Destiny Bay

by Sarah Abbot

  Ryan hoped his face wasn’t as pale as it suddenly felt.

  A smile that really wasn’t a smile lifted the corners of Ryan’s mouth as the door shut behind Johnny. Long before Ryan became the unwilling heartthrob of the island, a younger Johnny had gleefully held the title, and not a woman in Destiny Bay had been safe from his charms. They still flocked to him, truth be told. Ryan was glad for it. Johnny had always appreciated sidelong glances in a way Ryan never had.

  Ryan looked back down at the portrait he had drawn of Abby, willing himself to crumple it, toss it, forget it.

  Instead, he lifted the blotter, slipped the picture beneath and rose from his desk.

  He opened his office door, turned off the light, and left her in the place she had come from.

  It was two o’clock, and she was still in her jammies. Today, however, she decided that she wasn’t even going to feel guilty about it.

  She’d had an incredibly exhausting weekend. Between the mysterious footprints, Bart popping up in her window, the White Lady, the tight-lipped islanders, learning the upsetting truth about her mother, the Ouija board and her confrontation with Ryan, she was emotionally drained. What she needed was a concrete reason to stay on this island, a solid lead into her mother’s history.

  The telephone jangled loudly, making her jump.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Abby: It’s Mavis O’Donnell, dear. Franklin thought I should visit the gallery in Destiny Bay—he remembered they have a hefty collection of McAllister paintings on view, though he was certain there were none of your mother. I’m not so sure myself. Saw one this morning I think you should have a look at.”

  Abby’s breath caught in her throat. “Really? Oh, thank you so much, Mavis. I’ll check it out as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, no problem, deary. I just thought you’d like to know. The owner’s closing up for a few days, but I’m sure he’d be happy to take you on a guided tour when he gets back.”

  A few days? Abby’s heart sank, but just a little. She wasn’t about to let that tiny snag get her down. She promised to stop by for another visit soon and closed her telephone.

  “Thank you, Mom,” she whispered. Abby rested her hand on her cheek, wishing it was her mother’s hand that touched her.

  There was a new lightness of spirit that had her on her feet and heading to the kitchen. She hadn’t had her Earl Grey yet, and she was suddenly famished.

  She walked by the front door, barely glancing through the window, when a flutter of white caught her eye.

  “Oh no,” she whispered, her voice only a breath. She knew before she placed her hand on the doorknob, before she pulled it open and grasped the note that rose and fell on the salty breeze, that something was very, very wrong.

  A tack held the note fast. She reached to tear it from the door just as the sun came out from behind a cloud to glint on a bit of metal. It was a ring, dangling from the tack and glittering in the sunlight.

  It couldn’t be…

  Her heartbeat fluttered beneath her sternum.

  Lightly, Abby’s fingers brushed the gold—as if she were frightened the ring would crumble beneath her touch.

  The sound of her breath was all around her as she lifted the ring from the nail, turned it over in her hand. Her heartbeat stopped fluttering, and started thudding.

  In her trembling palm shimmered the ruby and diamond ring that her mother—and every previous Rutherford woman—had worn in her formal portrait. Every Rutherford woman except her. By the time she sat for her first portrait at age eighteen, the ring had long been lost, recompensed by insurance, and duly mourned by the family.

  Now, Abby had no doubt where the ring had been lost, for there it lay, as vivid as a brilliant drop of blood in the palm of her trembling hand.

  Her fingers closed tightly over the ring.

  With the other hand, she grasped the note—which was written on Rum Runner letterhead—and tugged.

  It ripped down the center, but not so terribly as to destroy the writing. Jagged, smeared, reddish brown in color, the words glared up at her like a primordial scream:

  Welcome home, my lovely Celeste.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The ring was back in the family at last. She should be happy. She should be delighted… but the queasy feeling in her stomach refused to subside even for a minute.

  Why she should feel so distressed over the incident was beyond her. True, it was a twisted and frightening prank, but at least she knew who had done it, and that person was about to get an almighty earful.

