“I’m here to see if your mother will go somewhere with me tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Jane picked up the end of the boa and twirled it around. “She can go.”

“Not so fast, Jane,” Claire said. An idea occurred to her, one that had the advantage of easing her anxiety immensely. “There is the little matter of my nine-year-old daughter. Of course, if Jane can go with us…”

“Mommy, no,” Jane said. “Did you forget again? I’m going to make bags of potpourri with Aunt Pet to give to girls for Halloween. We’re putting in lavender and lemongrass, and…”

“That’s right. I did forget. You can stay with Aunt Pet.”

“Then you’ll go?” Jack asked.

“I guess so. Since you said it’s important.”

“Good.” He smiled down at Jane. “But I have a question. If you’re giving the girls nice smelly things, what are you giving the boys?”

“Aunt Pet says we’re going to give them little bottles of toad juice, and they can all get warts.”

Claire started to reprimand her daughter, but she was suddenly engrossed in watching Jack’s attempt to hide a smile.

“Remind me not to trick-or-treat at your house,” he said.

Dear Reader,

I’ve often been asked where I get the ideas for my stories. I am most often inspired by unique or off-the-beaten-path locations. A year ago, while scouting out fertile locations for my husband to do some deep sea fishing, we came upon a remote, laid-back island community about two hours north of Tampa on Florida’s west coast.

This island, which boasts great seafood restaurants and charming art galleries, does not have even one chain restaurant or name brand motel. Every business is unique to this location only. It’s a quirky, sit-a-spell place where visitors can enjoy Gulf breezes and wandering minds. And so, Heron Point, my fictional representation of this place, was born in my imagination and populated with characters I hope you will find memorable. Like me, the hero and heroine of this story never expected to end up here. And they never expected to find love here either, but that’s the wonderful thing about love—you never know where you’ll find it.

I hope you’ll visit Heron Point again in my next book from Harlequin Superromance, An Unlikely Father, available in 2006.

I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site, www.cynthiathomason.com, or e-mail me at Cynthoma@aol.com. My address is P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355.

Sincerely,

Cynthia Thomason

An Unlikely Match
Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my two “moms,” Barbara Brackett, who gave birth to me, and Elsie Thomason, my mother-in-law. Voracious readers, both ladies read every one of my books and always offer encouraging words. Thanks, Moms.

And a special thank-you to my friend Nan Carter, whose expertise in tracking down the bad guys helped me realistically portray the illegal activity mentioned in this book. Thanks, Nan, for ALL you do.

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

“MOMMY, YOU’RE COMING to the school zone.”

Claire Betancourt glanced over at her nine-year-old daughter and automatically raised her foot off the accelerator. The Lexus sedan slowed to fifteen miles per hour before proceeding under the blinking yellow light. “Thank you, Jane, for your infallible back-seat driving,” Claire said.

“You were speeding, weren’t you, Mommy?”

“No.” At the girl’s pointed stare, Claire relented. “Maybe a little. But we’re late.” Still, it wouldn’t look right if the mayor was caught doing a reckless twenty miles per hour through Heron Point’s only school zone. Especially when she had an elementary student in the passenger seat.

Jane sat forward, straining against her seat belt. “Look, Mommy, isn’t that Mrs. Hutchinson?”

Claire groaned. “Oh, no. Not again.” This was the second time in two weeks that the regular crossing guard hadn’t shown up for duty. And the second time Heron Point’s most conscientious citizen and self-proclaimed mother-of-the-year had taken it upon herself to guide the town’s children safely across the street to the school building. Claire slowed to a crawl, lowered her window and spoke to the woman whose short arms were flailing about in an exaggerated attempt to direct Heron Point’s youngest citizens. “Hi, Missy,” Claire said. “I guess Bella didn’t show this morning?”

“You guessed right,” Missy answered. “Really, Claire, you must do something about that woman. We can’t have our children subjected to the dangers of a busy school crossing without competent adult supervision. And I can’t be expected to step up every time Bella Martingale is too hungover…” She stopped speaking when she realized Jane was listening to every word.

Busy school crossing? Claire checked her rearview mirror. There were two cars behind her, and only one had passed going the opposite direction in the last minute. And this was Heron Point’s rush hour. But Missy was right. Even if there were only seventy-six children enrolled in the elementary school, it was the community’s responsibility to provide them with adequate crosswalk protection.

“I’ll speak to Bella,” Claire promised.

“Are you going to fire her?” Missy asked.

Claire flinched. She really liked Bella. “Yes. But in the meantime, I’ll ask Aunt Pet to fill in at the crosswalk this afternoon, and I’ll be here tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll be able to make permanent arrangements over the weekend.”

“What about now? I have to open my gallery in exactly ten minutes.”

“You go on,” Claire said. “I’ll take over until eight o’clock.” She pulled to the curb, got out and waited for Jane to pick up her sweater and lunch box from the floor of the front seat. “Have a nice day, sweetheart. I won’t pick you up. Aunt Pet will be here this afternoon, so you can ride home with her.”

Jane looked up at her with the doe-brown eyes that were so like her father’s, like all the Betancourt men’s. Beautiful, heart-stopping, warm, Latin eyes. “Is Mrs. Martingale drunk again?” she asked.

“No, I’m sure she isn’t,” Claire answered. Bella had sworn to Claire just yesterday that she hadn’t had a drink in over a month, since school had started the fall term. But she might very well be high on something. Claire had insisted the woman mow the trio of marijuana plants blatantly growing under a bright green awning in her backyard. But Claire had never gone back to see that the job had been completed. And now she had to admit that Bella had used up all her chances for leniency. She would have to relinquish her post as crossing guard and the small salary she earned.

Claire escorted the remaining half dozen children to the parsonage-turned-schoolhouse. The two-story clapboard structure had served as the minister’s residence for more than a hundred years. When the last of the reverends had died, twenty-five years ago, the citizens had decided they could manage without a bona fide religious leader. They’d elected to modify the parsonage to serve as a schoolhouse for Heron Point’s elementary children. Seven state-certified teachers, a principal and a guidance counselor had been hired, and the youngest children were no longer bused thirty miles to the Micopee school district on the mainland.

Since that time, Sunday morning services were still held in the island’s small wooden chapel and conducted by whichever citizen volunteered. The resulting variety of programs seemed to suit everyone from the most righteous to those who, like Aunt Pet, merely thought of themselves as spiritual beings.

Once back in her car, Claire drove the mile toward town. She would just have time to stop in her office on Island Avenue and look over the day’s calendar. Then, by ten o’clock, she would open her shop also located on the main thoroughfare through Heron Point.

Claire waved to neighbors in passing vehicles as she proceeded to the town hall. Heron Point was populated with as diverse a citizenry as one could find in such a small area. Except for the weekend influx of tourists, the town was mostly a quiet, peaceful place to live, which was why Claire decided to move here from Miami when her husband died of cancer almost three years ago. And why she’d been persuaded to run for mayor. Unopposed.

But as she pulled into the parking space with her title painted on the cement bumper, she was immediately aware of unusual activity. Two women waited outside the door to her office—Patty Barnes, the town’s top saleslady from Heron Point Realty, and her company’s secretary, Lucy Gaynor.

Patty hurried to the driver’s side of Claire’s car and tapped on the window. “Hurry up, Claire,” she said. “Big news. Really big news!”

Patty was too breathless to voice her excitement in complete sentences. This was big.

Claire stepped out of the car. “What’s happened?”

Lucy nudged her co-worker in the ribs. “Tell her, Pat. Tell her.”

Patty grinned with barely repressed excitement. She tucked a strand of dyed red hair behind her ear, revealing a glittery aqua seahorse dangling from the lobe. “We sold Dolphin Run! Can you believe it? The offer was just accepted last night.”

Dolphin Run? For a moment, Claire couldn’t bring to mind a property with that name. “Oh, you mean that old inn on the north shore?” she finally said.

“One and the same. The Holcombs’ heirs are overjoyed. That place has been on the market for years.”

Claire was aware of the inn’s existence, though she’d never ventured beyond the eight foot wrought iron fence that surrounded the property. Consequently, she’d never seen the interior of the old hotel, but she knew that Dolphin Run stood as a sort of silent, decaying sentinel on the island’s northernmost point. The hotel was a remnant of Heron Point’s glory days of the 1950s and 60s when wealthy and influential northerners vacationed on the secluded island.

Claire reached back into her car and grabbed her purse. Then, with Patty and Lucy following, she opened the door to the town hall, Heron Point’s only official government building. She stepped inside the room that served as both her office and the town’s meeting facility. To her left, through a pair of swinging doors, one of the town’s four-member police department sat at a desk, manning the telephone.

“Hi, Gail,” Claire called to the young officer.

“Morning, Claire.”

Patty and Lucy took a detour into the police department and began regaling Gail with the latest news. Another Heron Point employee, Ingrid Olson, peeked her neatly coiffed gray head through the doorway behind Claire’s desk that led to the town library. “What’s going on?”

“The Dolphin Run property sold,” Claire said, pointing to the next room where women’s voices had reached an exuberant pitch. “You can get the details from Patty.”

Claire sat down and opened her calendar. At nine o’-clock an electrician was scheduled to fix the faulty outlet behind the flag stand. Later, Claire had a meeting with a contractor who wanted a permit to put an addition to the marina at the entrance to the island. But now she had to return at least a dozen phone calls from citizens with concerns ranging from the placement of a stop sign to nuisance pet problems. She picked up the phone and a pencil.

“His name is Anderson,” Patty said from the next room. “I don’t know anything about him. He’s had a representative negotiate the sale. But whoever he is, his money’s good. The sale is going through today without a hitch. And no mortgage!”

Unsuccessful in tuning out the excitement about the big sale, Claire waited a moment before punching in the numbers of her first call. It was understandable that everyone would be interested in the sale of Dolphin Run, the town’s largest property. Plus, any time there were rumors of a new resident, people got excited. And nosy.

“He’s sending somebody this morning with a cashier’s check for the whole amount,” Patty said. “I’d better get back to the office. I wouldn’t want to miss him.”

Patty and Lucy scurried to the door and practically barreled into a tall, substantially built man whose muscular physique was evident even through his well-tailored black sports jacket and trousers. The ladies stepped aside to allow the stranger to enter. He nodded to their gaping faces, removed a pair of dark sunglasses and walked up the aisle between the wooden pews that seated citizens for town meetings.

Lucy whispered to Patty. “Who died?”

Patty nudged Lucy into silence. “I think he looks like Rockford,” Ingrid said. “Remember, on TV? He always wore a jacket.”

“Well, it looks to me like he’s going to a funeral.”

