“And find Duncan!” Kee shouted after him. “And tell him what happened.”
That last order given, Kee hit the wall switch, flooding the library with light. He walked to the closet and looked inside, and immediately spotted the crumpled backpack sitting against the far wall. He picked it up and opened it, and pulled out an equally crumpled towel. Other than that, it was empty. He turned and looked around the library.
What had she been after?
Kee shook his head, disgusted with himself. If nothing else, his thief had certainly gotten an earful. She had been sitting in the closet the whole time Joan had methodically listed off each and every one of his impressive flaws.
Which was probably why the lady had been daring enough to take such a dangerous shot at him.
Kee slowly walked back to the library door and looked down the hall in the direction she had run. Where had she disappeared to that Jason hadn’t seen her when he came up the stairs? Could she still be in the house?
Kee stepped into the hall, intending to find out, when his foot sent something skidding across the marble floor. He walked across the hall and picked up the object, turning it over in his hand to examine it.
It was a hair clip. Heavy, metal, in the shape of a lobster boat. The light glinted off the colorful enamel.
It wasn’t a cheap hair clip, but a finely crafted piece of jewelry. The boat was white and red, with a delicate gold chain wrapped around the miniature pulley that hoisted the lobster traps onto the boat. Several tiny traps sat on the stern, and orange and green buoys littered the open deck just behind the tiny wheelhouse.
Delicate. Precise. Handcrafted.
Kee remembered then the sound of something hitting the floor at about the same time he had.
The hair clip belonged to his intruder.
Well, hell. What sort of thief wore expensive jewelry to a break-in? For that matter, what idiot broke into a house when she needed a cane just to get around?
Kee closed his fist over the clip and adjusted the front of his pants. He was going to ache like the devil for at least a week. His intruder, who’d barely come up to his chin, was suicidal. If she’d missed by even an inch, he might have instinctively retaliated and done her serious harm.
He adjusted his pants again, deciding he still might.
Just as soon as he discovered who she was.
Which he would. She was a local, considering her taste in hair clips. And the reckless lady didn’t know it, but she had just crossed the path of a professional hunter.
Chapter Four
Rachel stopped rubbing her sore knee and straightened, tucking her now loose and tangled hair behind her ears so she could hear better. The wail of a siren sounded in the distance, a faint echo trying to pierce the thickening fog rolling in off the ocean.
She captured her breath and held it, and waited, straining to pinpoint the direction. The wail rose in volume, moving closer, traveling at an alarming speed toward her.
“You jerk! You called the police,” she growled at the dark mansion above her, scrambling to her feet, groping for her cane. She had to get out of there, back to her house before they searched the grounds. She stumbled away from the hidden entrance of the tunnel, afraid to use her flashlight, even more afraid to get caught. She didn’t want to find herself calling Maine’s newest assistant attorney general to bail her out of jail. Nor was she eager to find herself facing Keenan Oakes again anytime soon.
And she wasn’t sure which possibility scared her more.
The siren’s shrill was louder now, pushing Rachel’s nerves into a frenzy, quickening her flight. More sirens sounded in the distance, faint but growing stronger, also traveling from the center of town.
Well, shoot. The whole damn police force was coming to the jerk’s rescue.
Her dragging right foot caught on a root just then, and Rachel stumbled, falling through nothing but air before painfully landing on the sharp granite rocks and prickly shrubs. She skidded and tumbled several feet before she was able to grab a fistful of rosebush and stop herself from sliding over the edge of the cliff. The tide calmly ebbed thirty feet beneath her, almost silent but for a rain of pebbles cascading into the water.
She couldn’t move. Heck, she didn’t dare breathe. That had been much too close for comfort.
The mounting cacophony of sirens reached a deafening pitch high on the bluff behind her. Rachel closed her eyes, wanting to weep with frustration.
