Intimate Strangers

by Rebecca York

  Hammer didn’t agree or disagree. “When did you arrive in town?” he asked.

  Molly noted the even tone of Mark’s voice as he answered. “Last night. I checked into the East Point Lodge. Today I went looking for a place to eat. Which is how I happened to meet up with Ms. Dumont.”

  She listened with interest to his low-key account of their dramatic first encounter.

  All eyes shot to her. “You didn’t report any accident,” the deputy said, speaking for the first time.

  “I went home and cleaned up. Then I went to the office and reported the incident to my boss, since I’d agreed to meet Mr. Ramsey there. Didn’t Larry call you?”

  “No,” Hammer snapped.

  It was a small relief when the law officer asked them to wait while he and his deputy went inside the house. Their inspection was almost as brief as Mark’s and Bauder’s had been. Stepping outside again, Hammer clicked on his cell phone, and she could hear him requesting a crime scene investigation team from the state crime lab.

  Her attention was focused on the sheriff, when a flash of light made her blink, and she looked up to see Bauder standing with a camera pointed at them.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” she asked.

  “Reporting the news.”

  “You don’t have permission to use my photo.”

  “This isn’t a feature article. It’s a news story. I don’t need your permission.”

  She sighed, figuring that was probably right given the way embarrassed townspeople regularly ended up in the pages of the Voice of Perry’s Cove. She’d played that role herself, three years ago, after Phil had died. They both had, actually. There had been photos of herself looking distraught and also photos showing Molly and Phil Dumont in happier times.

  Her attention was snapped back to the present by a sarcastically delivered question from the newspaper editor. “What were you thinking coming up here?”

  Before she could dredge up an answer, Mark jumped in. “Isn’t it pretty obvious? She’s a real estate agent, and she was accommodating a client.”

  Grateful for the show of support, she turned to him. He looked as if he wanted to close the distance between them and pull her close, or was she just projecting her own needs onto him?

  At any rate, he stayed where he was, for reasons she could understand very well. If Bill Bauder caught a hint of anything personal between them, he’d want to know why. And that wasn’t a question she could honestly answer, since she’d ended up in a passionate embrace with a man she barely knew.

  She tuned back in on the conversation.

  “So don’t put this on her,” Mark was saying. “I want it on the record, when you write about this incident, that I made the request to see this house.”

  “Will do,” Bauder retorted. Then, “You should have curbed your curiosity.”

  “Hindsight is always sharp,” Mark muttered. “We were talking about a murder that happened years ago. If I’d thought there was something wrong now, I certainly wouldn’t have suggested we come here.”

  Molly noted the body language of the two men. It was obvious that they had taken an instant dislike to each other.

  Dean Hammer ambled toward them again. She’d never thought the sheriff would be a welcome intrusion in her life, but it was a relief when he turned to Mark and asked, “You say you’re at the East Point Lodge?”

  “Yes. I was planning to stay there until I found a place of my own. Now I’m wondering if this town has the atmosphere I was looking for.”

  That observation sent a stab of disappointment shooting through her. Was Mark really leaving town so soon, or was he just making a point? She added that to her list of questions.

  “I’d appreciate it if you hung around until we clear this up,” Hammer said, sounding more like he was issuing an order rather than making a request. For good measure, he added, “You’d best be getting back to your house-hunting now. This is a crime scene and off limits to the public.”

  His parting shot to Molly was, “And you’d best stick to your planned itinerary.”

  While she was murmuring her agreement, Mark jumped in with a comment similar to his earlier statement to Bauder. “I want to make it clear that she deviated from her planned itinerary because I asked her to accommodate me.”

  Probably he was feeling guilty about dragging her into the middle of this mess.

  “Noted,” the sheriff answered.

  It looked as if Mark might come back with another retort, a bad idea where Dean Hammer was concerned, so she gently put her hand on his arm. “We really better be going.”

  His gaze flicked to her, and he nodded.

  “If you have any information for me, here’s my number,” the sheriff said, fishing in his pocket and handing Mark a white business card.

  He pocketed the card, then escorted her back to the car and held the driver’s door open while she slipped behind the wheel.

  Neither one of them spoke as she backed around to face down the long driveway and headed away from the house. It was as if they were both thinking that the sheriff or Bauder might whip out a directional mike and listen in on their conversation.

  At the end of the driveway, she stopped and turned to him. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

  “I’m the one who got us into trouble,” he answered.

  “You didn’t know what was going to happen.”

  “Nevertheless.” He waited a beat, then said, “Thanks for backing me up when I told Bauder the door was unlocked. I decided it wouldn’t look great if I admitted searching for the key.”

  “I understand.” She turned her head toward him. “Your instincts are good, by the way.”

  “You don’t mean my opening the door.”

  “No. About wanting to clear out before we were detected.” She dragged in a breath and let it out in a rush. “Probably you’re wondering why I wanted to leave and pretend that we’d never been here.”

  “Yeah, that was a question in my mind.”

