Lethal Affair

by Jean Thomas

  “Casey, did you ever manage to forgive me for breaking off our engagement? Completely forgive me?”

  He could see in her face how important this was to her. And, unlike Brenna, he didn’t need to hesitate. He answered her, not with words, but with a swift, decisive action that allowed her no chance to resist.

  It was an action that involved his arms reaching out and drawing her so tightly up against him she was unable to escape. An action that involved his mouth descending to angle across hers in a forceful kiss meant to leave her in no doubt about whether or not he’d ever forgiven her.

  It was also a kiss he’d been longing to give her from the moment he had discovered her the other day on the beach. A kiss that he made certain permitted him to savor the faintly flowery scent of her he had been missing all these months. A kiss that he refused to make anything but lengthy and thorough.

  Whether she intended it or not, her mouth opened to him. It was all the invitation Casey needed to slide his tongue inside where he experienced the familiar, heady taste of her. He captured her own tongue in a hot wetness that threatened to spiral both his emotions and his need in a lower area out of control before he managed the wisdom to release her.

  His voice was as raspy as a file when he asked her, “Does that answer your question?”

  She was breathing hard, unable to form a reply. Her purse and tote had slid back onto the floor. Collecting them again, she fumbled for the handle and opened the door. She couldn’t get out of the car and away from him fast enough. He watched her hurry up the hill toward the villa.

  Nice performance, McBride. She’ll probably never let you get anywhere near her again.

  After that episode, Casey wondered how he could still be hungry when he drove off in search of the little seafood joint on the harbor front. But, heck, if he couldn’t satisfy one appetite, he might as well satisfy another.

  He found the place all right, but there was nowhere to park. The fishing boats had come in with their catches for the day, and the area was crowded with customers wanting fresh fish.

  He had no choice but to park two blocks away and walk back to the restaurant.

  The waterfront was a busy place. There were vessels everywhere at the docks loading and unloading. Mostly unloading. He knew that on islands like St. Sebastian much of what was consumed had to come in from elsewhere.

  He paused to watch steel drums, the kind that contained chemicals and other liquids, being transferred from a freighter into a secure, fenced enclosure. The burly white guy directing the operation had a long ponytail and tattoos covering his bare arms. He also had an unpleasant disposition. Casey didn’t much care for the way he growled at the native workers under his command. But it wasn’t his business to interfere.

  With anger simmering, Casey moved on. He was nearing the restaurant, working his way through the crowd, when he felt something hard pressed tight against his back.

  This wasn’t the first time in his FBI career he’d experienced this kind of thing. Not a frequent occurrence but enough to identify the barrel of a gun.

  Great. Just great. As if he hadn’t already had enough excitement over the past few hours, he was about to be mugged.

  He had no weapon of his own. His Glock had been confiscated, along with his FBI identification folder, back in Chicago when he was placed on suspension. And although his training had taught him several tactics for defeating an opponent, even with a gun in his back, he didn’t dare use one of them. There were too many people here, kids as well, and he wasn’t going to risk one of them being shot.

  All this went through Casey’s mind in no more than the span of several seconds before he muttered a resentful but resigned “All right, let’s not hurt anyone. My wallet is in my back pocket. Just take it and clear off.”

  He could feel a breath stir near his ear as a rough voice informed him sharply, “Sorry, but this ain’t any robbery.”

  No native dialect, but Casey did detect a slight foreign accent. Eastern European, he thought. He’d heard them before in his work. He figured the gun must be a small one and that the guy holding it had to be pressed against him so closely that no one seemed to be noticing.

  “If it isn’t a robbery, then what do you want?”

  “Just to warn you, that’s all.”

  What in the— “Warn me about what?”

  The voice that hissed back at him had the venom of a deadly snake in it. “Stay away from her, McBride. If you know what’s good for you, stay far away from her.”

  And that was it. Casey could feel the barrel of the gun retreating from his back. He should have waited for a moment more than he did to be sure it was safe before he whirled around, but he was afraid of losing his enemy. As it was, there was no sign of anyone like that. Whoever he was, he’d managed to melt off into the crowd and disappear, leaving Casey with a fuming inability to deal with him.

  It wasn’t until then that it occurred to Casey. He had known his name. The bastard had known his name. With that came another realization. Marcus Bradley. Yeah, he would swear to it. That was the explanation here. Bradley had connections, probably had spies everywhere on the island. And one of them had told him that Casey McBride had been seen in the company of Brenna Coleman. And Bradley didn’t like it.

  That was the her Casey had been warned to stay away from. Like hell he would.

  * * *

  The first thing Brenna did when she reached the guesthouse was to hurry into the well-lighted bathroom and peer into the mirror. She expected to see her lips redder and more plump, but there was no change in her face.

  Only the eyes that stared back at her were different. There was a wildness in them. And why shouldn’t there be when she was still shaken from Casey’s mind-numbing kiss? There had been nothing sweet or tender about it. It had been a fierce demonstration of masculine possessiveness.

  She should have been furious with him when he let her go. Why hadn’t she been? Why wasn’t she furious with him now?