She didn’t deserve this. She was not a bad person. Granted, she had trespassed tonight, broken into Thadd’s vault, and assaulted Keenan Oakes in his home, but she didn’t need to live through the indignity of being hunted down like a criminal or the humiliation of being carted off to jail in handcuffs.
And she didn’t need to fall off this damn cliff.
She was trying to make things right, dammit.
Rachel waited, fighting her panic until she could get her trembling under control. She didn’t dare try her breathing exercise again; being dizzy while jutting over the edge of a cliff would not be wise. So she slowly began to count backward from one hundred instead. She was all the way down to fifty-eight before she realized that the sirens were growing weaker, moving away.
They hadn’t stopped at Sub Rosa.
She lifted her head and pushed her hair behind her ears, then carefully wiggled backward, away from the edge of the cliff. The sirens had wound down, and the vehicles had stopped at Fisherman’s Reach, the next cove over.
Rachel sidled back until she could safely sit up.
The smell of smoke drifted in on the fog, tickling her nose and settling the taste of acrid fumes on the back of her throat. She groped for her cane and found it several feet away, then used it to poke at the ground to find her flashlight. Wood clunked against metal, and she pulled the flashlight closer and picked it up, snapping it on and shining its beam at her feet.
Holy Mother Mary. Her toes still dangled over the edge of the cliff. Yes, that had definitely been too close.
Using her cane again, she hooked the handle around the trunk of a small pine tree and pulled herself farther up the sloping granite until she could grab the tree and work herself up to a standing position. Only then did she take inventory of her aches.
She was a battered mess. Her knee throbbed, her good ankle hurt, and the palms of her hands burned. She stuck her flashlight between her teeth and pulled on the sleeve of her right arm. The beam of light fell just above her wrist, revealing torn cloth and a thin bloody scrape.
It was time to face the ugly truth. As a criminal she was simply inept. Heck, she was self-destructing before her own eyes. There had to be a better way of making her father’s sin disappear. His suggestion that she just toss everything into the ocean was beginning to have merit.
But Rachel knew she couldn’t do it. Not to a collection of such beautiful works of art. Maybe she could pack it all up—once she found it—and drive the three hundred miles to Portland and anonymously leave it on the steps of the police station. That might be a solution.
But the way her luck was running, she’d probably get in an accident and be found with a small fortune in stolen art in her truck. That would certainly help Willow’s career.
Rachel brushed a tangle of hair out of her face with a slightly less trembling hand and blew out a sigh heavy with self-pity. She was stuck with the option of returning to Sub Rosa and quietly finding Thadd’s secret room, and filling it with the rest of her dad’s stolen possessions.
But first she had to make good her escape tonight.
The scent of smoke was growing stronger, swirling in on the quickening breeze. It stung her eyes and smelled of diesel fumes. An explosion suddenly rocked the air, and Rachel instinctively flinched, only to gasp at the sight of the fireball that rose on the coastline to the east. The fog crackled and brightened with churning, angry orange light.
Rachel stumbled up the shrub-clogged bluff, every ache in her body forgotten as adrenaline shot through her veins again. She reache
d the bulging headland that guarded Sub Rosa from the sea and watched in horror as the remains of a fishing boat burned on its mooring.
The blue and red strobes of rescue lights added to the laser display coming from the cove. The fog flashed, absorbed, and reflected a scene of chaos.
A faint noise caught Rachel’s attention then, high on the cliff at the base of Sub Rosa. She whirled, suddenly remembering her own little problem and urgent need to get home.
Rachel turned her flashlight back on and more carefully made her way back along the cliff path and through the woods in the direction of her house. It was less than a quarter of a mile, but it was treacherous going, the thickly filtered moonlight offering little help.
Despite being careful and trying not to let panic rush her, she still slipped several times, and fell yet again, landing on her good knee with enough force to start it aching as well. She eventually made it to level ground and the woods that separated her home from Sub Rosa.
She was just within sight of the yellow glow of her porch light when she heard men’s voices softly traveling through the swirling fog, making it impossible to tell their direction.
