The Secret Thief

by Nina Lane

  Flynn looks at the mug, his eyes clouding. “I knew I couldn’t just be friends with you. And getting involved with me is the worst thing you can do. You don’t need people talking about you more than they already are.”

  Rebelliousness stiffens my spine. “I don’t care what people say anymore.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  You have to. The statement snaps through my head in Juliette’s sharp voice. But even if I didn’t hear her, I’d know the truth. If I want to restore both my career and reputation, of course I have to care what people say.

  What people said had destroyed my life once, and what people will say can help rebuild it, unless I make another terrible mistake.

  Flynn is not that mistake.

  “I’ve already done the worst thing.” I set my cup on the nightstand. “And I paid the price. Now, for the first time in a long time, I trust myself. I won’t let anyone take that from me again. Not even you.”

  He gazes at me for a long minute, emotion shifting behind the darkness in his eyes. “I can’t offer you anything else.”

  “I’m not asking for anything else.”

  “You deserve something else, Eve. As much as I appreciate this town, it’s not the place for you.”

  “Flynn.” Frustrated, I lean forward and put my hands on his thighs. “First you try and shut me out with your I’m-a-brick-wall act, and now you’re trying to keep me at a distance like you’re afraid I don’t know what I’m getting into… well, stop it. I’ve been burned so badly the roots of my hair are still scorching, and it’s taken me a long time to put myself back together.

  “However, you have made me hot as fuck since the day I ran into you outside the bookstore. I love that you bought Uncle Max’s collection, that you were friends with him, that you remembered a picture of me, and that you couldn’t stay away from my two o’clock teatime. I think you’re adorable for reading books about the Firebird and buying scones. I just like you.

  “I like being with you, looking at you, talking to you, and God knows I love touching you… all because you’re the most compelling man I’ve ever met, and more importantly because you make me like myself again. So shut up with the excuses and the futile efforts to push me away because they won’t work. The only thing I want from you, Flynn Alverton, is you.”

  Tension coils through him. Heat strikes the air. He flexes his hands, his jaw clenching as if he’s waging some kind of internal battle. For one heart-stopping instant, I think he’s going to be vintage Lighthouse Guy and walk out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Instead he sets his cup down and pulls me onto his lap, settling me against his warm muscled chest. He twists a few strands of my hair around his fingers and brings them in front of me.

  “Look.” He rubs my reddish locks. “In the light, your hair is a thousand different shades of red and gold. It was the first thing I noticed about you when I saw you at the wall. But then I realized it’s not just your hair. It’s you. You’re crimson, gold, scarlet. You’re a sunrise.”

  I stare at him. My throat closes over. When has anyone ever called me a sunrise?

  “I changed my mind.” I swallow hard. “That was the most poetic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  He smiles faintly and runs his hand over my cheek. “I lost track of how many times I had to stop myself from touching your hair. From touching you. And when I did, there was no turning back. I’ve never met someone with your honesty and strength. You’ve already changed my world.”

  More broken pieces slide back into place, seamless and smooth. If I let him, he could make me whole.

  “Kiss me,” I whisper.

  He covers my lips with his, bringing both arms around me, locking me against him. His strong, eternal heart beats in rhythm with mine. His body is a wall of strength, his arms a protective circle I never want to leave. He lowers me onto the bed, his hands stroking, reawakening the desire simmering just beneath the surface of my skin.

  I surrender all over again, enfolding him with my arms and legs, our lips locked, endlessly seeking. There’s not an instant when we’re apart. Our skin slides together, our limbs tangle, his cock eases into me again and again.

  We fall into the sweet hot crush of urgency before spiraling and cresting upward. His groan echoes my cry of pleasure, like a timeless call of promise.

  Afterward, I curl up against his side as fatigue washes over us both. He caresses my shoulder with slow, lazy circles.

  “I figured it out.” I run my hand over his abdomen, tracing the ridges with my fingers. “Your favorite fairy tale is The Emperor’s New Clothes. I, for one, would be happy to see you walk naked through town.”

  He pats my hip. “If you were the only one watching, I would.”

