Intimate Strangers

by Rebecca York

  Out in the hall, he went in search of the maid’s cart. It was around the corner, about ten doors from his room.

  As he waited by the door, she spotted him and came out.

  “Can I help you sir?”

  “I’m in room 203,” he said. “You didn’t happen to see anyone go in there, did you?” he asked, keeping his gaze on her face.

  “No, sir,” she answered quickly.

  He pulled out his wallet. “I can make it worth your while, if you have any information.”

  As she eyed the wallet, he thought she might come up with something. But she only gave a quick shake of her head. Either she was honest and hadn’t seen anything, or someone had already paid her to keep her mouth shut.

  After that, he was too restless to stay around the hotel. As he headed back into town, he told himself it was time to judge the tone of the rumors about Mike Randall. So he drove straight to the Sea Breeze Café.

  It was the place where old-timers hung out and tourists were viewed with suspicion. But he had the advantage of knowing whom to approach. So he took a seat at the bar next to Ray Myers, owner of the dry-goods store, where you could get everything from rubber rafts to hemorrhoid preparations. Besides dealing in dry goods, Myers liked to keep up on town gossip. And he was welcoming to outsiders, since his business depended as much on them as on the locals.

  Mark knew that if he could get Myers on friendly terms, the others were likely to go along, at least enough to talk to him.

  When he asked what was good, Ray recommended the North Carolina barbecue, and Mark ordered some, with sides of coleslaw and baked beans and a bottle of Duck Wing Beer, the local brew.

  “Are you that guy investigating the Randall murder?” the store owner asked.

  Mark blinked. “Where did you get that idea?”

  “That’s what they’re sayin’.”

  “Well, I’m writing a book about the town, and the old murder is part of the story.”

  “And you got caught by the sheriff at the Randall house,” Ray said, confirming his hypothesis that the story was all over town.

  “I guess I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  The tired-looking waitress, Pam Peters, set his beer and a glass in front of him. After carefully pouring himself some of the brew, he asked, “So, do you know what the sheriff found out about the blood in the Randall house?”

  Myers looked him up and down. “Yeah. I do. A deer crashed through one of the back windows and cut itself pretty bad. It couldn’t get back out.”

  At least people knew that nobody else had been killed there. Before Mark could get too pleased about that, Myers fixed him with a steady look and delivered a stern warning. “Molly Dumont don’t deserve any more grief.”

  “I wasn’t planning to give her any. I hardly know her.”

  Myers wiped his mouth on a paper napkin. “You found out about her husband?”

  “I was reading about it over at the newspaper office.”

  The barbecue arrived, and Myers watched him take a bite. “What do you think?”

  “I thought it might be sweet,” he said, pretending the reaction he’d heard from northerners tasting this local treat for the first time.

  “Nope. Vinegary is more like it.”

  “Yeah, but it’s good.” Mark chewed and swallowed another mouthful. North Carolina barbecue was one of the things he’d missed powerfully in prison.

  The regulars at the Sea Breeze Café drifted by to talk to Myers, many of them drawing Mark into the conversation. He knew they were curious about him, and he did his best to answer questions, using the background he had made up for himself. He was from up north—which was basically true. He moved around a lot. He had inherited money from his grandfather, so he could afford to indulge his writing habit.

  Funny. He didn’t have any problem giving all this false information to the gang in town. It was different from the way he’d felt about lying to Molly.

  Pam had set the bill in front of Mark. He reached for it, read the total and pulled his wallet from his back pocket.

  “It’s been good talking to you,” he said to the room at large, then turned to Ray. “And if you think of anything you want to tell me, here’s my e-mail address.” He handed over one of the Mark Ramsey business cards he’d had printed. “Or contact me at the East Point Lodge,” he added and gave his room number.

  “Until Molly Dumont finds you a house to rent,” Ray said.

  He didn’t correct the impression because that would lead to too many explanations. Or maybe he didn’t want to say that she’d told him to find another real estate agent because he didn’t want that decision to be final.

  Of course, the remark started him thinking about Molly again. In truth, she was always somewhere in his mind. After finding out how his every move was being reported, he had to wonder if the apparent attacks on her had something to do with himself. Was he the intended target?

  That made no sense, not the first time, anyway. He’d been several yards from her when the bucket had fallen off the roof. But the second time…

  He supposed somebody could have come after him. But what would have been the reason? He’d just arrived in town, and as far as he knew, nobody had been aware of him as anything but a writer looking to settle down for a few months.

  On the way to his car, he paused for a moment. The late-afternoon sun was still shining brightly, but he felt a shiver travel over his skin. Casually, he looked around, caught by the feeling that someone was watching him. But he could see no one. So he walked to his car and exited the parking lot, thinking that it might be a good idea for Mark Ramsey to make himself a little less conspicuous.

