by Lucy Quinn
She giggled and immediately castigated herself for it. Way to sound like a flighty bimbo, she scolded herself silently. But it was just so nice to hear from him—and especially for him to call and be concerned and sympathetic after she’d just had to deal with Mr. Macho himself. “I’m doing okay,” she admitted once she was sure her voice was steady again. “Thanks. How about you?”
“You mean the way I lit out of there?” She could hear his sigh. “Sorry about that. I’m not Swan’s biggest fan, so I figured it’d be best if I wasn’t around when he showed up.”
“Oh?” Cookie perked up. “Did you get in too much trouble as a kid? Little juvenile delinquent Dylan, constantly running from the law?”
That got another chuckle out of him, and Cookie was quickly finding his laugh horribly addictive. “Something like that.” His voice dropped a notch. “Tell you what. Buy me that lunch you promised, and maybe I’ll tell you about it.”
She didn’t even have to think twice about that one. “Done.” A quick glance at the handsome old grandfather clock in the hall told her it was just past eleven. “How’s noon at the Salty Dog?”
“Noon is great. I’ll see you there.” He hung up, and after the click Cookie just stood there with the receiver against her cheek. Reality broke through her trance, and she returned it to its cradle before she bolted for her room. She had less than an hour to get ready.
In the end, she’d settled for just freshening up. After all, this wasn’t really a date or anything—it was only lunch. And this was Secret Seal Isle, where if you wore slacks people might think you were putting on airs. So Cookie simply brushed her hair again, applied fresh lip gloss, checked for mascara flakes, and headed out.
She’d told Hunter that the Salty Dog was basically the heart of the town, and it was true. Geographically, however, it was down near the lower edge of the island, while the inn was closer to the top. They were basically on either end of town, which was why it took her almost forty minutes to get there. She’d briefly considered driving but had decided that was just silly. Nobody really used cars around here—they were primarily for use on the mainland. Here people either biked or walked. Or sailed.
The Salty Dog was right on the shore, its back end opening onto a broad, private pier set up with tables and chairs for outdoor dining when the weather was good. The day had cleared and was once again sunny and pleasant, which was why Cookie wasn’t surprised to find Dylan already sitting at one of the tables outside when she arrived.
“Sorry,” she said as she reached him. Cookie sank into the sun-heated plastic chair opposite him as he waved off the apology.
“You’re probably on time,” he pointed out. “I just came over early. Figured I could sit and relax until you got here.”
“And now that I’m here you can’t relax?” she teased, leaning forward a little.
Dylan eyed her carefully. “I don’t know,” he admitted, still smiling. “I’m not sure yet if you’re one of those women who just waits for a guy to let his guard down so she can pounce.”
“Would it be so bad if I was?” Cookie shot back, and then blushed when she heard herself. Oh, wow. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this much of a flirt.
Still, it didn’t look as if Dylan minded. “‘Bad’ isn’t the word that comes to mind,” he said, his smile widening.
A waiter came over, and water and menus thumped down as he dropped them off. Cookie took advantage of the distraction, sipping at her drink to help her cool down.
Of course she already knew what she was getting—the Salty Dog was famous for its lobster rolls for a reason. Still, the menu provided a good pause for her to regain her composure and dial it down a little.
“So you’ve lived here your whole life?” she asked after the waiter had returned and taken their orders—two lobster roll specials.
He shrugged. “Mostly, yeah. I left for a few years, college and whatnot, but decided I’d seen enough of the outside world and came back home. I’ve been here ever since. What about you? You said you were from Boston, right?”
“Yep.” She was pleased he’d remembered. “Though I went out of state for a few years, too.” First for college, then for FBI training at Quantico, then to Richmond, then on to Philly. She’d actually not been back to Boston except to visit for almost ten years, but she left that part out for now.
“So why come here?” he asked.
That was a tougher question. Fortunately, their food showed up, giving her a few seconds to come up with an answer. She leaned back to let the waiter set the plastic baskets before them and snatched a chip. It crunched as she took a moment to think.