  “But it’s not your favorite?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.” Pursing my lips, I lift my head to study him. “What about a story about a mischievous, magical imp, like Rumpelstiltskin? He could spin straw into gold, after all, even if he does tear himself into two at the end.”

  Darkness and something else I can’t quite read—Shock? Trepidation? Fear?—flash over his features, quick as a comet.

  My stomach tenses. I suddenly feel like I said something wrong, though I have no idea what. To deflect the cloud, I trail my fingers across his upper arm. “Considering you like my hair, maybe it’s Rapunzel?”

  He shakes his head and tugs at a lock of my hair.

  “I don’t think it’s an animal fairy tale,” I muse, mentally reviewing a list of popular stories. “Max always liked Puss in Boots. He said trickster characters are always hard to pin down. They can be heroes or villains, geniuses or fools. And trickster animals have been around for ages. The origins of Puss in Boots can be traced all the way to the fifth century and a Sanskrit text called Panchatantra, a collection of animal fables that included a conniving cat. Uncle Max said fictional tricksters are more like real people than most human characters are.”

  “Max also talked a lot,” Flynn observes, his voice drowsy. “Must be an inherited trait.”

  I lift an eyebrow and give his thigh a little pinch. He squeezes my ass in response.

  “You like to order people around,” I remark peevishly. “So maybe your favorite is a more obscure story, like Andersen’s The Evil King. An arrogant king wants to conquer all the countries of the world until he’s defeated by a tiny mosquito.”

  “I have zero interest in conquering the world.” He closes his eyes, circling his hand slowly over my rear. “I wouldn’t get enough sleep.”

  “Ah, is it Sleeping Beauty?” I nuzzle his shoulder.

  “No.” Tension ripples through him. “But I do wish I could stop time for a hundred years.”

  “Why?”

  He tightens his arm around me. “So everything would stay exactly the way it is now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Pulling myself from another light sleep, I peer at the bedside clock. Four p.m. A pale gray seam lights the horizon, the place where the sea meets the sky. Rain falls again in a gloomy drizzle, drops gliding down the panes of the two large bedroom windows. A peaceful feeling spreads through me like hot syrup, sweet and thick.

  I turn, reaching toward Flynn’s side of the bed. It’s empty, but the sheets are rumpled and still warm from his body.

  I push the covers back and get to my feet. His gray T-shirt lies crumpled on the floor. I pick it up and put it on, letting the soft worn cotton envelop me. Orange spice and autumn leaves.

  Brushing my hair away from my face, I glance around. Like the kitchen, the bedroom is small but recently renovated with smooth hardwood floors and cream-colored paint. The bed is made of warm, honey maple, large enough to take up half the room. Aside from a dresser and narrow desk, the room is otherwise empty, as if not to detract from the windows with the striking view of the rocky cliff sweeping toward the ocean.

  I go in search of a bathroom, finding one right next door. After using the toilet, I splash water on my face. I peer
at my reflection in the smudged mirror over the sink. In a sharp contrast to the rigid way I’ve been looking, now my hair is a tousled mess, my lips reddened, my skin still flushed. I look like a woman who has been well and thoroughly fucked. A woman who wants it again.

  A shiver rattles through me. I almost can’t believe my fantasy came to life—the start of everything I’ve craved since the day we ran into each other outside the bookstore.

  The day he warned me away.

  “Flynn?” I pause at the top of the stairs. Everything is silent, only the distant sound of the waves filtering through the stone walls.

  I start down the stairs, then hesitate. I was contract-bound not to enter the cottage or lighthouse, but I didn’t cross the threshold alone. Flynn brought me, carried me, here. The rules no longer apply.

  Barefoot, I walk down the staircase. It opens onto the front sitting room with a leather sofa and chairs seated around a stone fireplace. Warm tones of royal blue and gray dominate the space, making it both masculine and aligned with the lighthouse’s natural surroundings.

  I peer into the dining room—rough-hewn farmhouse table, earth-toned hues, black-and-white historical photos of the lighthouse lining the walls. I cross to the kitchen, but aside from a pot of coffee brewing, there’s no evidence of him.

