Legend deems them priceless. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds—flawless, magical, exquisite. And gold. A queen’s ransom.”
“A rich duke’s daughter’s ransom, if you want to be accurate.” He fought off the gas cap with the wrench. “They existed, and would probably be worth a few million, a lot of millions at this point. They’re also somewhere at the bottom of the ocean with the ship, the crew and the rest of the booty.” He peered in, shining the light. “Dry as an old virgin’s . . . as dust,” he corrected. “Sorry.”
“You were about to be very vulgar.”
She held the light while he filled the tank. Picked up her glass and held the light while he fiddled with switches, some kind of gauge.
He punched the power button. The machine belched, farted, coughed. Eli went through the routine again, then a third time—and it caught.
“Let there be light,” she announced.
“In a few well-selected locations.” He took the glass she offered him, and his hand brushed hers. “Jesus, Abra, you’re freezing.”
“Imagine that, in a damp, unheated basement.”
“Let’s get upstairs. I’ll get a fire started.” Instinctively he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
And instinctively, she leaned into him as they walked.
“Eli? I don’t want to believe it, but could whoever did this be local? They had to know you weren’t at home. They couldn’t have risked cutting the power and breaking in if you were here. It was early, really. Not long after nine-thirty.”
“I don’t know the locals the way I used to. But I know there’s a PI at one of the local B-and-Bs. It’d be his job to know I wasn’t here.”
“It wasn’t him. I’m sure of it.”
“Maybe not. But he’s working for someone, isn’t he?”
“Yes. Yes, he is. Or with someone. Do you really think he—or they—hurt Hester?”
“She started downstairs in the middle of the night. None of us could ever figure out why. I’m going to start looking at this, all this, from a different angle. In the morning,” he added as they reached the kitchen.
He set down the flashlight, the glass, then rubbed her arms. “It’s colder in the Amazon than I thought.”
She laughed, shook her hair back, lifted her face.
They stood, bodies close, his hands slowing to a stroke instead of a rub.
She felt the flutter in her belly, one she’d ignored since she began her sexual fast, and the lovely rise of heat behind it.
She watched his eyes change, deepen, flick down and linger on her lips before coming back to hers. And, drawn, she leaned toward him.
He stepped back, dropped his hands.
“Bad timing,” he said.
“Is it?”
“Bad timing. Trauma, upset, wine. Let me get a fire started. You can warm the chill off before I take you home.”
“All right, but tell me it cost you a little.”
“A lot.” For another moment, his eyes stayed steady on hers. “A hell of a lot.”
That was something, she supposed, as he walked away. She took another sip of wine even as she wished they’d chosen another way to warm the chill off.
Nine
WHEN KIRBY DUNCAN CLOSED THE DOOR AFTER THE county deputy left, he walked straight to the bottle of Stoli on the windowsill, poured two fingers.
Son of a bitch, he thought as he downed it.
It was a damn good thing he’d had receipts—one for a fancy coffee a few blocks from the Landon house, and another for gas and a ham and cheese at a pit stop a few miles south of Whiskey Beach.
Once he’d determined Landon had been driving home, he pulled off to fuel up the car and himself. Damn good thing. The receipts proved he hadn’t been anywhere near Bluff House at the time of the break-in. Otherwise, he was damn near sure he’d have been explaining himself to the local cops, in-house.
Son of a bitch.
Could be coincidence, he thought. Somebody just happens to pick the exact night he reports to his client Landon is in Boston for the evening for a break-in?
And pigs fly south for the winter.
He didn’t like being played. He’d stand behind or in front of a client, as need be, but not when the client screwed with him.
Not when a client used him—without his knowledge or consent—to break into a house. And sure as hell not when the client roughs up a woman.
He’d have taken a tour inside Bluff House himself if the client had directed him, and he’d have taken his lumps if he’d been caught at it.