“Miles wouldn’t betray us,
betray you, that way.”

Something bleak closed over Trent’s anger, and he pushed Sarah’s hands away as if he couldn’t stand to touch her anymore. “If you think that, you’re even more naive than I thought you were. Anyone is capable of betrayal. Anyone.”

“Not Miles,” she insisted. “I don’t mean to hurt you. But I’m here, and I intend to stay until I find out the truth.”

His dark, winged eyebrows lifted slightly. “And if I tell you you’re not welcome here?”

“Then I’d say that you don’t own St. James Island. Not all of it, anyway.”

Something, perhaps faint, bitter amusement, crossed Trent’s face. He moved toward the door. “You may be surprised.”

“You can’t force me to leave.”

Trent pulled the door open, then paused, a dark silhouette against the rectangle of sunlight. “Goodbye, Sarah. I don’t expect I’ll see you again.”

MARTA PERRY

has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.

Marta loves hearing from readers and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, e-mail her at marta@martaperry.com, or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.

LAND’S END
MARTA PERRY

The Lord is my stronghold, my fortress and my champion, my God, my rock where I find safety, my shield, my mountain refuge, my strong tower.

—Psalms 18:2

This story is dedicated to Christine Teisher,

with much love. And, as always, to Brian.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

Years ago there had been no bridge to the island, and it had slept in haunted isolation. Now two lanes of concrete spanned the sound, carrying Sarah Wainwright quickly from the Georgia coast to St. James Island. Too quickly. She wasn’t ready.

Perspiration slickened her hands against the steering wheel. She couldn’t stop, couldn’t pull off, couldn’t turn around. The bridge funneled her inexorably to the one place in the world she didn’t want to be. The entire past year hadn’t been enough time to prepare herself for what awaited her on St. James.

The island appeared, a green, insubstantial smudge against a clear May sky, and Sarah’s stomach lurched. St. James—home to an uneasy, volatile mixture of local Gullah fishermen and the rich incomers who’d turned one end of the island into a private enclave for the wealthy and powerful.

St. James had been Sarah’s home, too, for six short months. Then betrayal and tragedy sent her fleeing back to her native Boston.

Fleeing unsuccessfully. She’d discovered, since the anniversary of Miles’s death in April, that she couldn’t outrun grief. It hung, persistent, on her heels, hampering her every step, demanding her constant attention. Demanding that she face it here, on St. James. Her stomach gave another protesting spasm as the car wheels rolled off the bridge and onto the island.

Live oaks, shrouded with Spanish moss, canopied the road. Sarah shivered in spite of the heat. Haunted.

I don’t believe in ghosts, Heavenly Father, but no other word fits.

St. James was haunted by its own past, and now haunted by her past, too, and that of the husband who’d died here—died in an apparent lovers’ tryst with his employer’s wife.

The lobby of the St. James Inn was shuttered and cool, its only inhabitant the manager, leaning on his desk. Sarah caught the expression of shock mingled with avid curiosity that crossed his face at the sight of her, quickly replaced by his professional welcoming smile.

“Dr. Wainwright. This is a pleasant surprise. We weren’t expecting you.” He glanced nervously at the desk computer and patted his thinning hair. “Were we?”

“No, you weren’t.” She’d known instinctively it would be a mistake to announce her coming.

She smiled, wishing she remembered the man’s name. It would give her a fraction more leverage. Obviously he remembered hers. The island had probably talked of little else for months.

“I’m sure you can find a room for me.” The inn mainly housed overflow guests from the big houses, and they both knew May wasn’t the high season.

“Why…um…” He punched a few keys on his computer, clearly hoping for inspiration. Sarah knew exactly what he was thinking. What would Trent Donner want him to do? “Does—does Mr. Donner know you’re coming?”

Nobody on St. James, conceivably nobody in Georgia, crossed Trent Donner with impunity. Sarah’s stomach lurched again. Sooner or later she’d have to face him. Was she a coward for hoping it would be later?

She managed a cool smile. “I thought I’d surprise him. I’ll go out to Land’s End tomorrow.”

Maybe it was the casual mention of the Donner estate. Something eased in the manager’s face. “Why don’t we give you the suite you had the last time you were here?”

A lady never shows her feelings in public.

Her grandmother’s maxim, drilled into Sarah from birth, stiffened her spine and kept a smile frozen on her face. Knowing what he must, how could the man assume she’d want the suite she’d shared with Miles when they’d first arrived on the island?

“That will be fine.”

She tried to put herself on autopilot to get through the next few minutes. Fill out the registration card, exchange comments about the weather. Follow the bellman, tip him, don’t think about staying here with Miles when they’d first arrived on the island.

Finally the door closed behind him, and she was alone in the quiet room with its cool white shutters, bamboo furniture and four-poster bed. Staying here was no worse than staying in any other room. No place on the island would be free of memories.

That was why she’d fled, wasn’t it? And that was why she’d come back.

Her parents hadn’t seemed surprised at Sarah’s abrupt decision to return to the place of Miles’s death. Duty loomed large in six generations of New England virtue, and they clearly felt Sarah had left duty unresolved, racing home the day after Miles’s death, hiding from reporters, evading even her friends.

But then, her parents had never believed Miles Wainwright could be guilty of betraying both his marriage and his employer by having an affair with his employer’s wife. Or by dying with her. Not Miles Wainwright, descendant of his own six generations’ worth of Puritan values.

She hadn’t believed it either, in spite of overwhelming evidence that Miles had, indeed, had an affair with Lynette Donner and died with her in a gas heater accident at the cottage where they’d met. She hadn’t believed, couldn’t believe, what Lynette’s husband so obviously did.

For weeks, maybe months, Sarah’s mind had winced every time it came too close to the thought of Miles and Lynette together. If she didn’t think about it, it didn’t happen.

Over time, the anguish and grief receded to a dull, hollow ache, only flaring painfully when unexpectedly jostled, like a deep wound beginning to skin over with tender, fragile flesh. Work had helped. She’d taken on emergency room duty at the hospital, grateful for the killing schedule that let her fall into bed, exhausted enough to sleep, every night.

Eventually she could actually look at the possibility of Miles’s betrayal for more than a moment at a time. Look at it, assess it, bring reason to bear.

And find that she still, more than a year after the fact, didn’t believe it. Miles—loyal, upright Miles—was not a man who’d betray his marriage and his employer. He wasn’t.

To the weight of her faith in Miles, Sarah added faith in her own perceptions. I couldn’t not have known that Miles was deceiving me, could I, Lord? If her perceptions were that skewed, the earth was no longer solid under her feet.

So she’d come back to St. James. Everyone—Lynette’s husband, the police, the coroner—everyone was wrong. Whatever Miles had been doing at Cat Isle that day with Lynette, he wasn’t having an affair. Somewhere on St. James there were answers, and this time she wouldn’t run away. This time she wouldn’t leave until she found them.

A knock shattered the stillness. The manager, having forgotten something in his nervous haste? She smoothed her linen slacks, wrinkled from travel, and opened the door. And confronted Trent Donner, filling the doorway with well over six feet of fury, all of it radiating directly at her.

“What are you doing here?” He surged inside on the words. Sarah stumbled back a step or two, heart hammering against her ribs. Trying to keep him out would be as futile as trying to stop the tide.

“The manager called you,” she stated flatly.

She should have known he would do that. She should have been prepared, instead of standing here with her mouth dry from shock. She’d forgotten the aura of power Trent brought with him into a room, as if everyone and everything rotated around him.

“Of course.” Trent dismissed the man with a negligent gesture.

Sarah found her temper at the unconscious arrogance of the man. Good. One always needed an edge in dealing with Trent Donner, and anger seemed to be the only edge she had.

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” Answer a question with a question. Catch your breath. Slow your pounding heart.

“I’d think that would be obvious.” Trent’s voice was hard, incisive, with an edge of mockery. He took a swift step forward, and the afternoon sun crossed his face, lighting the harsh angles of cheekbone and jaw.

Sarah drew in a breath. The last time she’d seen him, it had been across two motionless bodies and the wreckage of too many lives. His normally impassive face had been etched with pain, grief and a kind of hopeless rage.

Now the lines seemed permanently engraved, turning the strong planes of his face into a marble mask. Only his clear gray eyes were alive, blazing with feeling. With fury. Her heart jolted, sickeningly. She was trapped by his presence.

“I didn’t…”

Sarah heard a faint waver in her voice, stopped and swallowed. She could face drug overdoses and multiple fatalities in the E.R. She could face him.

“I’m sorry if my being here upsets you, but I do have ties here.” She forced herself to meet his fierce gaze calmly. “My husband died here.”

