by Lucy Quinn
“That’s about the size of it.” Cookie tried to meet his eyes but found she had to look away from the heat there. “Well, good night.”
She turned away, but Hunter shot out a hand and caught her by the wrist. “Hey, not so fast,” he urged. “It’s not all that late, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t have anywhere I need to be. Maybe we can… catch up?” His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, sending delicious shivers up her arm and all through her body. “Hang out?” His voice had dropped, becoming even deeper, and that too was making her quiver in all the right ways. “Get reacquainted?”
Cookie could feel herself melting all over. There was no denying it—she’d always been a little bit in love with her hot, sexy, dangerous partner. And she’d always thought that maybe, just maybe, there’d actually been something real behind the way he’d flirted with her. But they’d been partners, and neither of them had been willing to jeopardize that.
But they weren’t partners anymore.
Still, she found that she didn’t want to just jump into bed with him. Or, rather, she did—she really did—but she also knew that probably wasn’t the best idea. Especially when he’d just arrived, and she was still getting used to being here. And there was this whole dead-body thing to deal with.
She disengaged her wrist and stepped back. “I think maybe we should both sleep on it,” she suggested gently. “Let’s see how things look in the morning.”
Hunter opened his mouth as if he was going to argue, but then he nodded instead. “You’re right, it’s late. I’m tired and probably not at my best. Tomorrow, though.” He leveled a finger at her, along with a gaze that should by rights have made her clothes burst into flames. “We’re not done with this conversation.”
Then he slipped into his room and eased the door shut behind him with a soft click.
Cookie stared at his door, fanning herself.
Well, crap, she thought as she turned toward her own room. She had a feeling she was going to have a hard time getting to sleep now.
But when she did, she suspected the dreams would be worth the wait.
4
“Okay, you two lovebirds, sorry to wake you, but—oh!” Rain’s cheery singsong voice cut through the last of Cookie’s dreams, dragging her kicking and screaming back up to the bright light of early morning. She dragged the quilt off her head and blinked blearily through the tangle of her dark hair. Her mother was peering down at her, looking confused.
“Whuzzat?” Cookie demanded, reaching up to brush her hair from her face so she could see more clearly.
“Where is that fine, fine man of yours?” Rain demanded, hands going to her hips. Over her tie-dyed peasant top and short-shorts she was wearing an apron that insisted Kiss the Cook! in big, bold letters. “Don’t tell me you sent him back to his own room after you had your way with him last night.”
“My way with what? Huh?” Cookie was the first to admit that she’d never been a morning person. Back in Philly, she’d never owned a coffee machine because it was a cruel irony that she had no chance of figuring out how to work one of the darn things without at least one cup of coffee in her. Now she tried to kick-start her brain back into gear so she could make sense of what her mother was saying.
Finally, it clicked. “Oh. Oh!” She sat up straight. “Hunter’s in his room, I’m guessing. I have no idea. But that’s where he went after we came upstairs last night. Him to his room, me to mine.” She frowned at her mother. “No thanks to you.”
“What?” Rain actually had the audacity to look insulted. “You mean to tell me you wasted a perfectly good night and an incredibly hot man just a few feet from your bed? Charlene Esmeralda Jamieson, I’m ashamed of you!”
It is way too early to deal with my mother’s twisted logic, Cookie thought with a groan as she rubbed both palms against her eyelids. “Aren’t you supposed to be telling me not to sleep around?” she asked, hating the fact that her voice came out in a half whine. “I’d ask if this was reverse psychology, but sadly I know better.”
“Reverse nothing,” Rain replied. “That man is hot, hot, hot, and you know it. And the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to just eat you up with a spoon…” She sighed. “Oh, I’d give a lot to have a man like that look at me that way again.”
“Mom!” Now Cookie wanted to rub her eyes again, not to wake up further but to try scrubbing away that mental image. “Hunter’s my ex-partner. And my friend. We were never anything more.”