  “Flynn?” I check the workroom, which is also empty, and return to the dining room.

  Next to it is another room that could serve as a study, but contains a forest-green sofa and chairs, a second stone fireplace, and a wide-screen TV. On the opposite wall is the entrance to a narrow staircase spiraling upward to the lighthouse tower.

  I stop. My heart knocks against my chest. All of the living quarters are in the cottage. So what’s in the tower?

  There’s always a forbidden room. A place you shouldn’t go. It’s where Mr. Rochester’s wife is hidden away, where Bluebeard hangs the bodies of his dead wives, where Sleeping Beauty pricks her finger on the spindle.

  It’s the dark part of the forest where witches lure children with candy, then lock them into cages. It’s the basement in a horror movie, the dragon’s gold-filled cave.

  We shouldn’t enter… but we do. No matter the consequences, the known is better than the unknown. We need to see it to know the truth.

  I cross the room and start to climb the staircase. My breathing grows shallow. The stone wall hugs the steps on one side. The other side is bordered by an iron railing. Smooth crevices are worn into the stairs from countless people climbing and descending.

  I reach the lantern room. My heart beats relentlessly, like a billowing tide. There’s a small landing edged by the iron railing. A curved wooden door, scuffed with age, a keyhole without a key. A crack around the doorframe, gray light shining through.

  “Flynn?”

  No answer.

  Cautiously, I step forward and rest my hand against the door. “Flynn, are you in here?”

  No answer.

  Nerves tighten in my stomach. I wrap one arm around my middle, gripping a fistful of his T-shirt. I nudge the door open slightly, catching sight of the glass surrounding the tower, the magnificent, sweeping view of the ocean and metal-gray sky.

  Gathering a breath of courage, I push the door open and step inside.

  A drafting table, littered with paper and pencils, sits on one side of the room beside a large rolling corkboard studded with drawings and images.

  There’s a bookshelf haphazardly stuffed with books and boxes of supplies, a big cushy blue chair and sofa, a large cabinet cluttered with items, and a coffee-table piled with notebooks and a chess set. Crumpled balls of paper surround the area around the trash can, which is topped with a small basketball hoop.

  An office. A messy, disorganized one clearly belonging to a guy.

  No dragon’s gold or secret horrors. Amusement curves my mouth. So much for letting my imagination run away with me.

  I glance at the cabinet, which contains dozens of items—seashells, coins, rocks, wooden puzzles. I walk toward the desk and bulletin board. A chaos of drawings and sketches covers the cork matting. A woman standing on the side of a cliff wearing a suede coat and boots, her reddish hair—

  Oh my God.

  I stare at the drawing in disbelief. It was the day I put my secret in the wall.

  They’re all drawings of me, or of females with my face. A woman in a black cloak, eyes big and haunted, a naked nymph stretched out languidly beside a pond, a winged fairy, a sorceress rising from a nest of fire. A girl in an embroidered tunic, a basket looped around her arm as she approaches the edge of a dark forest. Another naked woman with elaborate bird wings.

  All of them wear my face—oval-shaped with green eyes, arched eyebrows, narrow nose. Red hair falling just past the shoulders, sometimes caught in a ponytail or knot. Expressions of power, fear, pleasure.

  I tear the bird-woman off the board. Bare breasts, curved hips, a triangle of hair between her legs.

  Betrayal, thick and bitter, floods my throat. Some scholarly part of my brain recognizes the artistry and beauty of the drawings, but all I can see are the grainy, vulgar cell-phone photos of me smeared over the internet, black bars slashed across my breasts on the news sites, but exposed everywhere else.

  My face, my body. Stolen and used against me.

  Ice freezes my blood. Dizziness hits me. I sink to my knees and press my hands to the floor, unable to remain standing. My breath comes fast and shallow.

  I’m not Alice in Wonderland, falling and tumbling. I’ve hit the ground and splintered all over again.

  “Eve.”