  Abby clutched the ring tightly as she slammed her car door and stormed through Rum Runner’s rear parking lot.

  Ryan Brannigan. That’s who’d done this. No one wanted her off the island as badly as he did, and he was obviously willing to stoop to frightening her as a tool to get her to leave.

  But how did he get his hands on the ring?

  Well, that was obvious, wasn’t it? After her mother had lost the ring, it must have been pawned. Then, Ryan gained possession of it—perhaps he bought it or perhaps someone had used it to pay off their tab. Who knew?

  All that mattered was that she was about to prove Ryan couldn’t scare her off this island.

  She burst into the main room, glaring at the man behind the bar. “Where is he?”

  Johnny Mac’s gaze shot up from the perfect head on the ale he was pouring. He opened his mouth to speak, then, seeming to think better of it, closed it promptly.

  Abby stormed over to the bar, gripped the brass rail and leaned in as close as her small frame would allow. “Where is he?”

  “Uh, he’s, well—” Johnny’s eyes shifted furtively toward the door of Ryan Brannigan’s office. “He’s busy,” he said at last, squaring his shoulders.

  “Not too busy to speak with me, I hope?” she said, smiling icily toward the brewmaster.

  He slipped from behind the bar with a dexterity that defied his large stature. “Now, Abrielle, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go back there,” he said, hands lifted in a gesture that bade her halt.

  To Abby, it looked more like a signal of surrender. She pressed forward, ignoring his attempts to thwart her. “Get out of my way.”

  His eyes narrowed, raked her from head to foot. Abby resisted the urge to squirm beneath the gaze that rested so coldly upon her. Something in their depths wormed into the heart of her; something dark and disturbing that made her skin prickle and her heart squeeze a little too tightly in her chest.

  Johnny looked her up and down, matched her posture, and said, over his own folded arms and puffing chest, “No.”

  She was suddenly afraid, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “I’m coming through,” she said, relieved to sound braver than she felt. “Don’t make me lay you flat in the process.”

  Johnny blinked in surprise. A slow grin crept over his face; his shoulders relaxed. “Why Miss Lancaster, are you coming on to me?”

  “Only on this island,” she said through her teeth, “do they grow men arrogant enough to interpret a threat of bodily harm as a come-on.”

  Johnny chuckled as she shoved her way past him. “Honey, you can’t have been many places.”

  Abby ignored the teasing tone in the brewmaster’s voice and kept her eyes intent on the oak door and the metal plaque that glinted in the dim light of the bar. The word inscribed upon it, PRIVATE, seemed like a deliberate affront.

  She had had it with this man; with his pettiness, his pride, his outright rudeness.

  Well, enough was enough.

  The ruby ring seemed to glow with the intensity of an ember in her palm, its facets and claws digging into her gripping flesh.

  She shoved against the door full force, striding through it as it thudded against the wall hard enough to rattle picture frames on the wall.

  The split-second image was captured in her mind: Ryan lurching at her entry, eyes instantly alert and trained upon her with the fierceness of a startled predator. Without a perceptible
movement, his muscles seemed to vibrate beneath the fabric of his shirt. His very aura seemed poised for attack.

  Abby sensed his change in demeanor. She considered stepping back, but only for an instant. Her hand squeezed around the ring, reawakening her to a sense of her mission.

  She stormed across the office, bearing down upon him with the momentum of a freight train, stopping at his desk only when her thighs bumped sharply against its edge.

  His eyes narrowed menacingly. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked—far too quietly.

  She slapped her palm down upon his desk, felt the circulation rush through her fingers anew as they unclenched, and returned his glare with equal intensity. “Oh, I certainly hope so.” Her fingers lifted, withdrew from the table, leaving the ruby to glitter like fresh-drawn blood in her wake. “Did you do this?” The voice that hissed in the air was unrecognizable as her own.

  Ryan looked at the ring, then up at his accuser.

