Love Inspired Suspense June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Exit Strategy\Payback\Covert Justice (36 page)

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ONE

T
hree things stopped Gretchen Bauer dead in her tracks: the smashed pots of her morning glory seedlings splattering her porch steps, the Public Hearing Notice, aka Notice of Betrayal, nailed to her door frame, and the paint-chipped front door of her old Victorian standing ajar.

Someone had been here—and still might be.

Broken terra-cotta pieces crunched beneath her sneaker treads as she took the first tentative step up. The new beginnings of her signature bed-and-breakfast flowers were strewn about the landing, their futures dashed in an instant.

A sign of her own future?

The answer awaited her at the door.

Her gaze fell to the shadows of the rough interior of her house that she could see through the crack.

Then she saw again the white piece of paper posted to the door's right. Its crisp black type stated details of a town meeting set to discuss the future of her renovation of the abandoned home she'd recently purchased.

But she knew what the message really meant.

No matter what she did to move forward in her life, a certain someone would always yank her back. The words read Public Hearing Notice. They may as well have said You Will Never Be Free.

Gretchen craved freedom more than air, and since she was asthmatic, that said a lot. But in four weeks, she would hang her own message from her lamppost. The shingle for her business would read The Morning Glory B&B, Stepping Stones Island, Maine.

The true meaning behind it would read,
I'm free.

From then on she would be free to make her own choices without asking for permission. She would be free to pick her friends without obtaining background checks and approval. She would be free of being manipulated by words—and actions.

The stinging memory of where she had felt his last action spread across her cheek. She touched it protectively and vowed it would never happen again.

“Welcome home, love,” a male's voice called from behind her.

Gretchen inhaled and whipped around, her hands raised in front of her face and ready to fight her bully. How dare he—

A huge video camera closed in on her instead, catching her off guard. Gretchen shrank back a step, unable to see who stood behind the huge piece of equipment. “What's going on?” She changed her battling fists to palms straight up to say
Stand back
. “Who are you? This is private property.”

“You invited us, love. Don't you remember?” An Irishman's voice pulled her attention away from the camera and down to where he stood on the walkway. “Allow me to introduce myself. I'm C—”

“Colm McCrae,” she answered for him on an exhale of relief. Her hands dropped with her shoulders. She immediately thanked God that it was he and not— Never mind. “Of course I remember,” Gretchen replied. “You're the host of the cable television show
Rescue to Restoration
. I did invite you to help with my renovation. Thank you so much for coming.”

She put her hand over her chest. “You just surprised me. I wasn't expecting you. I was told you weren't arriving until late this afternoon.”

“Aye,” he answered in his suave Irish accent that brought him his fame on his home improvement show, especially with the lady viewers. “My cameraman and I rented a boat. We came over from the mainland on our own to get started. It's right deadly, don't you think?”

“Deadly?”

“Oh, apologies, Dublin lingo. I meant to say ‘fantastic news.' Aye? What do you say you give me a gander around the place?” He stepped up onto the porch. His long legs skipped the two stairs of broken pots with ease as he pressed in close to her. She stepped back again and hit the door frame.

Then she noticed the camera moved in, too.

Gretchen looked in every direction, unsure of where to rest her eyes. The presence of a camera brought on a whole new feeling of intrusion she hadn't counted on when she applied for the show to assist her in her rehab. At the time, it felt like a smart idea, but right now smiling for the camera didn't seem possible. She was still too tense from finding her home vandalized and had barely caught her breath. Plus, this program host came across as a little domineering. She hadn't expected that, either.

But then, after eight years of being with someone who dominated her whole existence, she might be judging this TV personality too soon.

“You want a tour
now
?” Gretchen grappled for words while acclimating herself to her guests. “I didn't expect you to be filming today. May I have a moment to prepare, please?” She put her hand up in front of her face and used her mass of curls to hide behind.

“The light looks good on you, Goldie. It would be a shame to waste it.”

Colm's sudden nickname for her unnerved her further. It made her think of that other smooth talker in her life.

