by Geri Krotow
The three workers stopped and turned as a unit to gape at her. One man was tall and lean with a lot of red hair plastered to his head and around his face. One was stocky and white-whiskered and the third man who was somewhere in the middle of height and girth had graying dark brown, unruly curls around his thin face.
Not one of them said a word.
Addy pushed her hood back from her wet hair and gave each of them an even look. Well, what she hoped was an even look because when one’s underwear was starting to take on water it was hard.
They stared back for a moment and then turned away to continue removing their rain suits. She had the feeling they would have stripped down to their underwear if she hadn’t been there—maybe they still would.
“Eh, Michael, sorry about Francine,” the stocky, white-whiskered member of the trio said to the red headed man.
Addy remembered the word FRANCINE as it had headed directly for her upturned face. Francine was the boat’s name.
The shoulders of the tall thin man with what now seemed like a bushel of wet red hair slumped. “Ah-yuh. Wish we’d’a known sooner.”
“...that the storm wasn’t going to pass us by.” In her head Addy filled in the missing words.
She stepped up behind the group. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Zachary Hale.”
A choking kind of cough made her she realize the four of them were not the only people in the bar. She looked over her shoulder to see scattered tables in a room off to the left of where she stood. People, men and women, sat in clumps of two, three or four at timeworn tables with mismatched chairs. All of them stared at her.
She peered first into the faces of the people at the tables to make sure the billionaire hadn’t shed his fancy business suit to hide amid this crowd.
When she didn’t see anyone resembling the slick, manicured tycoon in disguise she turned halfway back to the three men so she could address everyone. “Can anyone tell me where to find Zachary Hale?”
A few of the people continued to stare at her, but most turned back to their beers and bowls of snacks.
“Pardon me, miss.” The red-haired man spoke to her in a friendly voice as he pointed toward the door. “You don’t want to be going anywhere in that, so come sit at the bar and I’ll pour you a beer.”
Before she could even respond, he walked around the bar, and pulled a glass from under the counter.
Addy held her ground and pulled her hood back on. “That’s very nice of you, but I really need to get going. If someone could just tell me where Mr. Hale lives or where he might be right now.”
“You’ll get blown off the road trying to get up Sea Crest Hill in this weather.” A woman’s voice came from the crowd at the tables.
A few heads turned in the middle-aged woman’s direction and she hushed quickly. Her ruddy face got redder and she turned her chair away.
At least these people knew the man. In this small town the hill called Sea Crest couldn’t be too hard to find.
She decided to try a less direct question. She might get another nibble. “Does anyone know if he’s here in town?”
Silence.
Hale was a thief, but she doubted he’d physically harm anyone. He wasn’t that kind of bad guy, so these folks were mum because Hale grew up in this town and not because they were afraid of him. He was one of them and they weren’t going to give her much information.
She rubbed her back where a bead of water trickled down her spine between her shoulder blades. She could lie to them. Make up something about being Hale’s worried fiancé or secretary with important business.
She looked around the room. Every one of them except the woman who had given away Sea Crest Hill was staring at her with varying degrees of resolute.
And she was such a bad liar. Even the slowest of this crowd would call her on it.
Until a year ago, anyone in the news field would have said if there was one thing Adriana Bonacorda could be relied on for, it was the truth.
“Listen, miss.” The red-haired man, evidently the bartender as he had tied an apron around his thin waist. “You can stay here if you want. There isn’t much in the way of amenities, but we’re far enough up hill from the harbor to be safe and dry in this sturdy old building.”
“Thank you. I’ll be all right, but I need to find Mr. Hale.”
“There is no place else for you to go in town or for twenty miles. Sit down. Relax. Have a beer or—” He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle of red wine and held it up.
Wine for the city girl. This guy already had that much figured out about her. By the look he gave her, he knew enough about her to know she was not here to heap rewards or praise on one of theirs.
She shook her head slowly. She could almost feel the tread of sneaks and stilettos on her back as the other reporters trampled her to get the story. If they convinced Hale to talk while she sipped Pinot Noir, she might as well start fabricating a résumé, because no one was ever going to hire her with her real one.
She pushed damp hair from her forehead.
Wile might be in order.
Or maybe something brash, near the truth.
What were they going to do? Toss her out into the storm?
Addy leaned over the bar and gave the thin, redheaded bartender an earnest smile. She didn’t need to make enemies out of these people.
“Look. I’m a reporter. Zachary Hale has a story to tell and I want to get his side out to the public before there are any more accusations.” She took a breath hoping her message of benevolence would get through. “Or worse yet, charges are filed against him.”
“Aw, just let her go out there ’n’ look, Michael,” a burly, dark-bearded man said to the bartender as he nodded toward the old oak door.
Michael folded his arms over his chest but remained silent.
“I know that he’s from around here,” Addy brushed at her sodden hair, tipped her head to the side and continued. “And I get that he doesn’t want to be hounded by reporters, but that’s going to happen, anyway. It’ll just be more civilized if he has a chance to lay his side out before the lies get too vicious.”
Before the real truth gets out, she thought. Was her nose growing?
“You can’t go out in this.” The bartender tried again, his arms not budging from their determined pose across his chest.
“But if the storm—”
“Hurricane, miss. Hurricane.”
The wind took that moment to snap the boards covering the windows as if to reinforce the bartender’s statement.
“All right. If the hurricane is already here—”
“This is merely the build-up.” He interrupted her with a warning glance that made her insides slightly queasy. “They expect winds of up to a hundred miles an hour to hit us in a few hours.”
She sighed. Did they think she was going to stand on a street corner and wait for a hurricane to blow her away? She had work to do. At least two other reporters already knew where Hale might go to ground.
“If you just give me directions to Sea Crest Hill, I’ll be out of here.”
“Hale’s not there,” the dark-bearded guy said, looking as dark as the storm clouds outside.
He had to be in Bailey’s Cove. Her lead had been sound, as reliable as one could get these days.
If not at his home, where in this town could he be? Bailey’s Cove was his comfort zone. This is where he’d go, said Savanna, her sister who had worked in the off-site records department of Hale and Blankenstock Investments, LLC, for over two years.
Peering into their faces, she examined the crowd once again to reassure herself Hale wasn’t cowering there in the disguise of a local. That would be just like a scoundrel. She got a lot of petulant, stoic looks and plain blank stares, but Hale’s slick good looks weren’t there.
Saying Hale wasn’t at his home on Sea Crest Hill was most likely a misdirection. She’d find Sea Crest Hill and have a look for herself. She’d know his home once she got there. It would be the biggest and the fanciest.
“Thank you so much for your offer of shelter,” she said to the bartender and started to leave.
The door to the tavern burst open and six people entered—two women and four men—sodden, weary and breathing hard except the man who had pulled her away from the falling FRANCINE. He stood tall, brooding and soaked, taking inventory of the people in the tavern as if he were somehow responsible for each one of them—and ignoring her.
Copyright © 2014 by Mary L. Biebel
ISBN-13: 9781460342305
Navy Christmas
Copyright © 2014 by Geri Krotow
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com