Stranger in Paradise

by McIntyre, Amanda

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m assured that she agreed to protection, but she doesn’t want anyone to invade her space.”

  Jesus. Artistic types could be such a pain in the ass.

  “And she is very insistent on not being disturbed. Guess her writing time is sacred.”

  “You hear yourself, right?” Zack tossed the file back across the desk. “Sounds to me like she needs to be turned over someone’s knee. But she might enjoy that, come to think of it.” Zack chuckled.

  Riley cleared his throat. “Listen, this is as good as it gets for now. You’re getting paid to fish, contemplate by the lake. Chances are, this whack-a-doodle is playing email games and nothing more and it could be a very relaxing few weeks for you.”

  Zack sighed. This was not his idea of getting back in the saddle. “And my other choices?”

  Riley leaned back in his chair. “I’ve got a bunch of paperwork that needs filing.”

  “Shit.”

  “Look, Zack. It’s not that bad. This will ease you back into things. It’s been awhile—“

  “Like I don’t know that?”

  “Look, I want to get you back out there, back on my team. You’re familiar with the area, right?”

  Zack nodded. Sure, he was. He’d been on trips to the shore with his dad and his little brother. He released a quiet sigh, not wanting to pick the scar of that wound. “Okay, when do I leave?” He stood, stuffing his hand into a glass jar filled with chocolate candies. He tossed the entire contents into his mouth.

  “We’ll take care of getting you a flight to Duluth and have a car waiting for you. You’ll need to drive the rest of the way to Twin Harbors.”

  Zack swallowed the lump of chocolate, forcing it down his throat. He hoped that this brat author would at least be cute. That would make the situation slightly more tolerable. “How old is this illustrious author?”

  Riley handed the file back to Zack. “Thirty.”

  “Thirty?”

  “Too old?”

  Zack frowned. He was only thirty-three. “Uh, no. Guess I was expecting someone older. More, I dunno, seasoned.”

  His friend shrugged. “A crackerjack writer if my wife’s opinion means anything. Maybe you should pick up one of her books to familiarize yourself with her work.”

  That made Zack smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Certainly don’t need to be reading any chick porn.”

  Zack watched as Riley fought an outright laugh disguised as a cough. “I might suggest that you don't push this woman’s buttons. She might not take lightly to your sense of humor.”

  “I can handle myself,” Zack said with a smile. “Keep it professional.”

  “Never doubted it. Go home, get ready. I’ve included a few of those emails in her file. You might want to look at them, see if you can come up with any leads. We’ve not been able to trace their source. The perp’s using public access. Harder to trace. It’s been quiet for a couple of weeks. But we want to jump on it if she gets another one. Check out the employees at the resort. She’s been going there for the past three years. See who’s worked there the longest—a background check, maybe….”

  Zack tapped the file against his thigh. “I haven’t forgotten everything you’ve taught me, Riley. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

  His friend eyed him. “Just be careful. This guy’s pretty smart. But his frustration in his last emails could mean he’s getting reckless. We just need him to slip up.”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve Ms. Winters.”

  “Or you.” Riley leveled a look at Zack. “It could be an obsessed stalker after his celebrity crush. Obsessed, reckless…sometimes they’re more dangerous than a profile case.”

  “Got it.” Zack stood to leave.

  “Zack?”

  He looked over his shoulder, his hand on the doorknob. Adrenaline pumped through his blood. It was a familiar feeling. It felt good. A helluva lot better than the walking dead existence he’d been living. “Yeah?”

  “I want you to know we’re not giving up on looking for Jessica.”

  Zack’s jaw clenched. The sting of her name pierced his heart. He held his gaze steady. He’d banked on the notion that Riley would test his reaction before sending him back out to the playground.

  “I appreciate that, man. Really, I do.” Zack, of course, hadn’t been allowed to be involved in the case, though he’d begged to.

  First losing Matt, then Jessica.

  Hell, he better put a tether on this woman. People seemed to go missing on his watch.

