“Well,” he said, happily warming to his topic, “last week you mentioned that you’d scheduled some vacation time to work on your home. I was hoping you’d set aside one of those days for me. Even a few hours would be wonderful.”
Lindsay waited through his chuckle.
“I don’t mean to be unkind,” he went on, “but my predecessor’s tastes were a bit pedestrian. How would you like to help me plan a store layout with a little more panache? Possibly help me move some books around and collaborate on a window display? It would give us time to get better acquainted, and later, I’d be delighted to take you to dinner at any place you name.”
“Sure,” she replied, wishing the prospect excited her more—and knowing where to place the blame for that, too. “When would you like to do it? I work tomorrow—Friday—then I’m free for two weeks.”
“A week from Sunday? I’m anxious to begin, but I’d rather not be all torn up during the week, especially since I just opened, and I’m closed on Sundays anyhow. Besides, waiting would give me time to make some of the preliminary moves. Would that work for you?”
Lindsay mustered some enthusiasm for him. “Next Sunday will be fine. By then, I’ll probably be glad to leave the sandpaper and varnish behind.”
But as she hung up a few minutes later, a hollow spot opened in her chest as she recalled something Ike had said when they’d just begun dating…when their hormones were in overdrive and she’d felt her pulse race just hearing his voice. When she’d asked him what was up, Ike had answered very differently.
“What’s up?” he’d murmured, making her knees go weak and her tummy float. “My temperature, thinking about you. When can I see you again?”
Sighing, determined to put Ike and the evening’s events out of her mind, Lindsay prepared to leave the room. Then her gaze caught the family photo of herself, Ricky and their mother atop her computer hutch. It had been taken two years after her father’s death, when she was sixteen and Ricky was eleven. Her heart lurched painfully as she reached for the beloved photograph.
What a darling little boy he’d been—her parents’ miracle child after doctors had informed her mom and dad that there would be no more babies. Then Ricky had shown up, all pink and wrinkled, and the three of them had showered him with love—especially Lindsay. She was his big sister, his doting protector. Then one afternoon as her dad was driving Ricky to a Little League game, a drunk driver hit their car head-on, and in an instant, Richard Hollis was gone. Her father’s death had devastated the whole family, especially nine-year-old Ricky, who was left with a pile of survivor’s guilt. After that, he’d struggled to find his place in the world.
Lindsay stroked her baby brother’s face through the glass, tears filling her eyes again, feeling the pain and helplessness again. Feeling the big-sisterly guilt. She’d failed Ricky, too. She’d promised to take care of him, and she hadn’t.
Releasing a trembling breath, she replaced the photograph and wiped her eyes before the tears could gain a foothold. Ike was right. They needed to know if Ricky’s death was connected to yesterday’s shooting. They needed to know if it was a random act of violence, or a cold, calculated murder.
Ten minutes later, she’d changed into faded jeans and a navy sweatshirt, and was striding down the dark, sloping road toward the harbor. Krafty Millie’s Café came into view first, the white-sided building brightly lit. Music and chatter filtered into the night as patrons left through the plate glass door and walked to their cars…and next door, sharing the same spacious parking lot, The Spindrifter Motel’s flashing neon sign said they had a vacancy.
Lindsay’s heartbeat quickened. Ike’s black Explorer was parked outside a room where light seeped under the closed drapes on the wide window, and a porch light attracted a squadron of moths. It was the only room near his SUV that appeared to be occupied.
Inhaling deeply, she crossed the gritty asphalt lot, walked up to the door and shooed away a few little fliers.
Suddenly it flew open, and she was tugged, gasping, inside.
“Sorry if I startled you,” Ike grumbled, quickly shutting the door and flicking the wall switch beside it. “I heard you walk up, and I’d rather the moths found another place to crash for the night. I should’ve turned off the porch light earlier.”
“No problem,” she said shakily. Her hand tingled from his touch, disturbing little sparks zipping up her arm. That tingling quickly moved to other places when she focused on his face and realized he’d just showered. His hair was wet, and the fresh hunter-green shirt he’d pulled on hung open, showing a tapering mat of chest hair. For a second her gaze followed that soft hairy trail downward where it disappeared behind the brass button on his jeans, then she jerked her attention back up to his face.
A heady awareness flowed between them, and in that moment of silent appraisal, Lindsay knew she shouldn’t have come. The earthy chemistry they’d never been able to ignore was revving up again, bumping her nerve endings. Giving her tightening stomach ideas. And the close, heavy humidity from his shower wasn’t helping.
She glanced away as he buttoned his shirt, taking in the generic decor, flickering television screen and the nautical prints on the walls.
“I hope you’re here to say you’ve changed your mind,” Ike said. There was a white towel slung over his shoulder. Taking it off, he tossed it on the back of the only chair in the room. The seat held his duffel bag, a bulging file folder and the black valise containing his laptop, one of the tools of the trade that was always at his fingertips.
On the rare occasions that he wasn’t chasing a bail jumper or doing legwork for a Portland private investigator, he was tracing skips online. He’d once joked that he could work naked from their bed. All he needed was a phone and an Internet connection.
“I’m not happy about it,” Lindsay replied, “but yes, I’ve changed my mind. You were right. If someone arranged for Ricky’s death, that person has to pay.”
She met his brown eyes and felt the old pull, the old magnetism, the overwhelming need to step into his arms. But those days were over. She cleared her throat. “None of this is going to be easy. My mother’s still bitter.”
“That was obvious when I saw her tonight.” Ike walked to the complimentary coffeemaker on the dresser and picked through the plastic container filled with tea bags and packets. “Actually, I’m amazed that she didn’t phone to let you know I was on my way.” He glanced back at her. “Or did she reach you?”
There wasn’t much point in telling him about the phone being off the hook. That wasn’t important now. “I spoke to her after you left.”
“Did you get her consent for the search?”
“No, but I asked her to dinner tomorrow night. I’ll bring it up then.”
“Lindsay, the longer we wait—”
“I can’t just drop this in her lap, Ike.”
He seemed to think about that for a moment, then replied soberly, “You’re right. Besides, she wouldn’t have been very receptive tonight.”
Or any night, Lindsay thought, feeling a stab of regret. Not if the night had anything to do with Ike. Once her mom had liked him—rather, she’d liked him as much as she liked anyone who came between her and her children, which wasn’t saying a lot. Since her dad’s fatal accident, her mother had become clinging and needy. Though Arlene Hollis had owned a successful seamstress business, she’d never worked outside their home, so she’d never cultivated a lot of friends. Her life had always revolved around her family. Now their numbers had shrunk to two, and with Ricky’s passing, the survivor’s guilt he’d carried had landed squarely on Lindsay’s shoulders.
Meeting her gaze again, Ike picked up the carafe and nodded toward the two beds. “Have a seat. I was about to make coffee.