Check that: old life.

“Gretchen,” she corrected the host and turned from the lens in her face to see him step close to her. He was more real than he'd ever appeared, even in high definition, in her living room. She lifted her head, then lifted it some more to meet his eyes. He towered nearly a foot over her five feet.

Just breathe, she told herself, but when she opened her mouth, Colm McCrae asked, “Did the public notice bring you a wee bit of bad news?” His accent slowed her understanding, although the reddish streaks glinting through his wavy chestnut hair also distracted her. That and the concern filling his blue puppy-dog eyes. Was the concern legit? She shook her head to clear it.

It didn't matter.

“Trouble? No,” she answered. Her days of trouble had ended when she'd sent a certain heavy-fisted deputy in the sheriff's department packing. “Just a little misunderstanding with the town. I'll get it taken care of—” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Colm and the cameraman pressing in even closer. The two seemed to work in sync to invade her private space.

A red flag hoisted high and waved in her mind's eye. Had she escaped one bully only to sign on with another? She'd send them right away if that was the case.

But renovations took money, and Gretchen had already spent every dime she'd earned from waitressing and doing odd jobs around the island to buy the house and to update the plumbing and electricity. She had to if she wanted to live here. To turn away the crew would mean returning to her waitressing life and serving her ex when he came in for his weekly bratwurst at her mother's German restaurant. The thought of her old puppet master winning caused her breath to catch and wheeze. The man wasn't even here and he still tainted her dreams from the crew's first take. She reached into her jeans pocket for her inhaler and took a quick pull of the medicine to open her lungs. Disgust filled her at this ailment that weakened her.

“Asthma?” the host asked.

Gretchen nodded and pocketed the inhaler behind her. She straightened her pink short-sleeved polo with conviction. “I'll be fine now,” she stated. Billy would no longer be her puppet master, she determined again. And the television crew would be staying.

But that also meant showing them they couldn't push her around. “Where is your director, Troy Mullen?” she demanded. “I met him three months ago when he visited the island to interview me. He assured me he would be a part of the production from day one.”

“He'll be here later with the rest of the crew and supplies,” Colm answered.

“Then you can turn off your camera and wait for him.”

“No can do, ma'am.” A black-bearded face popped out from behind the camera. It was her first glimpse of the cameraman. He looked nice enough with his round head and big cheeks, even if his words weren't what she wanted to hear. “You signed the release and accepted the terms. We determine what to film.”

“Terms?” A sudden flash of the stack of papers she signed: lots of liability or lack thereof on her side. The camera lens reflected her wavering image. As she stared at herself she watched resignation take over. She'd have to get used to it, beginning now. “Yes, I remember. Let's just start over, then.” She looked to the host. “Mr. McCrae, would you like that tour now?”

“Call me Colm.” The host leaned in even more. The red flag waved again. Then Gretchen saw that he wore a small black microphone clipped to the lapel of his denim shirt. A sudden realization hit her. Her voice wouldn't be recorded properly if she wasn't speaking into a microphone. That had to be why he stood so close.

Gretchen almost laughed aloud at her misplaced paranoia. What was wrong with her? Just because one man in her life had been a bully didn't make all men bullies.

“Actually, Gretchen,” Colm said, “I'd love to hear more about this town meeting. A bit of tension in the town about a B&B opening on its island could be grand for ratings, wouldn't you say, Nate?”

The cameraman, who could only be Nate, grunted. “I don't think that's what the boss has in mind. He'll want something more exciting than a town meeting to spike ratings.”

Gretchen searched Colm McCrae's face. Nate's was hidden again behind his equipment. “More exciting? Ratings?” she said. “Please don't tell me you're looking to fabricate a problem just so you can spike your rankings. I thought this show was about educating people to renovate their homes. I thought you were above such manipulating tactics.”

Nate and Colm laughed, Colm's more rich than the cameraman's. “I'm not sure there's a show out there that isn't concerned with ratings, Miss Bauer.”

