRISH/SPANISH, 6’3”, 200 LBS., IRON GRAY HAIR, HAZEL EYES (CHANGEABLE), TANNED, SWIMMER, AMAZING WHEN SEEN IN A BATHING SUIT CLIMBING OUT OF THE HORIZON POOL. ACTOR, MOVIE STAR, FORMER ACTION-ADVENTURE HERO. MARRIED TWICE. DIVORCED TWICE. LIVES ALONE IN A YEARNING SANDS TOWER SUITE. LEAVES CAPRICIOUSLY. RETIRED. ALOOF.
Sheri Jean smoothly made the transition to guest experience manager. “Mr. Lennex, good to see you back! I hope you enjoyed your vacation.”
“I had never visited Machu Picchu. Words cannot express the magnificence.” Carson nodded coolly to Kellen and spoke to Sheri Jean. “The Shivering Sherlocks are arriving this afternoon.”
“Yes, Mr. Lennex. We look forward to them every year.”
He included Kellen in the conversation. “The Shivering Sherlocks are six ladies from Alaska who come to Yearning Sands for a murder mystery weekend.”
His deep, Irish-accented voice melted away Kellen’s irritation with Sheri Jean. “They have a lovely reputation here at the resort.”
“I’ve grown to know them over the last few years, and this year I’m the author of the murder mystery script.” He laughed a little, a laugh so warm and smooth Kellen wanted to bottle it. “I’m nervous.” He turned back to Sheri Jean. “I’m hosting the welcome party in my suite. I wanted to make sure we have appropriate killer foods.”
“I’ve spoken to the chefs, Mr. Lennex,” Sheri Jean said, “and they assured me they had the appropriate hors d’oeuvres in mind.”
“Wonderful.” Mr. Lennex rubbed his palms together. “I can’t wait to see what they concoct.” With a nod to them both, he strode toward his private elevator.
Kellen realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out slowly. “He’s never spoken to me directly before.”
“Don’t let it give you ideas,” Sheri Jean snapped. “The last assistant manager got reprimanded for thinking she would make him a good trophy wife.”
“Sheri Jean, do you see this?” Kellen circled her own unsmiling face. “This saw combat in Afghanistan and Kuwait. This has no illusions left, and you do not comprehend what you’re challenging.”
Sheri Jean took a step back.
Kellen continued, “In fifteen minutes, I’m scheduled to speak to Chef Norbert about tonight’s menu and I know he, also, will be testing my fitness to run the resort in Annie’s absence. After that, I speak to Chef Reinhart, who will be irritated that I spoke to Chef Norbert first. Both of those gentlemen will also have to be reminded that after several tours into the world’s war zones, I was wounded and then honorably discharged from the US Army as a captain, and I am fit to lead this resort.”
Sheri Jean’s mouth opened, then closed without a word.
“It’s a good thing we’re currently running only a skeleton crew. If I had to repeat that too often, I would grow irritated. I’ll see you at two fifteen.” With military precision, Kellen turned back to the view and waited while Sheri Jean’s heels clicked away across the tile.
The men and women Kellen had led could have warned Sheri Jean not to challenge Kellen’s authority. In Afghanistan, in her first deployment, superior officers and soldiers had taken one look at her and assumed she would be a pushover. They hadn’t realized how fiercely she would push back, and why.
She would never be abused again.
When Annie had inte
rviewed her for this position and asked about Kellen’s goal, her answer had been “A home.” But it wasn’t as simple as that. The deaths of her parents had left Cecilia orphaned at nine. Her aunt and uncle had taken her in and given her stability, but they weren’t her own mother and father. Only Cousin Kellen had made her feel a true part of the family with wholehearted generosity of spirit.
Then Gregory happened; he had successfully dug into her psyche and undermined her strengths. Looking back, she recognized that and knew, too, that Cousin Kellen had saved her; Cousin Kellen had died for her. So that was what this Kellen wanted, to find a place in this world where she could be safe, where she could bring her friends, raise them up and give them security. She wanted to be to her friends what Cousin Kellen had been to her: the person who had the strength to make the world better, the person who created a safe haven for lost souls…like herself.
With two minutes to spare, Kellen strode into the restaurant kitchens. The two chefs’ hulking forms stood opposite one another.
