Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (8 page)

“I
know where it is.  Pretty upscale place.”

She
shrugged vaguely.  “My parents still live there.  Well, not together, but...I
also lived in
Chicago
for a few years, too.” 

At
this point, Nicole gave Michael the brief rundown: that she majored in English
at the
University
of
Chicago
, received a
degree in Comparative Lit, and then moved back to
Boston
for her MLS.

“MLS?”
he asked.

“Master's
of Library Science,” she explained.  Tilting her head, she added, “Yes, it's
true.  Don't let my 20-20 vision and aversion to low ponytails fool you.  I
am—in fact—a librarian.”

With
a quiet laugh, Michael nodded approvingly.  “Wow—a whole new twist on my
librarian fantasy.”  Nicole faltered for a second, felt herself blush.  Michael
seemed to catch himself.  He took two menus from across the bar and passed her
one.  “So where do you work, BPL?”

“No—well,
nowhere right now,” she answered.  As always, she felt a little self-conscious
about being laid off.  “Before I lost my job, I had been working at Hill House
Collections—that's a small library specializing in
Boston
history—”

“Oh,
Bunker Hill and all that?”

“Exactly...and
all that,” she said dryly.  (Call it librarian's intuition, but she had a
feeling that Michael King wasn't exactly her bookish history-loving male
counterpart.)  “Anyway, Hill House lost funding, so the staff was cut in half
last month.”  In trite summary, she said, “It's just one of those things.  But
enough about me.  What about you?  Where did you go to school?”

“Hmm...well,
I'd like to say ‘The School of Life,’ but then I'd have to stamp ‘Asshole’
on
my forehead.  Because who’d really say that, right?” 

A
laugh escaped from her and she nodded, “I guess.”  Really, though—she supposed
she shouldn't have just assumed he had gone to college.   She hoped he wasn't
offended.  And what if he had wanted to, but couldn't afford it! 

Luckily,
he didn't seem bothered.  Instead, he was looking at her neck.  “Is that from
what happened on the beach?” he said, speaking more softly. 

“Oh...yeah...” 
She touched her hand to the bruise.  “It looks worse than it is.”

Just
then a loud, rippling laugh drew their attention.  They looked over—it was the
redhead across from them, apparently taken with something hilarious.  She
squeezed her companion's arm, but glanced at Michael.  Then she flashed him a
smile. 

Nicole
felt an irrational stab of jealousy. 

Abruptly
the redhead hopped off her chair and began rounding the bar toward them.  Was
she kidding?  Nicole fought back a surge of annoyance that rose instantly in
her chest—jeez, why was this stupid woman coming over to interrupt them? 

The
woman's gaze was pinned to Michael, as though Nicole were not even there. 
“Vickie,” she announced, extending an aptly clawed hand.  “Vickie Finn.  I own
the Cape Town Inn, down on
Nevers Road
.”  Appearing almost reluctant, Michael
said hello and gave her a brief handshake. 

She
appeared to be around forty.  Freckles poured over her fair skin—face, neck,
and even disappearing into the lacy bra that edged out of her blouse.  She
glanced at Nicole.  Gave her a fake smile—it took another woman to recognize
not only the falseness of the gesture, but the falsity embedded in the smile
itself—but Nicole played along.  Smiling back, she said, “Hi, I'm Nicole.  Nice
to meet you.”  And shook her hand. 

Vickie's
smile was persistent.  “And what about you?  Your name is...?”

“Michael,”
he said.

“And
are you two new in town?”

“Yes,
sort of,” Nicole replied.  “Just visiting really...”  Meanwhile, she couldn't
help but notice that Vickie's date—the young man with the feral teeth—was
leveling them with a hooded glare from across the bar.  Maybe he, too, had
noticed Vickie edging even closer. 

Not
to be a jealous control-freak herself, but was it really necessary for Vickie
Finn to shove her speckled cleavage right under Michael's nose like that? 
Where was a self-righteous prig like Hazel Baker when you needed her?