Claire smiled as the man came toward her. Who died indeed? Either he truly was in town to attend a memorial service or he was masquerading as a Secret Service agent. Since none of her neighbors actually wore formal clothes anymore, Claire decided that Heron Point must have become the target of some sort of federal investigation.

The man stopped in front of her, looked first into her face and then at the metal name placard on her desk. “Are you Mayor Betancourt?” he asked.

Realizing for the first time that the telephone was still in her hand and was beeping from inactivity, Claire quickly settled it back into the cradle and tapped the pencil against her desk blotter. “That’s me.”

If he was surprised or disappointed to find a woman in Heron Point’s top government position, she couldn’t tell. She stuck her hand out and he shook it. “How can I help you?”

“My employer just purchased a piece of property in Heron Point,” he said.

“It’s him, the guy who’s come to close the deal,” Patty whispered much too loudly. Neither woman had moved so much as an inch since the man had entered the office.

“I’m the supervisor of his advance team,” he continued.

Claire almost laughed. “His advance team? In advance of what?”

“His arrival in a few weeks.” The man crossed his arms over a broad chest. “Didn’t anyone tell you who my boss is?”

She shrugged. “I believe I heard the name Anderson associated with the purchase.”

“Right. I work for Archie J. Anderson.”

Claire dropped the pencil, right before she dropped her jaw. “The Archie Anderson?”

The man almost smiled as if he were used to such a response. “If by ‘the Archie Anderson’ you mean the real-estate developer responsible for many of the five-star hotels in Manhattan, not to mention a half-dozen state-of-the-art sports stadiums, then, yes.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Most people have.”

Claire leaned forward and rested her elbows on her desk. “Would you mind answering one question for me, Mr….?”

“Hogan. Jack Hogan.”

Mr. Perfect-Posture relaxed his stance just enough to reveal that he was actually made of bones and cartilage like the rest of humanity and wasn’t a concoction of metal and screws. It was a good sign that he wasn’t a robot controlled by a computer a thousand miles away. “Sure. Ask your question,” he said.

“Why would Archie Anderson buy Dolphin Run? For that matter, why is he interested in Heron Point at all?”

Jack Hogan rolled one squared-off shoulder. “Let’s just say his motives are personal. All I know is that he’s going to reopen it.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“Sure. I must admit that when we started investigating your town, I didn’t discover any of the usual incentives that generally pique Mr. Anderson’s interest.”

“You mean he isn’t ordinarily drawn to decaying old fishing resorts that haven’t housed guests in over forty years?”

There was that hint of a smile again. Claire found herself strangely drawn to it and imagining what a full-fledged grin might look like on Jack Hogan’s face.

“Something like that,” he said. “But I only work for the man. I don’t make his investment decisions.”

“What do you do…exactly?” she asked.

“I’m head of security for Anderson Enterprises. It’s my job to scrutinize the community and make whatever adjustments I feel are necessary to insure Mr. Anderson’s safety and well-being once he arrives.”

“Adjustments?” It was a strange word to use. “You don’t think your boss will be safe in Heron Point?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Hogan said. “I haven’t been here long enough to determine whether he will be or not. But Archie Anderson is a very wealthy man as well as a prudent one. He’s well aware that the world is full of opportunists and crackpots. He leaves it up to me to ferret them out and defuse situations before they happen.”

Crackpots? Claire cupped a hand over her mouth. Now would probably not be a good time to laugh at Jack Hogan’s implied image of her town. He saw Heron Point as a hotbed of potential dangers? His boss might suffer from a sunburn while he was here or perhaps break a tooth on a clam shell, but Claire doubted that any more serious problems would occur during his stay.

But, on the other hand, maybe Hogan was right about one observation he’d made. Now that Claire thought about her neighbors, she figured Archie Anderson’s security expert could uncover a few crackpots in Heron Point, though Claire liked to think of them as merely odd. She lowered her hand and gave Hogan her most serious look. “So what exactly do you want from me?” she asked.

“Cooperation. I’ll be checking things out around town, looking at your communications systems, your police protection, medical facilities, the types of businesses you have here. I might run a few background checks on the people who live here.”

Suddenly Mr. Hogan wasn’t the least bit amusing. Claire stood up and came around the desk. “Now, wait a minute….”

He stared down at her from a height advantage made worse by her flat-soled Birkenstock sandals. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I’m starting to think so. I won’t have you investigating our citizens, Mr. Hogan. We didn’t ask for you to come here, and—”

He smiled, for the first time showing a line of even, white teeth. “Believe me, Madam Mayor, once Archie Anderson makes his mark on this community, you’ll be glad we did. If anyone can put this little town on the map, it’s Anderson.”

A slow sizzle began deep inside her. How dare Hogan patronize her by telling her how she was going to feel! She took a step closer to him and glared up into a pair of storm-gray eyes that refused to blink.

“We already are on the map, Mr. Hogan,” she said. “Maybe that little dot on the Gulf of Mexico is insignificant to you. Maybe you think we’ve been sitting here for a hundred years waiting for a developer to come in and make an Archie Anderson swan out of this ugly duckling little town, but you’re wrong. You do not have my permission to investigate anyone—”

“I don’t need your permission, Miss…”

“It’s Mrs.” She delivered the correction with an unnecessary and totally self-gratifying hint of defiance to her voice.

“Fine. Mrs. Betancourt. I don’t require your permission or your husband’s to do my job.” He snapped his sunglasses over his eyes. “I happen to be very competent at what I do, and I know all the ways of doing it. I don’t need to sit in this office with your blessing and go through listings of county files to find out who lives here.” His lip twitched up again in the suggestion of a smile. “I was hoping we could work together, however.”

“Don’t push me, Mr. Hogan,” she said. “I normally get along with everyone, but you could turn out to be the exception.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and glanced at his watch. “I’m due at the realty office in a few minutes.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

“I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“It’s a small town.”

He turned away from her and walked toward the exit. He was no sooner out the door than Patty Barnes clutched her hands to her chest and said, “Wow. What a hottie.”

Lucy, starry-eyed and grinning, nodded her head in agreement.

Claire scowled at them. “Ladies, please! Shouldn’t you be at the realty office dotting some i’s on that contract?”

Her voice grabbed their attention as if she’d wakened them from a trance. They hurried out of the office. And Claire picked up the phone again. Only now she’d forgotten who she’d intended to call.

THE GREEN DOOR CAFÉ was known for its sweet raspberry iced tea, conch fritters and fried grouper. And to the locals, for its eccentric, good-hearted, clairvoyant waitress, Petula Deering. Aunt Pet claimed to be able to read minds and see into the future, which sometimes annoyed the heck out of Claire. It also scared her half to death, because, on occasion, Aunt Pet got lucky and guessed right.

Her wild platinum hair tamed into a single long braid, Aunt Pet floated over to Claire’s table in her ankle-length, earth-toned caftan. The beads on her wrists jingled delicately as she deposited a chicken-salad platter in front of her niece. Claire recommended the seafood specialties at the Green Door Café to everyone she met, but since she was allergic to shellfish, she had to take her own word for its delectability.

Petula scanned the usual midweek clientele in the café and said, “Good, everybody’s been served.” She sat at the table across from Claire, spilled a few grains of salt on the vinyl tablecloth and attempted to stand the shaker on one of its hexagonal edges. Pretending to be absorbed in her task, she said, “I heard all about your visitor this morning, Claire. Including that he works for Archie Anderson, and that he’s handsome as the dickens.”

Claire scooped a mixture of raisins and chicken onto her fork. “I don’t know if that last part’s accurate…or particularly important.”

The shaker stood at lopsided attention, balanced on one single speck of salt. “He’s not handsome?”

“I didn’t say that. He’s, well, moderately good-looking I guess.” Claire lifted the fork to her mouth. “Frankly, Aunt Pet, I had a hard time seeing past his overbearing attitude.”

Petula sat back and studied her niece in that way she had when she was drawing conclusions based on biased and often inaccurate information. “If I know you, Claire, you probably gave him as good as you got.”

Claire took a sip of iced tea. “I tried. Hogan can do whatever he wants at Dolphin Run, but I can’t let him think he can come into town and order everyone else around.”

“True, but did you let him think that you were available?”

Claire dropped her fork on the side of her plate. “What? Of course not. Why would I let him think that?”

Petula righted the salt shaker and twirled it around in her hands. “Because you are available, and because Patty Barnes said she didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger.”

Claire scoffed. “Patty was staring so hard at the man she would have noticed if he had a freckle on that finger.”

Petula poked at a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “Well, he is the first new guy in town since Sam Jenkins moved in to open the bicycle rental shop.”

“Sam Jenkins is nineteen years old, Aunt Pet.” Determined to steer this conversation in another direction, Claire said, “Besides, I’m not interested in any new men in the community for the reason you’re suggesting.”

Petula wasn’t about to be silenced, not when she was on a soapbox. “I just think it’s time you considered getting married again, sweetie.”

Oh, here we go. Another lecture on my pitifully deficient social life. Defending herself on this subject again, Claire said, “You’re a fine one to talk. You’ve been dating Finn Sweeney for how long? Something like six years?”

“Finn and I have been involved for six years, but I would hardly call it dating.”

“I agree. Your relationship with Finn has gone far beyond that. So, if you want someone to get married, why not you and Finn?”

A little furrow developed between Pet’s eyes, as much distress as she ever showed. “I don’t believe in marriage, you know that.”

“You believed in it three times,” Claire couldn’t resist pointing out.

“Which is why I don’t believe in it now.” She reached across the table and laid one finger on the back of Claire’s hand. “But you do.”

“Yes, I do, and I was married once and took my vows seriously. Roman was everything I ever needed or wanted in a man. I have no interest in compromising his memory by attaching myself to the first man…” She stopped, took a deep breath and looked away from Pet’s penetrating gaze. Jack Hogan wouldn’t be the first man Claire had avoided. She’d left Miami partly to get away from men in her social circle who’d begun asking her out soon after Roman had died. “Why are we talking about this?” she asked.

“Because I think you need to,” Pet said. She glanced out the window to the street one floor below the second-story café. “And because I think the man in question is about to come up to the restaurant.”

“What?” Claire leaned over to get a view to the sidewalk, but a tin vase of plastic flowers sat in the way. “How do you know it’s him? You haven’t even seen him.”

“It’s not my psychic abilities if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Pet said. “The guy who just opened the door downstairs is wearing a sports jacket. There haven’t been any cold winds through my bedroom this week, so I know nobody died.” She shrugged. “Who else could it be?”

Just then Jack Hogan pushed open the entrance and walked into the Green Door Café.