  Maybe because she didn’t have anyone to blame but herself. After all, hadn’t she willingly contributed to that savage kiss?

  In want of some relief for her cheeks that felt as if they were flushed with a fever, she ran the tap and splashed cold water on her face. It helped. At least physically. Emotionally, she was a mess.

  They had been parted for two years, convinced themselves they had gotten over each other long ago. Had that been a lie she’d inflicted on herself? And had he, as well? Was she, in truth, still in love with Casey McBride?

  Dear God, she couldn’t let herself get involved on that level all over again with him. Couldn’t relive the hell of being sick with worry about his safety whenever he was on some dangerous assignment.

  What was she going to do about him? Brenna asked herself as she wandered back into the sitting room. She stood there for a moment gazing at the unfinished seascape on the easel.

  She knew what she needed to do. Work. It always helped keep her mind clear when she had a brush in one hand and a palette in the other.

  And it did help to steady her nerves when she got busy, determined to complete the painting. For now, anyway.

  * * *

  Brenna would have preferred not sharing dinner with Marcus that evening. But asking for a tray in the guesthouse would have raised questions, probably brought him to her door to express a concern for her absence. It was easier to join him at the table on the terrace.

  Marcus looked tired. It was an opportunity to defer any questions about her and instead ask him what was troubling him.

  “Rough day?” she wondered, dipping her spoon into the savory turtle soup Gilda had served them.

  “It was a bit,” he admitted.

  “Oh? Trouble at the site?”

  “I’m afraid so. We have a problem with missing building materials. It’s not uncommon for theft to occur whenever construction is underway on the island, but this time it’s also tools. The poverty, you know, makes things that can be sold or traded attractive. I’m
sorry to have to do it, but I’m afraid we’ll have to post nighttime guards at the site.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Gilda brought in a platter of steaming pork roast, island vegetables and two plates and placed them in front of Marcus, knowing he liked to serve the entrée himself to his guests. Removing the soup bowls, she retreated to the kitchen.

  He was silent while he helped Brenna to a generous portion of the pork and passed her plate to her. It was only after he served himself that he spoke again.

  “What did you do today?”

  “I spent a portion of it in town hunting for other subjects to paint.” It wasn’t totally a lie. She had gone down to the city to catch a taxi to the airport.

  “And the other part of it?”

  “In the guesthouse. I finished the seascape there. When it’s dry, I’ll show it to you.” She was glad this was the truth. She hated lying to Marcus.

  “I’ll look forward to that.”

  “I think you’ll like it. It turned out well.”

  He was quiet again, his cool blue eyes searching her face in the gleam of the candlelight. His possible suspicion made her uneasy.

  “I understand,” he said softly, “that you also spent some time with your friend from the beach.”

  Not just possible suspicion, she thought, but a certainty. She should have known better than to try to hide anything from him. Marcus Bradley had the kind of power and connections to uncover whatever secrets he wanted.

  “He gave me a lift back to the villa.”

  “Did he? I heard it was a bit more than that. Do you think it’s wise, Brenna, being with him? He is, after all, under investigation.”

  So Marcus knew that, too. And if he knew that much, then he also had to know her “friend from the beach” was her ex-fiancé. “And just how did you manage to find out Casey McBride turned up here?” she challenged him.

  Marcus was disturbingly casual about it as he cut into his pork. “Most of the island’s resort keepers are very good about letting me know who’s staying with them.”

  “Marcus, I don’t appreciate all this surveillance. I think it’s my business where I go and who I see.”

  “You musn’t mind if I’m concerned about you, Brenna,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “After all, you’re my guest. I feel responsible for you while you’re here on the island. Why don’t we forget all about it? You haven’t touched your pork. It’s one of Gilda’s specialties.”

  Brenna resisted the urge to scrape her chair back from the table and march back to the guesthouse. She couldn’t afford to alienate Marcus. He had paid her a generous advance on the paintings he expected her to produce, money she had loaned to a friend back in Chicago who had a baby on the way and whose husband had lost his job. A sum that Brenna didn’t have to repay Marcus. She had no choice but to fulfill her commission and that meant keeping her anger in check.

  Chapter 5

  Brenna refused to spend another restless night being unnerved by guards who might be pacing around the guesthouse. If either Julio or any of Marcus’s other minions were out there wearing themselves out, she didn’t care. She went to bed and slept without once checking from a single window.

  To her relief, however, Marcus once again failed to join her for breakfast. Gilda informed Brenna that her employer had departed for the construction site just as he did yesterday.

  “Would you tell Julio for me,” Brenna asked the housekeeper as she ate another simple breakfast, “that I won’t be needing either him or the car this morning? I plan to spend most of my time down in Georgetown visiting the market day there.”

  And if they wanted to check that out, let them. Because that’s exactly where she would be. On foot and alone.

  * * *

  The city center teemed with people. Brenna wormed her way through the crowds, moving from stall to stall, delighted with the explosions of color on every side.

  The natives, who used every opportunity to be festive in mood, were in holiday dress. Loud colors that might be considered vulgar in other lands but here in the West Indies were nothing but pleasing to the eye.

