Oleander branches, thick with blossoms, brushed the car as Sarah pulled up to the guesthouse. The architect had given up on antebellum design here—the cottage was a typical Low Country beach house. Its wide windows had shutters that could be closed against a storm. Between it and the main house, a turquoise swimming pool glowed with underwater lights.
Jonathan heaved her bags from the car. “You feel free to use the pool anytime you want. That’s what it’s there for.”
Sarah followed as he unlocked the front door and switched on lights.
“I’ll just put these in the master bedroom. You make yourself at home. You ought to find everything ready.”
Sarah dropped her shoulder bag on a glass-topped coffee table. Pale cream walls, pale beige Berber carpeting, glass everywhere. The bright cushions on the white wicker furniture were the only splash of color, other than the seascapes on the walls. A living room with dining area, tiny kitchen, two bedrooms, two baths…This little retreat for extra guests was more than comfortable.
Sarah glanced out toward the pool, remembering how it had looked a year ago at Adriana’s party. Twinkling white lights had festooned the trees. Everywhere there had been flowers, music, laughter, the clink of china. All of island society had been there. The heavy scent of magnolias in an isolated corner of the garden filled her mind.
No. She wasn’t going to remember.
Jonathan came back, handing her the key. “Come up to breakfast anytime you like.” His black eyes warmed with sympathy. “Honey, you look plain exhausted. Tomorrow we’ll talk about your problem with Trent. Okay?”
Sarah nodded, her throat tightening at his kindness. “I’ll do that. Jonathan, I can’t thank you enough…”
“Don’t.” Something she couldn’t read moved in his eyes. “I’m not sure we’re doing you a favor.” He kissed her cheek lightly. “Good night.”
Jonathan’s advice was good, but Sarah wasn’t sure how to follow it. Once ready for bed, she couldn’t settle. She turned down the peach spread on the king-size bed, fluffed the pillows, switched on the bedside lamp. Still she felt restless, uneasy, physically and emotionally exhausted but unable to rest.
Finally she wandered into the kitchen, switching on the light. The tea canister was stocked with herbals, so she filled a mug and popped it in the microwave.
A dose of chamomile tea, to be taken at bedtime. Her grandmother used to recite the line from Peter Rabbit whenever Sarah, visiting her at the big house on Beacon Hill, struggled to get to sleep.
Something rattled over the soft hum of the microwave. Sarah paused, spoon in hand. What was it? Something inside the cottage, or out? She listened.
Somewhere an owl called. Beyond the owl she could just make out the muffled murmur of the surf. The main house was between her and the ocean, but that must be what she’d heard.
When she and Miles first arrived on St. James, she’d wake up sometimes, tense, listening, and then realize that it was the quiet that had wakened her.
The water boiled. Sarah added the tea bag and a little sugar. When she lifted the mug to her lips, the aroma of the chamomile teased her nose, reminding her of home. Reminding her how far away, how alien, this place was.
Nonsense. Only tiredness made her think that. In the morning, her prospects would look better. She’d have to reassess her plans. She’d hoped that Trent would be, if not happy to see her, at least cooperative.
He must have had some reason for accepting so readily the idea that Lynette and Miles were lovers. Had there been something Lynette said or did that convinced him she was having an affair? If so, he clearly didn’t intend to tell her.
On to Plan B. She’d talk to Adriana to get the local gossip.
Then there was Trent’s half brother. Derek had always been kind, and always less afraid, less in awe, of Trent than everyone else. The difficult part might be getting to him without letting Trent know it, but she’d manage.
And she had to see the police reports. Her parents were right; she’d run away too quickly. She hadn’t the faintest idea how thorough the investigation had been. Surely there were other people she could talk to, other avenues she could explore.
Sarah put the mug down, realizing she’d been standing there, staring blankly at the black rectangle of the window. Thinking about what she had to do wasn’t making her more relaxed, it was making her tenser.
The sound again. Sarah froze. That hadn’t been the distant rumble of the surf. That gentle rattle…she knew what it was. Something, perhaps an unwary step, had rattled the crushed shell that surrounded the guest house. The hairs lifted along her arms as if a chill wind had blown into the room.
Animal? Human? No one should be outside the guesthouse with the elaborate security Jonathan had installed. It must be an animal. She was letting stress fuel her imagination.
She switched off the light, ears straining. Nothing. Darkness pressed against the window glass, seeming as palpable as a hand, but there was nothing else. She was being ridiculous.
A footstep. Just outside the window a step fell on the tabby walk. Something, maybe a hand, maybe a sleeve, brushed the wall inches away from her.
THREE
Stifling a gasp, Sarah slipped away from the window. No one should be out there. If Jonathan had returned, he’d knock on the door. She moved, step by careful step, out of the kitchen, trying to think where the telephone was. Maybe she was overreacting, but she’d rather be safe than sorry.
Her pulse jolted. She hadn’t noticed whether Jonathan had locked the door when he’d left.
Please, Lord. I’m probably being ridiculous, but be with me.
Heart thudding in time with the prayer, she started across the darkened living room. Maybe there was no reason to fear, but she’d still make sure the door was locked before whoever was outside could reach it. She strained for the faintest sound that would tell her where that person was.
Shadows distorted the furniture. There’d been a glass-topped coffee table, hadn’t there, somewhere between the kitchen and the entrance?
Her shin cracked against the table, and her breath caught at the pain. All right. A few feet more to the door. Arms outreached, she touched a panel just as she heard the telltale crunch of shells outside. Her fingertips brushed a dangling chain. She caught it, snapped it into place.
She stood for a moment, hand on the door, listening. Nothing. The pounding of her heart slowed. She was locked in. Now find the phone, call the main house.
Back across the living room, bumping into the table once more. The phone must be in the master bedroom. Why didn’t she remember?
She paused in the door to the bedroom. Naturally she’d left the light on here, and the drapes were open. The lamp was on the bedside table.
And there sat the telephone, also on the bedside table. She had no choice but to cross the room, in full view of anyone standing outside, to reach the phone.
Quickly, before she could think too much, she raced to the table, snapped off the light and sank to the floor in blessed darkness, pulling the telephone down with her. The lighted receiver listed the house code. She punched the button.
“Hello? Sarah?” Thank goodness Jonathan picked up.
Now that she heard his voice, she felt foolish.
“I heard someone outside the guesthouse just now. Should there be someone in the grounds?”
“Sugar, I should have told you a security patrol checks the grounds during the night.” His voice was warmly reassuring. “We’re pretty safe here on the island, but you never know. It must have been one of the