  She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “When Hammer gets his teeth into something, he won’t let it go. After my husband, Phil, died, Hammer acted like his death was part of some big conspiracy. He asked me questions that were none of his business. And when I couldn’t answer them the way he wanted, he asked them again and again. I’m not sure what he was trying to prove. I ended up feeling like he thought I had something to do with Phil’s death.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve avoided him ever since. So I didn’t like seeing that police car come up the driveway.”

  “I understand,” Mark answered, and she had the feeling it wasn’t simply an automatic response.

  Figuring she had nothing to lose, she asked, “What was your brush with the law?”

  He looked startled. “What makes you think I had a brush with the law?”

  “Your reaction when Hammer got out of the car and came toward us. I could tell you were uptight.”

  “It was a long time ago,” he answered but said no more.

  When the silence stretched, she clarified, “And you’re not going to tell me about it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So I get to keep revealing things about myself, and you get to keep ducking my questions.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a private person.”

  “Sometimes it helps to talk about the bad stuff,” she said, giving him another chance to put their relationship on an even footing. She wanted to like Mark Ramsey. She’d certainly responded to him in a way she hadn’t to any other man since Phil.

  Well, to be honest, there had been one other man. Mike Randall. She’d been attracted to him but hadn’t done anything about that attraction. Not when her husband was alive.

  There was something about Mark that reminded her of Mike. In those first instants after the bucket of shingles had fallen off the roof, when he’d been lying on top of her, she’d thought it was Mike come back. Despite the circumstances, she’d felt a spurt of gladness. Then she’d
seen his face, and she’d known she was mistaken.

  Now she waited with her chest growing painfully tight—waited for him to share his background with her. She’d covered for him when he’d made up that story about the door being unlocked and she’d felt a kind of alliance forming between them when they’d faced Bauder and then Hammer.

  Finally, when his silence stretched to breaking point, she forced herself to say, “This doesn’t seem to be working out.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean, it looks like we haven’t built up a bond of trust. I think it would be better if you found a different real estate agent.”

  She saw him swallow. “Does it take a bond of trust to move rental property?”

  “No. But I think you understand what I’m talking about. You’re not stupid, just…closed up. And…”

  “And what?” he demanded sharply.

  “And you’re hiding something.”

  He gave a small nod of acknowledgment, and she felt her hope rising again. But the silence between them only seemed to thicken. Instead of what she wanted to hear, he said, “I’ll leave my cell phone number with you, in case you change your mind.”

  She reined in her disappointment. Somehow she’d been hoping that her stance would tip the balance, but apparently that was just wishful thinking.

  The pen felt like lead in her hand as she took down the number. Then, resolutely, she drove him back to the real estate office. They didn’t speak again, and when she pulled to a stop in front of the small building, he climbed out and walked toward his car. A deep feeling of loss gripped her, and she almost called out to him. But she forced herself to stay silent, because she was pretty sure one more appeal wouldn’t make any difference. He was hiding too much, and she’d made the right decision, she told herself as she watched him drive out of the parking lot and head toward town.

  Chapter Six

  Mark could feel Molly’s gaze drilling into his back. He ached to turn around, climb back into her car and pull her into his arms. He pictured his hands stroking her back, pictured himself pressing her face against his shoulder as he told her who he was and that he wasn’t going to let Bauder or Hammer get at her.

  Even though he wanted to reassure her, there was too much at stake to give her any assurances. Like his whole future. Despite the temptation, he couldn’t simply trust her with his secret. And beyond that was a nagging doubt that as soon as he told her who he was, she’d accuse him of outright lying to her, to which he’d have to plead guilty.

  So he forced himself to drive out of the parking lot without looking back. Really, she was right to send him away. As far as he could tell, she was being honest with him, and he couldn’t do the same with her. Not now. Maybe not ever. She might be the woman of his dreams, but in reality a relationship was going to be impossible.

  Feeling like a vise was squeezing his insides, he went back to the very nicely appointed East Point Lodge, where he poured himself a scotch on the rocks from the minibar in his room.

  He took the drink out to his private balcony overlooking the ocean, lowered himself into a lounge chair and sat staring morosely at the breaking waves. The lodge was on the ocean side of the spit of land where Perry’s Cove had been built. On the other side was the sound. And in some places the land between the two bodies of water was only a few blocks wide. It was a very fragile environment.

  When he’d lived here, he’d been like all the other residents—playing Russian roulette with the forces of nature. Now he saw the picture somewhat differently. As he sat watching the waves roll up the beach, he was thinking it might be better if Perry’s Cove simply washed out to sea.

  One harrowing afternoon in town had convinced him he was never going to make his home here again. All he wanted was to find out who had killed Veronica and prove it. Then he’d find some other community more to his liking and go back into business. He’d already invested some of Veronica’s insurance money, and it was bringing in a nice little income. So he wasn’t going to have to work his buns off to make a living. He could start low-key with a few quality houses and let his new community find out what kind of product he built.

  As he sipped his scotch, he pictured himself living in a small city somewhere in the South, since he’d gotten used to a warm climate.