  Even so, Brenna decided, the clothing couldn’t compete with the stalls themselves. Each one offered its own special merchandise. A table piled high with fruits—the bright yellow of ripe bananas, the inviting green of limes and plantain, the warm brown of coconuts. Another table featured nothing but fresh vegetables that ranged from shiny red tomatoes to orange-fleshed yams. There were live, squawking chickens, too, in slatted wooden cages.

  Not everything was food. Some of the tables displayed handcrafted articles meant to appeal to the tourists. Baskets of every size and shape and whimsical wooden carvings of island birds and animals painted in happy colors. Brenna found her hand itching to have a brush in it instead of a camera.

  And over it all was the noise, the cacophony of voices raised in exchanges of bargaining, merchants loudly crying their wares, and somewhere unseen to Brenna the sound of a calypso steel band.

  She was focusing her Nikon on a stall overflowing with flowers bursting with a profusion of colors, when a familiar, deep voice close behind her asked cheerfully, “Mind some company?”

  Casey.

  Brenna turned to face him, not sure whether she was annoyed or glad to see him.

  “And just how did you spot me this time?”

  “Easy. Even in all these mobs that hair of yours stands out like a beacon.”

  “Uh-huh. Just another coincidence. You couldn’t have possibly remembered that I told you I meant to visit market day this morning or have been deliberately searching for me. Now could you?”

  He made a tsking noise. “Just when did you get so suspicious, Rembrandt?”

  “Since you showed up on that beach and denied you were here to play protector.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Which question would that be? Oh, yes, the one where you wondered if I would mind some company. I suppose it wouldn’t matter if I objected. You’d tag along with me, anyway.”

  “Probably.”

  “I have one rule, though. No more outbursts like yesterday’s.”

  His hand went to his chest in a solemn act of crossing his heart. “Swear.”

  She didn’t trust him, but she’d already decided that his characteristic humor was not unwelcome. He’d always been fun to be with in that respect. And as long as he kept it light...

  “So,” he said, falling into step beside her as they wandered among the stalls, “did you get to finish that painting after I dropped you off yesterday?”

  “I did, thank you. How about you? What did you get up to with the rest of your day?”

  “Just playing tourist and checking out the sights.”

  Withholding information came with the FBI territory, and Casey had always managed to be excellent in that department. But Brenna had learned during their engagement when to believe his performances and when not to. The signs were there this time. A voice that was just a shade too casual. His gaze drifting off in another direction. He was definitely keeping something from her.

  Before she could press him about it, he sidetracked her with an enthusiastic “Hey, look! Limbo dancers!”

  They had arrived at the edge of a small square where the dancers, accompanied by the calypso steel band, were entertaining the crowd gathered around them.

  Casey shook his head in wonder. “Man, how do they manage to get their bodies that low and still clear the pole?”

  So, he had no intention of sharing with her exactly what had happened yesterday afternoon after they had parted. He apparently had his reason. Brenna left it at that.

  After watching the dancers for another few moments, they moved on, comfortably silent now with each other as they checked out more stalls. Brenna’s attention was drawn to one of them in particular. Arranged across its surfaces was a collection of handcrafted straw handbags and totes in distinctive designs.

  “Did you make these?” she aske
d the elderly woman tending the stand.

  “Yeh, I made them wit dese.” Grinning broadly, she held up a pair of gnarled hands. “You like the bags, huh?”

  “They’re wonderful! I’ve got to have this one!” Brenna pounced on a handbag whose artful weaving spoke to her.

  “Hey, gal, git me some paper and I wrap dis bag for de lady.”

  “That’s not necessary, really. I’ll take it just as it—”

  Brenna broke off in midsentence as a young woman, who’d been busy down behind the booth, rose up in view. Zena King! She supposed Casey must be as surprised as she was.

  “Hello,” Zena greeted them. “Well, this is pleasant running into you again. How are you liking our market day?”

  “It’s great,” Casey said. “Heck, even better now that we find you here. What were you doing crouched down there? Practicing CPR?”

  Zena laughed. “No, I don’t get to play nurse today. I was checking the stock.”

  “You’re working at the stall?” Brenna asked.

  “Well, helping out, anyway.” She turned to the elderly woman beside her. “This is my Aunt Cleo. Auntie, these are some new friends I made yesterday, Brenna Coleman and Casey McBride.”

  “You friend of Zena, den I give you special price on dat bag.”

  “You will not,” Brenna insisted. “It’s a bargain price as it is for a handbag of this quality.”

  Aunt Cleo looked pleased by the compliment.

  “Auntie does an amazing job with her products, doesn’t she?”

  They talked for another few minutes about the materials Aunt Cleo used to weave her creations, and then Brenna changed the subject. “Zena, there’s something I didn’t get around to asking you yesterday. You never told us the name of your village, and I couldn’t find it on my guidebook map.”

  “Freedom. It’s called Freedom. I know that’s an unusual name for a community, but there was a reason for calling it that. Back in the 1800s when the slaves were freed, a group of my ancestors were given that piece of land in the highlands to settle. And no longer being slaves...”