“Well, that’s your own damn fault,” her mother retorted, turning back toward the door. “And if I were you, I’d do something to fix that, and soon, before he heads back to Philly.” She paused in the hall. “Oh, and breakfast will be ready in ten.”
“At last, some good news,” Cookie grumbled, climbing out of bed. The morning air was cool on her skin, and she had goose bumps when she staggered out into the hall.
And almost ran smack into Hunter.
“Morning,” he said with just the touch of a grin. He was wearing a T-shirt that hugged every muscle and a pair of sweatpants. Perspiration glistened across his scalp and dampened his shirt. It was clear he’d just come back from a morning run.
“Morning,” Cookie replied, all too aware that her hair was a mess, she had no makeup on, and she was wearing nothing but panties and an oversized T-shirt with the collar cut out. “Um, breakfast is in ten. I’ll be right down.” She scooted past him to the bathroom, diving inside as if it were shelter from a raging storm, and practically slamming the door shut behind her.
She could swear she felt Hunter’s gaze tracking her the whole way, its touch on her almost-exposed skin searing her right through the sleep shirt.
The water at the inn took a while to warm up, which meant when she turned on the shower Cookie was inundated with ice-cold water.
For once, she didn’t mind.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Hunter told her when she finally made her way down to the dining room and plopped into the chair across from him. She was feeling far more human now that she’d showered, brushed her hair, and pulled on jeans, a blouse and a loose-knit sweater. Mary and Henry were seated at the other end of the long oak table, and plates of steaming food covered the center of the table between them.
“Thanks.” Cookie grabbed a serving fork and shoveled a pile of pancakes onto her plate. She doused them in maple syrup then added fresh berries and real whipped cream before taking a big bite. The flavor barely registered as she worked at filling her belly. She was still chewing as she reached for the carafe and poured herself piping-hot coffee. Without hesitating, she took a big gulp to wash down the food, ignoring the searing sensation in her esophagus.
Hunter’s plate was still half-full, but he paused to watch her eat. “You always could put it away,” he said with a chuckle, but the twinkle in his eye showed that it wasn’t a dig. “It’s good, too. Your mom’s one hell of a cook.”
“I know,” Cookie agreed around another mouthful. Truth be told, she was pretty decent in the kitchen herself, but Rain had a real flair for it, and baking too. That was why it had made perfect sense for her to handle the cooking at the inn. Plus, Cookie had hoped that stashing Rain in the kitchen might keep her out of trouble. But no such luck.
“What’s our plan?” Cookie asked after she’d cleared her plate and drained her cup. She was debating if she wanted seconds of either, but at least food and coffee were no longer a burning need. Now they were just a mild desire, and she knew she’d probably resist the temptation. While Hunter was right about her being able to eat, she still tried not to overdo it. It wasn’t as if she were chasing perps down the sidewalk for exercise anymore.
Hunter shrugged. “You wanted me to look into it,” he reminded her, setting his napkin beside his plate. “So introduce me to the deputy, and I’ll look. I can’t promise anything else until I know what’s going on.”
Cookie nodded and wiped her mouth with her own napkin before rising and tossing it onto the chair she
’d just vacated. “Let’s go.”
“This looks promising,” Hunter commented as they approached the sheriff’s office. They’d walked rather than driving. It wasn’t that far—the entire town could be traversed in forty minutes, and the office was right in the center. Plus, it was a nice day out, warm but with a pleasantly cool, salty breeze off the water. It was exactly the kind of weather that made Cookie glad they’d moved here, and she didn’t want to waste it by being cooped up in a car. Hunter didn’t seem to mind, and they’d strolled in companionable silence, just enjoying the sunshine and the fresh air.
Cookie considered the office now herself. It did present well, she had to agree—big enough to have some gravitas but small enough to say, ‘Yes, we can handle crime, but that doesn’t mean we see a lot of it.’ It was also old enough to look established but still clean and well maintained, with weathered brick, large windows, and an inviting glass door that certainly wouldn’t hide any secrets. Still, she thought of Deputy Swan and warned, “Looks can be deceiving.”