  FROM INSIDE one of the nearby shops, two men watched Mark leave the café and head for his car.

  “Who the hell is he?” the older one asked in a voice that was edged with anger. “We don’t need him here, stirring up trouble.”

  “I’ve started an Internet search. There’s not much information on him. He’s got a Maryland driver’s license and an address outside Baltimore. He’s got a good credit rating.”

  “He says he’s a writer.”

  “Well, I checked on Amazon. They have every book in print and a lot that are out of print. If he’s written anything, it’s under a different name.”

  “Can you check magazines? Other publications? Maybe this is his first book.”

  They both watched Ramsey get into his car and drive away. “Where did he grow up? Where did he go to school?”

  “I couldn’t find that.”

  “Do you think Ramsey’s his real name?”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “I kind of thought Mike Randall might have shown up in town,” the older man said in a hard-edged voice. “I was looking forward to killing him.”

  “I think he sent this guy instead. Too bad for him.”

  “You have something specific in mind?”

  “Yeah, I do, because I’m not going to sit still and have him screw up the good thing we’ve got going.”

  EVEN AFTER the way they’d parted, Molly half expected Mark Ramsey to call her. When he’d happened to show up at Madeleine’s, they’d exchanged an endless look, but he’d said nothing. She didn’t know whether she wanted to talk to him, but every time the phone rang, she jumped.

  At home, there were a couple of calls that she wondered about. Calls where she was sure someone was on the other end of the line but they said nothing. She checked her caller ID. The first time there was no readout because the battery was low. The next time all she saw on the screen was the annoying designation Unavailable.

  She told herself it wasn’t Mark. He wasn’t the type of guy who would call and then not speak. But she kept thinking that the calls might have given her an excuse for contacting him. He’d suggested that somebody could be after her, and she’d discounted that theory out of hand. But he didn’t know that.

  The ploy was tempting—too tempting. Which was why she warned herself not to do it.


  She was thinking about him too much. The haunting feeling that they’d known each other at some time in the past wouldn’t go away, although there was no rational reason for that beyond her own overactive imagination.

  It was unproductive to get all wound up with him, she told herself firmly. Whatever he wanted or didn’t want to tell her about his past, there was no future with him, because he wasn’t planning to stay in Perry’s Cove.

  So she was annoyed at her reaction Monday morning when she walked down the aisle of the dry-goods store and saw him standing by a display of potato chips, cookies and other products that weren’t on the USDA-recommended list.

  As though he knew she was there, he turned, and she saw his features light up with the same pleased expression she was pretty sure was plastered across her face.

  “You eat junk food?” she asked, because she didn’t want to stand there just staring at him.

  “When I’m writing.”

  “You’re working on your book?”

  “Yeah.”

  Could a conversation be any more inane? she wondered as she took a step forward.

  “Watch it.” He moved toward her and took her arm to stop her forward progress, gesturing to the display beside her. She looked down and saw a slender wooden rod that was sticking out from one of the shelves. It was sitting next to a box of pinwheels that was on the floor. Some kid must have taken one out, then shoved it in the shelf instead of putting it back where it belonged.

  He kept his hand on her arm, and she could feel the impression of his fingers on her flesh as they stood staring at each other.

  “I was going to call you,” he said.

  “Did you?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody called and didn’t say anything.”

  His eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t me.”

  Mrs. Monroe, the busybody wife of one of the fishermen in town, had rounded the corner and was looking at them with interest. Several people had already asked her about him, and she didn’t want to generate any more talk.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she murmured.

  He followed the direction of her gaze, saw the woman looking at them and nodded. She watched him put back the bag of sour-cream potato chips that he was holding in his free hand.

  “Aren’t you going to buy them?”

  “You saved me from the error of my ways.”

  She giggled as they made their way out of the store and across the parking lot. She didn’t even know where they were going until they stopped beside his car.

  “I missed you,” he said.

  “Did you?”

  He reached out his hand toward her, then let it drop back to his side as though he was very well aware of the habits of small-town busybodies.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked.

  His eyes locked on hers, and she had the feeling he might have said, “Go back to my hotel room and jump into bed.”

  Instead, he murmured, “Look at real estate.”

  She was afraid she might have answered yes to the imagined suggestion if he had made it. So her voice was strained as she said, “Okay. Yes.”

  He cleared his throat. “You could leave your car here or you could take it back to the office.”

  “We’d better do that. Because if we’re going to look at any properties, I need the key.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The ride to the real estate office alone in her own car gave her time to clear some of the fog from her brain. All it had taken was one look at Mark Ramsey, and she’d been back where she started a few days ago.