  “I had to check.” Riley spoke quietly.

  Zack nodded. Months of therapy should count for something. “I know. I’m going to be okay. I’d like to catch this sonofabitch.”

  “Well, let’s hope he doesn’t go beyond emails.”

  Chapter Two

  Kasey unpacked haphazardly, searching for what would become her daily wardrobe for the next few weeks—her yoga pants, a comfortable T-shirt, and her faded hoodie. Maybe it was superstitious, but she wrote better when hugged by the old sweatshirt that had been through so many experiences with her. Leaving the room in disarray and promising she could tidy it in the morning; she poured herself a glass of wine and nibbled on some cheese and fruit as she went about reconstructing the dining area into an office. She cranked open the windows, pausing to listen to the soft lap of the water on the rocky shoreline. An occasional bird would call out as though to punctuate the quiet solitude around her. She breathed deeply. This was what she needed. Peace. Serenity. She could empty her mind. Focus on the story. For now, duty, deadlines, and making a living were a million miles away. She took a sip of her wine, determined to establish her office space. Pulling aside all but one of the thick pine dining chairs, she shoved the table against the wall and lined the remaining chairs in the foyer. A table lamp from the living room became her desk light, giving it a warm, inviting look. From her portfolio, she pulled out her “inspiration” board—a trifold presentation board with scores of pictures of settings, houses, men and women, and other pictures she used to visualize her stories.

  She stepped back and polished off her drink, and sat down in the overstuffed chair near the window overlooking the lake. She sighed, leaned her head back, and drank in the lull of the crickets’ night song. Barely able to see beyond the window, she was reminded of how dark it was at night without the bonfires dotting the beach. The snap of a twig caused her to jump and she bolted upright, mentally blaming her agent for planting seeds of concern in her head. Determined to face them and the raccoon she felt certain she’d find, she opened the patio door and stepped out onto the small deck at the back of the cabin.

  A large span of lawn stretched between her property and the next cabin over a hundred yards away, veiled by a shallow forest of tall pine leading to the water’s edge. Dark clouds hovered near the moon, playing peek-a-boo with the water, teasing her senses with a brief illumination of the dark water before it disappeared, leaving the world beyond pitch black. A movement from the corner of her eye caused her to step back, stumbling over one of the deck chairs in the process.

  “Are you okay?” It was definitely a male voice—a slow talking, butter-on- hot-biscuits male voice. Clearly not from Minnesota. As she recovered, Kacey looked up to see the epitome of “tall, dark, and handsome” leaning his forearms on her balcony railing. Given that he was indirectly the cause of her irrational fear and now a sore ankle, she wasn’t as gracious as she probably could have been. She backed toward the door.

  “Guess I’ll see you around?” He remained within a leap of landing on her patio. Kacey fished for the doorknob, easing open the door as she kept her eyes locked on his.

  “Doubtful, but I might offer that if you know what’s good for you, you won’t go sneaking around here in the dark. Someone is liable to call you in.”

  “And what would interest me enough around here to take that risk?” he stated dryly.

  She paused at the door, debating how to respond.

  �
�I’m sorry, my name is Zack. I didn’t catch your name, are you…?”

  She flipped on the porch light, pleased when he shielded his eyes. Only then did she get a good look at him. His face was rugged, not that of a younger man. He looked seasoned—like a firefighter or perhaps someone who’d served in the military. He grinned, and those pearly whites were a show stopper, even in the dark.

  Oh, especially in the dark, her muse noted.

  Regaining her senses, Kacey forced her gaze from his mouth. “That’s because I didn’t give it to you.” She stepped inside and closed the screen door between them.

  “Listen, I just wondered if--”

  “If you’re not gone in two seconds, I’m calling security.” She locked the glass door and waited a moment to make sure he’d left.