“You say one word about your pathetic widowed niece, and I’ll never forgive you,” Claire warned.

“All I’m going to do is look the man over.” Petula made a V of two fingers and pointed them at Claire’s face. “I can tell a lot by just peeking into somebody’s eyes like I’m doing to you now.” She grinned like a contented cat and stood. “So, ’scuse me, honey. I’ve got a customer to wait on.”

CHAPTER TWO

NOTHING ABOUT AUNT PET should have surprised Claire at this point. She’d been close to her aunt all her life. She’d loved her, admired her, and when Claire had been cracking the books at the University of Florida and sending out too many résumés to count, she’d even envied her aunt’s free-spirited approach to living.

For as long as Claire could remember, Aunt Pet had flitted from job to job, claiming each was merely a way to support herself for a time, instead of a stepping stone to a secure future. That sort of seat-of-the-pants approach to life had been alien to Claire, an honors grad from a highly respected school of business who had her sights set on a lucrative and responsible career.

Still, despite having experienced Pet’s propensity for the unexpected in the past, Claire couldn’t help shuddering when her aunt walked right up to Jack Hogan, gave him a boisterous welcome and offered to take him to a table by the window. There had always been a “seat yourself” policy at the Green Door Café, which was clearly stated on the chalkboard inside the front entrance, and which Pet blatantly ignored now.

She set a menu in front of Hogan as he settled into a chair directly facing Claire at the next table. Without scoping out his surroundings first, he unbuttoned his jacket and loosened the knot in his tie. He still looked as stiff as a surfboard compared to the half-dozen other customers who were hanging out in work clothes or baggy shorts and tank tops, but he seemed less like an automaton than he had in Claire’s office.

“What’s good?” he asked Pet while studying the menu.

“Oh, honey, nothing bad comes out of our kitchen.” She smirked. “On the other hand, there’s nothing to write home about either. So I’d suggest you close your eyes and point your finger. It’ll land on something edible.”

He emitted a little sound that could almost be mistaken for a chuckle, and looked up.

Claire blinked, tried to look away, but it was too late. She was caught in a deep gray gaze that refused to let go.

And then Hogan actually relaxed, propping his elbow on the back of the chair. “I see the mayor eats here,” he said. “That’s a good recommendation. What’s she having?”

“You know my niece?” Pet said innocently and with as much enthusiasm as if the revelation were deserving of a headline in the Heron Point Tattler.

Hogan stared at both women as if trying to reconcile them to the same gene pool. “We met this morning.”

Pet peered at Claire from under a raised eyebrow but spoke to Hogan. “Don’t order lunch based on my niece’s preferences. She’s a grazer. Show him what you’re having, Claire.”

Claire smiled stiffly. “I’m sure Mr. Hogan has seen lettuce before, Aunt Pet.”

“I have, but rarely on my plate.” He turned his attention back to Pet. “I’ll just have the fried grouper sandwich, fries, and an iced coffee.”

“Good choice. I’ll hold the lettuce.” She took the menu and headed for the kitchen.

And Jack Hogan continued to give Claire an uncomfortably personal appraisal. She took another bite of salad and chewed, but suddenly her jaw muscles felt tight. She washed down the lettuce with a swallow of raspberry iced tea. “Is there something you want?” she said when Hogan still hadn’t looked away. “You’re sitting by a window with an incredible view of the Gulf of Mexico. Surely you can find something more appealing to look at than my unappetizing lunch.”

Obviously appeasing her, he passed a quick glance out the window and then leaned forward and focused on her again. “Actually I was kind of hoping you’d ask me to join you. Other than those two ladies over at the realty office, you’re my only friend in town.”

If she’d had a mouthful of food, Claire was certain she would have choked on it. “You think we’re friends?” she said. “I probably should make myself clear. Our friendship, if in fact there is one, is directly affected by how many of my neighbors you’ve bothered already today.”

Hogan stood up, came around the table and sat opposite her. “Good, because you were the one and only person I bothered this morning. But we still have a lot of daylight, so who knows? I can squeeze in a fair amount of antagonizing before the end of the day.”

Claire didn’t doubt it. He was bothering her in a way she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She resisted the urge to squirm in her seat.

Pet appeared with a tall mug of cool coffee and set it in front of Hogan. “Oh, good,” she said. “You two are talking. I know I hate to eat alone.”

Claire seized the opportunity to ask for her check.

“Sure thing, hon,” Pet said. “As soon as I get a minute.”

There were a total of eight people in the restaurant, all of them served but Hogan. How swamped could she be?

Pet stabbed her pencil into a wave of coarse white hair at her temple. “Do you still want me to monitor the crosswalk at school this afternoon?”

“If you don’t mind,” Claire said. “And Jane will be riding home with you if that’s okay.”

“Of course.” And then, as if an explanation were necessary, which it wasn’t, she spoke to Hogan. “Jane is Claire’s daughter. Adorable child. Smart, clever.” She pointed her finger between herself and Claire. “She keeps the two of us on our toes.”

Hogan nodded as he stirred a packet of sugar into his coffee. About as much of a reaction as anyone could expect in Claire’s opinion, considering he didn’t know Jane and couldn’t care less.

“My check, Pet,” Claire said, pointing to the small stack of orders banded to the back of her aunt’s restaurant pad. “I can see it right there.”

Pet snapped the paper out of the rubber band. “Oh, right. You have to go so soon?”

“My shop doesn’t run itself.” Claire took the check and stood up. “Have a nice lunch, Mr. Hogan.” She gave him her best mayoral smile, the one she used to calm downtown shopkeepers when the teenagers were a little rambunctious on a Friday night. “Try kicking back a bit. It’s what we do best in Heron Point.”

“Maybe I’ll give it a shot,” he said.

Claire didn’t believe him. Other than loosening his tie, she didn’t think he knew how.

JACK FINISHED HIS SANDWICH and left the Green Door Café. Folks in shorts and T-shirts ambled by him on the sidewalk. Some had video cameras tucked into the palms of their hands. Jack supposed there was enough scenic shoreline on this remote speck of west Florida coast to merit a vacation video, though he’d never been inclined to preserve his travels in that way. Despite having seen much of the world, he’d rarely traveled for the fun of it. And he wasn’t in Heron Point for enjoyment either, although that interlude with the mayor just now still had him smiling. He had a job to do, and to Jack Hogan, every assignment was important.

The day had turned warm and unpleasantly muggy. He took off his jacket, hooked it over his shoulder with one finger and pulled his cell phone from the pocket. He punched in the first number on his saved list.

The Upper West Side Manhattan voice that answered was crisp and confident as always. “Anderson Enterprises. How may I direct your call?”

“Hello, Sophie,” he said.

“Jack! How are you? More to the point, where are you?”

He scanned the weathered exteriors of boutiques and souvenir shops, noting the nautical and marine paraphernalia that decorated the walls. Everything on this beachfront road was made to look like it had been standing for decades, though from his studies, Jack knew that, unlike the historic downtown section, this stretch of restaurants and shops had been built in the last ten years. “This week I’m in Heron Point,” he replied.

“That’s a new one to me,” Sophie said. “Where is it?”

“Florida.” He recalled the two-hour drive north from the Tampa airport he’d made early this morning. He’d ended up on a thirty-mile stretch of narrow road that led past ancient burial mounds and limestone formations to a two-lane bridge at the head of the island. “It’s not near anything you’ve ever heard of unless you’re schooled in multi-syllable Native American names of towns and rivers.”

“No, sorry. Now if you want to talk the names of shops on South Beach or Worth Avenue…”

Jack chuckled. “You and I are on different wavelengths as usual, Sophie. I think I actually prefer this place.” He heard the subtle background tones that indicated another call coming into her board. “You’re busy, I can tell. Is Archie in?”

“You bet. I’ll send you up.”

Up meant the thirty-fifth floor and an office banked with impact-proof wall-to-wall glass. Jack knew he would bypass Archie Anderson’s personal secretary and go right to the private line. The next thing he heard was his boss’s typically clipped greeting. “Anderson.”

“Archie, it’s Jack.”

As usual when the call wasn’t related to a high-profile acquisition or merger, Archie relaxed. “Jackie boy, how are you enjoying the sunshine state?”

Jack pictured his boss leaning back in his leather executive chair and swiveling around to view the New York skyline. “It’s hot,” he said.

“It’s October,” Archie said. “Can’t be that bad. I used to be there in the heat of the summer.” He chuckled. “Besides, aren’t you the same guy who once floated down South American rivers and basked in the heat of the equator?”

Jack smiled. He would hardly call his experience tracking counterfeiters basking. “I don’t know. I can’t remember that far back.”

“So what do you think of Heron Point?”

“As far as a preliminary security evaluation is concerned, I’d say this town has enough holes in it to strain spaghetti.”

“Well, then, fill up the holes. It’s what I pay you to do, and I hired the best in the business.”

Jack couldn’t argue with either point. He was paid well and he doubted anyone in the country knew more than he did about matters of security. Fourteen years in the Secret Service and working for the U.S. Treasury Department had prepared him admirably for this highly coveted job in the private sector. Archie Anderson’s well-documented paranoia, obsessions about his safety, and ultimately his hiring of Jack Hogan, had made Jack arguably the country’s leading expert in the field of protection.

“You’ve got one month to make Dolphin Run and its surroundings as tight as a tick, Jack, but I know you can do it.”

Oh, yeah, he could do it, though the town’s chief executive officer, its statuesque, blue-eyed mayor, might oppose him at every turn. Jack had met any number of challenges in his profession, but squaring off with the mayor might prove to be one of the most interesting.

Putting Claire Betancourt out of his mind, Jack asked the question he’d been pondering since he’d entered Heron Point’s town limits. Not that Archie’s motives for buying Dolphin Run were any of Jack’s business, he still said, “Are you ready to level with me about your real interest in this town and property?”

“I’ll tell you this much. Heron Point and I go back a long way, though I haven’t been there since the sixties. That old resort meant a lot to Charlotte and me at one time, so I decided to buy it for both personal and business reasons. It’ll be a nice place to send clients for some posh entertaining, as well as a moneymaker when I open it up to tourists. Any other details about my decision will have to wait until you and I are nose to nose over a bottle of scotch.”

“Fair enough.”

Jack sensed a smile in his boss’s voice when the old man added, “Maybe I’m just getting sentimental in my golden years.”

And maybe restoring a run-down old resort was Archie’s way of honoring his wife’s memory. Charlotte Anderson had been dead two years now and those closest to Archie knew he was still grieving.

“Okay, then, boss,” Jack said. “I guess I’ll hang up and get to work, which starts with finding a place to stay for the next month.”

