Rough Harbor

by Andrea Stein

  “She is. She’s normal and nice.” And beautiful and complicated. He checked his phone again, checking to see if there was anything from her.

  “But she’s being accused of some pretty awful things.” Heather’s voice brought him back to the now.

  “But she didn’t do them. It wasn’t her.”

  “What do you mean?” Heather looked puzzled.

  Noah hesitated. If they wanted to prevent the collapse of the company and a run on their accounts, they were trying to keep the whole thing quiet, at least for now, until they found out where the money was.

  “I mean someone was stealing money from accounts, but it most certainly wasn’t Caitlyn Montgomery. She was helping to uncover it.”

  “But, she’s a thief. I mean that’s what he told me.”

  Noah’s warning sensors went off. “Who told you that?”

  “Her fiancé, Michael St. John. He was so upset, said that she had lost her way, that she was sick.”

  “Sick?”

  Heather nodded, took another sip of her drink. She was looking at him, blonde, blue-eyed, long lashes, trying to look at him from under them. She was about as sexy as a potato, he thought, but perhaps that was because blondes had never done much for him.

  “You know she’s using you the way she used him. He told me that would happen. That history would repeat itself. That’s when I told him Tommy thought there were funny things going on at the firm.”

  “Tommy told you that?”

  “Sure.” Heather nodded. “He asked me to help keep an eye on things. Keep an eye on Caitlyn. I even had him call Michael so he could get the real story. Tommy was pretty glad after that, but Michael was happier. He sent me this.” She held out her wrist where an emerald and diamond tennis bracelet sparkled.

  Noah looked at her. “So, Michael St. John doesn’t know that Tommy Anderson is being questioned.”

  “Questioned? About what?” Some sort of comprehension dawned in her eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Tommy asked for those passwords. He said Sam said it was okay.” Heather’s voice had gone up in a wail.

  “When did you last speak to Michael?” Noah asked carefully.

  “Earlier today.”

  “Where was he?” Noah enunciated each word carefully.

  “Around,” Heather said, then her hands squeezed around her drink. “I’m not saying anything else until I talk to someone.”

  She took off then, moving quickly. Noah thought about catching up with her, but didn’t think he’d get any more out of her.

  The bartender was looking at him, and Noah paid him.

  “Does she come here a lot?”

  The bartender lifted an eyebrow, and Noah peeled another twenty from the small wad of bills in his pocket.

  “Lately, yeah.”

  “Alone?”

  “Not really. Sometimes it’s one guy, sometimes another.”

  Noah made a guess. “One real dark, another real blond?”

  The bartender shrugged and kept polishing a glass. Noah slipped another bill and held it partway across the scratched and scarred counter of the bar.

  “Blond one’s got an English accent. Dark one works around the corner, has a wedding ring.”

  “Thanks.” Noah gave the man his tip and left the bar.

  Chapter 50

  After her trip into the office and her disagreement with Noah, Caitlyn had gone back to Adriana’s. Over tea and cookies, she had given Adriana everything she had found and where it all led.

  The timeline had been clear. The money had been leaking out of the firm for years. If Tommy was involved now, then it was Maxwell who had started it. Caitlyn had chickened out. She couldn’t tell Noah herself, so Adriana had done it for her – and sent her to the spa.

  “The best thing you can do is disappear for a few hours, maybe a day or two. Not out of the country, but just get away. You’ve done well. You’ve proved your innocence. Let me be the bearer of bad tidings.”

  Caitlyn had laughed, but then it had seemed a good idea. Adriana had her booked for a whole day of massages and pampering at her favorite spa, which just happened to be near a very nice shopping mall. Shopping and spa, Adriana had said, what could be better?

  The realization had come somewhere between the hot stone therapy and the seaweed body wrap. She was in love with Noah, and none of it mattered. None of the stupid messed-up things that his father or her grandfather had done mattered. What mattered was the now. A fresh start. Together, in the open. Noah believed in her, and she was ready to be with him.

  Now, as she opened the door of her house, she sensed someone was there.

  “Have a drink with me?”

  Caitlyn stopped. Michael St. John stood and smiled at her.

  “What are you doing here?” She took a step backwards, one hand on the edge of the door into her living room, the other holding her keys, claw-like, as if they would serve some useful purpose, a weapon perhaps.

  “Really, Caitlyn, you should care more about where you keep your spare key hidden.” He dangled something in front of him, a key on a red ribbon. Silently, she swore to herself. Yes, she had remembered to lock the doors, but she hadn’t removed the key to the back door from its hiding place under the fourth flagstone.

  “You need to leave here this instant,” she told him, trying to command a bravery she didn’t feel.

  He smiled at her, a small, gentle smile.

  “Please. Let us just talk for a while. I don’t mean to hurt you. I don’t bite, Caitlyn. I really don’t.”

  “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.” She still had not moved into the house. Her house, she reminded herself. He had no right to treat it as if it were his own. She took a step across her threshold, into her living room.

  “Here, have a drink?” he offered again, handing her a glass of champagne.

  She took it automatically. Michael had set up here. A bottle of champagne, chilling in a bucket, two flutes, a blanket spread out in front of the fire. A wave of nausea hit her, and she almost put the champagne down.