“I hardly need a reminder of that.” His voice, normally deep, roughened and deepened still further. Shared pain flicked past the anger Sarah held like a shield, catching her on the raw.

That elemental pain must be the only thing they shared. She wanted, suddenly, to comfort him, and knew in the same instant that she was the one person who never could.

Perhaps he saw her wince, perhaps he only heard the revelation in his own voice. He paused, another feeling quarreling with the anger.

“I’m sorry.” He brushed a strand of black hair from his forehead with a swift, economical movement, and she saw that his hair was touched now with white at both temples. The year had aged him, as it had her. “I’ve never had much in the way of manners.” His mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “I’m forgetting myself. How are you, Sarah?”

The reluctant concern in his voice disarmed her, touching something that seemed to reverberate to the timbre of his voice.

“I’m…all right. I went back to work. That helped.”

“At Boston General?”

She nodded, vaguely surprised that he remembered the name of the hospital where she’d interned before she’d moved south and married Miles. But Trent had always had an encyclopedic memory, as well as an unerring ability to rearrange odd pieces in unexpected ways. That gift that had fascinated Miles’s more prosaic intelligence.

“How is Melissa?” His daughter would be twelve now, a crucial age for a girl. How had she coped with the tragedy?

Trent’s face tightened, if marble conceivably could. He’d never looked his nearly forty years, until bitterness and grief etched their mark on him. “She’s all right.”

The shortness of his answer told Sarah Melissa was not all right, and fresh pain gripped her heart. Poor child. She’d had problems enough before tragedy had shattered all their worlds.

Well, little though she’d wanted to see Trent today, he’d given her the opportunity to get on with what she had to do. “I’d like to see her…”

“No!” Trent’s eyes blazed, and her heart lurched into over-drive. She’d always felt something wild lurked under that expensively tailored gray business suit, and now it seemed about to surface.

“Trent, just hear me out.” What could she say that would make him listen?

“I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter.” A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth and was ruthlessly stilled. “I don’t want you anywhere on St. James at all.”

The momentary truce was over, the brief span of shared emotion banished. Sarah stopped attempting to control her anger. When Trent had been Miles’s employer, she’d had to be polite to him. That constraint didn’t exist anymore.

“Or anywhere in Georgia? I’m not sure my whereabouts is your concern.”

“It is when it affects me. When it affects my daughter.” The words shot at her like bullets. His hands knotted into fists and then unwound with what appeared a superhuman effort.

“Don’t you think I’m affected by being here?” Hurt edged her voice. “I had to come.”

He shook his head, as if to clear it. “I know you’re as much a victim of what happened as we are.” He clearly tried hard for a reasonable tone. “I’m sorry for you. But your being here will only stir up things that are better left buried.”

“Better for whom? Not better for me!” If only she could make him see. “Don’t you understand? I’ve spent a year trying to bury the past. It can’t be done. I can’t leave it alone until I know what really happened.”

For the space of a heartbeat the words hung in silence between them. Then Trent made a sudden, violent motion that sent Sarah back a step.

“Is that what this is all about?” His hands shot out to grasp her wrists, and he looked as if he’d rather have them around her throat. “You want to dig it all up again, make us relive it. For what? So you can satisfy that strict Puritan conscience of yours? That’s it, isn’t it? You have to prove to yourself that you’re not to blame.”

“No!” Sarah felt her pulse pound against the warm hard grip of his hands. He was too close. She was suffocating, as if his pain and anger drew all the air out of the room. “This isn’t for me. This is for Miles. I don’t believe it. I’ve tried, and I can’t believe it.”

“Try harder.” Eyes blazing, he thrust his hard face toward her. “It happened.”

Sarah had a sudden vivid image of a wolf, eyes gleaming, closing on its prey. People said Trent Donner never forgot and never forgave. She could believe it.

“No.” Stubbornness seemed her only refuge against his intensity. “Miles wouldn’t betray us, betray you, that way.”

Something bleak closed over Trent’s anger, and he pushed her hands away as if he couldn’t stand to touch her anymore. “If you think that, you’re even more naive than I thought you were. Anyone is capable of betrayal. Anyone.”

Sarah rubbed her arms, chilled in spite of the sunlight slanting through the open windows. She hadn’t prepared enough, obviously, for Trent’s reaction to what she intended to do. Maybe because she tried so hard not to think of him at all.

“Not Miles,” she insisted. “I don’t mean to hurt you, or Melissa. But I’m here, and I intend to stay until I find out the truth.”

His dark, winged eyebrows lifted slightly. “And if I tell you you’re not welcome here?”

“Then I’d say that you don’t own St. James Island. Not all of it, anyway.”

Something, perhaps faint, bitter amusement, crossed Trent’s face. He moved toward the door. “You may be surprised.”

“You can’t force me to leave.”

Trent pulled the door open, then paused, a dark silhouette against the rectangle of sunlight. “Goodbye, Sarah. I don’t expect I’ll see you again.”

Trent hadn’t taken more than a few steps from Sarah’s room when he spotted Ed Farrell lounging on the patio, probably within earshot of the open windows. Plant security wouldn’t have sent Farrell to serve as Trent’s driver-cum-bodyguard unless he’d passed all their stringent tests, but the man still annoyed him. Farrell’s curiosity grated on Trent’s nerves in much the same way his harsh New Jersey accent grated on his ears.

“Bring the car around. I’m going home.”

“Yes, suh.”

One of Farrell’s more annoying habits was this attempt to assume a Southern drawl. Maybe he thought the drawl, the paunch and the sunglasses made him into the media version of a redneck cop. It didn’t.

“And in future, stay with the car unless I tell you otherwise.”

Farrell’s stolid face showed no emotion except mild stubbornness. “It’s my job to protect you.”

“I’m in no danger from Dr. Wainwright.”

No physical danger, anyway. He stalked toward the car, ignoring Farrell’s quick dance to get there first and open the door.

Small, slender, blond, Sarah looked as fragile as a piece of fine china. When he’d grasped her wrists, his fingers had entirely encircled them—like holding a child’s small bones within his grasp.

He slid into the car. Nothing else about her was childlike, however. Not the warm, peaches-and-cream glow of her skin. Or that steel structure she called backbone.

Sarah Wainwright reminded him of someone, and for a moment he couldn’t think who. Not Lynette. That was certain. His hand tightened into a fist, and he deliberately relaxed it. Lynette had been all fireworks and talent and temperament.

Contained, self-possessed Sarah, with her single-minded devotion to medicine, was not remotely like Lynette. He’d been alternately annoyed and amused by Sarah once.

His head moved restlessly against smooth gray leather as the car took the winding, narrow road to Land’s End. Amused. Annoyed. Attracted. The word gave a bitter edge to his thoughts. He’d never have acted on that feeling, of course. Unlike Lynette.

He’d handled the news of Sarah’s presence badly. If he hadn’t already been beat from three days’ worth of meetings in San Francisco followed by the red-eye back to Savannah, he might have coped more rationally. He’d called the house to check his messages, intercepted the news that she was at the inn and barged in without thinking.

Once he was in the room with her, it was too late to think. The complex feelings she sparked in him hadn’t left space for thought. It hadn’t seemed the time for civilized niceties, but a few of those might have gotten him further.

Or maybe he shouldn’t have gone near Sarah at all. He could have let Derek handle the situation. His half brother’s easy charm had smoothed difficult patches more than once.

The car rolled past the security gate, one of those unfortunate necessities of life for corporate heads. He might be willing to take chances with himself, but he wouldn’t take chances with Melissa.

His heart clenched at the thought of his daughter. Sarah posed no physical danger, but her very presence on the island was still a threat. A threat that would have to be dealt with.

He got out of the car onto the shell-encrusted drive, suddenly realizing who Sarah reminded him of. His grandmother. Just as tiny, just as iron-willed, she’d immigrated from Ireland, headed for New York and ended up, most improbably, the wife of a dirt-poor shrimper on the Georgia sea islands.

Sarah, with generations of New England upper-crust breeding behind her, probably wouldn’t appreciate the comparison. But Mary Elizabeth O’Neill Donner had had backbone, too. Once she’d made up her mind to do something, she never turned back.

Trent paused for a moment on the veranda, letting the breeze that accompanied the rising tide cool his face. His pulse slowed in rhythm with the roll of the breakers and the undulating wave of the sea oats on the dunes.

The house he’d worked with the architect to design spread accommodatingly on a narrow strip of land between ocean and salt marsh, its pale yellow, shallow wings built in true Low Country style to catch every breeze. He’d been happy here once. Maybe he could be again.

But not until he got rid of Sarah Wainwright.