  She should tell him she’d changed her mind. But when they pulled into the parking lot, she said she was going to get the keys to several rentals.

  “Don’t write down where you’re going,” he said in a gritty voice.

  “I won’t,” she answered, even as she struggled with a tiny kernel of doubt. If he wanted to assault her, there would be no record of where they had gone.

  But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that they both wanted the same thing.

  She hurried inside and brought up the listings of suitable rentals. She’d overheard Doris Masters talking about a new place, the Thompson property. When she looked it up, the database said the house wasn’t available yet. But the key was in the office. So she decided to have a look at it along with several others.

  Mark was still in his vehicle when she came out, his hands wrapped around the wheel.

  “Let me drive,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m one of those guys who hates to have someone else behind the wheel,” he answered.

  She suspected it might be more than that. She suspected he might be thinking that if someone was following them, he could get away more easily. And she knew he had forgotten the original reason for having her drive. She knew her way around here and he didn’t. Or did he?

  She gave him a tight nod, then climbed into the passenger side of the car.

  You could tell a lot about a guy by his car. His was neat and clean. Like Mike Randall’s car, she suddenly thought.

  Her gaze shot to him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s something.”

  “I was thinking your car is like Mike Randall’s. I mean, clean, uncluttered.”

  He jerked to a stop in the act of backing out of the parking space. “Are you fishing for information?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Good,” he answered, turning the car around and heading toward the highway. “Which way?”

  “Right. Go about three miles. You’ll come to Frontage Road. Turn right again.”

  “Got it.” He pulled onto the highway. “Did you find out what happened out at the Randall place?”

  “Yes. A deer crashed into the house.”

  “I heard.”

  “Then why are you asking me?”

  “I’m testing to see if your sources of information are as good as mine,” he said, and she heard the teasing note in his voice.

  “My agency is handling the cleanup. Where did you hear about it?”

  “Deputy Daniels told me. After he patted me down.”

  She winced. “What did you do to get him on your case?”

  “I asked Jerry Tilden a few questions about his work crews.”

  She stared at him. Before she could pursue the subject, he switched back to an earlier topic. “How’s the cleanup going?”

  “We’ve already had a maid service out there. And a glass-repair company.”

  “Good.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I hate to see property messed up.” He kept his eyes on the road.

  She watched him flick his gaze to the rearview mirror, then back.

  “Are we being followed?” she asked.

  “Not as far as I can tell. But maybe they have guys with cell phones stationed along the road.”

  She jerked her head toward him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  They rode in tense silence until he made the turn onto Frontage Road. Then she directed him to a line of rural mailboxes. The house was up a long sandy driveway.

  “Maybe I should have told you to let some air out of your tires,” she said when his wheels spun in one particular patch of sand.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ve driven on sand before?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he answered again but didn’t volunteer any additional information.

  The driveway branched off into two forks.

  “Which way?”

  “Left. If you go to the right you’ll come to a couple of mansions on the beach. One has fifteen bedrooms. The other has twelve. They’re rented out by the week. Like for fifteen thousand dollars a pop in the high season.”

  He whistled through his teeth.

  The house she brought him to was considerably more modest. He kept going at a steady pace and made it over
a sand dune sprinkled with clumps of sea oats and other scrubby vegetation.

  Pulling up near the front door, he turned the car around before climbing out. Without looking at him, Molly marched to the door and fumbled with the key in the lock.

  The door was in a covered, recessed entryway with walls on two sides. She was aware of him standing right behind her, aware of his breath stirring her hair. When she couldn’t get the key into the lock, he took it out of her hand and slipped it into her pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “This.” He gently turned her to face him.

  It registered that he’d made his move when they were still outside where they were less likely to get into trouble. But that was a relative term, she thought as she gazed into his smoldering eyes.

  She had known from the moment she agreed to show him more property that something like this was going to happen. She had wanted it to happen. Even while she told herself she was being reckless, she raised her face to his.

  There was a breathless moment when reality seemed to fade away, so that nothing remained in the universe besides the two of them—a man and a woman who had been fated to come together in this time and place.

  When he’d first kissed her, it was as though she’d been seized by a whirlwind. This time he let her make the decision. She could turn around and walk back to the car if she wanted to play it safe.

  Instead, she reached up to circle his neck with her arms. His lips came down on hers, slowly, as though he was making a monumental effort to keep his own needs within bounds.

  His mouth brushed back and forth against hers, then settled gently, softly.

  But that first touch was enough to shatter his restraint.

  He went from gentle to hot and hungry in a heartbeat. She responded as she had the last time—with her own hunger leaping up to meet his.

  He lifted his mouth a fraction, and she made a small sound of protest.

  “I tried to stay away from you. It would be better if I stayed away from you,” he whispered.