There was something disturbing about the way he asked the question.
Just past being a child…. She had been in her early twenties at the time. He’d just been accustomed to a faster crowd. Women who knew what they were doing.
Well, he had seen to her education.
“I do apologize,” she said coolly. In perfect control. “We’re certainly both adults now, and this has to be one of the most ridiculous conversations I’ve ever had. Whether that was a man or a woman, you should have gone after them.”
“Oh, really? I get beaten up for saving you, and then I’m supposed to go after the intruder anyway?”
“You don’t look beaten up.”
“Trust me, I am.”
“You—”
“Not only was I struck by the intruder, but then I got you throwing punches, as well.”
“Aftershock,” she said evenly.
“Um.”
“That doesn’t matter now.”
“It doesn’t matter to you because you weren’t on the receiving end.”
“You are not hurt! You should be chasing—”
“Chasing who—and where?” he demanded curtly. “Your cottage is surrounded by others, and by the main house. All that intruder had to do was shuck the ski mask and black pullover and slip on a shirt or a jacket and you’d never recognize him or her in a thousand years.”
“It couldn’t possibly be a guest!”
“No, a large stork delivered him to the island!”
“Well, you should have caught him!”
“Silly me. I should have let you crack your head on the tile so I could chase the intruder. Fine. Next time I’ll let you crack your damned head!”
“What kind of a cop are you? You could at least look for clues.”
“I’m not a cop anymore.”
“No? Then what are you doing on the island?”
“Vacationing. Boating. Diving.”
“Lying.”
“Do you subject all your guests to the third degree?”
“Only you.”
“I’m here to dive.”
“The hell you are.”
“I love to dive. This is a great location.”
“So is Aruba.”
“I like the diving off Seafire Isle—and the dive mistress here has quite a reputation. I hear she’s perfect—and perfectly entertaining.”
“Do you think you could possibly remove yourself from my room?”
“Do you think you can quit questioning me long enough for me to get out?”
Her eyes suddenly narrowed on him. “How did you get in here to begin with?”
“The same way your attacker did, I imagine.”
“I was careful today. I locked the door.”
“Not good enough, Sam.” He pointed to where one of her bedroom window curtains was floating inward on the breeze. “The window, Sam. Easy access.”
He turned to leave the room, and she started to shiver.
She rolled quickly under her bed covers, hoping he wouldn’t realize how much he had unnerved her. But he was leaving the room without glancing her way. She wondered if he had actually taken a look at her to begin with.
If he’d even noticed that she was naked, or, if he had, if he’d cared in the least.
Wonderful. She’d been attacked, nearly…what? Kidnapped? Murdered? Yet here she was, worrying about Adam. What in God’s name was the matter with her?
She leaped up when he was gone, hurrying to dress. She threw on panties, a bra, black pumps and a long-sleeved black knit dress. When she was dressed, she drew a brush through her not-really-washed-and-half-damp-hair, wincing as she hit the tangles. She told herself to toughen up, dragging the brush through her hair until it had a semblance of neatness to it, then hurried out of her bedroom—anxious to see if he had really left her cottage.
She didn’t think he had.
And he hadn’t.
He was seated in her living room, comfortably leaning back in the deep Victorian brocade sofa. Despite his evening attire, he’d managed a pose of casual ease, his feet propped up on the cherrywood coffee table. There was a bottle of beer in his hand, and he sipped it slowly, reflectively, as he stared at the treasure map on the wall. He lifted the bottle, indicating the map. “I’m surprised you keep that.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Your father.”
“I’d have to discard the entire island if I couldn’t bear memories of my father.”
“I didn’t mean the memory,” he murmured. “I meant—he disappeared searching for the Beldona, right?”
“Yes,” she said.
His eyes suddenly seemed more veiled than her own. “He loved that ship.”
“He didn’t love the ship—he couldn’t love the ship—he never found her. He just loved the sea, the adventure. And he loved the island. Look, forget my father for now, what about tonight? Should I call the mainland police? Make out a report?”
“You could.”
“Could? What does that mean?”
“Well, the police will come out, question you and question all your guests. You won’t find out who attacked you, and you might well empty the island.”
She hadn’t thought of that. “But—but what about the danger to my guests?”
“I’d bet my life that the attacker is very specifically after you.”
“Great. Then I’m in danger.”
“Yes. You’ll have to be extremely careful.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“Stay close to me.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “That could be difficult when you’re running around with your well-endowed—and not-so-well-endowed—women.”
“Did I arrive here with a woman?”
“No, but they always seem to appear around you.”
“But I’ll be watching you.”
“But—”
“Look, if the police come, they won’t be able to do a damned thing but file a report. Your innocent guests will leave the island. And you’ll still be in danger.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“You’re right. That’s my opinion. Hank Jennings disappeared searching for the Beldona, as well, didn’t he?”
She frowned, thrown by his abrupt change of subject—or determination to return to the original one. “Did you know Hank Jennings?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.
“I heard about his disappearance,” he said, his eyes on the map once again.
“Naturally you heard about it. I wrote to you, asking for help. You didn’t come. But then, you didn’t show up after my father disappeared, either, and you’d become bosom buddies with him.”
He didn’t offer her a sarcastic reply, which she might have expected. He didn’t even remind her that she had asked him to leave Seafire Isle.
He just shook his head, taking a long swallow of beer. “I didn’t get your letter for nearly a year after your dad disappeared,” he told her. His voice seemed a little husky.
The beer, she thought.
“I was down in the Everglades on a sting operation when it came.”
“Well, that would have been years ago now. Are you always so quick with your correspondence?”
“A neighbor was picking up my mail. The letter wound up on her counter, then fell behind her stove, and she finally found it over a year later, and by then…” He shrugged.
It sounded like one of the worst stories Sam had heard in her life but, oddly enough, she believed him. Not because the story was believable, but because of the way he told it.
“She was picking up your mail, huh?” Sam murmured.
“She was sixty-six. I don’t think there was any ulterior motive behind the accident. If you’d really wanted me, you could have called.”
“It’s difficult to call someone who has ignored your rather desperate appeal for help.”