Geneva Robinson waited in the foyer, ready to take his briefcase and hand him an iced glass of her raspberry tea.

“Did you have a good trip this time?” The housekeeper’s voice retained the melodic, singsong cadence of Gullah, the language born on the vast rice plantations that once covered the Low Country.

“So-so.” Trent shrugged out of his jacket, stretching. He’d probably sleep better tonight if he took one of the boats out. Get the smell of cities and airplanes out of his lungs and replace it with the lush, fecund aroma of the salt marsh. “Is my brother here?”

Geneva shook her head. “Mr. Derek hasn’t come in yet.”

She called him Trent when they were alone, but his brother was always Mr. Derek. He’d never known why. “What about Melissa?”

“In her room.” Geneva’s smile faltered, and he saw the worry in her eyes. “That child’s hardly been out of her room since you left. I tried to get her to call her friends, but she wouldn’t.”

The burden of Melissa’s unhappiness settled over his shoulders, weighing him down like a hot, humid Georgia day. “I’ll see what I can do.” They both knew he could probably do very little, but he had to try. Had to pretend his being here might make a difference.

He took the wide, shallow staircase two steps at a time. Music boomed from behind the closed door of Melissa’s room, rattling the panels. Trent grimaced. If he could understand the words, he’d probably be appalled. He tapped twice, then opened the door. “Melissa?”

His daughter shot bolt upright on the bed, swinging a startled, angry face toward him. “Can’t you knock?”

If he took issue with every rude thing she said these days, they’d never talk at all. “I did.” He felt as if he mouthed the words. He gestured toward the speakers. “Will you turn that down, please?”

Melissa snapped the switch and silence fell. Trent’s eardrums still throbbed. Now was probably not the time to discuss hearing loss.

“What have you been up to while I was gone?” He hated his inability to carry on a simple conversation with this child he loved and didn’t understand.

“Nothing.” Melissa crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “School’s out. You’re not supposed to have to do stuff when you’re on vacation.”

“See any of your friends lately?” Every interaction with Melissa turned into a game of Twenty Questions.

She shrugged, a curtain of brown hair swinging forward to hide her face. It was becoming a characteristic posture. “No.”

“Wouldn’t you like to invite some of the girls from school over?” He hated the desperate note in his voice.

“I just want to be by myself. Okay?” She did look up then, hazel eyes darkening. She glared pointedly at the door.

He valued privacy himself too highly to argue. “No, I guess not.” He said it quietly, because the only other choice was to shout, and shouting just drove Melissa deeper into the shell she’d constructed around herself, like a conch hiding in its beautiful labyrinth. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He closed the door and stood for a moment, hand resting on its panel as lightly as if he touched his daughter. He’d like to believe this was normal behavior for a twelve-year-old, but he couldn’t. How much damage had they done, he and Lynette, to the child they’d created? How much more waited for her?

He straightened, hand dropping from the door. Sarah Wainwright might not intend harm to Melissa, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t cause it. And that was something he intended to prevent. No matter what he had to do.

Sarah lay across the bed, staring at the shadows cast by the lazy revolving of the ceiling fan. Images flickered in the shadows. Miles’s face, glowing with excitement when he told her about the offer to become second in command of Donner’s conglomerate of software and engineering companies.

“I owe it all to you, Sarah. If you hadn’t pushed me to blow the whistle on the scam in the Atlanta office, Donner would never even have remembered my name.”

She’d been surprised that she’d had to push. Even if the rot at Donner Enterprises had gone all the way to Donner himself, exposing it had been the right thing to do.

Miles had seen that, once she pointed it out. Donner hadn’t been involved, and his appreciation of Miles’s integrity had taken a tangible form.

Brilliant, creative, iconoclastic…Every word applied to Trent Donner was a superlative. Trent had risen from poverty to parlay a shoestring operation into a multimillion-dollar empire. Miles’s appointment as his assistant had been a plum, but it had meant a move to the isolated, moneyed environs of St. James. Trent preferred to run his empire from the island, flying—as need took him—to Atlanta or Singapore. His assistant had to be on call twenty-four hours a day.

Of course she’d been happy for Miles, but moving meant leaving behind her position at the pediatric clinic in Atlanta. Where was she going to practice medicine on St. James?

That had worked out, after a fashion. She’d found an emergency room position at a hospital in Savannah, the closest city. It was only part-time, but before she had time to grow restless, she’d discovered another opportunity, right on St. James. The island had been without a clinic of its own.

The wealthy, in their private compounds, didn’t need one, but the several hundred native sea islanders, clinging to their Gullah culture while coping with the influx of outsiders, did. She’d never been able to see a problem without feeling it her duty to solve it.

Trent had been the obvious choice to put money behind her idea. She’d begun to enjoy her clashes with him on the subject, and he’d finally donated the building so they could start the clinic. And then after six short months, their world exploded.

Trent’s embittered face formed against the shadows. Did the pain show as clearly on her face as it did on his? A man who hated to show his feelings, he must despise every line, resent it every time he looked into a mirror.

Unbidden, another image of Trent’s face sprang into her mind. His eyes glowing with laughter, then surprised by attraction, silhouetted against the dark green shadows of a garden. They’d sensed the feeling at the same moment, recognized it in each other. And turned away, as guilty as if they’d acted on the impulse.

No. Sarah slammed the door of her mind on that memory. She had to concentrate on the mission that had brought her here.

The truth about Miles and Lynette is buried on St. James, Father. You’ve brought me back, and I won’t leave until I find it.

TWO

Sarah paused in the entrance to the inn’s dining room. After a quick, quiet meal, she’d tumble into bed. Tomorrow she’d figure out what her first step had to be, now that Trent had made it clear she could expect nothing from him. Thank goodness the dining room, like the lobby earlier, was nearly deserted.

Not quite. She saw the couple at the table by the window, heart sinking. What perverse luck had led her into a meeting with Trent’s closest neighbors? It was too late to retreat. Jonathan Lee was already on his feet and coming toward her.

“Sarah Wainwright! We didn’t know you were back on the island. It’s good to see you, honey.” Jonathan took her hands and kissed her cheek.

Was it good to see her? She had no idea where the Lees stood in relation to respecting Trent’s wishes that she leave.

“I just arrived. It’s good to see you, too. And Adriana.” She smiled at Jonathan’s wife, who hadn’t left her chair.

Jonathan drew back and studied her, his round, merry face, like a sophisticated faun’s, growing solemn. “It doesn’t look as if being back agrees with you.”

Sarah shrugged, not sure how much his perceptive, sometimes malicious, black eyes picked up. “Mixed feelings, I suppose. Please greet Adriana for me.”

She tried to disengage herself, but Jonathan had a firm grip on her hand. “Tell her yourself. Have dinner with us.”

If she tried to make polite conversation, she’d probably fall asleep in her dinner plate. “Another time.”

Jonathan shook his head. “You can’t eat alone your first night back. Besides, Adriana’s dying to talk with you.”

Sarah was swept to their table on the tide of that Southern charm Jonathan dispensed with such enthusiasm. He played the role of Southern gentleman with so much flair, one could never quite tell if it was real or exaggerated.

The waiter produced another chair, and she ordered the first special he mentioned, trying to organize her thoughts. This meeting had fallen into her lap. If anyone knew what had gone on with Trent after she’d left the island, the Lees did. She’d better shake off her fatigue and use this opportunity.

She glanced up to find herself the target of two pairs of eyes, Jonathan’s brightly curious, Adriana’s bored. At least she supposed it was boredom. Adriana was always perfectly made-up, her dark hair swept back from her strong-featured face, her clothing a perfect example of retrained elegance.

Jonathan leaned toward her, pixie face warm. He must be a good ten years older than Trent, but he had a perennially youthful air. His interest in everything about everyone balanced Adriana’s coolness.

“Has it been a bad year?” He grimaced. “Of course it has. Scratch that question, sugar. Tell us what you’ve been doing.”

An account of her recent life shouldn’t have lasted through the serving of the she-crab soup, but Jonathan managed to spin it out through the main course with questions and comments.

Sarah was still wondering how she could tactfully introduce the subject she wanted when the talk turned to island society, and Jonathan said Lynette’s name at last.

“Everyone misses Lynette.” Adriana’s spoon chinked against the china cup. Candlelight cast shadows across her face. “I’m not sure I even want to have our party this year.”

“Of course we will.” Was that an edge in Jonathan’s voice? His black eyes bored into his wife, and Sarah had a sense of meaning under the words. “Our party always kicks off the summer. Everyone will be disappointed if we cancel.”

“Not everyone.” Adriana toyed with her spoon. “Trent’s turned into such a recluse, he probably won’t come anyway.”

