by Rebecca York
Although she hated the cutthroat aspects of the business, she loved helping people find the perfect home or helping clients ready their property for sale. Just the way she’d once loved selling people items they’d cherish for years when she’d been an antique dealer.
Signing up a renter wouldn’t bring in the same bucks as selling a home, but the money could help tide her over until she sold one of the properties she was working on now.
So why was she hesitating?
For personal reasons. She was flustered. And embarrassed that she’d felt a spurt of attraction for this stranger—attraction she didn’t want to feel. She was a good judge of people—she had to be in her profession—and she was pretty sure that at the core, her rescuer was a good man. Yet she sensed he had a hidden agenda, that he wasn’t being entirely straight with her.
Stalling, she considered his question for several seconds, then asked, “A rental, you say? What’s your interest in the area?” She flexed and unflexed her right hand. Earlier she hadn’t noticed that she’d scraped it when she’d hit the ground. Now it was starting to sting.
“I’m writing a book. I want a location with no distractions where I can get a lot of work done.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The East Point Lodge.”
Not a shabby address, she thought. “What price range are you looking for?”
“I’ve saved up a fair amount of money from, uh, the advance. I can afford something nice. But I’m not in the market for one of those million-dollar beach houses. Something small and cozy.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll help me out?” he clarified.
“Yes.” She paused. “You want something on the beach?”
“It would depend on the house. I’m not all that familiar with Perry’s Cove. I assume beach houses are expensive.”
He’d said that last part casually enough, yet she got the feeling maybe he knew more about the area than he was letting on. But why would he want to hide that knowledge?
Probably she should turn him over to one of the guys, who wouldn’t have to worry about personal involvement with an attractive male client. Instead she asked, “When do you want to start?”
“No time like the present.”
“All right. But I have to finish up here.” She started toward the door, then stopped abruptly and gestured toward the crumpled metal container. “I’m sorry. I’m not quite myself at the moment. I’m Molly Dumont,” she said, watching him closely and wondering again about the moment before the accident when she’d thought she’d heard her name. Maybe it had been her guardian angel calling.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She wondered what expression had flickered across her face. “I was having a fantasy moment.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He sounded too interested, and she made a note not to ask him about his fantasies. “I was thinking maybe some spiritual protector was watching out for me and called out a warning.”
“That’s as good an explanation as any. Has that happened to you before?”
“Actually, no.”
He absorbed that in the deliberate way he had of taking in information, then said, “I’m Mark Ramsey.”
She felt a small flash of disappointment. The name wasn’t familiar. But something about the sound of it—something about him—teased her memory. Not the voice, certainly. Something else. The way he stood? His eyes? She tried to hook her mind around the elusive detail, but it wiggled out of her grasp, leaving her with an edgy, unsettled feeling.
“I don’t think you should go in there alone,” he said in the gravelly voice that she found very attractive.
She had stepped onto the concrete pad at the back door. Now she stopped in midstride. “Why not?”
“There was an accident out here. There could be an accident inside.”
As she thought about that, she tried not to make any more of his warning than its face value. This was a construction site, and things could happen; yet her boss, Larry Iverson, hadn’t hesitated to send her here. So what was she going to do—call Larry and tell him to do his own inspecting? Not likely.
She stepped into the building and was aware of Mark Ramsey following behind.
In the back room, the walls had been stripped to the studs. When she turned, she saw Ramsey examining the workmanship, as though he were the general contractor—or maybe the building-code inspector.
“You know about construction?” she asked.
“Some.” He strode past her and into the front room, which was filled with a jumble of discarded wood and other debris.
“Get a crew from Tilden’s to clean this place up,” he commented. “They shouldn’t leave it like this. And be careful. There could be nails in that mess.”
“Thanks.” He’d remembered the name Tilden’s, she noted. How many people would have filed that away?
Maybe it was a guy thing, like remembering the name of a sports team. When she slid him another contemplative glance, he was looking out the back door.
“This place is being remodeled on speculation?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So business is good in town.”
“Good enough, I guess.”
He looked as if he was dying to ask another question.
“What is it you want to know?” she prompted.
When he didn’t answer, she added, “You’re not thinking of setting up shop in town, are you?”
“No. I just want to make sure I’ll have all the comforts here.”
Without waiting for a reply, he stepped out the door again, avoiding more construction debris piled in the small backyard, then craned his neck up toward the roof. Without asking permission, he reached for the bottom rung of the scaffolding along the wall, pulled himself up and climbed toward the roof. He made it look easy, yet she’d seen guys who could barely get from one rung to the next without puffing. She mentally set down another fact about Mark Ramsey. He was strong.
He climbed onto the roof, his body making a sharp angle with the slanting surface. When he disappeared from sight, she held her breath. It was dangerous up there. The image of him tumbling to the ground sent a sudden wave of cold through her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to banish the frightening picture.
