Doug looked into his eyes. ‘‘Girls are people. They should be cherished. They should never be hurt. That’s not right. That’s never right.’’
‘‘Really?’’ Andrew looked into Doug’s eyes and sagged with relief. ‘‘You mean it?’’
‘‘No man has the right to hurt a woman. Never. Never.’’ Doug had never meant anything so much in his life.
Looking up at the branches waving in the early-morning light, he remembered his first glimpse of Firebird after more than two and a half years. He’d used tax records to track her to Szarvas Artist Studio, where she worked. Sitting outside the big compound, he’d waited and told himself that it wouldn’t matter, that she wouldn’t be as pretty as he remembered.
And she wasn’t.
She was beautiful, and she had taken his breath away.
Maturity had given her a depth and a glow that no cosmetics could produce. Then he’d tried to follow her home and couldn’t, stopped by a capricious mountain fog that enclosed her like a prison.
So he’d come back the next day, intending to confront her, but one of her big hulking brothers drove her, delivering her right to the door and following her in as if she couldn’t be trusted to go by herself. After that, Doug had watched, and he recognized the signs—the domineering men, the mother he never saw, the sister who went nowhere except to work and back, and half the time her brother drove her. . . .
The bright, outgoing girl he’d remembered was now held prisoner by the family she had been so careful not to discuss.
That explained so much—why she hadn’t trusted him, why she had abandoned and hurt him.
The EMTs and the sheriff surrounded him, wanting a report, needing him to help calm Andrew so they could take the baby for examination. He did his job, all the while steeled in resolve.
No matter that he’d suffered from Firebird’s rejection, by her lack of confidence in him, he had to save Firebird from the family that abused her.
Someday she would thank him.
Someday.
Chapter Ten
At nine in the morning, Firebird drove along the
Pacific Coast Highway
, winding through dense groves of Sitka spruce, past ShoalwaterState Park, where she caught a glimpse of police and ambulance lights in the parking lot, and at last pulled into the scenic overlook above the town.
Cliffs framed either side of the half-moon bay. The old town nestled down by the water, while, in search of the view, old and new homes spread up the surrounding hills. The Internet said Rocky Cliffs boasted a thousand permanent residents, and that the town swelled to five times that during the summer tourist season.
She drove slowly down the terminally quaint
Main Street
, with a clothing store that featured bathing suits and coverups, a diner that featured hot coffee and world-famous napoleons, and a remodeled, early-twentieth-century hotel. Down on the pier, the windows of a souvenir shop proudly displayed sea-shell treasure chests and Japanese fans. A sign for the restaurant at the top of the cliff boasted fresh Dungeness crab and smoked salmon.
Rocky Cliffs didn’t seem like
Douglas
’s kind of place at all.
Her car surprised her by turning into the When You Are Wicked Diner. Even as she walked in and sat at one of the tables, she scolded herself. She knew what
Douglas
did here, and where he lived. She had decided on the way she wanted to handle the confrontation. So why was she stalling now?
Because he was going to be angry, and rightfully so. If she’d realized . . . Well, it was far too late for recriminations.
‘‘What can I get you?’’ The middle-aged waitress stood beside her, a name tag that said she was Gloria on the downward slope of her right breast.
‘‘Bacon, crisp, a
Denver
omelet, wheat toast, a large orange juice, a large coffee, black, and one of your world-famous napoleons.’’
The waitress grinned as she scribbled down the order. ‘‘I pegged you as one of those women who eat nothing but plain yogurt and herb tea. That’ll teach me to make assumptions.’’
‘‘I like to eat,’’ Firebird assured her. ‘‘And I’ve been on the road for four hours.’’
Gloria disappeared to put the order in, and returned with the coffeepot. ‘‘Where’d you come from?’’
‘‘North of
Seattle
.’’ Before Gloria could press for more information, Firebird dug the address out of her purse. ‘‘I’m looking for
Three Twenty-three Seaview Road
.’’
Gloria’s eyes sharpened as she poured. ‘‘That’s the old Quackenbush place.’’
‘‘Quackenbush? Really?’’ Firebird smiled. ‘‘I don’t know about that. I’m looking for Douglas Black. He and I are friends.’’ That was an understatement.
‘‘Doug Black? He’s only been here a couple of months.’’ Gloria viewed Firebird sharply. ‘‘We were starting to wonder if he had any friends.’’
‘‘It takes him a while to warm up, but once he does, he’s really a lot of fun.’’ An unexpected flush warmed Firebird’s cheeks.
‘‘First time I saw him, I thought that myself,’’ Gloria said with bawdy good humor.
‘‘I didn’t mean it like that.’’
‘‘Built like a brick outhouse, that boy is. Not that I’ve ever seen him with a single button undone. He’s young, but he’s everything you expect from a state trooper. For sure not what I’d call the life of the party.’’ Gloria whisked off, then returned with Firebird’s order. ‘‘Is he expecting you?’’
Firebird inspected her plate, piled high with a cholesterol-rich feast. ‘‘Looks great! No, I don’t think
Douglas
knows I live in the neighborhood.’’ Although perhaps he did. Discovering he lived so close had caused Firebird a pang of alarm. He was, after all, a hunter, and one unlikely to forget prey that had escaped him.
Gloria nodded. In the west, with its vast spaces and towering mountains, its brutal ocean and winding roads, ‘‘the neighborhood’’ encompassed anywhere within a day’s drive. ‘‘The Quackenbush place seemed like an odd choice for him. It’s in a little need of repair.’’