“A recluse?” Adriana’s comment seemed to bring Trent’s frowning presence to the table.

Jonathan’s eyes darkened. “I wouldn’t call it that. After what happened, naturally he didn’t go out much.”

“I hear he’s neglecting the business.” Adriana’s brows lifted. “Escaping on his boat and letting his brother run things.”

“I’m sure Derek’s not taking on anything important,” Jonathan said. “He’s not a heavyweight at business.”

Adriana shrugged, dismissing Trent’s brother. “The way Trent’s acting, anyone would think he and Lynette had been devoted to each other, instead of fighting all the time.”

“I hadn’t realized they were having problems.” She’d seldom seen Trent and Lynette, but she’d been busy with her work. Or maybe she hadn’t cared enough.

“I don’t suppose you knew Lynette well.” Adriana’s tone implied that Lynette would hardly have chosen her for a friend.

“No, I didn’t. But obviously people think my husband did.” Sarah put the blunt statement out and waited for a response.

Jonathan shook his head, looking shocked at her frankness. “I’m sure no one believes—”

“Don’t be stupid, Jonathan.” Adriana sounded scornful. “That’s what everyone thinks. What other explanation is there?”

Adriana didn’t care whether she hurt your feelings, but she was privy to gossip that Sarah would never hear. Gossip that she now needed to hear if she wanted to uncover the truth.

“Did people suspect they were involved before the accident, or just afterward?” She ignored the pain.

“Well, I heard—”

Jonathan’s hand closed over his wife’s. “Please, Adriana. Let’s not repeat gossip. It can only be hurtful.”

“I’d rather hear it than wonder what people are saying behind my back.”

He shook his head, and under the sympathy in his face she saw determination. Jonathan didn’t want her to hear the talk. Was his concern based on his ideas of what constituted polite conversation, or was there really something out there he thought too painful for her to hear?

“Both you and Trent lost a great deal.” He patted her hand sympathetically. “Some things are better left unsaid.”

She didn’t agree, but she subsided. She’d probably pushed as much as she could for the moment.

At least she’d learned something. Jonathan wouldn’t talk, but Adriana would. She had to find a way of seeing her alone.

She slid her chair back. “Please excuse me. I’m afraid I’m exhausted from the trip. Maybe we can get together again soon.” She stood, looking at Adriana as she said the words, and thought she saw a flicker of understanding in her eyes.

“Oh, honey, of course.” Jonathan got up. “Don’t you forget now, we’re here if you need anything.”

Anything but the truth. Well, she could get around that. Trent might think he could stop her, but people would talk. No matter how painful, that was better than silence.

She walked into the lobby feeling more hopeful than she had an hour earlier. But it didn’t last. The lobby now held something that hadn’t been there before—her luggage stood forlornly against the desk.

The manager wore an expression of mixed embarrassment and determination. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wainwright. I’m afraid we have to ask you to vacate your room.”

Sarah stared at him, her mind as blank as she knew her face must be. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He shuffled a sheaf of computer printouts on the desktop. “This is very embarrassing.” He looked everywhere but at her. “The entire inn is booked for a business meeting.”

Cold rage stiffened her spine. “Let me guess. This business meeting…It wouldn’t be Donner Enterprises, would it?”

“There’ll be no charge for the room, of course, or for your dinner.” He attempted a smile, fastening his gaze somewhere over her head. “Maybe you’ll come back another time.”

“And if I did? Would you find the inn full again?”

For a moment his eyes met hers and he was a human being, instead of Trent Donner’s tool. “I’m sorry.” He spread his hands out helplessly. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“Sarah?”

She turned, realizing that Jonathan and Adriana had come out of the dining room. Jonathan stared at her bags.

“You’re not leaving already, are you? You just got here.”

“Not willingly. The manager has suddenly discovered that all the rooms have been booked by Trent’s company. In other words, Trent is having me evicted.”

She probably shouldn’t be so blunt. They were Trent’s friends. She couldn’t expect them to side with her.

Jonathan turned on the manager. “Dunphries, you can’t ask Dr. Wainwright to leave at this hour of the night.”

The man reddened. “I don’t have a choice.”

“You mean you’re afraid to make one.” Jonathan’s black eyes snapped. “Donner provides a lot of your business.”

“It’s not his fault.” She remembered Trent’s stinging accusation. “I was naive not to expect it. I’ll go elsewhere.”

The manager cleared his throat. “I understand Mr. Donner booked all the rooms on the island for this business meeting.”

She’d underestimated Trent. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. “It looks as if I’ll be sleeping on the beach tonight.”

“Don’t be silly.” Adriana’s entry into the conversation startled Sarah. “You can stay in our guesthouse.”

Sarah could only hope her mouth didn’t gape. Adriana had barely spoken two sentences to her in the time she’d been on the island. Why on earth was she extending an invitation now?

Jonathan smiled. “Of course. That’s the perfect solution.” He reached for Sarah’s bags. “Come on. You’re coming home with us.”

“Trent won’t be very happy with you.”

“It won’t hurt Trent not to get his own way for once.” Jonathan picked up her bags. “Our car’s out in the lot.”

She’d better stop protesting, or they might change their minds. “I have my car, so I’ll follow you.”

The manager sprang to open the lobby door for them, probably with a sigh of relief. She’d blame him, but she knew the power Trent wielded here. He was the one who deserved her anger, not people who depended on him for their livelihoods.

Adriana fell into step with Sarah. “Don’t worry about our relationship with Trent.” Her voice was cool and light, almost amused. “Your staying with us won’t make it any worse.”

That seemed fairly ambiguous. What was Adriana thinking? “It’s very kind of you.”

“Not at all.” That definitely was amusement in her tone. “Your presence might make life more…interesting.”

Interesting.

She weighed Adriana’s words later as she followed their car down the black, winding road. Streetlights were nonexistent on the island, and street signs rare. You either knew where you were going at night, or you got lost, just as she felt lost in the tangle of ambiguities and hidden meanings in nearly everything that had been said tonight.

What was Adriana up to? She hadn’t invited Sarah to stay based on her ideas of Southern hospitality. Still, staying with them should open some doors to her. Whatever Adriana’s motives, she had to be grateful for that.

He ought to feel pleased. The problem presented by Sarah Wainwright had been taken care of.

Trent leaned back in his leather desk chair, looking over the computer to the wide windows. A silvery moon rode low on the ocean, sending a path of light toward the shore.

He didn’t feel anything of the kind. He couldn’t rejoice that Sarah was ending an exhausting day by driving off the island to the nearest motel. She’d have to go all the way to the interstate to find one that wasn’t inexplicably full.

No, he wasn’t pleased, but he was satisfied. He’d done what he had to do. Some would say he’d been ruthless, but that was because he did what other people only thought about. Sarah Wainwright would not open up the busy lines of gossip again.

In the long run, he’d done her a favor. She’d have found more grief if she’d stayed here.

Faint music filtered through the study door he’d left ajar. Derek must be playing the piano in the living room, since Melissa had already gone up to her room. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad or not that Derek was at his suite of rooms here instead of at his waterfront apartment in Savannah.

Trent’s first instinct, after Lynette’s death, had been to have that grand piano of hers chopped into firewood. He hadn’t, of course. Melissa had her mother’s talent, and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive her of that solace.

Besides, he hadn’t wanted to do anything that might detract from the explanation he’d given for Lynette’s and Miles’s presence at the cottage together. He’d asked them to check out the cottage for possible expansion. That was what he’d told the police, the press, anyone else who dared ask. The police were satisfied that it was an unfortunate accident with the gas heater and only too glad to have a rational explanation for their presence. End of story.

Maybe people didn’t really believe that story, but they pretended they did. No one would dare suggest anything else in his hearing, or in Melissa’s. Or would they? He’d like to believe he’d protected his child from the speculation, but he’d never be sure.

He tilted his head back against cool leather, letting the music soothe his frazzled nerves. He’d done what he had to, all along the line. And if he spent sleepless nights raging at God over this betrayal—well, that was no one’s business but his.

Sarah thought there was another answer, but she was wrong. He’d accepted that, and she’d be better off if she did, too. Her face formed in his mind—the clear green eyes that weighed and assessed everything, the determined set to her mouth, that stubborn chin. Sarah wouldn’t give up easily.

That conviction ruffled his thoughts. He’d gotten her off the island. Word would get around that it wasn’t wise to talk with her, even if she came back. She hadn’t been here long enough to make many friends who’d help her—only the people she’d recruited to help at the fledgling clinic.

Derek had been as close to her as anyone. Maybe Trent had best close that gap.