  She leaned forward into the silence, arms braced on either side of the table he used as a desk. “Did you do this?”

  Ryan leaned back in his chair, fingers tented beneath his chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Lancaster.”

  “I think we’re quite beyond formalities, don’t you, Ryan?”

  “If you say so,” he said through his teeth.

  Abby eyed him speculatively. “Since you’re feeling so agreeable, perhaps you’ll be willing to answer my next question. How did you manage to get your hands on this ring? You obviously weren’t the original thief—”

  “Thief?” He all but exploded out of his chair, hitting the desk with enough ferocity to jar the pens in their cup. “You march in here, slap a ring that I’ve never seen on my desk, and accuse me of being a thief? You’ve the devil’s own nerve, woman!”

  Abby leaned in, snatching the ring.

  He glared at her across the desk, eyes a withering shade of gold. She saw the pulse in his throat—felt a similar thud in her own. She leaned closer. “You don’t frighten me, Ryan Brannigan; not with your silly bouquets or notes, not even with this.” She picked up the ring, holding it in front of his eyes. “I know you did this, and I know why!”

  In a flash, he was over the desk, pens flying in all directions, shoes scuffing the aged finish, breath in her face.

  She felt powerless to tear her eyes from his gaze, considerably rebuked by his fury, and more than a little intimidated by the fact that he strongly resembled a caged animal. The fact that she presently shared the cage in question made her consider with great care every word she thought of speaking.

  For an instant, they stared at each other; two opponents in the face-off of their lives.

  Quietly, as if straining against infinite tension, he sent the silence spiraling to its death. “Don’t say another word, Abrielle.” His voice was little more than a breath. “Don’t say another word until we’ve both gotten ourselves under control.”

  He walked away from her, braced his hands on either side of the window frame, and stood for what seemed like an endless amount of time. “Tell me why you’re here,” he said at last. “Tell me every detail, or leave. I think I deserve to know exactly what it is I’m accused of.”

  Abby took a steadying breath. She squared her shoulders and jumped in, feet first. “You’re trying to frighten me off this island.” She folded her arms in front of her. “You might as well know that it isn’t going to work.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “I admit to wanting you off this island. I even admit to scheming. But I don’t stoop to spooking people, Abrielle. Next I’ll be accused of taking candy from babies.”

  She stepped closer, assured by his calmer demeanor. “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t been lurking around the cottage?”

  Ryan’s expression was a tie between confusion and indignation. “Again,” he said, forcing the word past his teeth, “you’ve lost me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  “If we’re ever going to get to the bottom of this, you need to start making sense. Now sit down, and start at the beginning!”

  “Don’t tell me to sit like I’m a trained poodle!”

  “Have you always been this infuriating, or did you save it all up for me?”

  “You flatter yourself,” she said. “Though why that should surprise me, I have no idea.”

  Ryan pressed the tips of his fingers together, rested his chin upon them, and closed his eyes. Moments passed. Abby began to fidget.

  “Please,” he said at last. He looked up at her, looking suddenly more weary than wild. “Please have a seat, and tell me why you think I’ve stolen your ring. It is yours, isn’t it?”

  Abby stared at him suspiciously. This was a new twist. If his temper hadn’t frightened her, his courtesy just might. She grasped the back of a chair opposite his desk, and after what seemed like a very long time, sat in it.

  “Would you like to tell me about the ring?”

  She regarded him pensively. “It belonged to my mother’s family,” she said at last. “The ring was given to the eldest daughter upon her eighteenth birthday, and has been worn in formal portraits since the early nineteen-hundreds.” She looked down at her hands, significantly bare of any adornment. “Every daughter but me. The last Rutherford woman to wear it was my mother. According to everything I’ve been told, the ring was stolen shortly after she received it.”

  “May I?” Ryan asked, hand outstretched.

  She considered a moment, then reached out and dropped the ring in his hand.

  For what seemed like an eternity, he stared at her and not the ring. Then, lifting it to the light, he turned it one way and the other, letting its facets catch the sun to best advantage. “You’re certain this is the actual ring that belonged to your mother?”