  Flynn’s voice stabs me, deep as a puncture wound. He closes his hands around my shoulders, hauling me to a sitting position. Confusion darkens his eyes in the instant before he sees the picture crumpled in my hand.

  “Don’t touch me.” Cringing, I scramble away, acutely aware of my naked body under the T-shirt. Fear and shame descend like a thunderstorm. “You shithead, you’re doing exactly what he did!”

  “No.” Shock widens his eyes. He falls to his knees in front of me, his hands up. “God, Eve. No.”

  Through my blurred vision, I register the despair etched on his face, the plea in his eyes, but I can’t understand it, can’t fathom any other reason he would have so many images of me. A horrific thought strikes.

  “Did you… did you take pictures of me?” I gulp down a wrenching sob. “Do you have video cameras? Oh my God, do you have pictures of me… when we… we…”

  “No.” He edges closer, his hands still up like he wants to prove he won’t try and touch me. “Please, Eve. Listen. I swear, I never took pictures of you. There are no video cameras anywhere in the lighthouse. What… what can I do to make you believe me?”

  I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.

  I scramble away from him until my back hits the wall. I pull my knees up to my chest, covering my legs with the shirt, hugging my arms around them. Humiliation scorches me from the inside out.

  “Eve.”

  “Go away.” I crumple the picture into a ball and rest my head on my knees. “Just go away.”

  Silence. All I hear is the sound of my sharp breaths, the thump of my panicked heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the ugly images burned into my brain. The pictures that will haunt me forever. My mother’s voice, shrill and accusing, pierces me.

  Stupid girl. Idiot. Slut.

  Nausea roils in the pit of my stomach. Slowly I lift my head. Flynn is still on his knees in front of me, his features lined with deep grooves of pain and regret.

  “I’m so sorry, Eve. I didn’t know anything about the photos until you told me. I swear to you I wasn’t doing what that fucker did.”

  I clench my jaw. “Drawing naked pictures of me without my knowledge is the same thing. You used me, just like he did.”

  He pushes to his feet, his shoulders slumping. He grabs a cardboard box from the corner of the room. Pulling the drawings off the corkboard, he puts them in the box. Images in colored
pencil, ink, charcoal, watercolors, pastels. The stack grows bigger. I don’t move, everything inside me broken, brittle like a crushed leaf.

  Flynn tears the last picture from the corkboard and takes more from the desk. He piles them all in the box, puts a lid over it, and puts the box beside me.

  “Take them,” he says. “I don’t have a computer, so nothing is scanned. They’re all here, but you can search the house if you want to.”

  I shift my gaze to him warily. Shadows edge the hollows of his cheekbones, and desperation darkens his eyes. For all his impassivity and stoicism, I’ve never seen him look… defeated.

  I don’t know whether or not to believe him, but what choice do I have? Once again, I’m subjected to someone else’s control.

  “Eve.” He crouches in front of me, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not… I don’t have much of a life up here by myself. I wanted it that way. I chose it. I do maintenance for the Forestry Department, take care of the grounds, and work. I exercise—hiking, jogging, or I go to a gym over in Benton, but other than that I don’t go anywhere or do much of anything else. It’s pretty boring. But I’ve been okay with that. Then…”

  He pauses and clears his throat. “I saw you down by the wall. You… you lit something inside me. Like you were a flame. I wanted… I tried to keep you out because you deserve more than someone like me, but you broke my self-control like no one else ever has. You make me want more. All it took was tea, crossword puzzles, and you.”

  He reaches out to brush a lock of hair from my forehead, then stops when I flinch at his touch.

  “You’re so… you’re so fucking beautiful.” He rises to his feet, his voice hoarse. “Everything about you, not just the way you look. You said those bastards destroyed you, took everything from you, but they didn’t. No one can take your strength, your goodness, your intelligence, your fire. No one can take you.”

  He steps back, his dark gaze burning into me like metal flaring.

  “I wanted what you have,” he says urgently. “I need it. But I’ve been trying to stay away from you so you could have what you want. So you could focus on finding another professorship, rebuilding your life, everything you deserve. I failed badly. I’m so sorry.”