He shoved back the chair and went down the flight of stairs from the loft to the living room. His half brother played with his eyes shut, lost in the music. With his features relaxed, he had a strong resemblance to their mother—the same curly brown hair and full lips. Music had been a bond between him and Lynette, one Trent had never shared.

“Derek.” He leaned against the piano. It was a piece of furniture, nothing else. He could stand here without remembering the hours Lynette had spent playing it.

Derek played a final chord and then glanced at him, eyes curious. “What’s up?”

“Did you hear that Sarah Wainwright was on the island?”

Derek whistled softly. “No. Why would she come back?”

“She has some crazy idea that Miles and Lynette couldn’t have been involved.” He hated the words. They tasted of betrayal. “She wanted my help to prove it.”

Derek played a random chord or two. “You told her no.”

“Of course I told her no.” Irritation edged his voice. He shouldn’t have to explain that to Derek. “What did you think? That I’d welcome her and jump right into an investigation?”

“Guess not, when you put it that way. Still, you’ve got to feel sorry for the woman. She must be hurting.”

“Poking into the past isn’t going to heal that hurt.” He ought to know. “I’m doing her a favor by shutting her down before she starts.”

“She probably doesn’t see it that way.”

“Maybe not, but she doesn’t have a choice.”

“From what I remember about Sarah, I’d say she isn’t one to take no for an answer. Where is she staying?”

“Gone.” He clipped the word. “She was at the inn.”

Derek filled in the rest. “You sent her packing.”

“Yes.” She’d be gone by now. He ignored the faint trace of regret at the thought.

“Well, I guess that’s taken care of, then.” Derek lifted his brows, his brown eyes questioning. “Isn’t it?”

“You knew her as well as anyone. She might contact you.”

“And you want me to do what?”

“That should be obvious.” He suppressed a flicker of irritation. “Close her down.”

“Kind of rude, don’t you think?” Derek’s long-fingered hands moved on the keys, picking out something harsh and dissonant.

“You can pretty it up any way you want.” His voice was equally harsh. “Just don’t tell her anything to encourage her.”

“You’re the boss.”

He frowned at Derek’s flippant tone. But Derek, no matter how he felt, would cooperate.

A step sounded on the tile floor, and he turned to see Farrell, the driver-cum-body-guard, standing just inside the door, his heavy face impassive.

“Well?” He’d left the man at the inn to confirm that Sarah went on her way.

“Thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?” The only thing he wanted to hear was that Sarah had left the island.

“Doc Wainwright. She left the inn, but she didn’t head for the mainland. She moved into the guesthouse at the Lees’.”

Derek played something ominous and threatening, like a storm coming up at sea.

“Stop it,” Trent snapped at him.

Derek lifted his hands from the keys. “It sounds as if Sarah didn’t do what you expected. How enterprising of her.”

“She will.” His jaw tightened, and he turned toward Farrell. “That’s all. You can go.”

She would. No matter how enterprising she was, Sarah wouldn’t find any answers here. He’d see to that.

Sarah rubbed the back of her neck as she turned into the drive at the Lees’ seaside villa. “Tara with hot tubs,” some local wag had called it. Jonathan stopped in front of the pillared portico, she stopped behind and he then came and slid into the front seat of her car.

He pointed. “Just go round the end of the house.”

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 guards, but let me check. I’ll call you right back.”

Phone in her lap, Sarah sat against the bed, shivering a little. She’d have to turn the air conditioning down, but she didn’t intend to move from this spot until Jonathan called back.

She lifted the receiver almost before it stopped ringing, feeling as if she already knew what she’d hear.

“I should have told you.” Jonathan sounded rueful. “The security guard made his rounds by the guesthouse just about the time you called. Said he saw the lights go off, but didn’t think anything about it. He didn’t spot another soul anywhere.”

“I feel like an idiot. I’m so sorry I disturbed you.”

“Not at all. You try and get a good night’s sleep, okay?”

That seemed highly unlikely, but she agreed.

Once he’d hung up, Sarah crossed to the window and pulled the drapes closed with a violent jerk on the cord. She felt irritated, embarrassed and more than a little foolish. It would be amazing if she got to sleep before dawn.

Sarah struggled to get her eyes open, aware of sunlight beyond the cream drapes. She fumbled for the bedside clock. Nearly nine, and she’d planned to get an early start today. At least she’d slept, and last night’s alarm was a half-forgotten dream.

Once she’d showered and dressed, Sarah looked up the telephone number for the Donner house in her small personal directory. She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring at the phone. If she called, how likely was it that Trent would answer?

If anyone else answered, she could simply ask for Derek, without giving her name. She punched in the number quickly, before she could change her mind.

“Donner.”

Sarah stopped breathing. Okay, she definitely didn’t want to talk to Trent this morning.

“Is anyone there?” The words snapped, tinged with irritation.

Carefully, holding her breath as if he might identify her by the slightest exhalation, Sarah hung up.

Well, that little exercise showed that she was in no better shape to deal with Trent than she had been yesterday. She’d try again later. It must be possible to get through to Derek without Trent knowing about it. The man was powerful, not omniscient.

She walked to the main house through air so wet it felt like a sauna. May on the island was like August in Boston.

French doors fronted on the patio, and Jonathan sat with coffee and a newspaper in a sunny breakfast room beyond them. He sprang to his feet when she opened the door.

“Good morning.” He laid aside the paper and pulled out a chair. “Sit down and have some breakfast with me.”

She slid into a chair. A smiling maid appeared, setting a wedge of melon in front of her and pouring coffee.

“You look better today.” Jonathan sounded as satisfied as if he were personally responsible.

“I’m sorry about calling you last night. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

Jonathan waved her concern away. “Not at all. You did the right thing.” He held up a section of newspaper. “Do you like to hide behind the paper at breakfast, or would you rather talk?”

“Actually, I’d like to talk.” He had been frustratingly circumspect the previous night. Maybe if he understood what she was after, he’d feel differently. “About why I’m here.”

He put the paper down on the glass tabletop, folding it neatly, not looking at her. “Forgive me for saying so, but this seems like the last place in the world you’d want to be.”

“In some ways, it is.” Sarah frowned down at the scrambled eggs that had appeared in front of her. “A year ago, I never expected to come back.”

“Anyone would feel that way.”

“So you can’t help wondering why I’m here.” She couldn’t quite manage a smile.

“Only if you want to tell me.”

She didn’t, but she had to if she were to get his help. “I finally realized I couldn’t accept what happened and move on. The truth is, I don’t believe it.” Sarah dropped the spoon to the saucer, its tiny clatter accenting her words. “I don’t believe my husband was having an affair with Lynette Donner.”

“Maybe it’s easier for you to feel that.” Jonathan’s voice was very gentle. “You loved him.”

“You’re very sweet and tactful, Jonathan.” But she’d rather have honesty than tact. “It isn’t that I think our marriage was so perfect, Miles couldn’t fall for someone else.”

“Then what?” He didn’t look at her, and she sensed his discomfort.

“Miles. The kind of person Miles was. Honest, honorable. All those boring, typically New England virtues.”

Puritan, Trent had said. There was nothing wrong with that.

“Even the most honorable man might succumb to attraction.”

“Miles wouldn’t betray his marriage vows. And he wouldn’t betray his friendship and respect for Trent.”

“Anyone can make a mistake.”

Her lips tightened. “You sound like Trent. He thinks anyone capable of betrayal. I don’t.”

Finally his eyes met hers. “So you’ve come back to do what?”

“To find out,” she said promptly. “If I’m wrong, I have to know that. If I’m right, then Miles had some other reason for being at the Cat Isle cottage that day. I intend to find out what it was.”

“How, I wonder, are you going to do that?”

She took a deep breath. “I thought you might help me.”

For a moment, his expression froze. Then, quite suddenly, he laughed. “Honey, no wonder Trent’s trying to get rid of you. With you set to go prying, he’s afraid he won’t be able to keep things locked up anymore.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Power. The most blatant use of power I’ve ever seen.” He chuckled. “Didn’t you wonder why the papers didn’t have a field day with that story?”

“I thought they did.” Even the Boston papers had run it.

“Not like they could have. Trent gave out his version of the story and then he stonewalled those reporters. So did the local police. He called in every favor anybody in the state owed him to keep a lid on the story. Tragic accident—that was the verdict at the inquest and only a few scandal rags dared to print anything else. The story died for lack of fuel to feed it.”

“People still talked. They must have. Not even Trent could control that.”

Jonathan shrugged, lifting his coffee cup. “I suppose so, but for the most part, the islanders rallied around. No one wanted Melissa reading about her mother’s affair in the paper.” He stopped, reddening slightly.