‘‘
Douglas
is good with his hands.’’ Firebird blushed again, harder this time. Had she been hiding at home so long she couldn’t even make normal conversation?
‘‘I suspected that about him, too,’’ Gloria agreed, and her eyes twinkled. ‘‘It’s the quiet ones, or so I’ve always heard.’’
‘‘He doesn’t talk much.’’ Because he was so busy hiding secrets.
‘‘He’s done a lot of the big jobs already—had all the wiring and plumbing replaced, and the whole place reinsulated. He’s started on the interior— Sheetrock and paint, flooring and cabinets. It’s a gigantic effort, not worth it, in my opinion—but he’s not interested in my opinion.’’
‘‘I don’t know that he ever listens to anyone.’’
‘‘Not to mention the fact that he has to be independently wealthy to afford to buy the place—the location is prime real estate—and renovate it.’’ Gloria’s face warmed with curiosity, and she leaned forward, ready to hear any confidences Firebird might share.
‘‘I don’t know about his finances. We’re not that kind of friends.’’
Gloria’s face fell. The bell tinkled at the door, and she wandered off to take care of a party of four— travelers, by the look of them—then two guys dressed like construction workers who sat at the bar.
Gloria came back when Firebird had demolished most of the food on the plate, and warmed up her cup of coffee. ‘‘Looks like you’re slowing down.’’
‘‘I’m going to have to admit defeat, but you guys aren’t kidding. This
is
the world’s best napoleon.’’ Firebird sighed with pleasure.
‘‘I’m living testimony.’’ Gloria patted her ample waist. ‘‘Listen, I don’t think he’s home.’’
‘‘
Douglas
?’’
‘‘Early this morning, I saw him heading out toward one-oh-one. Probably out there picking up folks for speeding. Picked me up once. Gave me a lecture on how important I was to the community, and how speeding was going get me killed, and all the while he watched me with those dark brown eyes, like he was reading my future.’’ Gloria shivered. ‘‘He scared the hell out of me, I’ll tell you.’’
‘‘You don’t speed anymore?’’
‘‘I do, but I watch my mirrors a lot more closely.’’ Gloria handed over the receipt.
Firebird laughed and dug out her wallet. Gloria peered at her driver’s license, but Firebird kept the name turned away. She did not need Gloria, who obviously knew all the comings and goings of Rocky Cliffs, talking about the young woman with the odd name who’d come looking for their local state cop. Not that Firebird expected to sneak up on
Douglas
; that wasn’t possible. But not everybody in town needed to know her business.
‘‘Need directions to the old Quackenbush place?’’ Gloria asked.
‘‘I MapQuested it.’’ Firebird caught Gloria’s wrist. ‘‘I’m hoping to surprise him.’’
Gloria looked at Firebird’s hand, then searched her face. ‘‘You don’t look like a former wife with a grudge or an international terrorist. Darn it. So I guess I can keep my mouth shut until you find him.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’ Firebird left a generous tip. She put a stick of gum in her mouth and headed back to her car.
The two guys at the bar thoroughly and obviously checked her out.
Jerks.
Not that she didn’t look good. She’d dressed carefully for this encounter, wanting to look casual and carefree, professional and responsible, youthful yet mature. She’d finally settled on comfortable and warm—a pair of dark jeans, a green cashmere turtle-neck, and black, low-heeled ankle boots. Her coat was a bulky, calf-length, rain-repellent hooded beast, but Firebird remembered exactly how cold it could be near the Pacific this time of year—or any time of year.
She stopped in the doorway and donned the coat.
The guys at the counter whistled.
Douglas
could teach them a thing or two about showing subtle appreciation for a good-looking woman. He had a way about him that had made her abandon the rigid morals her parents had taught her and fall into bed without a thought to the future.
She headed outside.
As she followed the directions to the old Quackenbush house, she knew that was the problem. He had so easily seduced her before. He had made her love him. And after she left him, no matter how angry and betrayed she had felt, she still wanted him. Loved him.
Now, perhaps . . . perhaps all the pain and worry had been for nothing.
Now she had something entirely different to worry about.
She turned off
Main Street
and onto
Sutterman Drive
, a narrow, winding road that climbed the cliff at the far end of the town. Just before she reached the top, she knew she’d found it; Seaview Road turned right, toward the Pacific Ocean, and a thirty-second drive got her to the lone house on the street, perched at the very top of the cliff. Douglas’s house. She took it in with one encompassing glance. ‘‘This is the Quackenbush place?’’ she muttered. ‘‘Looks more like the Addams family lives here.’’
The house was Victorian, tall and narrow, with a lot of porches, balconies, and bric-a-brac, and a weather vane perched on the top cupola that spun in the ocean breeze. To say it needed paint was putting it politely. In some spots, the salt water rotted the boards, leaving no place to paint. The steps leading to the wraparound porch had been replaced, and a cable was strung between there and the front door, creating a
walk here
path.
Douglas
had never seemed the homebody type. So what was he thinking by purchasing this behemoth?
She followed the driveway around to the side of the house. There was a tumbledown single-car garage with a BMW X5 parked inside. A BMW X5 had been
Douglas
’s dream car. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
She parked on the gravel parking area and got out. As she scurried around to the stairs, the wind and salt scoured the tender skin of her cheeks, and far below, at the bottom of the cliff, she could hear the waves pounding at the rocks. She walked carefully on the wobbly boards on the porch and to the door. She rang the bell and knocked at the same time, but no one answered.