by B. J Daniels
Keeping to the shadow of the houseboat, she moved across the stern to the back entrance. To her surprise the door wasn’t locked. He must have figured he could see the boat from the bar and wasn’t worried anyone would bother with it.
Carefully she slid open the screen door and slipped in, glad she wouldn’t have to use the makeshift breaking-and-entering tools she’d brought from the bakery. Technically, then, she wasn’t breaking and entering, right? She didn’t close the screen. Just in case she needed to make a fast getaway.
It was dark in the houseboat, the curtains on the windows drawn. She swept the beam of the penlight across the cabin. The inside of the boat was modestly furnished, clean and uncluttered.
Was there a Mrs. Cooper? Jill didn’t think so. No feminine touches anywhere that she could see. She quickly went through the boat. It didn’t take long. One bedroom. Bed made. Bedding in the storage compartment under it. Bureau drawers, neat. Not a lot of clothing. Nothing fancy.
Lots of books, worn classics. A man who read. In the living area, she found more books, stereo, TV, VCR. Some storage.
She still hadn’t found the duffel bag. She went into the small kitchen-dining room and looked in the cupboards. He had a lot of spices and staples, well-worn cookbooks, a well-stocked pantry and fridge. He must like to cook. That, of course, appealed to her.
No navy duffel. Could he have gotten rid of it between the time she’d left and returned?
She saw something through the bedroom doorway that made her heart jump. The closet door stood open. She’d been so busy looking for the duffel that she’d given the clothes hanging in his closet only a cursory glance, her attention more on the floor under them.
But now her gaze settled on something dark, something familiar.
She moved toward the open closet like a sleepwalker. Even before she touched the fabric, she caught the faint hint of her perfume still in the weave. As she stared at the Rhett Butler costume, her pulse pounded so hard she almost didn’t hear the bell ring down at the gas dock.
Now more than ever she needed to find the duffel bag. She had to know what this man was doing on the island. What he was doing in the cottage last night.
Her hands were shaking as she looked around the boat, frantically trying to see if there was some hiding place she’d overlooked. She glanced at her watch. She had a few minutes. Three at the most before he reached the boat.
The duffel wasn’t in the boat. She’d looked everywhere. As she moved toward the open doorway at the stern, she spotted a storage compartment she hadn’t noticed before. She rushed to it, unlatched the door and shone the penlight inside.
It was deep, so deep she realized it must have another opening out on the deck. All she could see from this vantage point was the side of an orange plastic crate.
She hurried out the door to find she’d been right. There was another opening to the compartment. She lifted the hatch.
Her heart leaped at the sight of the navy duffel bag. Any moment now she would hear his footfalls on the old wooden dock.
Her pulse pounded as she reached for the duffel, then stopped. The bag sat on top of the plastic crate, and under it she could see an old anchor, some worn rubber boots, an assortment of old gloves. The zipper on the bag was open a few inches.
Maybe she’d been wrong about the value of the contents, she thought as she stared at the mud-encrusted duffel bag. She glanced at her watch. Time was up!
Hurriedly, she unzipped the bag fully, now expecting to find rocks or driftwood, and shone the beam of the penlight inside. Her chest tightened as the beam skittered over what appeared to be a volleyball-size clod of that distinctive mustard mud from the restricted area of the island.
The beam stilled on a dark place in the dried mud. A hole. No, not a hole—she moved the light—two eye sockets! A skull! A human skull! The scream caught in her throat as she heard the creak of a heavy step on the deck behind her.
Chapter Nine
Mac had hoped for news of Shane at the bar. Instead, the daughter of the owner of the marina had bought him a beer. She was attractive and nice, but had seemed nervous in her attempt to make small talk.
He’d downed the beer quickly, not sure exactly what she’d been hoping for. Whatever it was, it wasn’t happening.
He’d left a lot of messages around town, but still nothing from Shane. Now he was just anxious to grab what he needed and head for Jill’s apartment, where he would spend the night making sure she was safe.
It was his own fault for getting involved with her. Once he found Shane and returned the coins to Pierce, he told himself, she would be safe. Then he would pack up and leave Flathead Lake earlier than he’d planned, even though summer wasn’t quite over.
Change of plans. Thanks to that one instant in time when he’d kissed Jill Lawson.
As he neared the houseboat, he heard a scuffling sound and tensed. It was growing dark now, but he could see movement in the shadows by his houseboat. His pace quickened.
He was within yards of the boat when he saw what appeared to be two figures fighting. A man in a black ski mask and a woman in a wet suit. The man struck the woman and she slumped in his arms just an instant before the man spotted Mac running down the docks toward him.
Mac saw at once what the man was about to do and knew there was nothing he could do to stop him. In one swift movement, the man threw the unconscious woman over the side of the boat. She hit the water with a splash and went under. Then the man ran the length of the dock and dived into the lake, disappearing into the darkness and water as Mac raced toward the spot where he’d seen the woman go under.
He dived in. The water was shockingly cold, as well as dark and murky, but fortunately not deep. He brushed her arm and quickly made contact with her rubber-clad body and dragged her to the surface and up onto the dock.