  “You can’t possibly think…?”

  “What?” He looked over at the blanket in front of the fire. “That you would be so kind? No, Caitlyn, that’s not why I am here. Please, just sit for a moment. Have a drink with me, and let me explain things.”

  “Explain what?”

  “You’ll have to sit, my dear.”

  Caitlyn hesitated. The house was silent, though the wind outside creaked through its porous skin. She could feel a cold draft snake around her ankles. The fire crackled and flickered, and a candle cast shadows in the far corners. Michael St. John. She looked at him, waiting for that pop, that singing, the physical reaction that had hit her every time he was near. Nothing. Relief flooded her. Not the sound of his voice, nor his physical presence, nothing could make her feel. She smiled.

  “Sure. I’ll have a drink with you.” You bastard, she answered silently.

  He didn’t touch her, just sat next to her on the couch.

  “To,” he started raising his glass, “new beginnings.”

  “New beginnings?”

  “For both of us. Without each other.”

  She looked at him. His blue eyes were soft, gentle. This was the man she remembered, the quiet look, the assurance, the man who had made her laugh.

  “All right.”

  She took a sip. She wanted food, a glass of cold water, not alcohol. She needed to call Noah. Needed to speak to him, tell him how she felt.

  Michael took a sip and looked at her.

  “You’re still beautiful you know. I won’t get over that.”

  She smiled, feeling unease. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  Michael picked up the bottle, a napkin wrapped around it to catch the drops of condensation. He filled up his glass and held out the bottle for hers. She took another sip and let h
im pour her more.

  “Thank you.”

  “I wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For making me, as they say, see the light. I owe you an apology, Caitlyn, a big one.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, you know I do. I maligned you, ruined your career and tried every underhanded way to get you back.”

  “You did,” Caitlyn said, and even to her ears, her voice began to sound faint. A wave of heat flared up in her, and she looked at the fire, to see if it had suddenly grown. The champagne was cold in her throat. She tipped back the glass, to see if it would cool her. Not too much – she needed to keep her wits about her. Michael refilled her glass and looked at her.

  “Are you okay?”

  She should have had something to eat first, she thought. It was not like her, to start to feel sick from a little champagne. Caitlyn looked around the room, trying to get her bearings. It heaved and slipped around her, the painting on the wall, the watercolor she had always liked, spinning into a whirlwind of colors, all smeared and running together.

  “You see, I thought I owned you, Caitlyn, and with every other woman, I have. They were nothing to me, the ones I could have so easily. But you were different, untouchable, even when you let me make love to you. I wanted you all the more.”

  The room was spinning faster now, great circles of color mixing and swirling together like the pots she had watched her mother make on her wheel.

  “And then you didn’t want me anymore. Anything I could do to get you back, I tried so hard. But you wouldn’t play. But you know about that. You see, you’re a dangerous woman, Caitlyn.”

  He leaned in over her as she fell back against the couch, feeling sensation ooze from her body.

  “You know my secret, don’t you? I thought you’d made a promise. A bargain is a bargain, Caitlyn. But you meant to break that trust, didn’t you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She could barely get the words out of her mouth, her tongue swollen and thick.

  “You sent the ring back, my dear. That’s when I knew. Knew that you loved someone else. You couldn’t be trusted anymore. You’re dangerous.” His finger traced against her jaw line, and she felt it, thick, like a heavy blow.

  And then she realized.

  “It’s been you. You broke in here. You’ve been following me, trying to run me off the road.”

  “I just wanted to keep an eye on you.”

  “What have you done?”

  Michael leaned in closer, so all she could focus on was the crystal clear aquamarine of his eyes. They alone stayed fixed and constant, as she felt the world around her slip away, slip into a blackness that crept in and over her.

  “No, my darling. It’s what you are going to do to yourself.”

  Chapter 51

  Noah had leapt into his car, one hand dialing her number, but the phone rang and rang, going to voicemail. He hesitated for just a moment at the intersection and then turned towards the water. Her house first, he thought. She would go back there, hunker down, if she were upset.

  He pushed the car, faster and faster, hugging the curvy road. He screeched around the corner, almost clipping another sedan that came towards him, but yanked over just in time. The other driver’s horn echoed in his ear.

  God, Noah thought, if he was too late… if Michael St. John tried to hurt her. Noah felt his blood rise and a film of red come over his eyes. Calm, he needed to stay calm. He didn’t know for sure that Michael St. John would even be there. Or that the man was crazy. Obsessed with Caitlyn, certainly. Possessive, no doubt. But would he hurt her?

  Focus, Noah told himself, pushing the speedometer up, faster and faster. Hopefully he would find her curled up in front of the fire, a glass of wine or tea in her hand. Angry, but he could overcome that, he thought. He’d just have to tell her how he felt about her, how he had always felt about her. How she was the last thing he thought of at night, the first thing all morning and how now, and even over the past ten years, he had been constantly asking himself, “What would Caitlyn think of this?”

  Noah topped a small rise and saw the turn-off for her drive. No, there was no way he was going to lose her again.

