Roxanne St. Claire - Make Her Pay

“I know,” she agreed, turning to the stucco farmhouse. “I was kind of hoping Bree would come running out to hug me.”

The whole place was silent but for the steady thump of the windmill sweeps and the distant pounding of the surf. Other than that, Con heard no signs of life at all.

Lizzie bounded toward the door, and he caught up with her in one stride.

“Easy, there.” He moved her a little behind him. “Let me go first. We have no idea what we’re going to find.”

“My sister, I hope.”

“You never know.”

She gave him a tentative glance, then let him stand in front as he knocked on the door.

“Can I help you?” The voice came across the open field, sharp and strident. Exiting the windmill, a woman strode toward them like she was modeling on a runway, shoulders square, head held high, with an air of authority and haughtiness that was laughably out of place on a farm in the Azores.

This was no country woman.

“I hope you can,” Con replied, walking toward her and automatically blocking Lizzie. “We’re looking for a houseguest of yours. Brianna Dare.”

She slowed her step, an imperceptible change in her body taking her from in control to on guard.

“Are you Mrs. Bettencourt?” he asked when she didn’t respond.

As she got closer, he took in the cheekbones, square jaw, and pricey clothes, a jarring contradiction to the rugged stone windmill behind her. Blond hair with darker roots was pulled back in a hasty ponytail.

“Yes, I am,” she finally said. She stood with her hands in the side pockets of a full skirt that covered her knees, tense enough that he suspected her fists were balled in those pleats.

“My name’s Con Xenakis. This is Elizabeth Dare. We’re looking for her sister, who we understand is staying with you.”

She kept her gaze on Con, slowly shaking her head and looking confused. Then her eyes widened and the closest thing to a smile he’d seen yet pulled at her hollow cheeks.

“Brianna! The girl from America who was here yesterday?”

“Was?” Lizzie stepped forward. “She’s gone?”

“Oh, I’m afraid so. Early this morning on the first ferry to Flores.” She looked at her watch and then glanced toward the water, where a boat chugged toward the other island. “And it looks like you’ve missed the afternoon ferry. I wish I could help you.”

“Maybe you can,” Con said. “We’re looking for the same genealogical information. Could you tell us what you told her?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t tell her anything. I’m only a Bettencourt by marriage. I live here alone and have no access to any of the family information. Maybe the church in the village? That’s what I told her. Sorry.”

She stepped forward, nodding like a queen dismissing the messenger.

Con stepped sideways and blocked her. “She flew into Corvo, Mrs. Bettencourt. It makes no sense that she’d take the ferry to leave.”

Through narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw, she made her distaste clear. “It makes perfect sense. She is on a lineage search, as are many Americans who come to the Azores. Bettencourt is as common a name on these islands as Smith is in the United States. Perhaps she went sightseeing to the other island. There’s absolutely no reason to accuse me of anything.”

He notched a brow. “I didn’t accuse you. I questioned your logic.”

“Well, I don’t like your tone.” She finally glanced at Lizzie. “I’m sorry about your sister.”

It sounded oddly like a condolence. Solange walked around Con, marching to the front porch without a glance back. As much as he wanted to grab her arm and demand entry, he knew he couldn’t. He had no right or reason.

“Come on.” He placed a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder to guide her toward the bike, slowly. The front door closed with a deliberate slam.

“Jeez,” she said.

“Give it a sec,” he said, getting on the bike and waiting for her to settle in before he started it up and headed toward the road. At the last second, he turned toward the windmill.

“What are you doing?” Lizzie asked.

“I don’t want to leave yet.” He parked the bike behind the structure, where it couldn’t be seen from the house, and climbed off. “We’ll stay in here for a while and see what she does. If she leaves the property, we might walk through her house to see what gives.”

“What are you looking for?” Lizzie asked.

“I don’t know. She gave me a bad feeling.”

“No kidding. Who let her out of the bitch factory?”

He smiled, pushing the door open with one hand, peeking in before entering. The grind of gears and wheels echoed over the stone.

“This is a different kind of windmill,” he observed, peering up at the mechanism in the middle and then at the stone stairwell that lined the wall.

The door popped open with a crack and he whipped around, blocking Lizzie.

“Get the hell off my property.” This time, the bitch was armed. She raised a revolver, cocked and ready, and pointed it at him, earning a gasp from Lizzie.

“We’re just looking at the windmill,” he said, holding up his hands, considering what it would take to get her gun.

“You are trespassing, and I will shoot you both if you don’t leave this minute.”

He couldn’t take a risk with this madwoman. “All right.”

Still protecting Lizzie with his whole body, he led them out, never taking his eyes off her or the gun, ready to dive in front of a bullet if he had to.

“Get in the front,” he said softly, nudging Lizzie there when she gave him a questioning look. “If she shoots, it’s going in my back.”

She hesitated, then climbed on, and he got behind her, reaching forward to turn the ignition on.

Mrs. Bettencourt never lowered the gun.

Lizzie twisted the handle, her body bracing as though she expected the gun to go off any second, then she drove down the dirt path and onto the road to the village.

As soon as they were in the clear, she put a hand on his leg and squeezed. “Con, you’re officially off my shit list.”

“It’s about time.” But his mind was on that woman. She was scared of something, and it wasn’t a couple looking for a missing tourist. So what was it?

He wasn’t leaving this island until he found out.

She really, really wanted to hate him. It should be so easy.

Lizzie kneeled on the twin bed in the attic room on the third floor of Sousa’s restaurant, her elbows propped on the windowsill with a direct view of the rooftops to the sunset over the Atlantic Ocean.

Sitting on the floor, Con was making another phone call. On the last one, to New York, he’d ordered background information on Solange Bettencourt. Now he was talking to the pilot of their plane.

She turned to look at him, elbows propped on bent knees, sitting against the wall, his eyes closed as he spoke softly. His whiskers had grown in enough to give his angular jaw a menacing shadow. Long, strong fingers held the phone, and she couldn’t help studying those hands for a moment, remembering how he touched her, entered her, made her whole body-

“Do you want to, Lizzie?”

She pulled herself from sexual la-la land and blinked at him.

“Do you want to fly to Flores now? It’s bigger than Corvo, so we could fan out and check the hotels and inns there. Or we could stay here to get some rest and see if she comes back on the morning ferry, or even fly over at daybreak.” He closed the phone. “You look like you could use some rest.”

“I’d really like to talk to Gabby, too. Senhor Sousa said she comes back every night, even if she’s left for the day. She might know exactly where Bree is, saving us a ton of time and effort.”