“Well, there's no big story to tell here, so you can get that out of your head. Now, do you want the tour, or don't you?”

Colm leaned down mere inches from her face. He put his arm over her shoulder. She felt his cool, minty breath on the same cheek that held a memory of a hot, searing pain. She held stock-still and gave nothing away. The door squeaked behind her as Colm pushed it wider and said, “After you, love.”

Gretchen swung around to enter, welcoming the space between them. Colm's boots hit her wooden floors with heavy clunks as he followed her in. She flinched with every stomp, still a bit unnerved.

He passed her and surveyed the foyer with a growing frown on his clean-shaven face. His gaze fell on the pitiful staircase and stopped. Where once a grand flight of stairs had curved up to the second-floor balcony, now only stair treads remained, the railing gone.

“The door needs a little oil and it'll be right as rain,” Colm announced. “But the interior is a whole other story. Three weeks to completion? We won't have the house done this side of Christmas.” He covered his mic and whispered, “Troy's lost his mind.”

Gretchen's ears perked to Colm McCrae's last words. Not so much the words but how he said them.

He'd dropped his Irish accent.

“Wait,” she interrupted. “You're not really Irish?”

He swung a quick look at her. “Of course I'm Irish.” He flashed a smile of straight white teeth. “You want to kiss me?”

“What? No!” She shook her head to clear the image he'd conjured up in her mind. “I know I just heard you speak with no accent. Or at least not an Irish one.”

Colm's grin deepened. “Good catch. I suppose I slipped. Don't tell anyone. I have an image to uphold.” At his wink Gretchen pressed her lips together. The past eight years of her life were about upholding a man's image. She wasn't about to start again for another, not even the famous Colm McCrae.

She folded her arms. “I can't believe this. You're nothing but a big phony.”

Colm's smile evaporated. “Don't worry about the tour, Miss Bauer. We have a lot of work to do. I'll inspect the place today myself and decide what projects to start with. You're welcome to check in periodically.”

“Check in? Mr. McCrae, I live here.”

“You live here? Kind of dangerous, don't you think? Especially with your asthma.”

“My asthma is under control as long as I have my inhaler, not that it's any of your concern.”

“Does this place even have running water and electricity?”

“Surprise, surprise, Mr. McCrae, I not only have good ears, but I'm also pretty handy.” She wished she could have handled the whole renovation, but that would have taken years, and money she didn't have.

“Pretty.” He looked right at her. “Aye, I see that.”

Gretchen opened her mouth at his gall.

He held up his hands. “Look, Goldie, I'll admit I'm impressed with your skills, but even still, it's not customary to have the home owner on-site during renovating and shooting. It's a work zone. It could be right dangerous. Murder, really. Troy would never allow—”

“Too bad, because I'm not going anywhere. I have a vested interest in the outcome of this project. This is my home, but in four weeks, it will also be my business and my future.”

Colm sputtered, “Love, I hate to tell you, but there's no way you're opening in four weeks.”

“Your director promised me three. I'm holding you all to it. Now, if you'll follow me upstairs, I'll show you the guest rooms you're to start with. Once you're finished upstairs I can begin decorating.”

“Seems like you have things all planned out.”

“I'm in charge now, if that's what you mean.” Gretchen stepped past him. “This way, Mr. McCr— Aaah!” Splintering wood smothered her scream. One moment she stood in her foyer, the next, her floor swallowed her whole.

* * *

“Gretchen!” Colm dropped to his knees and approached the gap in the floor where less than a second ago the home owner with her mass of golden curls fell through. “Are you all right?”

“McCrae, Irish accent,” Nate said from behind. A quick glimpse showed the camera still rolling. Colm clenched his fists and jaw. The show was the last thing he cared about at the moment. Nate's raised bushy eyebrows reminded him what he cared about didn't matter. He wasn't the boss.

“Goldie, love, are you all right?” He pushed out the thick brogue, hating it more now than ever—but not as much as the fact that she didn't respond.
Please, God, be with the young woman.