“Wait
a second—I know who you are!”  Vickie said suddenly, clasping Michael's forearm
enthusiastically.  “You're the hero I keep hearing about!  Oh shit, why didn't
I put that together sooner?  Tell me all about what happened!  I heard about it
through the grapevine, but I didn't get any good details.”

Happily,
Nicole noticed that even in the presence of this effusive flirtation, Michael
issued his standard modest response.

Out
of the corner of her eye, Nicole saw Vickie's date sliding off his chair.  He
began walking toward them and glowered the whole way over.  Lean and wiry, the
man had dense black hair and thickets of five o'clock shadow—yet the face of a
boy.  He was a good ten years younger than Vickie.  Technically he wasn't bad
looking, but he did have an overbite and facial features that vaguely resembled
a ferret.  (Typically, Alyssa liked to call this look “rodentine.”)

When
he came up beside her, Vickie made brief introductions.  “Michael, Nicole—this
is Danny Keegan.  Danny, you'll never guess, these are the two who—”

“Yeah,
yeah, nice to meet you,” Danny Keegan grumbled without even a pretense of
indulgence, then said, “Vick, I paid the tab.  Let's go.”  With that, his hand
was on Vickie's elbow and he was leading her away.  She went willingly, though
she looked back at Michael more than once and waved. 

Vickie
Finn: determined
.

In
fact, Nicole had the creeping feeling that she hadn’t seen the last of her.

***

When
she got back to the house, Michael returned to his boat and the man she’d met
at the coffee shop earlier, Herman MacDonald, came out of nowhere.

“Hello, Nicole.”

Startled, she
turned, her keys stuck in the door lock. 

“Sorry, I didn't
mean to scare you,” he said.

“No, no,” she
said, “not at all.  I just didn't hear you behind me.  Um, what's up?”

“Not too much,
can't complain.  Got no right to.”

“Okay...well
that's a good attitude,” she fumbled.

His feet stayed
planted at the base of the front steps.  With his hands in his pockets, he
shrugged.  “Nicole, I don't wanna get in your way or anything, but truth is—I'd
been working on some repairs around here for your aunt right before she died. 
Outside the place, mostly.  You know, fixing a loose shutter, trimming a branch
back from a window, that sort of thing.  I was just about to get to fixing
these steps here.”  He motioned downward.  “Slate on the side is coming up.” 

“Oh, really? 
Actually, I do remember Hazel Baker mentioned something about the railing being
loose.”

“You know Hazel?”

“We just met,”
Nicole said.  She left out what an utter joy it had been.  “Actually, I'll be
helping Hazel with a display for the Harvest Parade.”

“So you're
planning to stay in town till then, huh?  That's good, that's real good. 
Parade's a big deal around here.”

“Have you lived
in
Chatham
a long time?”
she asked.

“Longer than
anyone has a right to, I suppose,” he said.  With that folksy humility and
unassuming manner, there was something likable about Herman MacDonald, but
there was also something a bit cryptic.  He seemed less than comfortable around
her—almost as if at any moment he was on the verge of either emotion or
queasiness.  “Anyhow I'd really like to finish fixing the stoop, if I could—no
charge, of course—for your aunt.”

What could she
say?  It was hard to decline someone with an almost wounded look in his eye,
wanting to do something good.  She wondered: why
did
he look so
implacably sad?

“If you want to,
I'd definitely appreciate that,” Nicole assured him.

“Thanks, I sure
would.  Glad you'll be staying for a while,” he added before turning to go. 

“By the way, is
it true that people call you 'The Hermster'?” she said.

At that, Herman
MacDonald actually chuckled and turned back.  “Yup.  It's true,” he admitted. 
“But you can call me Mac.”

That
night Nicole divided her time unequally between what was necessary and what was
incidental.  She had begun going through the contents of the hallway closet on
the second floor, but allowed herself to get distracted—emailing Cameron,
returning her mom's call, and making brownies.  Earlier, she’d packed up a tin
with six brownies to give to Michael, and another tin to give to Ginger
Bloomingdale.

