by Sandra Brown
She whirled. And he was there, a dark silhouette in the blue-green light of the grotto.
“I’m sorry,” he said, a low, elegant voice. “I hadn’t meant to startle you.” On top of everything else, an English accent. Her mind was racing. Had he been following her?
“Not at all,” she answered. “I thought you were a shark.”
He laughed, a warm echo in the cavern. “We keep meeting,” he said, although they had not met at all. “The casino, the gallery.” He cocked his head, looked at her speculatively. “You seemed especially fond of the Chihulys. Thinking of stealing one?”
Although startled to hear her own suspicion voiced, she had to laugh out loud—any one of the pieces weighed at least a half a ton.
“In a good storm, I might be able to float one out.”
“Brilliant. You’re a professional, then.”
A professional what?
He smiled slightly. “I meant—your interest in the Chihulys, in antiquities. Is art a business interest of yours, or personal?”
“A little of both,” she said blithely, surprising herself. She could be as ambiguous as he was being. “And yours?”
“The same,” he agreed. “I must say it’s a pleasure to see at least someone enjoying the gallery. A shame to see all that beauty go to waste.”
She felt herself flush; she was suddenly sure that he was talking about her.
“It’s a more subtle pleasure than this.” She gestured to the glass walls of the aquarium.
“In a way,” he said, with what seemed like a secret amusement. “You haven’t even seen the best part.” He touched her back—lightly, nothing more than that—guiding her into the next grotto.
As they stepped through the archway, Melissa drew in a breath.
They were entirely underwater now, in a long tunnel made completely of glass, arching over their heads. The tunnel allowed them to walk through the aquarium with sea creatures all around them—beside them, above them, as if they were diving through schools of constantly changing fish: the large colorful tropical ones and the schools of barracudas and the sharks, of course, always the sharks.
She looked up through the glass and saw daylight slanting through the surface of the water, fifteen feet above.
He was watching her, or had never stopped watching her.
Why not? she thought.
A shadow passed over the sun, as above a shark slowly circled.
* * *
They had planned to meet in the lobby. On a hunch she went down early and drifted by the gallery. He was there again, in front of that case, as intent on the jeweled shell as ever. And she moved quickly back into the elevator and went up again and down another way, afraid that he had seen her.
He took her to a hotel down the beach, on the other side of the island, overlooking the ocean. Far more rustic and natural than anything at the resort—and more private.
The pompano was creamy, the wine mouthwatering, and the gentle rolling of the waves lulled her, lowering all defenses.
His name was Nick, or so he said, and his business was some kind of finance, or so he said. But from the beginning, his interest was clearly in art.
He was surprised to learn, or feigned it, that she was a gallery director.
“You are a professional, then.”
“Professional enough to know the gallery director here might be in for more than he bargained for,” she said.
“How do you mean?” He sounded innocently intrigued.
“If I were a thief, I couldn’t ask for a more enticing collection—or security system.”
He looked at her over his wineglass. “You think the collection is vulnerable.”
She shrugged a bare shoulder, and shocked herself with her own daring. “I can see how it might be tempting to someone who was paying attention.”
He sipped the wine, his face betraying nothing. “It would be difficult to fence such high-profile pieces.”
“The pieces, yes. But not if the thief were planning to take a particular piece apart and sell the individual gems.”
He looked startled. “That would be a shame, wouldn’t you think?” He asked gravely. “A treasure like that.”
Suddenly she felt they were talking about something other than the jewels. She met his gaze. “I would think that, yes. I wouldn’t say the same of a thief.”
His face tightened. “Not everyone can recognize the exquisite. Not everyone is worthy of it.” His voice softened. “Myself, I dislike seeing any sort of treasure in the hands of the wrong people. That’s the true crime.”
She looked into his eyes, wondering. He smiled enigmatically. “It’s a lovely night. Let’s walk.”
They walked along the shoreline while clouds raced across the moon. The wind was strong, and the waves equally stirred up, swelling and crashing onto the shore in an insistent rhythm. Melissa’s dress whipped around her thighs, her hair around her head. And finally he spoke.
“Forgive the cliché, but I can’t for the life of me understand…” He paused. “Why a woman like you would be at a place like this alone.”
It was not only the wine, but the sea and the wind and that nothing-to-lose recklessness that made her say it.
“Honestly—all those things a person would normally ask? It’s pointless. All that is over for me now.”
He immediately, tactfully backed off. “So you’re starting over,” he said lightly, and the way he said it made it sound like an adventure, not an end. “You’ve come to the right place. The islands have always been a place for reinvention. Their pirate history, you know.”
“I don’t, actually, not much.” It was her first trip to the Bahamas.
“It’s the location. Seven hundred islands and cays, with all those complex shoals and channels…right off well-traveled shipping lanes like the Windward Passage. It was easy for pirate ships to lie in wait for cargo ships to plunder, and to hide once the plundering had been done.”
They had reached a sea break of piled boulders, no way around but to climb. He mounted the rocks barefoot, clambering up with swift, sure steps, then anchored himself and reached down to her. His hand enclosed hers, warm and strong, and he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, releasing her just a beat slowly as she tested her footing, and he spoke again as they continued over the rocks.