As he laid her down on the dock and brushed her long dark hair from her face, he let out a curse. Jill Lawson. Quickly he leaned down to see if she was still breathing. What the hell had she been doing on his boat?
He started to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but the moment his mouth touched hers, she let out a gasp, her eyes flying open. She looked surprised, scared, confused, all at once. Then she coughed and tried to sit up.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he helped her into a sitting position.
She coughed a few more times, then looked around as if she wasn’t sure where she was. She was shaking either from fear or the cold. Or both.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the houseboat. Her teeth chattered as he took her into the bathroom, sat her on the closed lid of the toilet and reached in to get the shower going.
“Wh-what are you d-doing?” she stammered.
“Getting you warmed up.”
Something flickered in her gaze.
“Can you get out of that wet suit by yourself?”
She made a determined try, but she was shaking too hard. He turned her around and unzipped the back, revealing a strong, bare tanned back and a small, red string bikini. This woman was going to be the death of him.
The moment she felt the zipper stop, she was working at the sleeves, trying to pull them from her arms, struggling without much success as she said, “I can get it.”
“Uh-huh. Here.” He slipped the sleeve from her arm. She clutched the neoprene to her chest with a modesty that made him smile. He knew every wonderful inch of that body. “Let me help you. I’ll close my eyes.”
He dragged the wet-suit sleeve from her other arm, then—closing his eyes more for his protection than hers—pulled the neoprene down her slim body. The wet suit fit like a glove and sucked down over her contours like a second skin. He peeled the rubbery material down her legs to her feet.
She rested a hand on his shoulder for balance as he tugged the wet suit off her feet.
Then, the wet suit in hand and his eyes still closed, he rose slowly to a standing position. “Will you be all right in the shower alone?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, sounding a little breathless, her teeth still chattering.
“Okay. I’ll be just outside the door if you need me.” He turned his back to her, opened his eyes and left with the dripping wet suit. He went out on the deck, needing the cool air, and sucked in several breaths. He hung the suit over the railing to dry and listened for her. He could hear the shower running.
He worried she might pass out and fall. But he heard no alarming thumps, just the water running. He was still shaken from how close she’d come to getting killed.
He swore, angry with himself. Angry with her—what was she doing here, anyway? Angry that he’d let the bad guy get away. He told himself that protecting Jill Lawson wasn’t his job. His job was finding Pierce’s coins. But he knew he was only telling himself that because he’d failed at both.
He had to get this woman out of his hair, out of his mind, and soon. The shower stopped.
He started to go back inside, but spotted something on the deck. A penlight and a small, dark dry bag. He picked up both. In the dry bag, he found bakery tools and smiled in spite of himself. It appeared Jill Lawson had intended to break into his houseboat with a spatula.
He stepped back inside and looked up as she came out of the bedroom, her face flushed from the shower. She was wearing one of his shirts, a pale-blue chambray. Behind her he could see the wet string bikini on his towel bar.
She stopped when she saw him and looked ill at ease even though his shirt hung down to her knees, more than covering her. She plucked the fabric away from her breasts with her right hand, making him keenly aware that she wore nothing under the shirt. Her other hand was down at her side, hidden behind the folds of the shirt, but all he could think about was the body he knew so well beneath those folds.
Her long, golden-brown hair was pulled up off her neck, wet tendrils curling at her temples and framing her lightly freckled face.
His chest constricted. God, she was something! She smelled of his soap and a heat that wasn’t all from the shower. He’d never wanted a woman more than he wanted her right now.
She raised her chin and met his gaze. His knees almost buckled. He stepped to her, lost in those big brown eyes and the chemistry shooting like sparks between them. His hand cupped the nape of her neck. Gently, he pulled her to him. His gaze dropped to her full mouth, the lips slightly parted. Lost. He was completely lost.
He breathed her in as he dropped his mouth to hers. She tasted just as he remembered. Sweet, warm, wet—
He froze when he felt cold steel jab into his ribs. His pistol. He’d left it beside the bed before he went to the bar.
“Who are you?” she asked, sounding scared.
“My name’s Mackenzie Cooper.” Carefully he removed his hand from her neck and stepped back, concerned in her current state she just might shoot him. From the way she held the gun, she’d used one before. Just his luck. If she pulled the trigger, it wouldn’t be an accident.
“I know your name,” she said. “Who are you?”
“I’m a private investigator. Want to tell me what you were doing on my boat?”
“I followed you from the island. I know you were behind the restricted area. I know there was a human skull in the duffel bag you brought out of there.”
He tried not to show his surprise. “I see.” He glanced toward the compartment where he’d put the duffel earlier. The door was closed and the man who’d attacked her hadn’t taken it—he’d had nothing in his hands when he’d dived into the water.
“How’s your head?” he asked. “I think I have some aspirin.”
“My head’s fine. So you’re a private investigator.” She frowned. “Were you investigating last night at the Forester party?”
He glanced toward the closet. The door was open and that damned costume was right where he’d hung it. He should have burned it, but he hadn’t been able to. So much for sentimental value. “Why don’t you put the gun down and we can talk about this.”