  He tapped the thick carved cedar railing and disappeared around the side of the house. Kacey debated whether to call the front desk. Deciding that if his intent were to do harm, he’d have taken advantage of her vulnerability. Since he seemed more social, she decided that maybe he’d partied a bit too much and lost his way back to his cabin. She secured the lock and shut the canvas drapes printed with silhouettes of moose and canoes, blocking the view. The picture windows that, in the daylight offered an impressive view of the lakeshore now seemed ominous. She hastily lowered the blinds, cocooning against the blackness, but left the windows open.

  The sound of the water lapping gently against the rocky shore calmed her, reminding her of the beautiful sunrise that awaited her. Her stomach growled, nudging her toward the slice of bumbleberry pie she’d bought earlier as a welcome-to-the-lake treat. She reached into the fridge, pulled out the small box, and arranged the sweet, gooey pie carefully on a dessert plate. Topping off her glass of wine, she carried the plate, eyeing with reverence the berries spilling from the flaky crust. Her target was the big overstuffed chair in the corner of the living room, and maybe a little plotting if she felt so inspired after her indulgence.

  An abrupt knock on the front door startled her, sending the plate and its contents airborne. Helpless, she watched with a sinking heart as the pie landed on the tiled kitchen floor. Berry carnage splattered in all directions. She stared in disbelief, absurdly asking mentally why she hadn’t sacrificed the wine glass. The knock issued again—this time, more insistent. Her gaze rolled toward the sound. She sat the glass on the counter and, with homicidal thoughts flitting through her mind, walked toward the door. She pushed to her toes, wishing someone shorter had installed the peephole.

  What the hell?

  It was him. The guy from her backyard.

  Mr. Pearly Whites? Her muse jolted from her siesta.

  With the benefit of being bathed in the full spectrum of the yellow bug light, she saw that his charm didn’t stop at his neck. She licked her lips, despite the fact that he was, in fact, solely responsible for the death of her pie. His eyes were dark, as best as she could tell from her wobbly stance. His soft brown hair was cropped short in a no-fuss fashion. It spiked ridiculously, making him appear reckless as he raked his hand through it and looked at the door. The look on his face oddly matched the frustration on hers.

  Her toes ached, and so she dropped for an instant before bobbing back up to spy on him. He’d turned away and walked to the edge of the porch. Through the miniscule hole she noted he wore a gray T-shirt and faded jeans that fit his backside like a glove. Kacey pressed her face closer, her eye twitching as she tried to take in the whole interesting package.

  He turned suddenly, his fist raised to knock again, and paused in midair. That sexy “yeah-I-know-you’re-spying-on-me” grin curled his really, really nice looking mouth.

  From a writer’s perspective, you mean, her muse chided.

  “Of course,” she muttered.

  Kacey dropped to her heels. It was late. Well after…what time was it, anyway? She scanned the cabin, searching for the time, but didn’t see a single clock anywhere. Lake-time. That’s how she rolled when on retreat. Every year, as instructed, the staff removed all clocks. She glanced at the door. Suffice it to say, it was dark and…well, dark. And like a gift from the gods who knew she’d been celibate for over a year, Mr. Sexy Smile stood on the other side of that forest green painted door, just waiting for her to open it.

  Her heart skipped a beat at how dangerous it all seemed.

  “Oh, stop that,” she reprimanded herself. She couldn’t, of course, just open the door. What if he were some crazed drifter? Or the nut-ball stalker who’d sent her emails? She was the last house on the property—far from the others, a good jog to the main lodge. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to get a grip on her imagination when another knock sounded—this time lighter and decidedly more playful.

  Spotting an old oar hanging on the wall for décor, she snatched it down and held it to her like a warrior prepared for battle. Once she opened the door—if she opened the door and if he didn’t bust it down first—all that stood between her and her would-be attacker was a used oar and a few bits of clothing.

  There are worse ways to go.

  She took a deep breath and undid the first latch. Slowly turning the knob, she eased open the door with the security chain in place.

  “Hi,” came that smooth-as-whiskey voice. He’d wedged his face into the crack of the door. She’d forgotten to lock the screen door.

  “Get back,” she yelled, terrified. Stuffing the business end of the oar through the crack, she jabbed at him as best she could. He protested with loud groans and a few words she mentally catalogued to use in her writing.