The reaction was strong, and she wondered why. She barely knew the man. But he’d saved her life. More than that, he’d risked his own life, she realized suddenly, fitting in a new piece of the Mark Ramsey puzzle. That bucket of shingles could have landed on him just as easily as on her, but he’d ignored his own safety to throw her out of the way.
Maybe that was why she was reacting so strongly to him, she decided, more strongly than she had to any man in a long time.
She stood there for another moment, staring at the roof, worrying about him. Then, with a shake of her head she ducked back inside and went into the little bathroom. There was a roll of paper towels sitting on the sink, and she wet one, using it to dab at the dirt streak on the front of her skirt. The small domestic job made her hand sting and she turned her palm up, looking at the reddened streak. She thrust it under the faucet, washing the scraped flesh. Perhaps the running water kept her from hearing Mark Ramsey come back.
At any rate, he was very close to her by the time she realized she wasn’t alone. A small scream bubbled from her throat.
His apology was instantaneous. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She whirled to face him, hearing the raw nerves in her voice as she asked, “What are you doing? Sneaking up on me?”
“I came down to give you the roof report. Are you all right?” His gaze was fixed on the hand she’d been washing. Reaching out, he grasped it, cradling it in his big palm as he looked down at the injury. All her attention centered on that contact—her small hand resting in his much larger one.
“You hurt yourself.”
“It’s not bad.”
“Do you have any antiseptic?”
“No.
Really, it’s okay,” she insisted. He kept her hand captive, or at least that was what it seemed like, for another few seconds during which she felt her heart rate accelerate.
The reaction embarrassed her, so she kept her gaze trained on her palm, unable to meet his eyes.
When she finally realized she had the power to pull away, she did. Turning, she snatched up another paper towel and started to rub her hand.
As she swung back to the man standing in the doorway, she told herself she was feeling more composed. “So, what did you find out?” she asked.
“Not much. They’re putting on a new roof. The materials are good quality. It should last for the next twenty years.”
“And the bucket?”
“I have no idea why somebody left it like that. It was an accident waiting to happen. There was no one up there to ask. And I’ll bet if you question Tilden’s, you’ll find out nobody knew nothing.” His eyes turned flinty. “So who knew you were coming here?”
She blinked as she took in the implications. “My boss asked me to look in. I don’t know who else he mentioned it to.”
“What were you supposed to do here exactly?”
“I’m supposed to report on the progress of the work. He wants an estimate of how soon the shop will be ready to rent.”
“Are you a construction expert?”
“No.”
“Then you’d get a better estimate from the builder.”
“He wanted to know what I think,” she answered, instinctively defending Larry.
He nodded, but she could see he was making silent connections and judgments inside his head. “Has your boss gotten into any…fights lately? I mean, is there anyone who might have it in for him?”
She thought about that, wondering what she should say exactly. She knew stuff about Larry, but it was none of this man’s business.
“Are there people who might have reasons to get back at him?” he pressed.
“I don’t like talking about him.”
“You wouldn’t like a big bucket of shingles coming down on your head, either.”
When he put it that way, the question called for a response. “Larry has a quick temper. He’s made some people around here angry. But why would that make someone go after me?”
“Do you have a personal relationship with him?”
The question was so inappropriate that she blinked. “Certainly not!”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, perhaps in a bid to look casual. But she could see the tension in his shoulders.
“I’m trying to help you. Don’t get your back up.”
“Why should you care about me?”
He paused a beat before answering, “I like you.”
“You don’t know me.”
She saw him swallow, as though the retort had taken him off guard. “I’m a quick-impressions kind of guy.”
“That’s a useful talent.”
“Look, if you’re worried about me, I can give you references.” He said it quickly, as if he really didn’t want her to call him on that detail.
Probably she should tell him that she’d changed her mind about helping him find a place to live. But somehow the words stayed locked in her throat.
“I have to look around here. That’s what I was sent over to do,” she said instead.
“I’ll get out of your way, then.” He stepped back into the yard, leaving her to make a quick survey of the interior work. But it was difficult to focus on the state of the construction. She’d been thinking when she drove here that Larry had sent the wrong person, since she didn’t know much about remodeling. She was even more uncomfortable with the assignment now, but she pulled out her notebook and wrote down what she saw. The interior wall studs were in place. The insulation was on the exterior walls. Probably if she asked Mark Ramsey, he’d give her a time frame.
When she came back to the door, Ramsey was talking to a man who must be one of the construction workers.
From the sound of it, her rescuer was grilling him. “So you don’t know anything about the bucket of shingles?” he pressed.
“That’s what I told you.”
“You have no idea how it fell from the roof?”
“I’m not working on the roof. I’m a carpenter.”
“Right. Thanks for your help. You might want to tell your boss about what happened here.” Ramsey turned and gestured toward the unguided missiles spread across the front walk.