“The islands became a hideout for blockade-runners during the Civil War, and rumrunners during Prohibition.”
Funny how danger can sound enticing…especially with a British accent.
“That’s quite a criminal history,” she said aloud. Emphasis on “criminal.”
He smiled. “And that history translated to modern banking practices, too. Hidden treasure turned into offshore bank accounts. You can live on a boat, always keep moving—no one asks too many questions. It’s easy to disappear, here.”
He glanced at her and she felt a frisson of unease. It was late, and there were few people on the beach; the shore on this side of the island was rocky and rough and she suddenly felt very alone. It would take only a second for her to “slip,” to hit her head on a rock. No one knew where she had gone and who with.
Yes…so very easy to disappear.
But something made her press on. “So you’re advocating the life.”
He stopped and looked at her in the moonlight. “Am I?”
“Aren’t you?” He was silent, and she glanced out over the ocean, felt it rumbling over the jagged rocks below. “Do you really believe people can start over?”
A cloud passed over the moon and she couldn’t see his face. “I believe they must. A life is a terrible thing to waste.”
Her entire body was wired and numb; she realized she could die, but there was a sort of peace in it.
As she took a faltering step back, her foot slid, slipping…
He caught her…and kissed her.
At the hotel they moved into the elevator together and she pressed the button for her floor, and felt her stomach sink as the elevator rose, a sensa
tion not unlike flying.
At the door her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the key card. He took the card from her gently and opened the door.
Inside he was not so gentle.
She welcomed the violent sweetness of his arms and mouth, the hot and tender force of his body crushing all that was left of her former self from her.
After, she lay inside his thighs, against the warm curve of his stomach. The balcony doors were open and the breeze billowed the curtains and she listened to his breath and the rolling sound of the ocean.
I’m past the point of no return. Whatever happens, at least I will have lived these few days.
And she drifted on the sound of the waves into an uneasy sleep.
* * *
She dreamed of being underwater, in underwater halls, so far underwater she began to drown, and she panicked, fighting…and then with her last gasp she realized she could breathe after all.
The halls around her looked vaguely like the hotel halls but as blue-green as the ocean. She moved through cool water as silent as space, past an occasional grouper or shark, but the beasts paid no attention to her. Then at the end of the hall she saw a tall, dark, familiar figure. She knew where he was going and what he was going to do. It’s perfect, she thought; he’s flooded the hotel with water so he can slip in and out of the gallery and simply float away with the jeweled shell.
She hurried after him, as much as one could hurry in water, and if there was any need for hurry anyway, which she thought maybe there wasn’t.
Far ahead he turned into the gallery and she surged forward and was there—and she saw the case, the gems of the shell sparkling through the water.
The gallery was empty; the guard had been washed away. Nick moved elegantly through the water toward the case and pushed lightly at the glass and it tipped slowly back on the stand, just as easily as opening a book.
The shell floated out into the water, sparkling like fire, and he caught it gently in his outstretched hand.
* * *
She jolted awake to alarms—and PA announcements of an immediate evacuation of the hotel.
She grabbed for her robe and ran out through the door…to find flooded halls. She darted forward under showers of tepid water from the emergency sprinkler system, heading for the stairs. She rounded a corner—and ran into a tall form.
Nick. As soaked to the skin as she was.
She jolted back, unnerved, but he took her arms to steady her, speaking urgently and precisely through the pulsing alarms. “I woke and you were gone—I stepped out to find you and was locked out of the room, and then the alarms began… .”
Splashing, running footsteps were coming their way. Two security guards appeared down the hall.
“Hold it there!” One of them shouted ahead.
“We’re guests of the hotel,” Nick said quickly and his eyes signaled Melissa in a way she couldn’t interpret.
The guards strode forward. “Room keys, please,” the taller one ordered.
Melissa fumbled her key out of her robe pocket. “Ms. Ballard,” the guard said, reading the card with a scanner. “Sir?” He turned to Nick.
“We’re traveling together,” Melissa said. The lie was so smooth she had not realized she was going to say it until the words were out of her mouth.
The guards looked them over. “Have you been in your room all night?” The tall one demanded.
“Until the alarms started,” she said calmly.
“Both of you?”
“Of course,” she said. “What’s happening?”
“There’s been a robbery,” the guard said.
There was a long moment. No one moved.
“May we return to our room?” she asked finally. “The alarms have stopped, and we’d like to get back to bed.”
The guards looked at each other. “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”
The guards moved down the hallway, and Nick looked once, silently, into her eyes. Then they walked down the wet hall in silence.
He used her key, and closed the door behind them.
* * *
When she woke, in the big creamy bed, to the sound of the ocean, she was alone.
Alone…
She stood slowly, blinking against the sun. She pulled on her robe and stepped to the open doors…
…to look straight out onto open and endless water. The cruise ship cut its wake far below her; the ocean wind teased her bare skin, lifted her hair.
