bad dreams.”
“No,” Luther said. “They won’t.”
He spoke with the certainty of a man who had already experimented with that particular therapy.
“I’m going to have a few nightmares, myself,” Raina said.
Luther’s eyes were shadowed with grim understanding. “Because you sent her into harm’s way.”
Raina knew he understood those kinds of nightmares, too. He had sent people into harm’s way. He had also been in deadly danger himself on more than one occasion. He had run a clandestine government intelligence agency in the Great War and for several years afterward. Now, in addition to his nightclub, which provided excellent cover, he operated a very discreet private consulting firm, Failure Analysis, Inc. It handled delicate, off-the-books investigations for a certain government agency, the FBI, and the occasional private client.
“I assumed the Adlington case was just another take-some-photos-that-will-prove-my-husband-is-cheating-so-I-will-have-grounds-for-a-divorce job,” Raina said. “I thought it would be a good way to introduce Lyra to the business. She actually knows a lot about photography, because she has frequently assisted her sister, Vivian, with her studio photography. Next time I’ll insist the potential client come into the office for the first interview.”
“Don’t set any hard-and-fast rules,” Luther advised. “In the future there may be clients who desperately need your help who can’t risk being seen in a private investigator’s office.”
Raina contemplated that for a moment. “I suppose you’re right. I told Lyra to think long and hard about whether she really wants to be a private investigator. I wonder if she will show up at the office tomorrow morning?”
“It will be her choice. She has a right to make it. Don’t try to decide her future for her.”
Raina sighed. “I’m afraid she may have based her career decision on Nancy Drew and Nick and Nora Charles. If nothing else, today’s experience will teach her not to romanticize the investigation business.”
Chapter 5
Luther left her bed shortly after three that morning. He never spent the night. They had not discussed the fact that he did not stay for breakfast. There was no need to talk about it. Raina understood. The decision had been made by mutual, albeit silent agreement.
It wasn’t about her reputation. True, she and Luther were reasonably discreet, but their relationship was hardly a secret in Burning Cove, a town that was famous as a destination for those seeking illicit trysts and liaisons. Given Luther’s notorious image and the fact that she was a woman of a certain age who was engaged in a business many viewed as slightly shady, rumors that his speedster had been parked outside her house until breakfast would not raise many eyebrows.
They both had their reasons for the way they chose to conduct the affair. She sensed that Luther did not stay for breakfast because he was afraid of falling asleep beside her; afraid of waking up in a nightmare that had its origins in the war. She knew something about his nightmares, because she had seen his paintings. The dark, stormy landscapes that hung in his office and in his private quarters above the Paradise were straight from his dreams. Painting was his therapy, his way of surviving the memories.
Her reasons for not inviting him to stay until morning were similar. She did not want to wake up in the middle of a nightmare about a home that had become a prison.
“Now that you’ve got an apprentice who can watch the office, what do you say to taking off from work early tomorrow?” Luther said, fastening his white shirt. “I can order a picnic lunch from one of the local restaurants. We could drive out to Smuggler’s Cove and take a walk on the beach.”
“That sounds like a lovely idea,” Raina said. “Assuming I’ve still got an apprentice.”
“Something tells me Lyra will show up at the office,” Luther said.
Raina smiled, amused by his certainty. “You sound very confident of that.”
Luther leaned over the bed and planted a palm on either side of her. “She may be feeling the effects of all that champagne she drank tonight, but I’ll bet she shows up. Get some sleep.”
He kissed her, straightened, collected his jacket, and headed for the door.
“Good night,” she said. “Drive carefully.”
She wanted to say, Good night, Luther, my love, but she didn’t. Neither of them had used the word love; not yet. Maybe never.
“Don’t worry,” Luther said. “At this hour there won’t be anyone else on the road.”
A moment later she heard the front door open and close. She waited for the distinct click that told her he had used the