CHEF NORBERT/CHEF REINHART:
BROTHERS, 47 AND 46. WHITE, BOTH 6’5”, 240 LBS., BLOND, BLUE EYES, VIRILE, IMPOSING. RECENTLY IMMIGRATED FROM GERMANY. MASTER CHEFS. FIVE-STAR FOOD IN TWO RESTAURANTS. LOUD. ARROGANT. RIVALS.
Kellen’s appointment with Chef Norbert ran over by five minutes and cut into her time with Chef Reinhart. Chef Reinhart was irritated, throwing a fit that included pacing and arm flailing. With knives.
Chef Gabriella arrived holding a restaurant-sized cake pan. She paused and glared at Chef Reinhart.
He subsided and backed up, muttering what sounded like prayers.
CHEF GABRIELLA:
FEMALE, PORTUGUESE, APPROX. 35, 4’11”, 125 LBS. MASTER CHEF IN RESORT’S LARGEST, MOST CASUAL RESTAURANT. PLACID UNTIL PROVOKED. NORBERT/REINHART COWER.
The conference between Gabriella and Kellen took five minutes. Kellen approved the layering of pecan cookies, vanilla cream cheese pudding, chocolate cream cheese pudding and whipped cream covered with chocolate shavings. Gabriella slapped Chef Norbert’s hand when he reached in to steal a bite, and sent an ample portion with Kellen when she moved on to her next meeting with the roofing contractor.
Obstructive jerk.
Within five minutes, Kellen lost her temper with him, enough so he made calls and discovered he could get the tile to match the resort.
Note to self—Shout at the roofing contractor.
At noon, she went into the spa. The waiting room was immaculate, a cradle of soothing music, low lighting, comfortable chairs, a luxurious oriental rug, the scent of bergamot wafting from reed diffusers and a trickling copper wall fountain. Old leather books, never read, lined the bookshelves, and their gold decorations provided ambience and distinction. At this hour and in this season, the room was empty, and as always, the atmosphere made Kellen want to sit down and meditate.
Instead, she was scheduled to exercise with Mara Philippi. With the enthusiasm of a game show host, Mara asked, “Are you ready to work out?”
MARA PHILIPPI:
FEMALE, WHITE, AGE LISTED AS 29(?), TANNED, 5’6”, 130 LBS. AGGRESSIVELY PHYSICALLY FIT. EAST COAST STREAKED-BLONDE PREPPIE, DORIAN GRAY PERFECTION OF SKIN TONE, LASHES, LIPS. EMPLOYED 8 YRS., SPA MANAGER. UNCLEAR ON DIFFERENCE BETWEEN WAR ZONE AND GYMNASIUM. DO NOT LIKE. NO GOOD REASON.
“Because I have the most exciting news for you.” Mara’s blue eyes glowed like jewels in her smooth skin. Even now, even in winter, she wore tight workout capris and her black sleeveless T-shirt displayed her toned arms, clung to her taut abs and showed off the jut of her perfect boobs. Her only bow to winter was her mottled black-and-brown fashion hoodie, tied around her waist.
“Wow. Exciting news?” Kellen suspected she wouldn’t agree.
Like her own cheerleader, Mara jumped and clapped her hands. “I’ve applied to compete in the International Ninja Challenge!”
“Yay?”
“You were a soldier. Do you think we can get in shape together?”
Several answers came to mind—
You’re not in shape?
I’m not in shape?
What is the International Ninja Challenge? Are you comparing some reality show to getting shot at while running up a mountain in Afghanistan?
And—
When you get that aggressive gleam in your eyes, you’re scary.
“Sure,” Kellen said. “Sounds like fun.”
“Great. I’ll start right now.” Mara bounded toward the stairs that led to the gym. “Get changed!”
* * *
Kickboxing. Kicks. Punches. Sweeps. Before the hour was over, sweat soaked Kellen’s hair, dripped into her eyes, stained her workout clothes. She stood before the full wall-length mirror, hands on her knees, gasping in agony.
“You always give me such a good workout!” Mara dabbed at her glowing skin with a towel.
“You, too,” Kellen wheezed. She couldn’t help working as hard as she could. Mara’s boundless enthusiasm shouldn’t be irritating…but it was. Everything about Mara—her toned figure, her fitness, her excellent management of the spa and gym—brought out Kellen’s competitive spirit, and every time Mara opened her mouth, Kellen wanted to contradict her, argue with her, prove her wrong.