“I told you to let my assistant handle that detail,” Archie said. “She was willing to investigate the local hotels and get you a reservation at the same time she arranged for the rental car.”

“I know, but I always like to check a place out before I decide where to stay. I consider it a strategic decision.” Though he could count on one hand the inns within his view right now, Jack noted that all of them had vacancy signs in the windows. “Besides,” he said, “this place is dead. Nobody here but a few tourists, some locals and me. I can take my pick of rooms.”

“All right then, Jackie. Keep me posted and I’ll see you when I see you.”

Hopefully when I’m back in Manhattan in a month, Jack thought. He disconnected and crossed the street to the Hibiscus Resort Hotel. It looked as good as any place else. As long as it had a coffeemaker and a refrigerator. Jack couldn’t function without coffee first thing in the mornings, and he wasn’t opposed to a cold beer at night.

He opened the door and stepped inside, greeted by the tinkling melody of wind chimes hanging from a giant plastic hibiscus flower.

CLAIRE OPENED THE OVEN DOOR and slid a platter of chicken breasts inside. Then she looked at her daughter who was haphazardly arranging globs of dough onto a cookie sheet. “Jane, you might want to be a little more careful about pulling those biscuits apart.”

Jane’s efforts resembled the uneven rooftops of an adobe village more than the uniform shapes of refrigerated biscuits pictured on the side of the cardboard tube.

“I’m being artistic, Mommy,” Jane said. “Each one will look different from the others when they’re cooked.”

Claire smiled. “I’m sure that’s what Mr. Pillsbury had in mind, honey.” She didn’t say anything when Jane sprinkled the tops with colored sugar crystals and painted on smiles with chocolate icing.

Aunt Pet breezed in through the back door from her cottage fifty yards behind the main house. She studied the creations on the cookie sheet and tugged on Jane’s wavy auburn ponytail. “Gorgeous, pussycat. If there’s anything I hate, it’s plain old biscuits.”

Then she walked to the sink, took the last ear of corn from the colander and began shucking it. “We having company for dinner?” she asked.

Claire dried her hands on a paper towel. “No, why do you ask?”

“A car was pulling up in front as I walked over here. One of those big SUVs, you know, the gas guzzlers. Black.”

Claire thought for a second. “I don’t know who that could be.” Tossing the towel into the garbage, she headed toward the living room. “I hope this doesn’t mean there’s a problem in town.”

She glanced out the window and watched Jack Hogan climb the sloped brick walk to her front porch. When she opened the door to him, her hand was shaking. “What brings you here, Mr. Hogan?”

“Misfortune, Mayor,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home.” He glanced over his shoulder at the myriad hanging baskets circling the porch ceiling and at the swinging sign over the steps. “The guy who gave me directions was pretty accurate. He said look for a house named Tansy Hill.” His lips curled in a subtle grin. “You people don’t use normal addresses?”

“We have them,” she said. “The U.S. postal service requires it, but everyone in town knows the older homes by their original names, so I rarely use my street number.”

“And Tansy?”

“It’s a medicinal herb. The first owner of this house was an herbalist. The backyard is covered in different varieties.”

“Oh.” He looked around her into the living room.

Claire took the hint. “Would you like to come in? I suppose if you’re here about some sort of misfortune, you might want to sit down.”

She stepped back to let him in the house. He’d shed his sports jacket, but still looked decidedly un-Heron Point. His black shirt with charcoal pinstriping was well tailored and obviously expensive, but even with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, Jack Hogan still looked like he’d come from a boardroom.

“Thanks.” He surveyed the parlor, obviously trying to choose the most appropriate chair. Claire had never thought critically about her tastes before, but now that she looked at the furnishings from a man’s perspective, she supposed the room had an overwhelmingly feminine look. He picked a large old rattan barrel chair she had re-covered in a delicate pastel stripe. Next to the sofa, it was the most substantial piece in the room and hugged his sculpted body admirably.

Claire sat on the overstuffed floral love seat covered with what she now realized was an impractical number of fringed pillows. “Now, what about this misfortune?”

He came right to the point. “I need a place to stay.”

Her first thought was that he was suggesting he might be invited to stay at Tansy Hill. Otherwise why had he come here? It was a ridiculous notion, of course. Still, Claire tamped down a shiver of panic. No man besides her stepson, Carlos, had ever slept a night at Tansy Hill. Claire didn’t even date. “There are lots of places on the island,” she said. “You won’t have any trouble finding something for tonight.”

“That’s just it. Tonight only. It’s Thursday, and everybody has vacancies. But nobody has anything for the weekend.”

“Oh? You’re staying that long?”

He smiled, showing those white teeth again, which now were an interesting contrast to his five o’clock stubble of dark beard. “Don’t sound so disappointed, but yes. I’m staying a month or more.”

Claire tried to ignore the gasp of surprise that came from the hallway. But ignoring Pet’s entrance was impossible. Her aunt sailed into the room in advance of her billowing red silk lounge pants and a mist of spicy incense. “A month?” she said. “You don’t say?”

Hogan stood up and shook her outstretched hand. “Hello, again.” He seemed genuinely pleased to see her. “That’s right. And I’m finding that every place in town can accommodate me for the weeknights, but not for Friday and Saturday.”

“We’re a weekend tourist destination,” Claire said. “Heron Point’s population nearly doubles every Friday night. Our seafood restaurants alone bring folks from all over the state. And our shoreline is one of the most unique in Florida.”

Hogan sat again and crossed his ankle over the opposite knee. “You sound like a brochure, Mrs. Betancourt. Gee, I love the town already.”

Pet waved her hand, making the dozen bells on her silver bracelet jingle softly. “It’s a wonderful town,” she said. “You can’t help but love it.”

“I won’t get the chance to find out if I don’t get a place to stay.” He focused on Claire again. “That’s why I’ve come to you. I figure if anybody could point me in the direction of a permanent room to rent, it would be you. I don’t look forward to sleeping five nights a week in a hotel and the last two in my car.”

“Who are you?”

Claire whirled around at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Jane, this is Mr. Hogan,” she said as Jane came to the middle of the room. “He’s staying in Heron Point for a while.”

Hogan stood up again. The man did have manners. Unfortunately he didn’t appear to know quite what to do once he was face-to-face with a human who stood less than four feet tall. He took his cue from Jane who, as usual, exhibited not the least sign of shyness. She thrust her little hand at his midsection and he enclosed it in a palm that seemed three times the size of hers. “How do you do, Jane?”

“Are you staying for dinner?” she asked. “Aunt Pet thought you might be. I have extra biscuits.”

Not for the first time, Jane’s characteristic impulsiveness put Claire in an uncomfortable position. She thought of the three chicken breasts she’d just put in the oven. She supposed she could slice them up, add a can of mushroom soup and stretch the menu to include three women and one formidable, substantially built man. Of course not taken into consideration was the fact that Claire did not especially want Jack Hogan to stay to dinner.

He eliminated her concern. “No, I’m just here to ask your mother a favor. I need a place to stay.”

“You could stay here I suppose,” Jane said. “We have a guest room.”

Claire stiffened.

Pet hooted.

“Well, thanks,” Hogan said, giving Jane a little smile. “But I didn’t mean anything like that. I meant a place in town.”

“We have lots of nice places,” Jane said. “The rates are reasonable this time of year.”

Claire gently pulled Jane to the love seat and forced her to sit. “That’s my daughter,” she said. “Future chamber of commerce president.”

Hogan scrubbed his hand across the nape of his neck. “Look, I didn’t mean to interrupt your household. If you can just give me a recommendation, and maybe even make a call on my behalf to someone in town who could rent me a room, I’ll be grateful and be on my way. I’m sure your husband…”

Jane sat up straight and clasped her hands on her lap. “We don’t have husbands, any of us. We’re single girls.”

The bells on Pet’s wrist jangled as she covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes gleeful. And then she said, “The Pink Ladies! It’s perfect. Hester always keeps one cottage available for emergencies, and I’d say Mr. Hogan has one.”

Claire was still recovering from Jane’s unexpected revelation of the marital status of the women of Tansy Hill, but she managed to stutter out an agreement. “Of course. I’ll call her now.”

“You’ll like it fine there,” Pet said as Claire scurried from the room. “Each cottage has a little sitting area and a small kitchen. Quite cozy.”

Claire returned a minute later. “It’s all set. The landlady is Hester Poole. Tell her you’re the man I sent over.” She gave Hogan directions that included a couple of turns and a short straightaway along the Gulf shore to a row of cottages with a sign in front that said The Pink Ladies.

He thanked her and said good-night.

“You can’t miss it,” Claire hollered after him as he walked briskly to the street.

From her front porch, she watched Hogan drive off in his “gas guzzler.” When she returned to the living room, Aunt Pet had taken the chair he’d occupied and was practically convulsing with laughter. “I know it’s the only place in town,” she said, “but can you imagine that great big gorgeous male in Hester Poole’s Victorian throwback of a cottage?”

Claire laughed, too. “No. And I can’t imagine Hester when he pulls up in that giant black SUV. She’ll think the dinosaurs have come back to life. I hope she doesn’t take down that old Winchester and fire at him.”

Pet shook her head in obvious pleasure. “Right. I don’t want him getting shot now that, thanks to Jane, he knows for sure you’re available.”

Claire sent her aunt her most exasperated look of warning before heading back to the kitchen to finish dinner preparations. Despite Pet’s ridiculous attempt at matchmaking, Claire couldn’t help feeling a bit of pity for the security officer. Mr. Hogan might be in for the challenge of his life as he tries to adapt to Heron Point.

CHAPTER THREE

SO, THE ELEGANT, UPTIGHT mayor of Heron Point wasn’t married after all—an intriguing detail. Jack smiled as he remembered the flush on her cheekbones growing deeper with every comment made by her daughter. Getting to know the mayor might be the one benefit of spending thirty days on this convenience-deprived island.

Leaving Tansy Hill behind, Jack stored his sunglasses in the overhead compartment and rolled down the window on his rented Cadillac Escalade. The evening air was cool and salty. The oppressive humidity of earlier had dissipated, and with the sun now just an amber ball settling into the western horizon, the breeze was almost fall-like.

Of course Heron Point displayed none of the natural phenomena that would make it even remotely similar to a Manhattan autumn. Still, now that Jack’s mood had improved since his visit with the mayor, he found the northwest Florida sunset had a surprisingly appealing quality. The wide expanse of shoreline along the Gulf, however, was not at all appealing from the viewpoint of an ex-Secret Service operative.