In the end, she decided to stick to the truth. “We needed a change, my mom and I,” she admitted, eyes hungrily fixed on the almost-overflowing lobster rolls before her. “She found some sites boasting about how beautiful Maine was and started Googling. We saw an article about the artists’ colony out here, looked at the pictures, and fell in love.” She shrugged. “And here we are.”
“It really is beautiful here,” Dylan assured her, already hoisting the first of his lobster rolls toward his mouth. “I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to walk the beaches much yet or to wander through the forests, but they’re amazing. Just standing on the shore at night, listening to the waves and watching them lap up against the land—I missed it. That’s why I had to come home again.”
Cookie watched him as he took a big bite, chewing enthusiastically and unabashedly. She did the same, not bothering to try being ladylike. Ladylike had never really been her thing, and she let out a small moan of pleasure as she reveled in the explosion of salty-sweet lobster held together by a scant amount of mayonnaise.
But the lobster wasn’t the only thing that held her attention. Dylan was the type of man who was so hot, women overheated just looking at him. And flirting with him the other day had proven that he was also fun to talk with. But his phone call this morning, and now their conversation here, were revealing a deeper, quieter side.
A side that she found incredibly attractive.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he said, grinning when she started a bit. “You looked like you were somewhere else for a second there.” Somehow he’d already made his first roll vanish and was halfway through his second.
Cookie managed an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I was just thinking, you remind me of those old stories of philosopher-kings and wise old woodsmen. You know, the guys who were all rugged and active and knew how to do all kinds of things with their hands, but then they’d talk and you’d realize they had all these deep thoughts on top of that.” She blushed again, aware she was gushing a bit, but unwilling to lie or hide her interest.
He laughed. “I don’t know that I’ve ever been called a philosopher-king before,” he replied after a second. “But thank you.” His blue eyes were warm and alive, and Cookie had to exert all her control not to get lost in them.
“So,” she asked, changing the subject to save herself further embarrassment, “Did you always want to be a, what, fix-it man? General handyman? All-purpose repairman?”
“No,” he replied, his grin vanishing as though it had been whisked away by a magician, leaving a grim, almost solemn expression in its wake. “Actually, growing up there was only one thing I really wanted to be.” He leaned in a little, lowering his voice, and Cookie automatically leaned closer as well, until they were only inches apart. Then he shifted so that his lips were dangerously close to her ear and whispered, “A pirate.”
She couldn’t help it—she squawked with surprised laughter. Dylan laughed as well. A few of the restaurant’s other patrons glanced at them, startled by the sudden noise, and that just made Dylan laugh harder.
“You’re terrible.” Cookie snorted, slapping his shoulder lightly as she fell back against her chair, still almost hiccupping from laughing so hard. “You totally had me going.”
“It’s true!” he insisted, still chuckling. “That’s what I wanted to be. Pirate Dylan, scourg
e of the Atlantic. Or at least New England.”
Cookie shook her head, grabbing her water and taking a big gulp to help settle her down. Then she studied him, tilting her head to one side and narrowing her eyes. “I’m trying to picture you with gold hoop earrings, an eyepatch, and a bandana around your head. I’ve gotta say, you could pull it off.” What she really meant was, You’d be dead sexy as a pirate. But you’d probably be dead sexy as an astronaut or a CDC worker too, so that’s not saying much.
Dylan dipped his head at the compliment and started to reply, when a subtle hushing that turned to silence made them glance around. Instantly spotting the problem, Cookie groaned.
“Great,” she muttered. “Just great.” Because everyone’s gaze centered on the man who had just entered the Salty Dog. A tall, dark, bald man wearing an equally dark suit and mirrored sunglasses.
Hunter.
6
“I’ll be right back,” Cookie assured Dylan, already rising from her seat. She made her way into the restaurant proper just in time to catch Hunter flashing his badge at Larry. The older man had just approached from the kitchen and was still wiping his hands on a dish towel slung over his shoulder.