Rachel recklessly quickened her pace. She ran and stumbled along, shutting off her flashlight so she wouldn’t give her location away.
The sudden snarl of a dog behind her scared Rachel so badly she went crashing to the ground with a violent jolt, her wrist hitting a tree stump and ripping a cry of agony from her throat.
The next snarl sounded right beside her ear. Rachel twisted and flailed, trying to wiggle away from the beast.
“Back off, Mickey!” a man shouted from beside her. The night fog suddenly glowed with arcing beams of light.
Rachel turned onto her stomach, cradled her bruised wrist in her hand, and buried her face in her arms. “Go away. Leave me alone,” she told the men, not looking at them. “Go away.”
“Lady? Are you okay?” one of them asked, hunching down beside her.
Hell no, she wasn’t okay. Her right knee felt as if it were on fire and was now so intensely painful that she was having to grit her teeth not to scream.
“Go away!” she hissed again, pulling herself into a tighter ball when the man touched her shoulder.
“Jesus, lady. We can’t just leave you here,” he insisted, again ignoring her plea by trying to turn her over.
Rachel came up fighting. She swung her cane and connected with something solid. The guy leaning over her grunted in surprise, but that was about all the reaction she got. Three flashlight beams glared at her, and she blinked at their brightness, raising her good hand to see, still holding her cane like a weapon.
“Who are ya?” another man asked, hunching down beside her and speaking with a brogue that was almost charming.
Still, she wasn’t foolish enough to let down her guard.
“My name is Rachel Foster. I live over there,” she told him, using her raised hand to point at her distant porch light.
“This is Sub Rosa land,” he said.
Rachel glared at him. “I know that.”
“You’re trespassing,” another man said from somewhere behind his flashlight.
All she could see were his feet, but Rachel turned her glare in his direction. “I am well aware of my property lines.”
“Then what are ya doing here?” the man with the brogue asked, reaching for her cradled arm. Rachel turned slightly and tucked it tighter against her body.
“I’m searching for my cat,” she told him, staring him right in the eye as she lied.
Not that she knew where she got the nerve. The man looked as if he ate kittens for breakfast. He was positively huge and had a face that belonged on a wanted poster.
“Did Mickey bite ya?” he asked, taking her arm and pushing up her sleeve. “There’s blood.”
Rachel tugged her arm back again and rubbed her wrist. “No, he didn’t bite me. That’s a cut from when I fell. Now go away and leave me alone.”
Not one of them budged.
“You are the trespassers, gentlemen,” she told them, using the term grudgingly. “No one lives at Sub Rosa. And the sheriff keeps close watch on the place, so you’d better get moving.”
The two men next to her grinned.
“Well, Keenan Oakes moved in tonight,” the second man said as he snatched her cane out of her hand and held it up to the light. “What’s this?”
“That’s mine,” Rachel said, grabbing it back. “Now that we’ve established ourselves as neighbors, would you kindly leave me alone. I want to go home.”
“What about your cat?” one of the men behind the flashlights asked.
“He can just spend the night outside,” she told him, scowling into the woods for effect. “It will serve him right.”
“We’ll help ya home then,” the brogue guy offered, reaching out as if to pick her up.
Rachel rapped his hand with her cane. “No. I don’t want any help. I just want to be left alone. Go away!” she repeated through gritted teeth.
Both men grinned again. The second man grabbed her cane, and the first man grabbed her under the arms and had her standing before she could stifle a scream.
“Ya’re hurt,” he said, still holding her up.
Rachel rolled her eyes. These guys were denser than dirt. “Of course I’m hurt. That vicious dog nearly tackled me. And if you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to sue Keenan Oakes for every cent he’s got.”
He let her go with a chuckle. Rachel barely caught herself from falling, grabbing his arm for balance, and felt solid muscle beneath her hand. She lifted her chin. By God, she would not let these giants intimidate her.