“Yeah. Sure.”
Molly walked outside just as the workman disappeared around the side of the building. “I should stop home and change my skirt.”
“You look fine.”
“I don’t look very professional. I don’t usually take clients out covered with dirt.”
“We both know how your clothes got messed up.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll feel better after I change,” she insisted, because she felt as though she was losing command of events, and this was one way she could exercise control. There was another factor, too. She needed to put some distance between herself and Mark Ramsey. If she didn’t want to see him again, she could let another agent take the job.
“So, should we meet back at your office?” he asked as if he was following the drift of her thoughts.
“Yes.” She looked at her watch. “In an hour,” she added, thinking that two days would be more like it. “It’s on the north side of town, just before you reach the highway. On the right. You can’t miss it.”
As she turned and hurriedly walked to her car, she could feel Mark Ramsey’s gaze burning into her back. But she kept herself from looking around as she got into the car and sped off.
Chapter Three
Mark watched Molly Dumont leave, wondering if she was really going to show up at the Shoreside office in an hour. He’d sensed her ambivalence about getting back together—and his own ambivalence, if he were brutally honest.
In prison, he had thought about her so often that she was as familiar to him as his own wife. More familiar, actually.
He’d relived all the times he’d watched her and interacted with her. He’d liked her on a basic human level. Liked the way she was kind to people. More than once he’d seen her sneak behind Phil’s back to sell a customer an antique at a lower price than was marked. He’d seen the way she could make people feel good about themselves with an easy but sincere compliment. He’d been to her house and admired the charming and comfortable home she’d created.
Above and beyond any of that, he’d made her into his ideal sex partner. He’d built on all her good, generous traits and made her into the beautiful woman who would gladly do anything he wanted. When he’d gotten out, he’d told himself that there was no way that the real woman could be as appealing, as sexy, as consuming as the woman he’d created in his mind. Now he couldn’t tell if he was seeing her clearly or seeing what he wanted to see. But he did know she’d met Mark Ramsey under rather trying conditions and pretty much kept her cool. He couldn’t say the same for himself. All he had to do was hold her hand to get hard. Which was damn inconvenient.
Well, he had an hour to decide whether to meet her at the real estate office. An hour he wasn’t going to waste.
He’d fortified himself with lunch at Today’s Catch. Now it was time to stop by the Treasure Hunt Pavilion, where a lot of the old crowd would be gathered, although apparently not Molly Dumont. He’d simply assumed she and Phil were running their shop on the premises. Maybe Phil was still there, and maybe they’d split up. That thought gave him a little jolt, and he warned himself to cool it.
The old warehouse was only a few blocks from Shoreside Realty, which would make it easy to get to the appointment—if he decided to keep it.
Back in his car, he headed for the highway, then slowed as he approached the converted processing plant. He’d done an excellent job of the renovation, if he did say so himself. The structure was sound, and he’d blended the restored early twentieth-century details like the ornate molding just under the roofline with mod
ern requirements, such as the handicapped-access walkway that connected the parking lot to the front door.
Again, there was no problem finding a parking space this late in the season, and he wondered which of the dealers had done enough business during the summer to last through the lean winter months.
As he climbed out of the car and stared at the wide front entrance, he felt his chest tighten. He had been proud of his renovation, but he’d never been buddies with the dealers who occupied the interior spaces. They’d represented a tight-knit world of shared experiences that he’d never really been able to enter. Maybe because he’d always secretly thought they’d had something to do with the deterioration of his marriage.
After Veronica had moved into the building, he’d seen her grow closer to the other dealers—and farther away from him.
The tendency to pal around with her colleagues hadn’t diminished with time. Veronica had begun staying later and later, going to meetings that lasted far into the evening. And he’d started to suspect that she was having an affair with one of the other shop owners. Veronica had always been a flirt. She’d always attracted guys. He’d known there were a number of the antique dealers who might have crossed the line into sleeping with her.
He’d had several candidates in mind. Like Oliver Garrison and Art Burger. And he’d been reluctantly getting ready to test his theories when her death had changed the whole picture.
Now he stood with his hands in his pockets, thinking it would be amusing to stride into the building as Mike Randall instead of Mark Ramsey. He was equipped to do that, actually. Before he’d had his plastic surgery, he’d taken a trip to Los Angeles and met with one of the top makeup artists in the motion picture industry, Barry Turtledove. Turtledove had made a cast of his face. And from the cast, he’d produced a remarkable mask, just like the kind in the movies where the secret agents were wearing someone else’s face. In this case, it was his old face, and it was locked in a carrying case back at the East Point Lodge. He wasn’t sure how he was going to use the mask. But once he had a better handle on the prime suspect, he was pretty sure a return visit to Perry’s Cove by Mike Randall would be highly useful.