  “I’ve no doubt whatsoever.”

  “And where did you find it?”

  She exhaled slowly, wondering if she was playing right into his hands. “It was hanging from a nail on my door. Along with a note.”

  If this sounded at all strange to him, Abby noted that he didn’t show it.

  “What did the note say?”

  “It said…” Abby bit her lip. An icy finger traced the length of her spinal column as she recalled the note. She squared her shoulders, not wanting him to see her fear if, in fact, he had written it. “It said, ‘Welcome back, my lovely Celeste.’”

  His answering stare was indecipherable.

  “It was written in something strange.”

  “Such as?”

  Abby glared at him, despising the fact that he was one step shy of interrogating her. “I think it was written in blood,” she blurted, folding her arms over her chest.

  Ryan’s eyes lifted from the ring and rested on hers. “Are you certain?” he asked at last.

  “I’m reasonably sure, but I would imagine only a lab test would say for certain.”

  His frown was thoughtful. “I want to see it.”

  Abby glanced up. His eyes had changed. His tone had changed. His very emanations had changed. No more predator, enraged at the assault in his own domain, but suddenly wary, concerned. His concern was almost as disconcerting as his rage.

  She fished in her purse, anxious to avert her gaze from the intensity of his. She withdrew the ziplock bag into which she’d gingerly tucked the note, and passed it into his outstretched hand.

  Ryan looked carefully at the note, his thumb gently circling the Rum Runner’s logo at the top.

  “You didn’t send it, did you?” She knew the answer— she had seen it on his face already. If Ryan hadn’t sent the note, the flowers, the ring, then who had? It seemed suddenly beyond Bart’s mental capacity to wage such a systematic assault on her nerves. Could it be Johnny?

  He looked into her face. “I’ve given you no reason to trust me, Abby, but on this I give you my word: I did not send you this note, and I’ve never seen this ring until today. I have no idea how the person who sent this got their hands on my letterhead.”
>
  “I believe you,” she said at last, sighing deeply.

  Ryan’s face registered a fleeting look of gratification; not truly perceptible, but a flash, like when shadows change in a breeze. “You mentioned some other things…”

  Abby felt suddenly as if someone had changed the rules and forgotten to tell her. Why on earth does he care? “There was an instance when the flowers outside my bedroom window were trampled, as if someone had made a habit of looking in, and I received something else. A small posy of flowers. Forget-me-nots, honeysuckle and rosemary. It was tied in long, reddish hair. A long time ago—when my mother lived here—she had long, reddish hair.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, nothing really concrete,” she said, shrugging. “Just this strange feeling I’ve had, like someone is watching me. It’s silly, really.”

  Ryan rose from his chair and lifted a jacket from its back. “You need to report this. Now.”

  Abby felt the chair being tugged gently from beneath her. “Ryan, I really don’t think—”

  “Come on. I’ll go with you. Sheriff and I go way back.”

  “Now, just wait a minute!”

  Ryan gawked at her, startled.

  “If I report this—”

  “If you report this? I hate to put a damper on your day, but you’ve got a stalker, Abrielle, and a sick one, at that. You need to report this, the sooner the better.”

  Abby gaped up at him. “But I just talked to Deputy Flynn yesterday, and he doesn’t even seem to want to give any of this a second thought. He couldn’t get me out of there fast enough!”

  “I’ll make him listen,” he said ominously.

  She folded her arms over her chest. “What is going on here? You just admitted you wanted me off this island, and now you’re helping me? Are you telling me you’ve suddenly been awakened to a sense of your civic duty?”

  He grasped her arm—gently—and steered her toward the door. “You could say that.”

  “Let me go!” Abby shook herself free. “I don’t need a protector, Ryan. I need to get to the bottom of this.”

  Ryan stared at her wearily. “Abby, if for no other reason than to eliminate myself as a suspect, I want to go to the police. With you. Now.”