Earlier,
she had received a voicemail from Linda, apologizing for the way she had acted
the other day.  “Sorry, I've just been moody lately,” Linda explained.  “It's
not you...hey, if you want, I could come down there some time and help you go
through Nina's stuff.  I’ll give you a call later this week.”    

Now
she was sitting in the kitchen with her laptop in front of her; her wireless
card had picked up the signal of a nearby network called “deepseafisher.”

It
was hard to believe that she had only been in
Chatham
for four days. 
In her short time there, she had already had met several people.  There were
the sisters next-door, Ginger and Hazel.  There was Zack Hyat the Coast Guard
officer, and Herman MacDonald—or “Mac”—the local handyman.  Not to mention,
flirtatious innkeeper Vickie Finn and her surly companion, Danny Keegan.

As
she clicked over to her favorite used books website, she found her mind
drifting, and she wondered what Michael was doing right now.

***

For a
boat that appeared placid on the water, this one was plagued by irritating
phone calls.  As Michael stepped into the cabin, he dug his phone out of his
pocket.  He felt almost watched, the way Craig Lucius seemed to time his
calls.  Michael hadn’t seen him since the staged attack on the beach the night
before, but the annoying guy had called three times already.  

“Where
are you hiding this whole time, by the way?” Michael asked him now.

“Don't
worry about it,” Lucius evaded.  “Hey—did you have to hit me so hard,
asshole?” 

With
a short, derisive laugh, Michael replied, “What, afraid I'm going to mess up
that gorgeous face?”

“Screw
you, Corso.”

“You
wanted it to look real didn't you?” Michael said rather blandly and switched on
the dim light in the cabin. 

“You
didn't have to bust my mouth!  You knocked a fucking tooth loose.”  Lucius
sounded like quite a baby all of a sudden. 

“Well
keep that as a reminder.  Don't get in my way and I won't have to hurt you.”

Lucius
sputtered at that.  “You mean
her—
not me.” 

Michael
said nothing. 

Talking
to Lucius might actually be worthwhile if he would reveal who the third party
was on this job.  Clearly there was one.  Lucius was a born middleman.  He’d
brought Michael on board, but he certainly hadn't orchestrated this operation. 

The
two had met a few months ago in passing—a friend of a friend, once or twice
removed.  At the time, Michael had been working a con out of
Hartford
.  (Which was why
he'd recently made himself less recognizable and shaved his head.)  It was a
set-up that he'd run before on pool hall types, those guys you found always at
one smoke-filled table or another; those who liked to believe in a camaraderie
among card players, who seemed to think that the tips they got on horses or
property were legitimate and effortlessly lucrative, that some secret gold mine
had just opened in their path.  These were men who had money but were always
eager for more to hide; the types who treated the words “sure thing” like a Buddha
statue.  Over the years, Michael had seen how blind enthusiastic greed could
make an easy mark out of an otherwise smart person.  He had fallen prey to that
reality himself, years ago. 

Now
he preferred to operate alone, and certainly not to be in an alliance with
someone like Lucius.  The guy was a criminal, for chrissake.  He was in a whole
other league.  For one thing, he had a record.  From what Michael had heard,
Lucius was into a bunch of illegal activities, from fencing to smuggling—and
not smuggling just art.   

Maybe
he was rationalizing or whatever, but the way Michael looked at himself was: he
had a specific skill.  He could earn people's trust, at least more of it than
was wise, and without much effort on his part.  And he could profit from that
skill. 

Considering
how abrasive and unappealing Lucius was, there was no way he’d be able to win
Nicole Sheffield's trust, which was the goal right now.

To
that end, things were ahead of schedule.  Once Michael had been cast as her
protector, her trust and acceptance of him had been almost immediate.  Still,
he hated flying blind.  Who's job was this, really?