“Agent O’Neil, FBI,” she heard Hunter announce, loud enough for his voice to carry through the whole place. “I need to ask you some questions about Chip Winslow.”
“Yeah?” Larry shot back. “What’s that scum-sucking leech up to now? Trying to get you to do his dirty work for him?” Though an inch or two shorter than Hunter, Larry Harris had the edge on Cookie’s ex-partner in terms of weight and probably muscle as well. The man was built like a fireplug, stocky and solid, with a broad chest, broader shoulders, and great big thick arms. His hair had probably been dark when he was younger, but now it was shot with gray and white, as was the thick beard he kept neatly trimmed. Cookie had heard more than one local claim the Salty Dog was named for its owner’s salt-and-pepper appearance as much as his manner.
Hunter wasn’t fazed by the restaurant owner’s obvious belligerence. “What he’s up to is a shelf in the local morgue,” he replied, his own tone cold and crisp. “He washed up dead the day before yesterday.”
That threw Larry for a loop, Cookie saw, as his eyes widened and his jaw worked before finding his words. “Wait, dead?” he said, his face going slack for a second. “Damn. I hated the little snit, not gonna lie, but that doesn’t mean I wanted him dead; just well away from here.”
“Be that as it may, I need to know where you were Sunday night and Monday morning.” Hunter’s tone hadn’t changed, nor had his stance. His feet were planted wide and arms crossed over his chest, the very model of the stern government agent. He barely blinked when Cookie slid between him and Larry, just tilted his head up slightly so he could continue to stare at the restaurant owner over her head.
“We need to talk,” Cookie told him, keeping her voice low. When he didn’t budge, she poked his chest, and her finger practically rebounded off the rock-hard muscle as she added, “Now,” sharp enough that he knew it wasn’t an idle request.
She moved past him and stomped over toward the coat closet, which was completely empty right now because of the pleasant weather. After a second, and no doubt a don’t-go-anywhere growl to Larry, Hunter joined her.
“What the hell are you doing?” Cookie demanded the minute he was standing next to her. “Larry didn’t kill anyone.”
“Oh? Were you with him Sunday night and Monday morning?” Hunter’s tone changed—was that bitterness she heard? “He hardly seems like your type, but what do I know?”
“Stop it,” she warned. “Larry’s a good guy. He wouldn’t do something like this.”
“Ah, so you’re just basing this on, what, your female intuition?” He finally removed his shades, and as she’d feared, Cookie saw that his eyes had gone so dark they were almost black. That only happened when he was dead set on something—or when he was furious. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Charlie, but the FBI doesn’t work that way. We require actual facts. And the suspect just admitted that he hated the victim. That’s a fact.”
“So what?” Cookie snapped. “Sure, he hated Chip. Chip tried—repeatedly—to buy the Salty Dog from him. But Larry also just said he didn’t want the guy dead, and you saw for yourself how surprised he was when you told him.” She poked Hunter in the chest again. “That’s also a fact.”
For a second, neither of them moved, and the temperature in the small closet seemed to ratchet up another ten degrees. Then she saw his stony expression crack just a little. “He did look genuinely surprised,” Hunter admitted slowly.
Cookie let out the breath she’d been holding, glad that her ex-partner was finally willing to see reason. “Look, we were a great team, right?” she asked, which earned her a short nod. “And you know why?”
“Because we both looked so good in suits?” he said. Which got a quick laugh out of her and an answering upturn at the lips from him. His eyes were lightening, shading back to their more normal warm brown, which was also a good sign. She was reaching him.
“No, but that probably didn’t hurt,” she agreed. “We were a great team because you’re like a bulldog—you never let go, just kept going after each case until we cracked it. But sometimes you got too latched on, too focused on the bone you were gnawing to see the big picture. I kept you grounded. I made you stop and look around and catch your breath and think things through. You were the persistence, I was the perspective.” She poked him again, a little more gently. He grabbed her hand, and she let him hold it as she said, “And right now you need that. I can help you, Hunter. I know this place, these people. I can see things you can’t. Let me help you.”
