Lethal Affair

by Jean Thomas

  Snatching the receiver from its cradle, she answered the call with a hesitant “Yes?”

  “Brenna, have I caught you at a bad time?”

  Marcus. It was Marcus. “No, I was just— Marcus, where are you?”

  “In the villa.” He sounded surprised by her question. “Brenna, I’m calling from the main house.”

  She put her free hand to her forehead, feeling like an idiot. Of course. He was calling her on the house phone. He’d explained on her first day here how, if she needed or wanted anything, she could communicate directly with the villa without having to use an outside line. It was something she’d completely forgotten about.

  “I was a little distracted I’m afraid,” she apologized. “I get that way when I’m busy at the easel.”

  “And I interrupted. Well, I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make certain you’ll be free to join us for dinner.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes, I’m entertaining a guest this evening.”

  “Marcus, if this is at all formal, I don’t have anything suitable to wear.”

  “It’s perfectly casual, Brenna. He’s eager to meet you, by the way. I’ve been telling him about your work. If it’s convenient, why don’t you bring your latest painting with you? Six-thirty in the library. We’ll have drinks there before we head for dinner on the terrace.”

  He ended the call before she had a chance to learn any more. The mystery guest would have to remain just that until six-thirty.

  * * *

  Brenna no more believed in hate at first sight than she did in love at first sight. In her opinion, both demanded a period of getting-to-know-you before either emotion could be determined. Which was why, in this moment, she was irritated with herself.

  She had no reason to immediately dislike this man before they had even spoken to each other. But she did. Why? The gauntness of his face? His paper-white skin? A pair of silver eyes that looked at her too intently?

  It wasn’t fair to judge someone by their appearance. So why was she doing it?

  She had no answer for herself or any time to hunt for one since Marcus was introducing them.

  “This is my good friend, Curtis Hoffmann, Brenna.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Coleman,” he said, offering a dry, bony hand for her to shake.

  Curtis. Curtis. Where had she either heard or read that name? And recently, too.

  “I see you brought the painting,” Marcus said, indicating the table just inside the library door, where she had laid the picture. “May we see it?”

  “Of course.” Brenna fetched the painting and brought it over to the grouping of chairs, where the two men had been seated when she first entered the room. “You’re welcome to handle it as long as you hold it by the edges. It’s not dry in places.”

  Marcus and his guest examined the work, generously admiring it.

  “Beautiful, Miss Coleman,” Hoffmann said. “I wonder. Do you ever do murals?”

  “I’ve never tried, but I suppose it’s possible I could manage one.”

  Hoffmann turned to Marcus. “I was thinking how splendid an island mural would look in the casino.”

  Marcus agreed, explaining to Brenna, “Curtis is one of the major investors in the casino portion of the resort. But here, I’m ignoring my duties as a host. Curtis, I believe you prefer a dry martini. Brenna?”

  “Uh, wine for me. Red, if you have it.”

  The bar at one end of the room was apparently well stocked. Marcus fixed their drinks and, seated facing one another in the grouping of chairs, they sipped them.

  The library, Brenna noted, was as luxuriously appointed as the rest of the villa, but she didn’t feel comfortable being in it. It was possible, though, that Curtis Hoffmann was as responsible for that as the room itself.

  She had absolutely no right to feel this way. The man was perfectly cordial to her. But there was something cold and calculating about him. If she believed in vampires, she might suspect he was one.

  The men talked about the progress of the resort, directing polite comments to her from time to time. To Brenna’s relief, the subject of doing a mural did not come up again. She had already decided she would have no enthusiasm for such a project.

  Hoffmann, however, did return his attention to her painting, where it was now propped against a lamp on a nearby table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that square. In Georgetown, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And those flower stalls...are they there all the time?”

  “No, those were elsewhere yesterday at market day in the city. I photographed them and then painted them in for effect today from the prints back here in my studio corner.”

  “A marvelous display. My wife would have enjoyed seeing those stalls.”

  The mention of an absent wife triggered a sudden memory for Brenna. She knew now where she had so recently encountered the name Curtis. It had been twice written in the unfinished, disturbing letter she’d found in the desk. It seemed only logical the author of that letter was this man’s wife.

  “Your wife isn’t here on St. Sebastian with you?” she asked him casually.

  “She preferred to remain back in Chicago on this trip.”

  Those chilling, silver eyes were trained on her again, as if questioning her interest in his wife. She had nothing to volunteer. A moment later one of the staff arrived to tell them dinner was ready to be served on the terrace.

  Gilda had outdone herself with a delectable beef burgundy, a medley of fresh vegetables and, for dessert, a pie made from limes grown on the island. Because this was a more complicated meal than usual, the housekeeper had a young Hispanic woman helping her to serve and clear away the courses.

  Knowing that both Gilda and Julio were also Hispanic, Brenna wondered if the young woman was related to them, perhaps even their daughter. Not that it mattered, but it did raise a new awareness in Brenna. She had noticed from her first arrival here that the staff at the villa, although from different backgrounds, were all fair-skinned.

