Heather Graham Pozzessere - Eyes Of Fire

“What kind of a cop are you? You could at least look for clues.”

“I’m not a cop anymore.”

“No? Then what are you doing on the island?”

“Vacationing. Boating. Diving.”

“Lying.”

“Do you subject all your guests to the third degree?”

“Only you.”

“I’m here to dive.”

“The hell you are.”

“I love to dive. This is a great location.”

“So is Aruba.”

“I like the diving off Seafire Isle—and the dive mistress here has quite a reputation. I hear she’s perfect—and perfectly entertaining.”

“Do you think you could possibly remove yourself from my room?”

“Do you think you can quit questioning me long enough for me to get out?”

Her eyes suddenly narrowed on him. “How did you get in here to begin with?”

“The same way your attacker did, I imagine.”

“I was careful today. I locked the door.”

“Not good enough, Sam.” He pointed to where one of her bedroom window curtains was floating inward on the breeze. “The window, Sam. Easy access.”

He turned to leave the room, and she started to shiver.

She rolled quickly under her bed covers, hoping he wouldn’t realize how much he had unnerved her. But he was leaving the room without glancing her way. She wondered if he had actually taken a look at her to begin with.

If he’d even noticed that she was naked, or, if he had, if he’d cared in the least.

Wonderful. She’d been attacked, nearly…what? Kidnapped? Murdered? Yet here she was, worrying about Adam. What in God’s name was the matter with her?

She leaped up when he was gone, hurrying to dress. She threw on panties, a bra, black pumps and a long-sleeved black knit dress. When she was dressed, she drew a brush through her not-really-washed-and-half-damp-hair, wincing as she hit the tangles. She told herself to toughen up, dragging the brush through her hair until it had a semblance of neatness to it, then hurried out of her bedroom—anxious to see if he had really left her cottage.

She didn’t think he had.

And he hadn’t.

He was seated in her living room, comfortably leaning back in the deep Victorian brocade sofa. Despite his evening attire, he’d managed a pose of casual ease, his feet propped up on the cherrywood coffee table. There was a bottle of beer in his hand, and he sipped it slowly, reflectively, as he stared at the treasure map on the wall. He lifted the bottle, indicating the map. “I’m surprised you keep that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Your father.”

“I’d have to discard the entire island if I couldn’t bear memories of my father.”

“I didn’t mean the memory,” he murmured. “I meant—he disappeared searching for the Beldona, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

His eyes suddenly seemed more veiled than her own. “He loved that ship.”

“He didn’t love the ship—he couldn’t love the ship—he never found her. He just loved the sea, the adventure. And he loved the island. Look, forget my father for now, what about tonight? Should I call the mainland police? Make out a report?”

“You could.”

“Could? What does that mean?”

“Well, the police will come out, question you and question all your guests. You won’t find out who attacked you, and you might well empty the island.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “But—but what about the danger to my guests?”

“I’d bet my life that the attacker is very specifically after you.”

“Great. Then I’m in danger.”

“Yes. You’ll have to be extremely careful.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

“Stay close to me.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “That could be difficult when you’re running around with your well-endowed—and not-so-well-endowed—women.”

“Did I arrive here with a woman?”

“No, but they always seem to appear around you.”

“But I’ll be watching you.”

“But—”

“Look, if the police come, they won’t be able to do a damned thing but file a report. Your innocent guests will leave the island. And you’ll still be in danger.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“You’re right. That’s my opinion. Hank Jennings disappeared searching for the Beldona, as well, didn’t he?”

She frowned, thrown by his abrupt change of subject—or determination to return to the original one. “Did you know Hank Jennings?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“I heard about his disappearance,” he said, his eyes on the map once again.

“Naturally you heard about it. I wrote to you, asking for help. You didn’t come. But then, you didn’t show up after my father disappeared, either, and you’d become bosom buddies with him.”

He didn’t offer her a sarcastic reply, which she might have expected. He didn’t even remind her that she had asked him to leave Seafire Isle.

He just shook his head, taking a long swallow of beer. “I didn’t get your letter for nearly a year after your dad disappeared,” he told her. His voice seemed a little husky.

The beer, she thought.

“I was down in the Everglades on a sting operation when it came.”

“Well, that would have been years ago now. Are you always so quick with your correspondence?”

“A neighbor was picking up my mail. The letter wound up on her counter, then fell behind her stove, and she finally found it over a year later, and by then…” He shrugged.

It sounded like one of the worst stories Sam had heard in her life but, oddly enough, she believed him. Not because the story was believable, but because of the way he told it.

“She was picking up your mail, huh?” Sam murmured.

“She was sixty-six. I don’t think there was any ulterior motive behind the accident. If you’d really wanted me, you could have called.”

“It’s difficult to call someone who has ignored your rather desperate appeal for help.”

“You know damned well I would have done anything I could to help your father.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to feel like such a fool for attempting to reach you last year when Hank disappeared. But what happened then? Was your neighbor collecting your mail again?”

His glare assured her that he didn’t find her amusing. He shook his head, lifting the beer, taking another long swallow. Then he looked at her, his eyes silver and very sharp. “I was out of the country last year, working for private concerns. My mail was all held at the South Miami post office—feel free to check on that.”

“Oh.”

He exhaled in exasperation. “I was in Africa, river diving for industrial diamonds.”

“I didn’t ask you for a detailed explanation.”

“You don’t seem willing to believe one, either.”

She shrugged. “So what are you doing here now?”

Once again he lifted his shoulders, and she knew she was going to receive an evasive reply. But he suddenly stared directly at her. “Unusual things have been happening in this area with some frequency.”

“My father disappeared, Hank disappeared. Other than that, not a damned thing besides your run-in with the drug dealers years ago has happened here.”

He arched a brow. “Nothing unusual has happened? What about just now? Or was that your usual evening? Were you just indulging in some kind of kinky sex in there tonight? Should I have kept out of it?”

Sam refused to dignify that with an answer. She walked across the room to the treasure map, studying it as she spoke. “I haven’t had the first unusual thing happen here—until your arrival.”

“Your father’s disappearance wasn’t unusual?”

She spun on him, fighting a wild tug-of-war to keep her emotions under control. She had loved her father. She’d never even known her mother; Justin had been all she’d had. And he had made her the center of his universe. When he had first disappeared, she had refused to believe it, yet as the days went by and no sign of him was found, she had known that he was dead. He would never have stayed away from her if there had been a breath of life left in him.