Jack scanned the open sea, mindful of his duties as chief security officer for Archie Anderson. Red channel markers dotted the shimmering horizon, indicating that dredging had been plentiful and probably haphazard through the years of the island’s development. Most seacoast communities in Jack’s knowledge had one or perhaps two major marinas through which boat traffic entered the town boundaries. This was not the case with Heron Point. In the short drive around the shoreline, he counted at least four channel inlets, and he’d only progressed along a fraction of the island’s entire coast. Such easy and unguarded entrance to the town was a security nightmare.

And that wasn’t the only problem he’d uncovered in his short time on the island. He sensed a general attitude of indifference and perhaps even ignorance among the people of Heron Point. The mayor had suggested that her citizens liked to kick back. Jack had already decided that these nonchalant folks ought to do a little less back-kicking and try a bit more sitting up and taking notice of the risks in their community.

He thought of the old guy who’d given him directions to Claire Betancourt’s picturesque bungalow, the one that needed no address since everyone in town knew it as Tansy Hill. Jack had been leaving the third hotel with no weekend vacancies when an unkempt man with wiry gray hair and a scraggly chest-length beard had stopped him on the sidewalk.

The man had nodded toward a colorfully painted restaurant on the edge of the water that advertised its menu on wooden placards nailed every which way on the exterior walls. “Can you spare a buck or two for a bowl of clam chowder?” the man had asked.

He’d been sitting on top of a motley assortment of worldly goods piled in the bed of a beaten-up wagon. Jack had seen a few articles of clothing, a dented collection of pots and a few tattered magazines, but he hadn’t noticed even a scrap of food. So he’d violated his own personal conviction against enabling beggars to continue tapping into the resources of working citizens and given the fellow two dollars.

In New York, any beggar worth his reputation would have taken that two bucks to the nearest tavern and wasted it on one good shot. But not this guy. He had actually ambled over to the restaurant and returned a minute later with a steaming paper cup of chowder. And he’d offered Jack a taste.

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” Jack had said. “But I could use directions.”

“Where to?”

“The mayor’s house. Do you know where Mrs. Betancourt lives?”

“Sure do.” He’d pointed one gnarly finger toward the east, and recited amazingly precise instructions about how to proceed to Tansy Hill. “It sits up on a little knoll,” he’d explained. “A nice place. Painted yellow, like a dandelion, with white trim. Has the name hanging from a sign on the front porch.”

The old-timer had been so explicit about the location of Mayor Betancourt’s home that Jack was able to drive directly to it. And while he should have been grateful for the detailed directions, Jack’s instincts had gone on alert. In Heron Point even the homeless population knew exactly where the town’s leading official resided.

Jack had never lived in a small town, but his gut feelings and training had instilled in him that in this time of heightened awareness of threats, even the most provincial of citizens ought to put security at a priority level. Obviously Mayor Betancourt and the people of Heron Point didn’t.

And then there was the mayor’s shop, called Wear It Again. Jack had seen it when he’d taken his first exploratory walk down the main historic avenue of century-old buildings. The business sat amid other unique shops and galleries. The window displayed a collection of clothing from celebrities as well as vintage garments that had obviously survived a couple of generations. Also in the window was a sign stating the proprietor’s name as well as her phone number so she could be contacted in case of an emergency. The mayor’s phone number was prominently posted in a shop window! Didn’t the woman ever get a crank call?

Ah, well, maybe not. This wasn’t Manhattan after all.

Jack abandoned his musings about the shortcomings of Heron Point when he drove toward a row of wood-planked cottages running to the edge of the water. All the buildings were painted pink. The one nearest the road, the office, was larger than the others and bore the sign that identified the units as the Pink Ladies. The section of the property that bordered the road was ablaze with multicolored flowers from white to pink to shades of lavender and violet. The rest of the property was brilliant with hibiscus trees and bougainvillea—from pale to shocking pink.

A woman came out on the wraparound porch when Jack pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the office. She resembled the grandmother almost any child could wish for. So much that, with her curly white hair, wire-rimmed glasses and cotton print dress covered by an apron, she might have stepped out of a fairy tale. “Are you Claire’s friend?” she called to him.

He stepped out of the SUV. “Yes, she recommended this place to me. You must be Mrs. Poole.”

The woman nodded while pointing a spatula at the Escalade. “Is that your vehicle?”

Thinking the answer obvious and the question irrelevant, Jack smiled.

“It’s too large for our parking lot.”

Jack leaned around the back of the SUV to be sure he’d cleared the roadway. “No, it isn’t. It fits.”

“Oh, it fits,” the woman said, “but it hides my flowers. As you can see, these are all bedding plants, low to the ground. My landscaping is one of the finer features of the Pink Ladies. With your giant automobile parked there, no one driving by can see them.”

Jack compared his vehicle to the other two cars in the lot. One was a pink Dodge Neon. He guessed who that car belonged to. The other was a cream-colored Volkswagen convertible. The top was down, making the vehicle as diminutive as possible. He leaned against the Escalade, stared at the world’s sweetest-looking grandma, and wondered if he was actually going to be denied accommodations because of the size of his car. “I promise I won’t be here often,” he said. “I’ll be gone from morning till night.”

Mrs. Poole narrowed her eyes in thought. “Oh, that will help.” She pointed beyond her property to a vacant stretch of rocky beach. “Would you mind parking there when you’re home? Neither Billy nor Lou will ticket you. And if they do, you can just tell Claire.”

Deciding he didn’t want to tangle with local law officials, Jack came up with a more sensible solution. “Can’t I just park closer to my room?”

“Heavens no. I covered over the asphalt when I bought this place ten years ago. Turned it into a grassy courtyard.” She gazed lovingly down a stone walkway that led to the entrances of the six cottages and a couple of vintage tile-top cement tables and benches. “Isn’t it nice? You’ll appreciate the uninterrupted view when you see our sunrises.”

Resigned to carting his two suitcases, briefcase and computer equipment along Mrs. Poole’s garden path, Jack prepared himself for her answer to his next question. “Which unit is mine?”

Predictably she said, “The one at the end. A gentleman needs his privacy.”

“I thought so.” He walked around the SUV and opened the door to the cargo space. “Can I at least take my things in before moving it?”

“I suppose that will be all right.” She stuck her hand in her apron pocket and pulled out a key that hung from a pink rabbit’s foot. “Here you go. Once you’re settled, come back up here to register. I’ll require a week’s rent in advance, even if you do know Claire.”

Jack took the key and resisted an urge to salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Poole went inside her house, and Jack carried his first load past five whimsical cottages that looked like they’d come from the same enchanted forest as their fairy-tale proprietress. Once on the small front porch of his unit, he turned the key in the lock of the glossy white door. But before going inside, he removed the key from its ridiculous bunny foot and attached it to the sensible black metal chain he’d gotten with the rental car.

Then he stepped inside and was assailed with linens and pillows and all manner of things pink and ruffled. And each item had been fluffed and flounced as if the sole reason the Pink Ladies existed was to embarrass a man. But the cottage was impeccably clean, a condition that Jack noted with more enthusiasm than he did its unsuitability. And it was comfortable and spacious with enough amenities to meet his needs.

“You’ll get used to it, Jack,” he said as he walked around the galley kitchen and pulled pretty little quilted things from every appliance. When he was finished, he stuffed the covers into a drawer and spoke to the toaster and blender and tea kettle. “Sorry, ladies, but as long as I’m here, we’re living in the buff.”

CLAIRE WAS AT HERON POINT Elementary School a half hour early the next morning. She dropped Jane at the door, parked her car and assumed the duties of crossing guard until all students were safely in the building. She would return in the afternoon to perform the same function and then she would have the weekend to find a suitable replacement for Bella Martingale. Calling Bella the night before to tell her she’d lost her position hadn’t been easy, but Bella had taken the news as well as could be expected. Claire supposed it had helped when she’d invited her for tea at the Heron Point Hotel for this afternoon. Just because the mayor had to fire someone didn’t mean she couldn’t still be her friend.

Once her guard duties were accomplished, Claire drove to the town hall, but before going inside, she walked the two blocks to Heron Point Realty. Archie Anderson’s latest acquisition, and the man he’d sent to oversee the property transfer, had kept her awake much of the night. Just exactly what did Anderson intend to do with Dolphin Run? And what part would Jack Hogan’s security expertise play in his plan? Claire figured the best place to search for answers was the realty office. Besides having witnessed the transaction, Patty Barnes and Lucy Gaynor generally had their eyes and ears trained on the latest happenings on the island. If anyone knew what Hogan was planning to do, they would.

Lucy was seated at her desk when Claire stepped inside the office. The younger woman removed her rhinestone glasses, tucked a loose strand of streaked black hair back into a glittery clip at her temple, and said, “Oh, hi, Claire. What’s up?”

“My curiosity, I guess,” Claire said. “I was wondering if you were in the office when Mr. Hogan closed on the Dolphin Run property yesterday.”

Lucy’s eyes became almost dreamy. “Sure was. Patty and I sat right here while he signed the papers. He had a power of attorney from Archie Anderson and everything.”

As if her private radar were tuned in, Patty came out of a back office. “Did I hear my name connected with one Jack Hogan? Or is it only wishful thinking?”

Claire smiled. “No. Lucy and I were mentioning you. I’m here on a sort of snooping expedition. I’m curious about what Anderson is planning to do with Dolphin Run and how Mr. Hogan’s role might shake things up around here.” Claire pulled up a chair and sat across the desk from Lucy. “Did either of you hear anything?”

As if Claire didn’t exist, both women’s eyes snapped to the front door. The next voice Claire heard was Jack Hogan’s.

“If you want to know what’s going on, Mayor, maybe you should get your information from the horse’s mouth.”

She spun around and stared at the man who’d shed his sports jacket for a golf shirt. He carried a steaming foam cup in one hand and a paper grocery sack in the other.

“Fortunately for you,” Jack said as he set his cup on the desk, “the horse just showed up to finalize one last detail. And I’m the same horse who tried to engage you in conversation yesterday as I recall.”

Realizing her mouth was gaping open, Claire clamped her jaw closed. Determined that Hogan would not see that his unexpected appearance had rattled her, she reminded herself that she was skilled at hiding her reactions to unexpected events. Her years in the public-relations spotlight for Miami city government had taught her how to be cool in the hottest of water. So she smiled. “If you’re referring to that few minutes we had in my office, I wouldn’t exactly call it a conversation. It was more of an ultimatum as I interpreted it.”

“I’ll work on my people skills,” Hogan said and then turned his attention to Lucy, who remained transfixed, her eyes unblinking. “Good morning, Lucy,” he said. “Did you find that gate key?”