As Nick slept, she’d risen, silent and invisible as a ghost; had taken the ferry over to the Wharf and boarded the ship at dawn. She was miles away from Nassau by now.
And Nick…
Well, she’d never forget their night.
She breathed in salt air, then moved back to the bed and reached under the blankets for the golden shell, held it up in both palms to watch the jewels catch fire in the sunlight.
Some treasures were meant to be free.
* * * * *
BREAK EVEN
Pamela Callow
When he crows “Eddie Bent is back!” it seemed the tide had finally turned for our downtrodden hero. Not so fast, Mr. Bent. ~SB
Tuesday, 4:58 p.m.
“Elaine, it’s me.” Eddie Bent cradled the phone to his ear, stubbing his cigarette in the plastic lid from his morning coffee. Ash pebbled the newspaper printouts strewn on his desk. It didn’t matter that his wife couldn’t actually see him smoking while they conversed over the phone, she would just know. That’s what being married for fifteen years did to you.
“Hi, honey,” she said. “I’m on my way home. What’s up?” Two years ago, she wouldn’t have asked that question—she would have known that if he called at supper time, it meant he’d been held up on another case. At that time, he was the go-to guy for high-profile clients on the wrong side of the criminal justice system.
Eddie knew the exact moment the tide had turned: when Gregory MacIsaac, Halifax’s other top criminal defense lawyer, pulled off a coup in securing the acquittal of a politician charged with the murder of his aide—and his coaccused, represented by Eddie, took the fall. Within six months, his big cases had dried up. Eddie found himself ready to leave work by 5:00 p.m.
He didn’t like it.
So he headed to the bars. Just a couple of drinks, he’d tell himself, and then he’d go home. He didn’t think it was affecting his work, but every time another high-profile case hit the news, MacIsaac had gotten the call. Leaving him with the little shitty ones.
Eight months ago, Elaine put her foot down. Counseling had ensued. Eddie promised to drink less, come home earlier.
It seemed to have finally paid off. MacIsaac could eat his dust—Eddie had landed the Brown case. “I’ve got a new client coming in, Elaine. I’m going to be late.”
There was a slight hesitation.
“It’s Molly Brown, Elaine. You know, the girl who has been in the news all week.”
“Ohhh…” He heard the relief in her voice. “I’ll keep some dinner for you. But come home right afterward. You told Brianna you’d help with her social studies project.”
Shit. He’d totally forgotten.
“I’m not sure I’ll be home in time.”
“Eddie, you promised.”
“Elaine, this is a big case. There’s a lot of media around this.” He fought to keep the excitement from his voice. But the truth was he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into it. The publicity would be huge. Eddie Bent was back. “It’ll be good for the firm.”
“Please don’t tell me you are choosing your firm over your daughter.”
“God, Elaine, don’t twist the knife.” He needed this case. “That trip down south we’re taking will cost us an arm and a leg. This case could generate a lot of billables.”
She exhaled. Heavily. “Fine. But just so you know, they’re forecasting another storm tonight. Make sure you get home before the snow starts.”
“Another storm? We just had one last week.”
“It’s Febru
ary. Remember? That’s why we want to go south.” He could hear the wry smile in her voice. Anyone in Halifax knew that February was a month to be avoided. Ice, snow, rain, wind. Never ended. “But try not to be too late.”
He smiled to himself. “Drive safely. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” That was said with a pleasing sincerity. He was glad he’d made an effort on Valentine’s Day.
He was still smiling when his assistant knocked on his door. “Miss Brown is here.” She ushered in a young woman wearing a thin navy blue pea jacket with a backpack hiked on one shoulder.
He stepped around his desk and held out his hand. “Molly, I’m Eddie Bent.”
She gave him a hesitant smile and clasped his hand. Her fingers were freezing. “Hi.”
“Please, sit down.” He sat behind his desk, studying her as she slipped off her coat and settled into the comfy armchair facing him. She had one of those faces that seemed familiar—a “look,” as his mother used to say. Pretty. Soft. Attractive. With her honey-brown hair smoothed off a pleasingly high brow, she would attract second glances. He decided that if she had to appear before a jury, she should wear her hair just like that. He skimmed her clothes. The outfit worked, too. Cropped cardigan in a delicate plum color, modest crew neck T-shirt underneath, dark pants. His daughter—whom he realized might resemble this girl in six years or so— always made of fun of him for knowing “girls’” fashion when he had such poor style himself. But knowing what made his clients look good—trustworthy, credible, innocent—was his job. “Coffee, tea, a cold drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She folded her hands across her knees. Unlike most girls her age, she wore no nail polish. Her nails were neatly trimmed, her only adornment a Celtic ring on her right hand.
“So, Molly, tell me why you need my help. I’ve read about your case in the paper, but as far as I’m aware, you haven’t been charged with anything, right?”
She nodded. “But the police keep calling me. They told me yesterday they wanted me to come for questioning. Again. I’ve told them everything I know, but they won’t leave me alone.” Tears pricked her eyes. “Why do they keep bugging me? I’m the victim. Not him.”