  There had been no reason to question or think about this. Until now, when it occurred to her that with the native population of the island being largely of African descent, it was odd that not one of them was employed at the villa. Was that purely by chance, or—

  “Brenna, you seem to be preoccupied with something. Everything okay?”

  She was conscious then of Marcus speaking to her. “Sorry. Were you asking me something?”

  “Curtis is wondering what your next painting subject will be?”

  “Oh. Well, I haven’t decided, but I was thinking of a harbor scene. Boats can be very interesting.”

  She had actually intended Braided Falls to be her next subject, but that had been before her discovery of Zena’s body. Now, it was out of the question.

  Come to think of it, there had been no mention of the murder all evening. Was it possible that Marcus hadn’t heard of it yet? Or that, not knowing the victim, the story wasn’t of interest to him?

  It was possible, however, that he could have learned she’d been with Casey for part of the day. In which case he was likely to ask her about this, and she would politely decline to answer him.

  Brenna was ready for that challenge, but it never occurred. The evening ended with her going back to the guesthouse, a quick shower and her bed. The sleep she’d been counting on after her exhausting day was long in coming, though.

  Her mind refused to shut down the troubling images of Zena King lying there in the water, the waves of heat shimmering in the square and Casey ravishing her with his potent green eyes.

  Just at what point she did finally drift off she couldn’t say. But she must have slept long and solidly, because it was many hours later when she awakened. Since she had tightly closed the blinds at the windows in order not to be disturbed by the security lamps outside, it was not possible to read the clock or her watch. She could only suppose, therefore, that she sensed that much time had passed.

  Strange. Just as strange as
trying to explain to herself what had so suddenly awakened her out of a deep sleep when it was still night outside. The answer came a moment later.

  There was the sound of a soft, cautious movement nearby. Totally alert now, Brenna lifted her head from the pillow, listening, her heart beginning to hammer with fear.

  Breathing. She could hear breathing that was not her own. She was no longer alone in the room. Someone was here in the darkness with her.

  Chapter 8

  He was blind in the darkness. The only way he knew she was awake and must be aware of his presence was the faint, careful rustle of her movement on the bed. The sound was all he needed to lead him in that direction.

  “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered urgently.

  He could feel his knees press against the side of the bed, telling him he was within reach of his objective. If she failed to obey his warning, didn’t recognize his voice, he was ready to clap his hand over her mouth to silence her.

  Hell, she wouldn’t like that. She was capable of retaliating by getting some fleshy part of his hand between her teeth and biting down on it hard enough to draw blood.

  He was relieved to be spared that possibility. There was no cry, only a hissed “Casey! What are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  He decided to answer Brenna’s second question first. It would be much simpler to get that out of the way before handling the lengthy explanation her first question demanded.

  “Picked your lock.”

  “Why did I ask? Routine for an FBI agent, right?”

  “Depends on the lock.”

  It sounded now like she’d scooted up against the headboard when she responded, “Don’t be such a smug smartass. Marcus has one of the staff doing sentry duty out there every night. I’m surprised you managed to get by him.”

  “You mean the guy leaning against the wall of the villa? He must have been in the service if he can be asleep like that and still on his feet.”

  “Don’t tell me. I know. If you hadn’t found him like that, you would still have managed to avoid him and get inside. But there’s the risk now of us being overheard.”

  “Which is why we need to keep our voices down and stay close while we talk.”

  To achieve that, Casey perched himself on the edge of the bed without waiting for her invitation. What he would have preferred doing was crawling in there with her and holding her body so tightly against his she would be begging him for more than just an embrace. But circumstances ruled that out.

  It was time to get serious.

  “Brenna,” he began, leaning toward her, “you asked me what I was doing here. Believe me, my reason is an essential one.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My night has been far from idle. To begin with, I had an email from your brother. Will talked again with his buddy in the newsroom of the Tribune. The investigative reporter, remember? The guy is persistent. He managed to dig out more info on Marcus Bradley.”

  “Like?”

  “Like Bradley and his cabal aren’t just billionaire elitists. They’re secret racists, Brenna. White supremacists dangerous to anyone who tries to interfere with them.”

  “Is this information reliable?” She didn’t seem overly surprised by his revelation.

  “Not solid enough for him to go to press with it yet, but he’s headed there. And Will wants you headed in another direction. Home.”

  As Casey expected, Brenna ignored that part. It wasn’t new. “What else? You implied there’s more.”

  “Yeah.” Casey sucked in air. He would need that air for this next one. “After chewing over your brother’s email, I managed to get in a couple of hours of sleep. That was before there was this banging on my door.”

  “You had a visitor at your beach cottage? At that time of night?”

  “He said he had to wait until after midnight when everyone was asleep to sneak away. Otherwise, they would have wanted to know where he was going and why, and he had sworn to keep his errand a secret one.”

  Casey could feel her stirring impatiently on the bed. “Who? Who are we talking about?”