Awakened from her trance, Lucy yanked open the lap drawer of her desk. “I did even better than that.” She dangled a set of keys in front of him. “I found this whole set. These will open every door on the place, right, Patty?”

“That’s right.” The Realtor spoke to Claire. “We had to call Mr. Eisenring at the retirement home to see if he could remember where he’d put the keys when the Holcombs closed up Dolphin Run. Thank goodness he’s still alive and recalled where they were.”

Hogan took the keys from Lucy’s hand. “Great. I think I’ll drive out there and have a look around.” He gave Claire a pointed stare, a kind of top-to-bottom appraisal. Trying to ignore the flutter his attention brought to the pit of her stomach, she concentrated on the reason for his interest. Did he find her designer capri pants and flowered shirt too unofficial? Her open-toed sandals too casual for a city leader? Too bad if he did. Claire had a complete business wardrobe in mothballs, and she didn’t care if she ever wore a tailored jacket or pantyhose again.

“You look like you’re dressed for an adventure, Mrs. Betancourt,” he said. “How’d you like to go exploring with me out at Dolphin Run?”

Patty and Lucy both gasped.

Claire waved off his offer. “Thanks, but I couldn’t.”

“Too much town business, I guess,” he said.

“Right. A full docket.” She stood up and headed toward the door. “In fact, I have to get to my office right away.”

Hogan slipped the keys into his pocket, picked up his coffee cup and followed her. “I’ll walk you out.” He nodded to Lucy and Patty and fell into step behind her. “It’ll give me the chance to thank you for last night.”

Snickers trailed after them and Claire imagined the story Patty and Lucy were concocting.

As if sensing her distress, Hogan added loudly, “What I mean is, thanks for pointing me to that little dollhouse of Mrs. Poole’s.”

Once out on the sidewalk, Claire said, “You have a nice day now, Mr. Hogan.”

He put the bag he’d been carrying into the back seat of his vehicle. “I thought you wanted information, Mayor.”

She slid her sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose. “There’s more than one way to get it,” she said.

“Probably, but what way is easier than going with me to Dolphin Run? Plus, I could use a little information myself.” He glanced over his shoulder in the general direction of the abandoned resort. “Have you ever seen the place?”

She admitted she hadn’t.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about it? Don’t you want to know what’s on the other side of that big iron fence?”

She shrugged, attempting to minimize her recent desperate desire to know everything about Dolphin Run and the people involved in its purchase. “I can wait till another time.”

“Suit yourself, Claire,” he said. The use of her first name was no doubt a tactic of his to topple a barrier between them so he could get her cooperation. Oddly, it almost worked. When he added, “But I’d sure appreciate the company,” Claire found herself wanting to say yes.

Then he opened the driver’s side door of his SUV and said, “Big old spooky places scare me.”

She watched him slide into the seat and pull his door shut. When he zipped down the passenger window and leaned down to look at her, she was still staring at the car. “What do you say?”

She released the breath she’d been holding in a long, exasperated sigh. “Oh, all right, I’ll go.” She gave a quick look into the window of Heron Point Realty, saw Patty and Lucy staring at her, and got into the car. “But I have a feeling I’m going to regret this.”

Hogan jerked his thumb toward the back seat. “Have a doughnut.” He indicated the paper bag. “I went grocery shopping this morning. Got the essentials.”

Claire stole a peek over the top of the sack. Doughnuts, a jar of coffee, a bag of spicy jalapeño chips and beer. Those were Jack Hogan’s food essentials. Claire’s stomach turned over in a gesture of self-preservation. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

JACK RAN HIS WINDOW DOWN as he drove out of town. As the wind rushed into the car, he looked at Claire. “Do you mind?” Since the passenger window had already been lowered, strands of her thick blond hair had come loose from the clip that had held it together at the nape of her neck. And Claire Betancourt didn’t look like the kind of woman who appreciated having her sleek hairdo whipped around her face like she was on an amusement ride. Jack thought he’d better see if she wanted the windows up and the air-conditioning on.

She raised her glasses to the top of her head, holding the windblown strands away from her forehead. “No, it feels good actually.”

He pushed a few errant spikes of hair off his brow and mentally added a trip to a barbershop to his growing list of priorities. Normally he kept his lightly peppered dark hair close-cropped and maintenance-free, but he’d put off his monthly visit to his hair cutter while he was preparing to leave for Heron Point. He hoped he wouldn’t have to drive the thirty miles back to civilization just to find a barber.

“So, how long have you been mayor?” he said after a moment.

“Almost a year. I’d only lived in Heron Point a year and a half when I was persuaded to run.”

“Looks like you impressed the populace pretty quickly.”

Keeping her gaze focused on the road, she smiled. “Not really. I ran unopposed. I heard after I was elected in a landslide of five hundred and twenty-three votes that the mayor before me was also a newcomer and also ran unopposed. I’m starting to believe the office is a rite of initiation for new residents.”

“But, hey, you must have got all the votes.”

“You’d think so, but no, I didn’t. There were six write-ins. Hester Poole got two of them.”

“My landlady with the phobia about big cars?”

“Yes, and an obvious affinity for pink.” She gave him a sideways glance. “By the way, how do you like your accommodations?”

He pretended nonchalance. “What’s not to like? Except that I feel like Ken when he finally got lucky and was invited to Barbie’s house. Only Barbie’s not there.”

“Maybe you can move to Dolphin Run after it’s cleaned up a bit,” she suggested.

He turned onto Gulfview Drive, which would take them to the spit of land where the resort was located. “I don’t know. I have a hunch it’s going to take more than a broom and dustpan to make the place livable. And I can’t fault Mrs. Poole for her housekeeping skills.”

Truthfully, though Jack had been kidding about being afraid of going into Dolphin Run alone, he wasn’t looking forward to what he might find there. According to Archie, the original owners had left the place virtually deserted in the early sixties. Jack figured there had to be a story behind their sudden departure. Maybe someday when he and Archie shared that bottle of scotch, he’d learn what it was.

The next owners, the Holcombs, had intended to keep the place running. But apparently they’d lost interest rather quickly and had given up any thoughts of managing the establishment. To Jack’s knowledge, no one had stayed in Dolphin Run since the late sixties. Perhaps it had even been that long since anyone had stepped inside the place. Who knew what creatures had taken up residence without humans to shoo them away.

“There it is,” Claire said, pointing to an overgrown thicket of shrubs and trees gone wild from lack of attention.

Jack slowed and stared at majestic cedars, live oaks dripping with moss and more varieties of palms than he’d known existed. He couldn’t detect either a building or an iron fence through the blanket of dense limbs and drooping fronds. “Looks like my first order of business is to hire a new gardener for this place,” he said.

“Hmmm…” Claire leaned forward to get a better perspective. “I think the main gate is just ahead about a hundred yards.”

Jack turned into what was left of a concrete drive and steered over cracked cement and washed-out roadbed until he reached the gate, which was obscured by forces of nature determined to undermine its existence. He stopped the car.

Claire looked up through the windshield at branches sweeping the Escalade’s pristine paint job. “I know it’s none of my business,” she said. “And I know I asked you this before, but now that I’m here, I can’t help wondering again why a man like Archie Anderson, who could buy any glamorous property on the planet, would want Dolphin Run.”

Jack reached into his pocket for the ring of keys Lucy had given him at the realty office. “Believe me,” he said, “I wondered that very thing myself.” He draped his arm over the steering wheel and tried to determine where the lock might be hidden in the thick greenery draping the fence. “He vaguely told me he wants it for both business purposes and personal reasons. I suppose he’ll tell me more when he thinks I need to know. But right now my job is to make this place like a mini fortress, and that’s what I intend to do.”

Claire swatted at an insect that had flown in the window. “As you know, Mr. Hogan, that’s what bothers me. I hope you’re not thinking you can make changes in Heron Point to suit the whims of one man. Tell me. What is your boss so afraid of?”

Jack spared her a quick glance as he pulled on the door handle and then let his gaze linger. The prim and proper mayor sure looked sexy raking her slim fingers through a tangled mass of sunstruck hair. And then he forced his mind to his mission. He doubted that she would appreciate knowing he was evaluating her sex appeal, especially when she was so busy expressing how serious she was about protecting her town’s status quo. He smiled to himself. In their own ways, both he and the mayor were in the protection business.

“People, Claire,” he said, responding to her question. “Archie Anderson is afraid of everybody he doesn’t know and half of those he does. I suppose it’s a curse of being excessively wealthy. If you don’t watch your back all the time, you’d better have someone around who watches it for you.” He got out of the car but leaned back in the window. “That’s what he hired me to do.”

She got out, walked to the gate and began helping him clear away vegetation so they could locate the lock. “Well, I think that’s sad,” she said. “A man lives his whole life being afraid of his own shadow for no reason—”

“Oh, he’s got reason,” Jack interrupted her. Having uncovered the rusted lock, he stuck the key into the hole. “On average, Anderson gets a half-dozen credible threats a month. All it takes is for one of them to be real and successful, like when Archie’s ten-year-old son was kidnapped twenty-two years ago.”

He heard her gasp as he turned the key. The giant gate swung inward, pulling twisted vines from their tenuous strongholds. Jack swept his arm toward the car as if he were a maître d’at one of New York’s finest restaurants. “Shall we drive in, Claire?”

CHAPTER FOUR

CLAIRE DIDN’T REMEMBER walking back to Jack’s vehicle, but somehow she ended up in the passenger seat again. Kidnapped! Just the mention of the word was enough to send any mother into an emotional nosedive. And, in Claire’s case, to make her feel like a fool. What right did she have to criticize Archie Anderson for the way he chose to live his life? She, the mayor of one of the most liberal-thinking communities in the state, if not the country, ought to have known better than to prejudge anyone. What had her father always said? “You can’t know a man until you walk a mile in his shoes.” That old axiom had never made more sense to Claire than it did now.

Hogan got behind the wheel and looked over at her. “Are you all right?”

She turned to him. “I had no idea.”

“What? The kidnapping? Of course you didn’t. How could you?”

She fumbled for words. “It must have been in the papers. I mean, Archie Anderson. Everybody’s heard of him. Something like this must have been big news.”

“It was twenty-two years ago. How old were you then, Claire? Ten?”

Actually she had been thirteen, and Hogan had a point. She had been more interested in ballet slippers than newspapers at that time in her life, and anyway, she would never have noticed a news article about a Manhattan man whose son had been kidnapped.

“Besides,” Hogan continued, “Archie wasn’t the headliner he is today. And he used his influence to keep the story out of the press. He didn’t want to give another crazed opportunist any ideas.”

“I can understand that,” Claire said.