In other words, he believed Miles and Lynette were lovers. “Hurting Melissa is the last thing I’d do. She’s already been hurt enough. But I’ve got to know the truth.”

“And just what part did you see me playing in this?”

Something about his expression encouraged her. “I thought you might run a little interference for me. I tried to reach Derek this morning, but Trent answered the phone.”

“And you don’t want him to know for fear he’d forbid Derek to speak to you.” Jonathan shrugged. “That might not stop Derek, but I agree it’ll be easier if Trent doesn’t know. Okay, I’ll try. Anything else?” He looked as if he fervently hoped not.

“I need to talk to Guy O’Hara. He was Miles’s closest friend here. I can do that myself.” Sarah swallowed. This was the hard part. “But I need you to take me over to Cat Isle in your boat.”

“Cat Isle.” Jonathan’s eyes filled with dismay. “Sarah, are you sure you want to go over there? Wouldn’t it be better to…Well, not give yourself so graphic a picture? It’s not as if there’s going to be evidence of anything at this late date.”

Of a romantic tryst. That was what he meant. “Maybe it does seem a little morbid, but I’ve never been there.” She’d only read about it, in one of the stories Trent hadn’t been able to quash. “I can rent a boat at the marina, but people will talk.”

He shoved his chair back. She could see the “no” forming on his lips.

“You don’t have to rent a boat. Jonathan will take you.”

She hadn’t heard Adriana come in. She stood at the mahogany sideboard, pouring a cup of coffee, elegant in white pants and a white silk shirt.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jonathan didn’t look particularly happy with his wife’s intervention.

“Why don’t you want to go there?” Adriana turned, balancing the cup between her fingers.

“It’s not that I don’t want to go.” Jonathan’s face tightened. “I just think it’ll be needlessly hard on Sarah.”

“On the contrary.” Adriana sounded oddly satisfied. “We ought to help Sarah. It’s time the truth came out.”

Sarah held her breath. Jonathan stared at his wife a moment longer. Finally he nodded.

“We’ll have to go on the tide. Meet me at the boat dock around three.”

“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.

Jonathan gave her a rueful smile. “Don’t thank me. I’m not doing anything good for you. And I hope I’m not going to live to regret it.”

“I’d like to speak to Chief Gifford, please. My name is Sarah Wainwright.”

The officer behind the gray metal desk looked barely old enough to be out of high school. He nodded, and Sarah thought she saw a faint flush behind the freckles on his cheeks.

“Yes, ma’am…I mean, Doctor.” He lurched from the chair, banging his foot on the metal wastebasket, and flushed a deeper red. “I’ll tell Chief Gifford you’re here.”

Sarah looked after him. His name plate said R. Whiting, and the name seemed vaguely familiar in a way the face didn’t. She frowned. She was letting her mind ramble, when what she needed to do was concentrate on Chief Gifford.

Him she remembered…a short, cocky, bantam of a man with a barrel chest, given to florid gestures. He could tell her details no one else could about the investigation. If he would.

“Dr. Wainwright!” Gifford bounded across the office to shake her hand. “This is a surprise. What are you doing back here?”

The surprise seemed a little overdone. Surely he’d heard by now she was back. “I have a few things to clear up here.” Leave it vague, and she might get more out of him, although Trent would have spoken to him by now. “If I might have a few minutes?”

“Of course, of course.” He gestured expansively toward his office. “As much time as you like.” He glanced briefly at Whiting. “Bobby, you get that filing done yet?”

“I’m on it, Chief.” His eyes were on Sarah, almost as if he wanted to say something to her. “Right away.”

“See you do.” Gifford ushered her to the straight-backed visitor’s chair in his office. He closed the door and then bounced back into his own seat, which creaked in protest. “These young fellas think police work’s like what they see on the TV. Got no idea somebody actually has to do the filing.” Shrewd hazel eyes, belying his good-ole-boy manner, zeroed in on her face. “Now then, what can I do for you?”

“You may remember I left St. James very soon after my husband’s death last year.” She’d prepared the opening. Where the conversation went after that was up to him. Or possibly to Trent. “I never found out what your investigation showed.”

“Now, ma’am, you don’t want to go making yourself unhappy by raking all that up again, do you?” His pale eyes were so opaque she couldn’t tell whether that was concern or a warning. She might get farther by interpreting it in a positive light.

“I appreciate your concern, Chief Gifford, but I want to know. I do have that right, don’t I?”

Gifford leaned back and the chair protested. “I surely don’t object to talking to you about it, but I don’t want you to get all upset.”

Sarah managed a tight smile. “I think enough time has passed that I can talk about it, and there’s so much I don’t know. I don’t even know who found them. I was off the island that day, and didn’t know anything was wrong until I got back.”

The police car had been waiting when she drove across the bridge, coming home from a shift at the hospital, prepared to work another four hours at the clinic as a volunteer. The officers had flagged her down, told her there’d been an accident, taken her to her fledgling clinic, where one of the volunteer retired physicians she’d recruited had been on duty.

The officer mentioned Cat Isle, but it wasn’t until she’d burst into the room and seen Trent’s ravaged face across the two white stretchers that she realized Miles hadn’t been alone.

“Well, that’s not much of a mystery,” the chief said. “Mr. Donner called us when his wife wasn’t back to get ready for some dinner party. One of the boats was missing, so we divvied up the places she might have gone. Whiting and I drew Cat Isle. We found the two boats, then we checked the cottage and found them.”

That was why Whiting’s name seemed familiar. She must have heard it at the time.

“It was too late when you got there?” She tried to say the words without letting her mind touch on what they’d found. She’d treated carbon monoxide victims. She knew too much.

Gifford nodded. “Whole place was filled with gas.”

“From a space heater. I remember.”

“Probably never would have been enough concentration of gas in a place like that, except that Mr. and Mrs. Donner had remodeled it. Made it tight enough to use all year long—and tight enough to hold the gas.” He shook his head sadly.

It had been a cloudy, wet day, she remembered, with a sharp wind blowing and a tropical storm threatening. “It seems odd they’d go there on a day like that.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I reckon they had to take what opportunities they could get. With you away…”

Of course that was what he’d think. She swallowed hard. “What were they doing when the gas overcame them?”

Gifford looked a bit scandalized, but he answered. “Miz Donner, she lay toppled over on the sofa, like she was asleep. Wainwright lay on the floor. The medical examiner said it looked like he’d hit his head on the coffee table when he fell. Could be he knocked himself out before he knew what was happening.”

She hadn’t known that, and she should have.

“What about Mrs. Donner? Did she have any injuries?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Looked like she just drifted off.”

There was another question she had to ask. “Everyone assumes my husband met Mrs. Wainwright there because they were lovers. Did you find any evidence of that?”

Now he really did look shocked. “No, ma’am. This office never said any such thing. Fatal accident, that’s all we said.”

“Yes, I know.” She tried to read Gifford’s expression. “So you didn’t really conduct an investigation into what they were doing there.”

Gifford’s chair teetered for an instant and then came down squarely, and his relaxed pose vanished. “We investigated. Miz Donner come in one of the Land’s End boats. You husband rented a fifteen-footer from Clawson down at the marina. There was no evidence of any foul play. Mr. Donner said he’d mentioned to them that he’d like their opinion on expanding the cottage. He figured that was why they’d gone there.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying we didn’t do our duty?”

“I’m concerned that the investigation was closed so quickly. I know Mr. Donner’s an important person—”

Gifford’s hand came down on his desk with a thump. “That’s got nothing to do with what happens here in this office, and I don’t take kindly to you suggesting otherwise.”

“I wouldn’t dream of saying that.” But it was what she thought.

He wasn’t mollified. “I’ve tried to answer your questions as best I can. Nobody tried to hide anything about the way your husband and Miz Donner died. We just tried to protect the living as best we could.”

And you should be grateful, his tone implied.

“I wasn’t suggesting any laxity on your part, Chief Gifford.” Not at the moment, anyway.

“I’ve told you everything I can.” Gifford stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

Sarah rose, too. “I’d like to talk to Officer Whiting.”

Gifford swelled alarmingly, his neck turning a rich maroon. “Whiting doesn’t speak for this department. I do. He has nothing to say to you.”

He stalked to the door and threw it open. “If I were you, ma’am, I’d go back up north before St. James brings you more trouble.” His lips moved in what might have been meant for a smile. “The Sea Islands can be dangerous places for people who don’t belong here.”

The small boat nosed away from the dock cautiously. Hitting the channel, deep now because of the high tide, Jonathan accelerated. The roar of the motor and the wind rushing through her hair made conversation impossible, and Sarah was grateful.