And why? It didn’t make sense. When Kellen arrived, Mara had studied her injury, given her a physical therapy regime to ease the pain in Kellen’s wounded shoulder. Mara had advised her stylist on a short, easy-to-care-for cut for Kellen’s dyed brown hair, and her cosmetician on the right program for Kellen’s Native American skin tone, sculpted bone structure and blue eyes. Mara was perky, cheerful, and she never overtly challenged Kellen. Yet Kellen felt hostility in every smile, in every upbeat word.
Probably it was her own hostility reflecting back at her.
5
Washed and dressed once again in a calf-length black dress with the resort’s signature blue scarf, Kellen combed her wet hair off her forehead and hurried through the gym.
Mara stopped lifting weights long enough to look Kellen over. “Wow. You still look tense!” Grasping Kellen’s hand, she pulled her to the mirror and they stood shoulder to shoulder. “Stop worrying. Look at us! You’re so much like me, I know you can do anything you set your mind to!”
Standing together, the two were almost identical in height and weight, but as far as Kellen was concerned, there the similarities ended. She was the opposite of bubbly. Her stint in the Army had finished off whatever vanity remained after Gregory and her time on the streets. She worked out to be healthy, to be strong, and could not comprehend the concept of training to win a television show competition. Most of all, she suspected one of them, either Mara or Kellen, was out of step with the world.
She knew it was her.
“What really brought you here?” Mara asked.
What did that mean? “The job.”
“No boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Got a bad relationship in your past?”
Kellen faced Mara and moved close enough to make her point. “Not that I discuss.”
Yet Mara wasn’t done. “You came here to feel safe.”
Kellen flinched.
“It’s okay.” Mara tossed her hair and headed back to the weight rack. “All of us out here are running away from something.”
What should Kellen do? Tell Mara to mind her own business? Deny she was running away from something? Ask what Mara was running away from?
No. She hadn’t come to Yearning Sands to exchange confidences. That left her with no good choices, and one more reason to dislike Mara Philippi.
Like a waif from below, Xander appeared.
ALEXANDER RISCHARD:
MALE, WHITE, 41 (LOOKS 30), THIN, SHAVED HEAD, PALE BLUE EYES, BROAD PALMS, LONG FINGERS, BIG KNUCKLES. YOGA, ME
DITATION, MASSAGE. REIKI SPECIALIST. VEGETARIAN, ALL ORGANIC.
Yet—Kellen liked him.
Like an East Indian guru, he put his palms together and bowed. “I regret to report the universe has presented us with a challenge.” He picked up a pair of binoculars from the windowsill and handed them to Kellen.
Through the veil of rain, in the distance, two coyotes fought over a bone while vultures dived and scolded. Kellen texted Temo. “Someone in maintenance will go out and pick up the skeleton.”
Mara took the binoculars and looked, too. “Do you know how upset guests get when they see scavengers cleaning up a dead deer or a raccoon or whatever?”
“Some people are not meant to appreciate the fullness of an outdoor life.” Xander spread his fingers above Kellen’s shoulder and let them hover there. “You’re in pain. I have time on my schedule for a massage.”
“Thank you, Xander, but I’ve got another couple of appointments, then I need to see where we are on orders and bookings.”
“You will have time later for a run, won’t you?” Mara asked. “Not far—we’ll race each other back to our cottages.”
“You’ll win,” Kellen said. “My cottage is the last one.”
Mara smiled brightly. “I know!”
Xander’s hands settled over Kellen’s SC joint and massaged. “Something long denied is fighting to erupt from your spiritual center and to ignore it would have dire results on not only your well-being, but the well-being of the resort, which you now lead.”
Kellen questioned Mara with wide eyes and a pursed mouth.
“Better go for a quick massage,” Mara said. “Last time he said something like that, Destiny spilled a bottle of lavender massage oil on the rug and we had to have it cleaned twice before it stopped exuding inappropriate amounts of serenity into the air.”
Kellen stared at them both. “Inappropriate amounts of serenity?”
“The scent of lavender creates a tranquility of the spirit,” Xander explained.
Kellen realized again why she needed to succeed as the resort’s assistant manager. Mara might be a competent spa manager, but she knew nothing of real life and real combat. And a woman like Kellen, who didn’t realize lavender could exude inappropriate amounts of serenity, needed to stay on the practical side of the business.
Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade Book 1) Page 4