“And maybe now you can understand Anderson’s motives a little better, too. Like you said, everybody’s heard of him, and that’s a big part of the reason he needs protection.” Hogan steered the big vehicle through the gate. “You’d be surprised how many celebrities and corporate bigwigs have people just like me on the payroll.”

“And politicians, too, I suppose,” she said.

“Absolutely. After my Secret Service training, I spent most of my career in Washington, D.C., protecting some political heavyweights, including the president.”

“You were on the president’s security team?”

“For a while.”

Claire decided that Archie Anderson had a security expert who came well qualified. Discovering that Jack had worked in powerful circles, she realized they had that in common. When she’d been a rookie in the public-relations department of Dade County government, she’d mingled with some pretty influential political figures, though none of them could compare to the president of the United States. And none of them had impressed her like Roman Betancourt, whose arresting good looks and charming personality had given him celebrity status in Miami.

A Cuban immigrant who came to South Florida when he was only a boy, Roman rose quickly to the ranks of the privileged and respected in the Latin community. He put himself through school at the University of Miami, and then, with determination and an uncanny ability to recognize a successful business opportunity before anyone else, he amassed a chain of lumberyards and acquired his contractor’s license. When persuaded by powerful compatriots to run for state senator, Roman campaigned with panache and won in a landslide.

It was during his second term in office, when Roman was forty-six years old, and recently divorced, that Claire, then twenty-four, was introduced to him. Claire’s assignment was to plan the details of Roman’s appearances at a series of political and social events in conjunction with the gubernatorial race. And, as Claire recalled now, the rest of the story was the stuff of dreams. She and Roman married a few months later, and she became stepmother to his teenaged son, Carlos.

A year later, Jane was born, and Claire believed that she was destined for the happily-ever-after that every girl longs for. But her fairy-tale life had only lasted six more years, and had ended with an anguish so all-consuming that Claire woke every morning reminding herself to breathe. She’d been living her dream one moment, and the next, the dream was ended by an agonizing cancer that had invaded Roman’s tissues and blood and had robbed him and his family of a future.

Claire flinched when she realized Jack was talking and she’d been too absorbed in her own thoughts to hear him. She tuned in to his voice.

“Most people know that the country’s leaders and celebrities have security personnel,” Hogan said. “But it’s also true for men like Anderson. He’s really not the exception, though my staff is probably larger than most.”

“My husband was always concerned with security,” she said, picturing the creases in Roman’s brow when he’d tried to persuade her to let him hire a bodyguard whenever she traveled any distance without him. “But I was stubborn. I didn’t like the idea of being shadowed by someone all the time. I didn’t think it was necessary. Everyone liked Roman,” she added, realizing how indefensible her casual attitude must sound to a man like Hogan. But at the time, Claire couldn’t imagine that Roman had any enemies. Yet, looking back, could she truly be certain he hadn’t?

“My only concession was to seek his approval of anyone I hired to watch Jane,” she said. “Roman always had those employees checked out carefully, and, of course, I approved of his caution in that instance.”

A chill skittered down Claire’s spine when she wondered now if Jane’s caregivers had truly been without blemish. How careful did a parent have to be, especially when the family lived in a big city like Miami? She took a deep breath, calming her fears. She lived in Heron Point now. Things were different here.

She looked at Hogan, who was avoiding ruts in the narrow road bordered with sweeping palms. “How did it happen with Anderson’s son?” she asked.

Hogan frowned. “The kid was taken right off a ball field within a hundred yards of Archie, who was watching his game from the bleachers. You’d think a playground would be safe, but it wasn’t.” He shook his head, a reaction to a sad truth he obviously believed in. “Over the years I’ve learned that no place is safe.”

Claire refused to give in to such a pessimistic outlook. There were safe places, and she’d found one on this island. She felt as safe here as she had in the Ohio farming community where she’d grown up. There, folks were decent. And in Heron Point, people lived their lives according to their own dictates, and with the exception of a few laws and regulations, they could do pretty much what they wanted on the island. Claire believed that freedom of thought and action kept her neighbors content, and contentment bred peace.

But her heart ached for Archie Anderson, a man she’d never met who’d suffered unimaginable pain. And her sympathy went out to Jack Hogan because his cynicism had colored his world so that he viewed all humanity with a suspicious eye. “How did it turn out?” she asked, fearful of the answer. “Did Mr. Anderson get his son back?”

“I’m happy to report he did.” Hogan swerved to avoid a deep furrow in the road. Spiky palm fronds brushed the side of the car below Claire’s window. “This reminds me of the jungle,” he said with enough conviction that Claire knew he’d been there.

“But we’re almost out of it,” he added, pointing to a spear of sunlight a few hundred feet ahead. “Archie paid the ransom, which was only two hundred thousand dollars. Not a lot for a man like Anderson even in those days. The kidnappers mostly wanted to make him suffer because he’d fired the ringleader from his job as a foreman on a job site.”

Jack glanced over at Claire. “Believe me, the man deserved to be fired. And he definitely deserved what he got when the police eventually found Ethan. He and his accomplices had kept the boy locked in a cellar for two weeks while they negotiated their terms. From what I’ve heard, and what I can imagine, it was hell. Mrs. Anderson had to be hospitalized, and never fully recovered.”

“And Ethan?”

“They tell me he’d lost weight, and he was filthy. And he didn’t talk for a long time after. But he eventually put it behind him.” The SUV broke free of the trees near a rambling wood-frame building with an expansive front porch and a half-dozen gabled windows poking out from a steeply sloped tin roof. Hogan stopped the vehicle and stared. “Wow, look at this place.”

He studied the property from all directions. After a few moments of quiet, he said, “He’s a good man, Ethan. I like and respect him. But don’t ever mention the kidnapping to him. He still won’t talk about it. And he’s kind of like you. Doesn’t like the idea of a bodyguard. I suppose having protection around him all the time brings back memories of those horrible two weeks. But Ethan’s no fool. With or without a bodyguard, he’s cautious, smart. Still, his independence drives the old man nuts.”

Claire sympathized with both Ethan and his father. She was thankful that since she’d moved to Heron Point, her safety had never been an issue. Roman had left her well off, and while she didn’t discuss her finances with anyone in town, she didn’t hide the fact that she was comfortable. Even so, she’d never felt the need for extra security in a community where everyone knew their neighbors.

Jack pulled the SUV up to the weather-beaten front entrance with the barely recognizable words Dolphin Run on a wooden sign by the steps. “No doorman,” he quipped. “Guess we’re on our own, Claire.”

JACK WAS FEELING pretty positive about the new, more accommodating relationship he was establishing with Heron Point’s mayor. He was enjoying her company, and considering how they’d started out, that was a bonus he intended to capitalize on. Jack had never had a problem dealing with women in positions of authority on a professional level, though he preferred less assertive women on a personal one.

Claire Betancourt was stubborn and protective of her office, but Jack was discovering that she also had a gentle, soft, feminine side that he could imagine exploring with a great deal of satisfaction, if circumstances were different. Still, Jack was practical. He knew there was always a giant margin of error when it came to relationships between the sexes. A man who thought he had a woman figured out could discover in a New York minute that he really didn’t know her at all. Jack’s divorce a few years ago had taught him that any woman could throw even the most confident man a curveball. It was best not to expect too much.

But for the first time since meeting Claire, Jack sensed she might be more receptive to hearing tips about increased security measures for Heron Point. He’d told her just enough about Archie Anderson’s past to gain her sympathy. What mother wouldn’t feel for a guy who’d gone through what Archie had? Jack figured the story had opened Claire’s eyes to the importance of security, even on this little island she seemed to believe was a haven from evil. As Jack well knew, there were no havens anymore. Everyone lived in a different world now. A dangerous one where no one could afford the luxury of complacency.

He watched her get out of the SUV. She was thoughtful, no doubt still mulling over the disappointing truth about bad people and how the good ones had to do whatever it took to keep them at a distance. She would understand now why he had to be concerned for his boss’s safety, both at Dolphin Run and in the community. Part of his job was to gain the cooperation of town officials, and during this trip to the inn, he’d come a long way in bringing the mayor over to his way of thinking.

He came around the car and walked with her to the front door. The massive solid oak panels were bleached and splintered from decades in the Florida sun. The brass lobster claws used as knockers were pitted and black. Holding up the key ring he said, “Now to figure out which one of these works, if any of them do after all this time.”

She stood at the bottom of the short cement steps and looked around the grounds. “There must have been some nice gardens here at one time,” she said.

Jack didn’t know one flower from another, but even a Manhattan apartment-dweller like him could tell that nothing much had bloomed at Dolphin Run for a long time. Untended for years, the bushes had been reduced to scraggly limbs stripped of their leaves by countless storms. Even the grass had given up its struggle and lay brown and windswept atop sandy, parched soil and ant-hills. He must have given her a quizzical look because she laughed.

“I’m talking about the flower beds. See how they’re enclosed with bricks and logs? Obviously someone once created an appealing arrangement for the gardens.”

Jack pushed and pulled at one of the warped doors as he twisted the key in the lock. “Well, like I said, this place needs a gardener.” After putting his shoulder into the effort, the entrance finally swung open. “Let’s hope it looks better inside.”

He waited for Claire to go ahead and then he followed. The first thing he noticed was the musty smell. And then he saw the cobwebs hanging from old oak beams crossing a twenty-foot-high ceiling. And of course there was the dust. Everywhere. Not for the first time, Jack was grateful that he was in charge of security for Anderson Enterprises, not development of properties, or in this case, redevelopment. “Good luck, Ethan,” he mumbled under his breath to Archie’s absent son and chief assistant. “This could be your greatest challenge.”

Claire had moved into the large room where a dark wood counter off to one side identified the space as the lobby and check-in area. Jack took his pad out of his pocket, flipped to an empty page and began making notes. He counted grimy windows and estimated the need and cost for security wiring. While he jotted figures, he noticed Claire wandering over to a towering fireplace made of fieldstone. Several dozen wooden ducks were lined up along the thick mantelpiece. She next walked to a huge easy chair, picked up a pillow that depicted a speckled trout on one side, and slapped her hand on top of the fish. Dust rose in a swirling gray cloud. After gently laying the pillow back where she’d found it, she strolled around the room, past heavy oak furniture, and focused her attention on dozens of nautical carvings on the walls.

Jack didn’t share her obvious interest in the furnishings of Dolphin Run. He hadn’t personally selected the items for his own apartment in New York. He’d hired a professional to purchase the sleek metal and teak furniture that filled the four rooms of his high-rise coop. His only requirement had been that the choices were new, uncomplicated and as maintenance-free as a man’s possessions could be.