She kept the weapon trained on him. “Were you investigating in the cottage last night?”
He flinched. She’d finally gotten to the heart of it. “I found the Rhett Butler costume in your closet,” she said, “with these in the right-hand pocket.” She pulled out her black panties and dangled them before him.
He swore under his breath. She’d think he was some kind of pervert.
“I’d like my engagement ring back,” she said. “I assume you picked it up, too.”
He met her gaze. “I don’t have it.”
She lifted a brow. “Then maybe Arnie has it. Maybe he’s the one I remember from the cottage, after all.”
Ouch, that hurt. “One of us was definitely a lucky man,” he said, then wished he’d bitten his tongue.
Anger flashed in her eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t shoot you. When you were in the bakery this morning, you could have told me who you were. You saw the deputies there. I know you overheard what was being said, and you knew I needed an alibi for the time of Trevor’s murder.”
He nodded. He might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. At least not about this.
“They didn’t believe my lame excuse about a man in the cottage seducing me.”
Who had seduced whom? He wasn’t sure.
Her voice rose with her anger. “Or you could have said something when Arnie Evans came in and announced that he had been my mystery lover.”
“Did you believe him?” Mac had to ask.
“No.”
He knew he shouldn’t have taken so much satisfaction in that. “I wouldn’t have let you go to jail.”
She shook her head, obviously disgusted with him, but not as disgusted as he was with himself.
“I’m sorry,” he added, “but I had my reasons.”
Her eyes narrowed and he could see that if she had even an ounce of killer’s instinct in her, she would have pulled the trigger. He watched her reach for his cell phone on the coffee table where he’d tossed it earlier.
“I’m sure you also have a good reason why you were at the Foresters’ party last night dressed in the same costume Trevor was planning to wear,” she said. “And an even better reason why you haven’t told the sheriff you were with me in the cottage.”
She picked up the phone and hit three numbers. He put his money on 911. “Not to mention the human skull you have in your duffel bag.”
“Hang up.”
She put the phone to her ear.
“Hang up. Please.”
She glared at him for a moment, then hit the off button, but still kept the weapon trained on him. He considered taking it away from her, but decided it would only make matters worse. Somehow he had to convince her to stay out of this.
“I do have a good reason for being at the party last night,” he said. As for what had happened in the cottage…well, he could explain gravity better than he could that.
He turned his back on her and walked into the small galley kitchen. He knew Jill Lawson wasn’t the kind of woman to shoot a man in the back—even if she didn’t. “I need a beer. You want one?” She didn’t answer, so he pulled two long-necks out of the fridge, walked back into the living room, twisted off the top of one and held it out to her.
When she didn’t take it, he set the beer on the coffee table next to where she stood, then sat down in a chair facing her and twisted the cap off his own beer. He took a swig, studying her, trying to decide the best way to handle her. And handle her, literally, was exactly what he wanted to do. But then, that was what had gotten him into this mess.
“Trevor Forester called me the day before the party,” he said after a moment. “He’d heard I was a private investigator and wanted to hire me.”
“Hire you?” she said, suspicion in her tone as she glanced around the houseboat.
“There aren’t many private investigators in Bigfork. I actually have an office in Whitefish.” He didn’t know why he was explaining himself. Maybe because he wanted her to know he was legit. “Trevor said he f
eared his life was in danger.”
Her eyes widened and she lowered herself into the chair next to the coffee table. She rested the weapon on her thigh and reached for the beer with her free hand. She took a sip, watching him over the bottle.
“Trevor said he needed to talk to me in person, but couldn’t until the next evening,” Mac continued. “I was to meet him at the party, or more precisely, in the lake cottage at eight-fifteen. He had a costume delivered to the marina for me with instructions that I was to go straight to the cottage via the shore and be inconspicuous.”
“Inconspicuous as Rhett Butler?”
“I had no idea he planned to show up in the same costume. Or that you would mistake me for him.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You were the one who kissed me the instant I stepped into the cottage.”
“I did it to shut you up. I saw a boat approaching. I wasn’t sure who was on board.” A small lie, but he didn’t want to bring up Nathaniel Pierce. “I figured Trevor had his reasons for such a clandestine meeting—and his reasons for believing his life was in danger. I didn’t want you giving me away.”
“So that was all there was to it,” she said.
He knew she was waiting for him to tell her that there was a hell of a lot more to the part where they’d made love.
He looked her in the eye, knowing how important it was that he make her believe him. “We just got a little carried away, I guess. Pretty hot sex. Must have been the intrigue of it. I’m sure we’d be disappointed if we tried it again.”
The hurt in her eyes was almost his undoing. He feared, though, that he was right. They would be disappointed. Last night had been…amazing. He also feared the reverse—that making love to her would be even better the second time—and that he’d be tempted to love. Again.
He cursed himself for hurting her, but it would be much worse to let her think anything was going to come out of last night’s lovemaking. It would serve no purpose to tell her he’d never felt anything like what they’d shared. Even if they’d ended up making love again a few minutes ago before she pulled the gun on him, it wouldn’t have changed the final outcome—which was him leaving. Soon.