Together they pushed through the door and into the office. There wasn’t a reception desk—inside, it was basically just one big room with a glassed-in office in the back and a door beside it that she guessed led to holding cells. Swan was the only person there, and he was sitting at his desk, feet up, reading the paper and sipping coffee. If he’d noticed their entrance, he didn’t let on.
“Come on.” Cookie led the way past empty desks to the glass office, where she rapped on the wall even though the door was open. “Deputy Swan?”
That got his attention, and he glanced up, a polite smile on his face. “Ms. James, what can I do for you?” Then his gaze skipped over to Hunter in his dark suit and sunglasses. Suddenly the chair rattled, and Swan was sitting up straight, feet flat on the floor. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
“Special Agent Hunter O’Neil, FBI,” Hunter introduced himself, pulling out his badge and ID and handing them to the deputy, who examined them with what looked like awe before passing them back. “Ms. James asked me to stop in and see how the investigation was going.”
“Investigation?” Deputy Swan darted his gaze back and forth between Cookie and Hunter, clearly trying to figure out the connection there. “What investigation is that?”
Even behind his mirrored shades Cookie could see Hunter’s eyebrow arch. “The dead body?” he reminded Swan. “The one found behind Ms. James’s property? The one her mother stumbled onto—literally?”
“Oh, right, that.” Swan gulped. “Chip Winslow.”
“Wait, what?” Cookie gaped at him. “The dead guy is Chip Winslow? You said there was no way he was local!”
Now Hunter was the one whose eyes were bouncing back and forth. “You know the deceased?” he asked, his tone somewhere between hard-nosed interrogator and concerned friend.
“Everybody around here knows Chip Winslow,” Cookie confirmed, “including us, and we’ve only been here a few weeks.” She continued to glare at the deputy. “You said you didn’t recognize him.”
“I didn’t! I can’t be expected to remember every person who steps onto this rock.” Swan protested, his voice rising as his face reddened. “The ME called with the ID just a few minutes ago.” He lifted his chin. “And Chip Winslow isn’t local. He just wants—wanted—to be.”
Hunter made a sound in the back of his throat, half cough and half growl. “Somebody want to tell me who this Winslow character was?”
Cookie sighed. “All I know is he’s from the area, at least New England, and probably Maine if not the island itself. He’s rich, and he had all these crazy plans for Secret Seal Isle. Wanted to turn it into the next Martha’s Vineyard or something.” She shook her head. “Last I heard, he was trying to buy the Salty Dog.” Noticing the questioning look on her ex-partner’s face, she explained, “It’s the local sandwich shop, and yes, the only one on the island. Great place, really good food, amazing lobster rolls. It’s practically the heart of the town, and Chip wanted to buy it, gut it, rip out its soul, and turn it into some crappy tourist trap.”
Hunter looked to Swan, who nodded his confirmation of that assessment. “Sounds like the kind of man who isn’t well-liked,” Hunter commented. “The kind who has a whole lot of enemies.”
The deputy was staring at him. “What, you think there was foul play?” he asked. “People slip and drown all the time, especially when there’s a storm. He fell in the water, swallowed a lungful or two, passed out and drowned, and the current carried him out here. That’s it.”
Now Hunter slid past Cookie and slapped his hands on the desk so that he could lean across, staring down at the terrified deputy. “Do you really think that’s what happened?” he asked, his voice going low and gravelly. “That this man, who was known and hated throughout town, just happened to slip and fall and drown? And then wash up here? Just a strange, sad little coincidence?”
Swan gulped. “We’re a nice, quiet place,” he answered, his voice barely more than a squeak. “We don’t get violence and foul play and all that out here.”
Hunter straightened up. “I’d say you’ve got it now.” He studied the deputy again, frowning. “I think I’ll stick around and take over the investigation,” he decided out loud. “If the murder really did happen elsewhere, this crime could have crossed state borders, which automatically makes it FBI jurisdiction.” He speared Swan with a tight, wolfish smile. “You don’t mind, do you?”