But he quickly formed an opinion about the decor in the lobby of Dolphin Run. Every piece was overstuffed, bulky, and either dust-covered or mildewed. And while a big man like himself might be able to stretch out on any of the chairs for a nap, most of the choices were damned ugly. Once again he was thankful he just had to make the place safe, not attractive.

As he watched Claire move to the four corners of the room, he imagined she must be having the same thoughts. Noting the intensity with which she stopped and stared at each odd piece of angler’s art, he decided that she probably wasn’t sorry she’d come with him. She’d leave with a few choice images of this place that she could describe to her friends. As if on cue, she said, “It’s an interesting room, don’t you think?”

He chuckled. “Interesting? More like unbelievable,” he said.

Her voice was almost reverent. “Oh, it is. It’s absolutely enchanting.”

Enchanting? Okay. He’d just been hit with Claire’s first curveball. That word hadn’t occurred to him at all. He might have told her so if movement outside the lobby window hadn’t distracted him. Someone was on the other side of the glass, and whoever it was had been watching them.

THE TWO WORDS THAT CAME OUT of Jack’s mouth were like pistol shots. “Stay here,” he barked in a tone that didn’t allow for dissension.

Claire turned away from the wall and stared at him. “What?”

He was racing for the door. “I said, stay here. Don’t come outside.”

She started to follow him, but he stopped her with a threatening glare.

“What’s going on?”

“There’s somebody outside looking in the window.”

She stood, watching him, one hand on her hip. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s probably nothing.”

He was out the door, but his words trailed after him. “Probably, but you don’t know that.”

From the entrance, Claire observed him run around the right side of the inn, and then she hurried through the lobby to a dining room whose windows opened to the back of the property. He was right. Someone was hobbling across the grass toward a boathouse. Claire didn’t know who it was, but she was absolutely certain the person posed no threat. He could barely walk. Thankfully, Jack must have analyzed the situation and come to the same conclusion. He caught up with the intruder and, instead of tackling him, he grabbed hold of his elbow and spun him around.

Claire darted into a big, open kitchen, fought a moment with the lock on the back door, and finally ran into the yard. As she approached the two men, she recognized the trespasser right away. Oddly, it seemed as if Jack did as well. The first thing she heard was his exclamation of surprise.

“It’s you! What are you doing here?”

Coming to a quick stop, she said, “You know Curtis?”

His hand still on the old man’s elbow, Jack said, “Yeah. I bought him a bowl of clam chowder yesterday.”

“Well, let go of him. You’ll hurt him.”

Jack scowled at her, but he dropped his hand. Then he glared at the homeless fellow. “Am I hurting you?”

“He’s not hurting me,” Curtis admitted.

“Then you probably should answer the man, Curtis,” she said. “This is Jack Hogan. He works for the developer who bought this property. You need to tell him what you’re doing here.”

“And how you got in,” Jack added.

Curtis looked from one to the other but finally settled his gaze on Claire. “I’m sort of living here now.”

“Oh, no, you’re—”

Claire stopped Jack with a sharp look advising him to let her handle the situation. “What happened to the shed behind the hotel in town? I thought you stayed there at night.”

“The new manager ordered too many table linens. They needed the space for all the cartons. I imagine I can go back there once some of the older napkins start wearing out.”

“How did you get in here?” Jack asked again.

Curtis pointed to a vague spot in the near distance. “Over there.”

“Show me.”

The three walked over to a section of the iron fence where the shrubs had been broken down and trampled. When Claire saw the results of Curtis’s breaking and entering, she knew Jack would not take it well.

He got down on his haunches and stared at the gaping hole that had been dug under the fence. “You’re a resourceful old guy, aren’t you?”

Curtis shrugged. “I gotta be.”

“Is this the only entrance you’ve burrowed into the property?” Jack asked.

From the look of guilt on Curtis’s face, Claire knew it wasn’t.

“Show me the others,” Jack said.

By the time they were through touring the grounds at Curtis’s slow pace, they had uncovered four tunnels into Dolphin Run. Curtis explained his need for multiple entrances by saying that the place was simply too vast for one old man. “I never know where my ride will drop me off at night,” he said. “So I dig a new hole rather than walk all around the property to an old one. I don’t get around too good anymore.”

Claire offered further information. “Curtis hitches rides with anybody going his way. I’m sure he can’t dictate where they will let him off.”

The old man sat under a cedar tree and expelled a long breath. “Hope you folks don’t mind, but I’m pretty pooped right now.” He looked up at Jack. “Can you drive that big car of yours over here and give me a lift back to the boathouse?”

Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to chauffeur you, an intruder on somebody else’s property, over to a building where you have illegally taken up residence?”

Claire laid a hand on Jack’s arm. “Look at him, Jack,” she said. “He doesn’t look well. I think we should get him home and see that he’s resting.”

“Home? This isn’t his home!”

“I meant temporary lodgings,” she said and then tried to soften her verbal blunder with a smile. “That’s what this place was built for after all. Temporary lodgings.”

Jack slowly shook his head. “Not for the last forty years!” But he turned and headed toward the inn. “Wait here, both of you. I’ll be back with the car.”

When it was just the two of them, Curtis patted the ground beside him. Claire brushed the sand from a rock and sat on it. “Nice fella,” Curtis said. “A bit serious though, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I think he’s quite serious.”

“I’ll bet his blood pressure is near to boiling. He ought to see Pet and get some of her tincture of hawthorn berry.”

“I’ll tell him,” Claire said, knowing Jack was not the kind of man to believe in the curative benefits of one of Pet’s homegrown mystery potions. And he certainly would never ingest a cup of it. Even Claire didn’t do that. “He’s in the security business,” she explained. “He’s here to make this old inn safe for the new owner, his boss.”

Curtis nodded. “So how long do you think I’ve got to live here?”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “To tell you the truth, Curtis, I think today is moving day. I’ll ask Jack to take you and your wagon into town. You can stay at the town hall until we can work something out.”

“What about my cats?”

She hadn’t anticipated this complication. “Didn’t you leave the cats at the hotel?”

“Heck no, Claire. I figured Bonnie would forget to feed them. I didn’t want them living on scraps.”

Claire sighed. This was an interesting philosophy from a man who lived every day of his life on handouts. But everyone in town knew about the glass jar with the slit in the lid that Curtis kept in his wagon. A hand-printed sign on the side said For Curtis’s Cats, and most folks in Heron Point dropped a few coins in the slot whenever they passed by.

“Let’s not tell Jack about the cats just now,” she said. “You and I can come back later and get them in my car.”

But it was too late. The black Escalade bounced over the rough terrain and stopped in front of them. Jack leaned out the window and said something about seeing at least a half-dozen cats wandering around the boathouse.

“That ain’t so, Claire,” Curtis said under his breath. “It’s only four cats. The way that man exaggerates, it’s no wonder his blood pressure is sky-high.”

CLAIRE PUT THIRTY DOLLARS along with the bill for three teas and three lemon-cake slices inside the plastic folder and handed it to the waitress at the Heron Point Hotel. She looked at her watch. Four o’clock. The crowd at the hotel had picked up in the last hour. That was typical of a Friday afternoon when tourists began arriving on the island. Soon the town’s limited parking spaces would be filled with cars, RVs and motorcycles.

“Is everybody done?” Claire said to Bella and Jane, who was licking the last of her frosting off the fork.

“That was delicious, Claire,” Bella said, her eyes bright with sobriety at least so far today. “There’s nothing I like better than true English tea.”

Except for maybe true Irish whiskey, Claire thought. She was grateful that after firing Bella and reminding her again about her questionable backyard crop, her relationship with the older woman was still intact. Truly, Bella didn’t need to work. She’d lived in Heron Point for over half a century. Her hundred-year-old cottage was paid for, and her late husband’s social-security income was more than sufficient to meet her limited needs. And just this morning she’d agreed to volunteer with Ingrid in the library for a couple of hours each morning. It was the perfect solution, in Claire’s opinion. Even if Bella was slightly hungover, she wouldn’t be responsible for anyone’s life or safety.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Claire said. “How about you, Jane? Are you glad you came with us?”

“Yes, it was fun.” Jane skipped ahead of the women, hurried through the hotel lobby and out the front exit. When Claire and Bella parted, Claire wound through the Friday-afternoon crowd and caught up with her daughter and a group of her friends on the sidewalk. “Can I spend the night at Alison’s?” Jane asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Claire said. “But before we decide, I have to go back to the town hall and make sure everything’s okay, and then I have to see if SueAnn can stay at the shop until nine tonight.” In Heron Point, it was prudent to stay open late on Fridays and Saturdays when the tourists were in town.

She took Jane’s hand and they headed toward the office. It had been a busy day. The tour of Dolphin Run had been cut short once Claire and Jack had discovered Curtis and his cats. It had taken some doing, but Claire had finally convinced Jack to bring Curtis and his menagerie back to town. She’d returned to the mayor’s office for a while and then worked at Wear It Again until it was time to do crossing-guard duty and meet Bella for tea. Claire didn’t know where Jack had spent the rest of the afternoon. He’d only told her he was going back to the inn to continue his exploration.

But she knew where he was now.

Jane tugged on Claire’s hand. “Look, Mommy, isn’t that the man who came to our house last night?”

“Yes, honey, it is.” Jack was in front of the town hall talking with Gail and Lou, one of the department’s service aides. Jack seemed absorbed in scrutinizing the details of one of the green-and-white golf carts used by Heron Point law enforcement. Claire hushed Jane and stood off to the side to listen to the conversation.

“So this is what the police regularly use?” Jack said. “A pair of golf carts?”

“They’re all we need,” Lou said, with the authoritative voice he’d used for decades in a Florida classroom. Like many of Heron Point’s residents, he’d come to the town to retire, but had decided to take the service aide position to fill his hours.

Gail, a recent graduate of Florida State University’s criminal justice department, nodded enthusiastically. “See, we mounted these red and blue lights on top of the carts so people know they’re official.” She reached inside the cart, flicked a switch and the lights came to life.

Claire remained behind a crowd of people where she wouldn’t be seen by her officers or Jack.

Jack folded his arms over his chest and gave the rotating lights appropriate interest. “You can’t mean you actually pursue criminals in these things.”

Lou frowned just a bit, causing his bushy white eyebrows to meet in the center of his forehead. “We sure do. You can do that in a town where there are as many golf carts as cars. And where the crime rate is low.”

“Have you ever caught anybody?”

Lou puffed his chest out with pride. “People in this town know that these carts mean business. If they see the lights, they pull over.” He motioned for Gail to turn off the blinkers. “You want to take her for a spin?” he asked Jack.

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