Jonathan, face drawn tight with distaste, clearly thought this a bad idea. Maybe it was, but that didn’t change her mind. It was ridiculous to assume she’d ever stop imagining what the place looked like. She might as well know.

A dolphin lifted from the water in a perfect silver arc, and her breath caught in her throat. She’d nearly forgotten the unexpected moments of sheer beauty the island provided. Sunlight was warm on her shoulders, accentuating the golden haze that gleamed from sand and sea oats. No wonder these were called the Golden Isles.

Jonathan throttled back and pointed. For hundreds of years oyster shells had washed up into a barrier ridge, separating the sound and the salt marshes. Along the ridge, fifty or more brown pelicans sunned themselves. Startled by the boat, they took off, skimming the breakers and squawking their dislike.

It took only minutes to reach their destination. Cat Isle was hardly big enough to be called an island—a few acres of tangled vines, hoary old live oaks draped funereally in Spanish moss, scraggly pines. As far as Sarah knew, Trent’s cottage was the only building of any sort.

Jonathan idled up to the crumbling dock. The weathered gray boards were adorned with moss.

“Does Trent own the whole island?”

He nodded, tossing a line over an upright. “Bought it from me, as a matter of fact. We never came here much, but it’s easier access from Land’s End—you can take a kayak down the creek when the tide is right.”

She nodded, trying to fix the geography in her mind. Land’s End was nearly surrounded by water, with the ocean in front, the sound to the south and the marshes and creek running behind it.

“Trent completely remodeled the cottage, but Lynette didn’t like it. She said the place made her nervous. She—” He stopped abruptly, shutting down as sharply as the boat’s engine had. “Go ahead.” He jerked his head toward the path. “I’ll wait here.”

She’d expected him to go with her, but maybe it was just as well. She didn’t need anyone to see her reaction to the place. She scrambled up on the dock, getting a green smear on her khakis in the process, and started toward the cottage.

The path, surrounded by lush, overpowering green undergrowth, nearly lost itself several times. This was her dark image of the islands, the gloomy, mysterious depths of maritime forest, only a step or two from the sunlit water.

The scent of honeysuckle enveloped her, deepening like incense as she moved farther from the dock. With a wary eye out for snakes, Sarah pushed along the path until it widened into a clearing.

Weathered a gray-green like the dock, the cottage seemed to grow out of the forest. It had a rustic charm, if she could divorce herself what had happened here. But if Lynette disliked the place so much, why would she choose to meet anyone here, especially a lover?

She pushed hair back from her damp forehead. That wasn’t right, anyway. Whatever Miles had been doing here, it wasn’t making love to Lynette Donner. If she couldn’t believe that, nothing in her life made any sense.

She grasped the door handle and pushed it open. She stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Abruptly a wave of distaste washed over her. What was she doing here?

Like an echo of her thought, the voice came from within the room. “What are you doing here?”

With a queer, cold twist in her stomach, she turned. The shaft of light from the open door cast harsh shadows on Trent’s rigid face.

“A stupid question, isn’t it, Sarah? I already know what you’re doing here. You’re looking for more grief, and you’ve found it.”

FOUR

Trent didn’t know which emotion was stronger at the sight of Sarah—rage or shame. Rage that she was here, or shame that she, of all people, had caught him here?

“You just can’t listen to me, can you?” He took a furious step toward her. Rage, definitely.

The shock that had filled her eyes at the sight of him faded. She squared her shoulders, as if determined he’d find no weakness in her.

“I want to see where it happened. I have to.”

“You’re trespassing.” If his tone was any sharper, he’d cut himself. “Get out.”

Her mouth firmed. “I have a right to see where my husband died, trespassing or not.”

“It won’t do you any good. There’s nothing to see here.” Nothing but betrayal. The thought burned like acid.

She studied his face, as if she’d see behind the words to the feeling. She wouldn’t. He didn’t let anyone in.

“Why are you here, then?”

The rage flashed along his nerves again, and he fought it back. “That’s none of your business.”

She shook her head, her pale hair moving like silk on her shoulders. “We’re the same, Trent. You came here for the same reason I did. To try and make sense of what happened.”

“If we’re alike, then neither of us should come here. There is no sense in it.”

He wanted to deny the despair in his voice. It was a weakness, this failure to put Lynette’s death behind him. He didn’t tolerate weakness, not in the people who worked for him, not in himself. Certainly not in himself.

I tried. You know I tried. Why couldn’t I make her happy?

God didn’t give him an answer. He never did to that question.

He took a breath, forcing himself to calm. “I’m sorry for your pain.” He gestured to the cottage he’d once thought would be a peaceful retreat for him and Lynette. “Believe me, I’ve looked, but this place doesn’t have answers. It’s just a shell.”

She moved slightly, as if he’d given her a respite from the tension. “Did you come here often? Before, I mean.”

Before their lives exploded.

“I thought we would, but it didn’t happen. Lynette—” He swallowed. “She was enthusiastic about fixing the place up when we first bought it, but she soon gave up. She didn’t seem to like it here.”

“Someone made it comfortable.” Sarah touched the back of the leather sofa that faced the fireplace.

“My housekeeper.” His voice sounded strangled to his ears. “She ordered the furniture.”

Did Sarah know Lynette had died on that spot? Pain twisted inside him, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday—racing to the cottage when the police called, bursting in the door, heart pounding as if it would explode from the pressure.

Gifford and a couple of his officers had straightened at the sight of him. They’d stepped back, averting their eyes, as if it were indecent to look at him at such a moment.

No. He wouldn’t remember the rest of it. He wouldn’t let that image back into his mind.

The fury surged through him again. This was Sarah’s fault. He was here, remembering, because of Sarah.

He stepped toward her, driven by blind anger. His leg brushed the table next to the sofa, and the small glass vase on it wobbled. His fingers closed on the vase—tight, tighter, until it should snap in his hand.

With a quick, hard movement he threw it. It smashed against the logs that lay ready in the fireplace, the sound a shocking punctuation to his thoughts.

Sarah jerked back, her green eyes darkening like the ocean on a stormy day. “Trent, don’t—”

He couldn’t be here with her any longer without losing control. He grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the door. “You’re going. Now.”

Maybe she recognized the futility of protesting. She let him usher her out the door, across the porch, down the steps. He rushed her down the path toward the dock, brushing through overgrown branches of crepe myrtle and tendrils of Spanish moss, dozens of Low Country scents released by their brusque passing.

He charged onto the dock and came to an abrupt halt. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how Sarah had gotten to the cottage. Now he knew. Jonathan’s four-passenger jet boat bobbed on the swell. Jonathan stared at him, shock and apprehension on his face.

He gave Sarah a final push toward the boat. She slipped on the mossy planks, and Jonathan extended his hand to help her. Without looking back, she stepped lightly onto the rail and down to the deck.

Maybe he’d frightened her. He hoped so.

“Trent, I’m sorry if this has upset you.” Jonathan’s tone was grave.

“Upset?” He was aware of an urge to punch something. Or someone. “Why would it upset me to know that my friend is going against my wishes behind my back?”

“I understand how you feel.”

“Do you?” His eyebrows lifted. “I doubt it.”

Jonathan’s patrician face seldom showed anything so raw as embarrassment, but he seemed to wince. “No, I suppose not. But Sarah has feelings, too. Her loss is as great as yours.”

The impulse to deny that astounded him and gave him pause. He’d been giving lip service to Sarah’s loss, but had he really considered how the tragedy had affected her? She and Miles seemed to have a happy marriage—happier than his and Lynette’s, in any event. And she still believed in Miles.

It didn’t matter, he thought at some level, and was instantly ashamed. Of course Sarah’s grief mattered. But he had his child to protect, and that one fact outweighed everything else.

He had to say something. He looked at them. Jonathan wore a slightly chiding air. Sarah’s eyes were dark with pain, but she stared back at him steadily, as if to say that she wouldn’t give in. That this wasn’t finished between them.

He wouldn’t apologize again. “You’ve seen the cottage. That will have to be enough for you, Sarah. Go back to Boston and get on with your life.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Sarah wouldn’t give up.

That was the first thing he’d learned about her, back when she was nothing more than his new assistant’s slightly inconvenient wife. He’d soon learned she was much more than that. She’d nearly driven him crazy over that clinic idea of hers, and probably the real reason he’d resisted it so long had been because he’d enjoyed butting heads with her.

Jonathan, apparently realizing there was nothing to be gained here, turned the ignition. The sound of the motor sent a brown pelican lifting from the water. The jet boat backed slowly away, the gulf widening between boat and dock.