He studied her a second then sighed as he let her fingers go. “No one here is supposed to know you’re FBI,” he reminded her—sadly, she thought. “So you can’t officially work this case with me as far as they’re concerned.” She waited, certain there was more coming. Sure enough, a second later he continued, “But there’s nothing that says I can’t bring on a local consultant.”
“Great.” She slapped him on the arm. “See? It’ll be like old times. Except that I’m not wearing a suit.”
“Pity, that,” he replied. Then he glanced back over to where Larry waited. “Well, partner, should we go back to questioning our suspect?”
“By all means.” This time Cookie led the way, and she deliberately threw Larry a warm smile to let him know, that from here on out, the questioning would have a very different flavor. “Sorry about that, Larry,” she said as they rejoined him. “Just needed to get a few things sorted out. What can you tell us about Chip?”
Larry considered that with a scowl as if he didn’t trust the change in tack before he relaxed. “Rich kid,” he answered finally. “Grew up somewhere on the mainland, not really sure where. Wanted to make his mark—that’s how he put it one time—show his parents he wasn’t just living off them. He planned to do something big and impressive and lucrative in his own right, and he fixed on Secret Seal as the place to do it.” He shook his head. “Tried talking me into selling him this place any number of times. Tried wheedling, threatening, and throwing huge stacks of money at me. I always said no. It was driving him nuts.” Larry chuckled a little at the memory then sobered. “The guy was a jerk, but I’m sorry he’s dead.”
He turned his attention to Hunter and glowered. “And in answer to your question, Agent O’Neil, I was here Sunday ’til an hour or two after closing then home with my family. Monday morning I stopped by the wharf, like I always do, to pick up the day’s catch, then came here in time to get set up before we opened for breakfast.” He glanced around the restaurant, and people averted their gazes as if they weren’t watching. “Plenty of people saw me each time.”
Hunter’s only answer to that was a crisp nod. “Anything else you can tell us about Mr. Winslow?” he asked instead. “Was he a frequent customer here?”
That got a bark of laughter from Larry. “Here? No. He knew what I tho
ught of him, so he only came around when he was trying to buy the place off me.” He scratched at his beard. “I think he was at the Tipsy Seagull a lot, though.”
Cookie responded to Hunter’s unspoken question. “It’s a local bar right off the docks,” she explained. “Not exactly a tourist destination. Most of the regulars are locals, I think.”
“Seems like an odd choice for someone like him,” Hunter remarked. “But we’ll check it out. Thank you, Mr. Harris,” he added, returning his attention to Larry and offering a hand. “If I have any more questions, I’ll let you know.”
“Yeah, sure, fine.” Larry shook hands with him, and Cookie was pleased to see that neither of them did the macho thing of trying to outgrip the other. “Hope you catch whoever did this. Even Winslow didn’t deserve that.”
Hunter paused a second. “What makes you think it wasn’t an unfortunate accident?” he asked, though Cookie didn’t hear accusation in his tone, just curiosity.
That drew a smile from the restaurant owner. “Rich as he was, I don’t think the FBI’d be poking around if it was just an accident, now would you?” he asked. “If you’re here and demanding alibis, I’m guessing you think someone did him in.” His smile broadened. “And since you’re not correcting me, I’m pretty sure that means I’m right.”
Hunter actually chuckled at that, acknowledging that he’d been played, and Cookie didn’t bother to hide her own grin. She liked Larry—he’d been one of the first to welcome her and Rain when they’d moved here. And though he was gruff to everyone and didn’t take crap, she could tell he was a good man beneath the crabby exterior. He was exactly the sort who’d give free food to someone in need but then deny he’d ever done it. The kind who helped, not because he wanted people to see what he’d done or because he thought he should, but because he genuinely cared.
They turned away from Larry—and almost bumped right into Dylan, who had come up behind them at some point during the conversation. “Everything all right here?” he asked Cookie, but his eyes were on Hunter.