The overwhelmed deputy shook his head. “It’s all yours,” he answered and looked genuinely pleased at that thought. Which made sense, seeing as how he’d clearly not wanted anything to do with this death in the first place.
Disgust coiled in Cookie’s gut. The deputy was a true disgrace to the uniform.
Then Swan’s eyes slid past Hunter to Cookie. “What about her?” he asked. “She’s not FBI—is she?”
“No, she’s just a concerned citizen,” Hunter replied, not even bothering to glance her way. “She has every right to be concerned, considering where the body was found, but she’s not part of this investigation.” Now he did turn toward Cookie. “Thank you for your help, ma’am,” he told her without even the slightest hint of a smile. “If I need anything further, I know where to find you.”
“You know… if you need…” Cookie echoed, so mad she was practically spitting. “Let’s go!” she finally managed, latching onto Hunter’s arm and dragging him back out into the main office toward the front door. Swan watched them, clearly puzzled but amused.
“What the hell?” Cookie demanded once she thought they were out of earshot from the deputy. “I bring you into this, and now you’re gonna cut me out?”
Hunter sighed and removed his shades. “Look, Charlie,” he started, “what I said in there is absolutely true as far as he’s concerned. You’re supposed to be a civilian now, like everybody else, right? You don’t want to trust that creep with your FBI status do you? The whole point was to lay low. So, yeah, you can’t get involved in this—or more involved, I guess. You came here to hide out, stay out of trouble, and not get noticed. How do you think digging into some local hotshot’s murder is going to work with all that?”
What he said made sense, but Cookie was still fuming. He’d casually dismissed her and treated her like a civilian when she’d once been his right-hand man—or woman. The one who’d had his back more times than she could count. “He washed up in my backyard,” she snapped. “My mom stumbled onto the body. I called you!”
“I know,” Hunter said, his voice assuming that soothing cadence it always did when he was trying to calm and cajole a reluctant informant or a panicked witness. “And I promise I’ll keep you apprised of what I find. But you can’t be here, Charlie. You know that.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, and the warmth was a little too nice as he gazed down into her eyes. “You asked me to take care of this. Let me do that. Okay?”
Cookie growled and pulled away. She could tell she wasn’t going to get anywhere by arguing, tho
ugh. Not right now. Hunter was like a wall—once he’d made up his mind you could try chipping away, but it was going to be slow going at best. Better to let things sit and cool down a little, then try again.
Which didn’t make it sting any less as she stormed out, back onto the street. Alone and out of the loop.
Suddenly, the day that had started out so sunny and promising, now looked as cold, gray, and unpleasant as her mood.
5
By the time Cookie got back to the inn, the breakfast table had been cleared, Mary and Henry were nowhere to be found, and Rain was lounging in one of the porch hammocks, reading another one of her beloved romance novels. “Where have you been?” she asked, barely glancing up from the book. “And where’s that stud of yours?”
“Back at the sheriff’s office, and he’s definitely not mine!” Cookie snapped, still furious. Her mother raised an eyebrow at the outburst but wisely chose not to pursue what was clearly a touchy subject. Just then the phone rang—not Cookie’s cell, which she’d reflexively pocketed after calling Hunter the other day and was still carrying now, but the inn’s landline. “I got it,” Cookie announced, breezing past Rain and heading inside.
The phone was only on its third ring when she snatched up the receiver. “Secret Seal Inn, the loveliest bed and breakfast on the island, how may I help you?” she rattled off, hoping that being out of breath made her sound busy and breathless with excitement instead of asthmatic or just plain creepy.
The laugh on the other end was warm and deep, and it scattered her anger like a dog racing into a flock of pigeons. “It helps that you’re the only bed and breakfast on the island,” the caller added, “but I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Cookie discovered with some surprise that she was smiling. The plastic of the phone was slick in her hand when she gripped it a little tighter. “Dylan. Hi.” She didn’t know what else to say.
Fortunately, he seemed eager to do the talking. “Hey yourself. I just wanted to see how you were doing. You know, after the whole dead-body thing. Because that can throw anybody off their game.”