  And as the image built, he started thinking about a woman at his side. It was Molly Dumont, of course. The fantasy wife he’d conjured up for himself.

  He started out with a nice simple image of the two of them carrying in groceries, putting food away, talking about whether to have grilled salmon or barbecued ribs for dinner. But the scene didn’t simply stay cozily domestic for long. He reached for her, she came willingly into his arms, and he slipped back into the kind of fantasy that had kept him from going crazy during the long nights in prison.

  In his daydream he pulled up her knit top, unhooked her bra and took the weight of her breasts in his hands, stroking her, giving the two of them pleasure. Then he lowered his head and buried his face in her softness. For years he had only imagined those breasts. Now he had felt them pressed tightly against his chest, and he knew their size and shape.

  In seconds he was aroused, his breath shaky and uneven, his body ready for sex. He might have slipped further into the fantasy, but the sound of a dog barking down on the beach brought his mind back to reality.

  He sat up straighter and scrubbed his hands across his face. Lord, what was he doing? Molly Dumont was only a few miles from where he sat, lusting after her.

  Had he lived so long in his fantasies that they had become a habit he couldn’t break?

  If anyone else had described this situation to him, he would have thought the guy was pathetic. All he had to do was get in the car and drive to Molly’s house. Again he pictured the two of them embracing. She’d kissed him this afternoon with uncontrolled passion. He wasn’t making up that response. But it wasn’t as simple as two people who wanted to make love with each other. Before anything could happen, he’d have to level with her. And he wasn’t prepared to do that.

  He cooled down his overheated body with images of Dean Hammer and Bill Bauder squeezing him for information back at the Randall house. If he’d just walked into the situation, he’d think the two of them were working together—for some purpose he didn’t yet understand.

  Did they have some vision of an idealized Perry’s Cove, where only the right people were going to live in their carefully controlled community? Had they made an executive decision that Mark Ramsey was the wrong sort?

  Or was their purpose more sinister? He’d find out. But he’d do it carefully, because he knew that they were both dangerous and powerful in this small community.

  He kept Molly Dumont out of his mind as he ate his evening meal in the lodge’s excellent dining room. The rack of lamb, grilled romaine and perfectly roasted Yukon gold potatoes were excellent. He couldn’t stop himself from topping off the meal with crème brûlée.

  It had been an eventful day. After watching the evening news, he turned off the lights. He might be able to master his waking thoughts, but his dreams were beyond his control. This time his relationship with Molly wasn’t the feature attraction. Instead, he was back in prison. Finally, in the middle of the night, he clawed his way back to consciousness and lay in the darkness, sweat pouring off his body.

  The prison setting was vividly familiar. But this time his captivity had come with an all-new twist. Instead of Big Louie and the other sadistic guards, the players had been different.

  Dean Hammer had taken Big Louie’s role. Bill Bauder had been one of his helpers, along with Cory Daniels. He didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to figure out what the dream meant.

  There was something else, too. Molly had been in the dream. She’d been trying to get to him, begging the guards to leave him alone, and they’d shoved her back, put a solid barrier of flesh between himself and her.

  He understood that part, too.

  So was it true? Would she defend hi
m?

  He clenched his teeth and gathered up handfuls of the rumpled sheets, because what he wanted to do was pick up the phone and call her. But what the hell was he going to say? That he wanted to confirm his dream appraisal of her motives?

  Instead, he heaved himself out of bed, stood for a long time under a warm shower, then tested the toe he’d banged up yesterday. It didn’t hurt, so he dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and headed outside for a six-mile run along the beach, the wind blowing back his hair as his feet pounded the firm sand along the line of waves. He’d had this fantasy in prison, too. Freedom. The sun warm on his skin, the wind blowing in his hair, the tang of salt air in his nostrils. Then he’d wake up to the reality of a small dark prison cell filled with the odor of too many men crowded together into a too-small space.

  He clenched his fists, blocking out that image as he speeded up his pace. By the time he made it back to the lodge, he was breathing hard and his skin was slick with sweat again. But it was good sweat, not the cold sweat of nightmares.

  Showered again, shaved, and dressed in new chinos and a comfortable knit shirt, he asked the concierge about the condos he’d seen up the road—the condos he and Molly had visited yesterday. It turned out the guy’s brother was working at the project for the summer, and the builder was Tilden Construction.

  Tilden again. Very interesting.

  The lodge complex included a group of shops and restaurants arranged along low boardwalks and wider deck areas. Mark bought an iced latte at the coffee shop, then sat at an umbrella table looking out over the landscaped grounds while he contemplated what he’d just learned.

  Six years ago Tilden had been hot to develop property on the north side of town, and Veronica had headed the committee that petitioned the zoning board to block the project. They’d been successful, and Jerry Tilden had been pretty angry. Angry enough to kill?

  It hadn’t entered Mark’s head at the time. With what he had seen recently, he was starting to wonder.

  Suppose the developer had been furious with Veronica back then—and now he had Molly in the cross-hairs?