She held out her hand for her cane. The other man handed it to her, also smiling. He nodded as he relinquished it. “We’re very sorry about that, Miss Foster. Or is it Mrs.? Is there someone at home who can help you?”
Rachel didn’t answer him. Using all of her concentration not to cry out in agony, she carefully turned toward home.
“Wait. Here. Take this flashlight at least,” the first guy offered, holding out his hand.
She stopped and turned. “Thank you,” she said, taking it from him. If it would get rid of these guys, she’d gladly take all their flashlights.
She briefly shone it back at the group. The dog beside them was huge, dusty gray in color, and nearly invisible in the fog. He was staring at her, his head cocked to the side, watching her with eyes that glowed like pins of starlight. Rachel shuddered and turned her beam on the men.
They were all brutes. And in the shadows of the night, they were every woman’s worst nightmare. She forced herself to smile at the lot of them.
“Tell Mr. Oakes welcome to the neighborhood,” she said, just before she turned around, gritted her teeth, and started for home again.
Kee stood in the shadow of the woods as he surveyed Rachel Foster’s house with a discerning eye. “It looks quiet. She must have gone to bed already,” he said to Duncan, inching his way up to the edge of the lawn.
It was a good-looking house, well maintained and sturdily built, sitting on a shallow bluff overlooking the ocean. There was a large barn near the woods in the back, with a motor home parked off to the side. The truck parked in the driveway was a late-model sport-utility vehicle. There was a sea kayak tied to the top of it.
Kee let his gaze roam the grounds, searching for anything that would give him a clue to who else lived here, just in case his background check on Rachel Foster had somehow overlooked a live-in boyfriend. He didn’t want or need any more surprises tonight.
Kee knew Rachel Foster was thirty-one years old, the elder daughter of Frank and Marian Foster, and a licensed architect who now worked in a library. He also knew that Rachel Foster knew Sub Rosa better than any other living person.
Guessing the reason for Kee’s cautious approach, Duncan chuckled under his breath. “Peter tried to find out if someone was home waiting for her. She wouldn’t answer him,” he told Kee, his own eyes scanning the area.
; Kee shot him a hard look at the reminder that his men had let the woman slip through their hands. “Which means she probably lives alone,” Kee said. “Women get in the habit of not advertising that fact.” He gave Duncan a grin. “It’s past time I properly introduced myself to Rachel Foster, wouldn’t you say?”
“Dammit, Kee. It’s two in the morning. This can wait until tomorrow,” Duncan said.
Kee stepped onto the lawn. “No. We do it tonight. I want to know what the lady was doing at Sub Rosa.”
Kee didn’t wait for Duncan to respond. He crossed the lawn and headed for the house, guided by the soft yellow glow of the porch light.
The first thing both men noticed as they approached was that the screen door was shut, but the inside door was not. The second thing they realized was that they could hear soft sobs coming from the dark interior of the house.
Without making a sound, Duncan slipped around to the other side of the house as Kee quietly mounted the porch stairs, both of them drawing guns from the backs of their belts.
Kee silently approached the door. He slowly pulled the screen door open and used his foot to push the interior door wider. He listened for a full minute for any other sounds coming from deeper within the house. When he decided there was no one else there, he eased his way inside, felt for a switch, and flipped it, flooding the room with light. A panicked gasp rose from the floor, and Kee found himself pointing his gun at the woman he’d met in his library less than an hour ago.
She was sitting on the floor of the kitchen, her scared hazel-green eyes the size of dinner plates. Her braid had completely unraveled, and her waist-length brown hair was a wild tangle of curls. There were mud stains on both of her knees and most of her sweater, and pine needles and dirt made a trail across the floor to where she sat.
In one hand she held her cane up as a puny defense, and in the other one she held a small brown bottle that looked as if it came from a pharmacy. Kee lowered his gun just as Duncan stepped into the kitchen behind him.
“Go away,” the woman hoarsely croaked, waving her cane threateningly. “Get out of my house.”
The Seductive Impostor Page 5