  “Jesus, woman! What the hell are you doing?”

  His eyes were green. She’d seen them up close before smacking him with her oar. A beautiful, lush forest green with impossibly long black lashes--that alone was enough to despise him. Why did men always seem to get the fantastically long eyelashes? Unexpectedly, the other end of the oar jerked from her grip and disappeared through the crack into the hands of her would-be assailant.

  Kind of alpha, but clearly this isn’t good.

  Not good at all. “I’ve got a phone,” she threatened at the top of her voice. “I’m calling the front desk.” She kept her eyes on the door as she backed up to the table. Damn, why did she insist on having the cabin furthest from humanity? She’d always enjoyed the solitude, but tonight it could be her demise.

  Maybe you should have listened to Harold?

  “Your job is to inspire, not criticize,” Kacey muttered.

  “K.C. Winters?” His tone was one of tolerant frustration.

  “Who wants to know?” She fished through her book bag, fearful she’d allowed her cell phone battery to die. Exasperated at the amount of stuff to sift through, she upended the bag and dumped the contents on the kitchen-table-turned-desk.

  “My name is Zack Elliott. If you’d consider unlocking the door, I’ll be happy to explain.”

  “How do you know my name?” she answered blindly, still on a frantic search for her phone. She stopped, admonishing herself. “If, in fact, I am the person you mentioned.”

  There was a moment of silence, and she cringed at her stupidity. Holding her breath, she crept toward the door on tiptoe. He looked as though he could do serious damage--probably could take that sucker right off its hinges. “What do you want?” she asked cautiously, leaning her shoulder to the door.

  “Are you K.C. Winters?”

  She eased her body back against the wall behind the door. “That depends.”

  “Okay, let’s start over. My name is Zack Elliott.”

  “So you said,” Kacey replied. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “That’s because we’ve never met.”

  How bright was this guy?

  “Then why would I let you in?”

  A sheet of paper appeared through the crack. She reached out and snatched it from his fingers. Scanning it quickly, she realized it was some type of a contract. Most notably that it was signed by her agent, and beside his name was scrawled what could have been c
onstrued as Zack Elliott. Jesus. Was this who he’d found to watch over her? The only saving grace was that he was rooming up at the main lodge on the other side of the inlet. “Harold sent you?” She paused and those few classes in self-defense kicked in. “Show me some I.D.” A very audible sigh followed. A brown leather wallet appeared through the crack. She plucked it from his hand.

  “Do you believe me now?”

  Kacey skimmed over the information on his driver’s license—one-eighty- five pounds, six feet two inches, eyes green.” She glanced at the door where his hand was upturned, waiting for his wallet, no doubt. He looked a lot bigger than one-eighty-five. “Why were you skulking around my backyard in the dark?” she asked.

  “Because as I was walking over here, I heard a noise and there were no outside lights. I was doing my job.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” She waited for his answer.

  “Look, maybe I can call my boss and have him call this Harold guy. Then Harold can call you.”

  “Or I could just call Harold myself and have you checked out.”

  “There you go. You can do that.”

  But my phone is dead. Kacey chewed on her lip, debating what to do. “Just a minute.”

  She hurried to the clutter on the table—assorted wallets, credit cards, lip gloss, gum, aspirin, Chapstick, several wads of used Kleenex. She smiled as she unearthed her phone, found the charger, and plugged both in. Relief flooded her as she saw that she had almost two bars.

  “Are you calling him?”

  She moved toward the door, as far as the charger cord would allow. “That’s none of your business.”

  A large hand wielding an iPhone shoved through the crack. “I’m guessing yours is dead?”

  The man had given her a written contract, his license, a nice-looking badge, and now his phone. All available on Amazon--she’d stake her life on it. Still, she needed one more thing from him. “Give me back my oar.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  She heard a few muffled curses from the other side of the door and soon the paddle appeared. “You’re not going to jab that fucking thing at me again, are you?”