  “A young local kid. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen and scared as hell. Would you believe he rode this old bike of his all the way down from Freedom in the dark?”

  “I don’t blame him for being scared, all on his own all that way and at that hour.”

  Casey shook his head. “I don’t think that’s why he was afraid. I think he was terrified of being caught.”

  It had to be Brenna this time who needed the air. He could hear her inhaling before she spoke. “Freedom. You said he came from Freedom, Zena’s village.”

  “Zena sent him, Brenna. The kid’s name is Teddy King. Her brother.”

  “Dear Lord.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. That, and that Zena must have somehow discovered she was in danger, which is why she had Teddy promise that if anything happened to her he was to come to me. Remember, I told her the other day where I was staying, so she would have been able to pass that on to her brother.”

  “But why? What reason would she have for sending the boy to you?”

  “Because she gave him a package to deliver to me. I wanted him to wait while I unwrapped it, but he was too nervous to hang around. Refused my offer, too, to put his bike on the back of the Toyota and let me drive him home. He said he was better off alone, that he rode the back roads all the time and knew them as well at night as in the day. Personally, I think he didn’t want to risk being seen with me. That said, he shoved the package into my hands and took off into the dark.”

  “I hope he’s all right.”

  “I’ve already convinced myself to believe that he is.” He wouldn’t let either himself or Brenna think otherwise.

  “Casey, about the package...”

  “You can guess what it contained, can’t you?”

  “I think so. The water sample from the well in Freedom. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “You are, yeah. I don’t know if there was an original sample Zena kept with her, but I’m supposing she feared she might be prevented from sending it, so it’s only logical to theorize she created a duplicate sample as insurance.”

  “And instructed her brother to get it to you if anything happened to her.”

  “Exactly. It arrived in a pocket-size, tightly sealed aspirin bottle, along with a letter from her pleading with me to see that the bottle was delivered to the Miami lab that agreed to test it. She included a name and address, accompanying it with a warning for me to make certain the bottle was kept sealed until it reached its destination. If it was in any way contaminated, a chemical analysis would be worthless.”

  “Zena was counting on you, Casey.”

  “Yeah, she was, and I don’t intend to fail her.”

  Brenna was silent. Thoughtfully so, he decided. She must have made up her mind about something, because there was a sudden movement from her end of the bed.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting out of bed. There’s something I want to show you. Wait here. I’ll get it.”

  He could hear her bare feet padding across the floor, followed seconds later by the squeak of what sounded like a drawer being pulled out in the sitting room. She was back a moment or so later.

  “Let’s go into the bathroom,” she said. “There are no windows in there. With the door shut, it will be safe to turn on a light.”

  The bedroom and the sitting room were not wells of complete blackness. Light from outside found its way through slits in the blinds, a very feeble light but it was just enough to enable Casey to follow Brenna into the adjoining bathroom.

  He made certain the door was firmly closed behind him. She was apparently familiar with the location of the switches, because directly after the click of the door, light bloomed in the bathroom.

  Casey caught his breath at the sight of what he hadn’t been able to see until now. What he hadn’t even imagined until now. It had been more than two ye
ars since he’d seen Brenna naked. She wasn’t naked now, but as far as his male hormones were concerned she damn well might have been.

  Her long, sleekly smooth legs, bare from her feet up, ended in what appeared to be a pair of brief panties. Hard to tell for certain because a T-shirt covered her from her neck to just below her crotch. It should have provided a form of fairly modest sleepwear, right? Not so. The tee was a thin one. So extremely thin he could plainly see the pink nipples of her full breasts.

  Heat pooled instantly in Casey’s groin.

  “Up here, McBride,” she ordered him.

  “Uh, I was looking at what’s in your hand.”

  “Sure you were.”

  Casey didn’t pursue it. Neither did Brenna. She handed him the blank envelope she had fetched from the sitting room. Before lifting the flap and examining what he could feel was inside, he paused for a moment to get his raw state of lust under control.

  That accomplished—adequately so, he hoped—he turned the envelope over in his hand, raised the flap and withdrew the single folded sheet of paper from inside. He spread it open and angled it to the light.

  A handwritten letter. He quickly scanned its content. Or what there was of it, anyway. He made certain when he looked up this time that it was only Brenna’s gaze he encountered.

  “Where did you find this?” he questioned her, unable to help sounding like what he was. An FBI agent.

  “In the bottom drawer of the sitting-room desk. Or, to be accurate about it, under the drawer. I investigated because something was making the drawer stick.”

  Had the letter been tucked down there to hide it, Casey wondered, or had it somehow landed there unintentionally?

  “It’s unsigned, and it’s unfinished,” he stated flatly.

  “But interesting.”

  “It’s more than that. You know what the author is probably referring to, don’t you? What’s got her so shocked and worried?”

  “I think so,” Brenna admitted, lowering herself onto the closed lid of the toilet, as if suddenly needing a support under her. “I think she must have learned that Marcus and her husband were involved in something wicked connected with Freedom’s water supply.”