  There were just a few lights on, and her car was there. He felt relief wash over him as he whipped into the drive and jumped from the car, calling her name. Noah ran up the steps of the porch. The curtains were drawn in the sitting room, and he went to the front door and pounded.

  A shadow moved to his left, and he turned around.

  “You,” Noah gasped, gulping in air. “What are you doing here?”

  “You look like you ran all the way here,” Michael St. John said and laughed.

  Noah felt unease settle over him and turned back to the door.

  “It’s locked,” Michael told him. “Caitlyn called me. She seemed to be in a bad way. I think she’s done it again.”

  Noah leaned back against the door. Michael still stood in the shadows of the porch, near a rocking chair that Caitlyn had neglected to take in for the winter. It moved in the air, gently creaking, a ghostly presence.

  “What do you mean?”

  Michael nodded and stepped forward into the light that came from the overhead lantern.

  “She called me. I didn’t understand what she wanted – she’s very upset.”

  “Upset?” Noah asked, feeling his heart start to race again. Michael’s hands were shoved deep into the pocket of his overcoat, his shoulders hunched over.

  “What have you done to her?” Noah said, readying his stance, his hands flexing.

  “What?” Michael moved back, his shoulders shifting in surprise. “What are you talking about? I haven’t done anything. I don’t know what your relationship is with her, but I’m worried about Caitlyn. She came to me. She confessed. I am troubled by how we left it. She seemed very upset.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Noah said carefully, knowing he needed to keep Michael talking, figure out where Caitlyn was.

  “Caitlyn!” he yelled, but his voice fell dead in the air, whipped away by the wind.

  Noah turned and pulled on the door and found that it was locked. Despite his furious attempts, it would not open.

  Pushing past Michael, he headed around to the side of the house, slipping as he turned the corner, scrambling up again. He reached the side door where the kitchen was and, peering in through the panes of glass, saw nothing except the dim glow from a lamp.

  Without hesitation, he shook his arm loose from his shirt and wrapped the sleeve around his fist. The old glass broke easily, the tinkle of its fall to the floor mixing with the sound of the raindrops. He put his hand in, ignoring the thin thread of blood that trickled down his arm, and unlocked the door.

  He called her name as he went in, but heard nothing. Silence, deafening, empty, empty, the house seemed to say. Through the dark, he walked out of the kitchen and into the back hall, heading for the cozy sitting room.

  One light was on, and the fire was burned out. He saw her shoe first, a pointy black toe sticking around the edge of the table. Heart pounding, he moved closer, aware that Michael was in the house, moving in behind him.

  She lay on her back, at the foot of the couch, her face turned to one side. He saw that she had vomited, that she stirred. A bottle of Scotch was on the table, an empty pill vial, a ribbon of pills spread out on the wood of the coffee table.

  “Oh no, oh no,” he whispered, and he went to her and knelt down. He heard Michael behind him. Noah reached in, touched her face, and her eyes opened briefly. He saw terror there, and his own heart raced.

  “My god, is she okay?” Michael asked from behind him.

  “I think you had better call an ambulance,” Noah said flatly and let the head that he cradled in his hand drop gently to the floor. Caitlyn’s eyes closed, and he saw the ver
y faint rise of her chest as she tried to remain still.

  “I think it’s too late,” Noah said as he turned around. The look in Caitlyn’s eyes had told him what he needed to know. Whatever was happening here, Michael St. John was responsible for it. There was a killer between them and the way out.

  “I think she’s already gone,” Noah said flatly, fighting the urge to turn on the other man.

  Michael’s body visibly relaxed, the tension going out of him before he could stop it. Noah chose that moment to leap, his body coiled and tense, but Michael was quicker. They collided and rolled to the ground, struggling. Michael slipped out of his grasp, gained a foothold. Noah went for him but felt something cold and hard against his head.

  Noah froze, looking up at the other man.

  “So, you figured it out, too?” he asked softly.

  Noah nodded, not sure what he was agreeing to. He shifted a little, and Michael stepped to match his move. His back was almost completely to Caitlyn, who remained motionless. Noah needed to buy them time, keep Michael talking.

  “Did she tell you? What did she tell you?”

  “That you’re a bastard,” Noah answered, his eyes focused on Michael, watching for his opportunity.

  “Of course I am. But she couldn’t handle it. She got in the way. She wanted to ruin me, bring me down. I couldn’t let that happen. You don’t tangle with us lightly.”

  “What did you do to her?”

  “Tried to buy her off. When she wouldn’t take it, I made sure that she had no recourse but to get out of the country – and make sure that no one would ever believe her.”

  “Assassinate her character before she assassinated yours.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And you?” Noah asked again, doing his best to keep him talking.

  There was a flicker of movement behind Michael. He turned a second too late, and the whisky bottle hit him full in the face. It broke in half, the sound of its crash to the floor preceded by the sharp crack that had been Michael’s nose. Caitlyn stood there, unsteady on her feet, the jaggedly broken neck of the bottle clutched in her hand. Her eyes, glazed and unfocused, watched as Michael St. John fell to the ground. Noah sprang for the gun that skittered across the smooth wood floor and caught it before it disappeared down the hall.