The gulf between him and Sarah had widened that night at Adriana’s party, when a half-serious, half-laughing quarrel had, as suddenly as summer lightning, sparked into awareness. They’d both recognized it in the same instant, both turned guiltily away.

He watched the figures in the boat grow rapidly smaller as Jonathan accelerated, throwing up an emphatic spray. Determination hardened inside him.

Sarah had to leave St. James.

Sarah turned the car off the main road onto a narrow lane, wincing as overhanging branches slapped the windshield. The rays of the setting sun slanted through the trees, dappling the lane ahead of her with alternating patches of sun and shade.

Jonathan had reluctantly given her the directions to Haller’s Tavern, and he hadn’t offered to go with her. Maybe because he knew she’d refuse, or maybe because he was already tiring of her and her quest.

Jonathan’s attitude toward her had changed after that encounter with Trent the previous day. She could hardly blame him. He was Trent’s friend, unless she’d ruined that with her interference.

That friendship had always surprised her a bit. There didn’t seem much common ground between the idle patrician and the self-made man, and now—

Now, according to Adriana, Trent had turned into a hermit, rejecting all invitations. Sarah seemed to see again the bitter lines in his face as he swung toward her at the cottage.

At the very place where Lynette and Miles had died. She could hardly be surprised that his bitterness had surfaced there. Why had he been there? Did he go often, torturing himself with memories?

There’s so much pain between us, Heavenly Father. I’d help him if I could, but it seems impossible.

She didn’t want to cause Trent more pain, but she had to know the truth.

And what if this truth is all there is, a small voice in the back of her mind inquired.

Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel as she negotiated a bend in the road, splashing through puddles left by the afternoon’s rain. Well, if all her searching only proved that what people already believed was true, somehow she’d have to learn to live with it. But not until she was sure.

Which led her to Guy O’Hara. He’d been one of the engineers on some project Trent had been pursuing. He’d been as close to a friend as Miles had made on the island in the short time they’d been there. If Miles had confided in anyone, it would have been Guy.

Lights glinted to her left, and the road, apparently giving up its forward momentum, widened into a parking lot. Already several cars and pick-ups dotted the area in front of the low cement block building. No attempt had been made to blend into the surrounding landscape—it looked like a roadhouse, and that’s what it was. Still, the lush growth of the forest made inroads on it, softening the hard blocks with tendrils of green and gray that would inexorably cover it if not cut away.

She parked and turned off the ignition. Guy had rejected her suggestion that he come to the cottage or meet her at the inn. He’d insisted on this place.

Maybe he preferred not to be seen with her where Trent would hear about it. Or maybe he knew something and wanted the security his own turf provided when he talked to her.

She got out, scoffing at her own reluctance to go inside. She’d learned to take care of herself a long time ago. She’d go inside, find Guy and get this conversation over with.

When she pulled the sagging metal door open, a blast of country music and a wave of cigarette smoke enveloped her. Holding her breath, she stepped inside. Faces turned toward her instantly, as if they all swung on the same pivot. She glanced around quickly. Guy wasn’t there.

He’d said eight, and it was that now. She’d have to wait, and she’d be less conspicuous sitting at a table than standing in the doorway like a deer in the headlights. She took one close to the door, yanked out a chair and sat down. The jukebox segued into another plaintive song of lost love, heads turned away from her again, and the bartender jerked his head in what might have been a greeting.

“Get you something, ma’am?”

“An iced tea, if you have it.”

He nodded, wiping a glass out with a towel that looked as if it had never known bleach.

He brought the filled glass to the table. She laid a bill beside it. “Has Guy O’Hara been in yet?”

He shook his head. “He comes most nights, but not yet tonight. You’re welcome to wait.” He jerked his head toward the bar. “Don’t you mind the boys. They can be a mite mouthy, but nobody acts up in my place.”

Had she been looking that apprehensive? Apparently so. She managed a smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He headed back to the bar. She took a gulp of the tea and nearly choked. She’d forgotten the Southern habit of making sweet tea, laced with enough sugar to turn it into syrup. Hopefully Guy would show up before the combination of sugar and caffeine had her bouncing off the walls.

Forty-five minutes later, Guy still hadn’t shown. The room had gotten progressively more smoky, the music louder, the crowd larger. Two of the men at the bar stole glances at her and nudged each other. In a moment one of them would work up enough courage to come over, and she’d have to deal with him.

A wave of disgust went through her. If Guy intended to keep this meeting, he’d have been here by now. She shoved her chair back, dropped some change onto the scarred tabletop next to the cash and pushed back out the door, letting it clatter shut behind her.

The sweet, close aroma of the Southern night closed around her, and she took a deep breath. This had been a singularly unprofitable evening. Annoyance flickered. What was Guy playing at, making an appointment and then failing to show? Had Trent somehow anticipated this and frightened him off?

Or was there a darker answer? If Guy knew something about Lynette’s and Miles’ deaths, someone might not want him to talk to her. But that was making an assumption that someone had something to hide. Trent’s only interest seemed to be in protecting Melissa and himself from further gossip.

She wove her way through the dark shapes of cars, shells crunching under her feet. A footstep sounded behind her, and she glanced back. No one. The hair lifted on her arms. No one had come out of the tavern behind her—she’d have heard the blast of music if the door had opened. But someone was there. Someone who had halted when she had, sheltering behind one of the parked vehicles.

Heartbeat accelerating, she scurried toward her car, key out and ready. It was probably nothing, but she’d feel better when she was in her car, the doors locked. She’d—

She stopped, staring at her car. It seemed to sag listlessly. No wonder. All four of the tires had been slashed.

For a moment she stood, raging silently. Then common sense kicked in. Whoever had done this could still be nearby. The thought of that footstep sent her scrambling into the safety of the car. She couldn’t drive away, but she could lock the doors and call the police.

It took fifteen minutes by her watch for the police car to pull into the lot. In that time no one came out of or went into the tavern. She might have been alone in the world. But someone had been there. Someone who’d slashed her tires in a mute, pointed warning. Who had an interest in doing that but Trent?

She unlocked the door as the uniformed officer approached.

“Miz Wainwright?” The beam of his powerful torch swept from one tire to another. “Looks like you got yourself in some trouble here.”

She got out, facing him. He was older than the young patrolman she’d seen at the station, his face lined with resignation, as if he’d seen everything there was to see and no longer thought he could make a difference.

“Someone slashed my tires while I was inside.”

He glanced toward the tavern. “Seems like a funny place for a lady to be.”

She stiffened. His implication was clear. Her troubles were her own fault, for coming to such a place. “I was supposed to meet a friend here. I assume it’s against the law to slash my tires, no matter where I happen to park.”

“Yes, ma’am, it sure is, but I doubt I’ll be able to find out who did it. Folks who frequent Haller’s don’t confide much in the cops. Still, I’ll try.” He gestured. “Maybe you’d like to wait in the patrol car. I’ll give you a lift home, and you can have the garage come out and take care of your car.”

She didn’t have much choice. She climbed into the front seat of the patrol car, not caring to sit in back like a felon. She caught a glimpse of the interior of the bar as the officer swung the door open. The faces turned toward him didn’t look particularly welcoming.

He was back in a suspiciously short time. She rubbed her forehead. Or maybe she was the suspicious one, creating enemies where they didn’t exist. She had enough real ones that she didn’t need to invent any.

She tried to muster a smile as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “Any luck?”

He shook his head, turning the ignition key. “No, ma’am. They was like the three monkeys, you know. See no evil—”

“I know,” she said shortly. He was clearly amused at his own joke. “So you didn’t find out anything.”

“Well, Joe Findley did say he saw a car pull in and then out again quick, but Joe’d been hitting the bottle pretty hard. You don’t want to pay too much attention to what old Joe says.”

She wasn’t as quick to dismiss it as he was. “Did this Joe say what the car looked like?”

He shrugged, his shoulders moving uneasily as he pulled back onto the road. “Said it was a big car. A big gray car.”

A big gray car. Like Trent’s Rolls. Had he thought of that, dismissed it so quickly because he didn’t want to tangle with Trent?

Words bubbled up, but she suppressed them. It would do no good to argue with the patrolman. The person she needed to confront about this was Trent. And that probably wouldn’t do any good, either.

By the time the patrol car swung into the driveway at the Lee house, she felt too wiped out to confront anyone about anything. With any luck, Jonathan and Adriana would never know she’d come home in a police car.

The car stopped in front of the cottage, and she slid out with a word of thanks. The cruiser rolled quickly away, leaving her alone in the still night. The cop hadn’t had to ask her where she was staying. He’d known. Probably everyone on the island knew by now. St. James was Trent’s fiefdom, and she’d best remember that.

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