To restore her concentration, she’d tossed the journals aside and thumbed through a baby magazine. That only substituted one temptation for another. Now Paige had to resist the urge to go on the internet and order a crib, a changing table, toys, picture books, a diaper stacker and all those other darling items featured in the ads. As she advised her patients, it was wise to wait until after the first trimester. In addition, she pointed out to them, friends and relatives were likely to give many of those items as gifts.
Gifts. Showers. Excited family members. How would her sisters react? And her brothers, for that matter? Although she didn’t want to deal with them yet, she longed for someone to talk to.
This morning, Mike had gone out early for a jog. Besides, Paige wasn’t about to discuss her pregnancy with
him.
Suddenly she realized who she wanted to talk to. Crazy as it seemed, she needed to share her situation with Aunt Bree. Relieved at the thought, Paige deposited her empty teacup to the kitchen and went to grab a jacket against the morning chill.
* * *
T
HE
MORNING
BREEZE
WHIPPED
away the heat as Mike jogged along the beach. Despite the cushioning effect of the sand, his muscles burned and his shoulders were beginning to ache. He’d run west nearly to the city limits and back again, but it wasn’t far enough to escape his dilemma.
Spying on Roy Hightower had proved ridiculously easy, thanks to the guy’s predictable habits. On Friday, Mike had spotted him entering the Continental restaurant Gemma had named, and a few minutes later he’d seen a woman go inside.
A woman Mike recognized. A woman he knew to be predatory, hard as nails and physically dangerous should Gemma confront her.
About an hour later, the pair had emerged together. He’d captured shots of Roy’s arm around Yelena Yerchenko’s waist and her hand slipping into his pants. They’d paused and shared a kiss, her ripe body pressing into his fleshy one. Not very subtle, in full public view in the middle of the day. Roy seemed too caught up in his lust for a blonde woman a decade his junior to think about consequences.
When they departed in separate cars, Mike had debated following them, but what more proof did he need of their affair? Anyway, he’d had to duck to avoid being seen as Yelena passed. No question that she would recognize him.
For one thing, she owned Lyons Way Escrow, right next door to Mike’s office. For another, a couple of years ago when he worked at the police department, he’d investigated a nasty assault case in which she’d nearly gouged out her boyfriend’s eye with a kitchen knife. The guy had contended it was an unprovoked attack motivated by jealousy; she’d pointed to a bruise on her cheek and claimed self-defense.
During the investigation, Mike had noted her lack of remorse despite the severe injury to the boyfriend and the way she turned her charm on and off as it suited her. He’d also picked up inconsistencies in her statements. In the end, the D.A. had considered it mutual combat and declined to file charges against either of the pair.
Now, while Mike had an obligation to report the facts to his client, the possibility that he might be throwing Gemma Hightower in the path of a violent sociopath disturbed him. Also, Yelena’s involvement with the mayor struck him as odd. Unlike Roy, the boyfriend had been good-looking and younger than her. Nor was Roy wealthy enough to hold on to Yelena for an entire year, even if he was giving her jewelry that hadn’t showed up on his credit cards.
That line of thinking brought him back to Gemma’s possible danger. If Yelena had set her sights on marrying Roy and rising to prominence as the wife of a political up-and-comer, she wasn’t likely to let his current wife stand in her way.
He’d caution Mrs. Hightower, of course. And with Yelena running a business right next door to Mike’s, he’d need to subcontract out any further surveillance to avoid being recognized.
Ahead on the nearly empty beach, he saw a tall, slim figure gazing at the sand. A fiery cloud of hair billowed about her, setting the horizon ablaze. Why was he worrying about the Hightowers on this splendid morning, when the woman who’d teased him all night in his dreams stood gloriously before him?
As she bent to pluck something from the ground, Mike slowed his pace. No use trying to catch his breath, though. Paige Brennan had just stolen it all over again.
Chapter Nine
When Paige went to the beach to talk to her aunt, the way they’d often walked and exchanged confidences in the past, she’d hoped that expressing her uncertainties would calm her restlessness. The ocean stood in for a gravesite, since Aunt Bree had chosen to have her ashes scattered at sea, and it seemed only natural to come here to seek insight.
What Paige hadn’t expected was an answer. Perhaps two.
There in the sand nestled a glimmer of rare purple sea glass. Among several hundred pieces of the ocean-buffed shards, Paige had found only one purple bit previously, a few years ago. As they exclaimed over it, Bree had told her with mock solemnity, “Now I know what to send you as a sign after I’m gone, the way people send pennies from heaven dated with their birth year.”
“Don’t be silly,” Paige had told her. “I don’t believe in that stuff.”
Now here it was. And as she straightened, she saw the man who’d figured prominently in her silent confessions pacing toward her along the beach. An amber T-shirt clung damply to Mike’s broad chest, while tan shorts displayed the toned power of his legs. The man might be utterly wrong for her, but his firm stride and curving mouth sent a delicious trembling through her knees.
Was this part of Bree’s answer, or mere coincidence? Paige cleared her throat. “Good morning.”
“What did you find?” As Mike halted alongside, his large hand cupped hers. Warmth burst around her while he examined the polished shape.
“Sea glass. It’s a rare color, possibly from an old perfume bottle.”
“You collect these.” Of course, he’d seen the shadow boxes. “It glows like a precious gem. What’re those purple stones called?”
“Amethysts.” She wasn’t sure why, but she added, “My Aunt Bree and I used to enjoying hunting for these. She always said if she wanted to send me a sign from the afterlife, it would be purple glass.”
“A sign of what?”
That was hard to answer. “Reassurance. Approval. Maybe a nudge in the right direction, assuming I can figure out what that is.” Quickly, to avoid mentioning the subject of her thoughts, she said, “What makes the glass special is that it has a history, even if I may never know the details. It might have fallen from a ship far away, or been carried off by an ancient wave.”
“How romantic.” The hard planes of his face softened as he gazed at her.
“In olden times, people believed that whenever a sailor died, mermaids would cry, and their tears turned into glass.” Paige stopped. Why was she enthusing about this to Mike Aaron, of all people?
As he released her hand, his gaze slid down her denim jacket to her embroidered jeans. Irritated, she braced for a crack about how much he’d preferred her in a bikini. Instead, his deep voice said, “Shall we walk? I guess I’m like you. I need to cool down in motion.”
“Sure.” Although it felt strange to be strolling together as if they were old friends, Paige set out alongside him.
“How did you get so interested in sea glass?” Mike asked as a teenage girl trotted past with two small dogs straining at their leashes.
“Originally, I planned to collect shells.” Paige had quickly dropped that idea. “That was until I discovered that the little animals were sometimes still inside them. Even when they’d died, you have to boil the shells to preserve them.”
“And keep them from smelling to high heaven?”
Her nose wrinkled. “You got that right.”
They crossed a grassy area where a couple of children were playing Frisbee with their parents. Paige estimated their ages at around three and five, a tiny girl and a sturdy boy. Which would her baby be? She had names picked out already: Bree for a girl, Brian for a boy.
Mike’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “Is there a way to figure out where the glass comes from?”
“Sometimes you can tell by the color.” Paige had researched the subject on the internet. “Certain shades come from plates that used to be given away as prizes during the Depression era. Others come from whiskey and soda bottles dating back fifty years or more. They aren’t necessarily valuable, but they make beautiful jewelry.”
“My ex-wife only liked jewelry that cost a bundle.”
“Oh, come on!” Surely the beauty of the object was what counted. “Maybe she just likes the look of pearls or precious stones.”
“Nope. Unless it was hard on my wallet, it didn’t count,” he said. “It didn’t start out that way. When we met, she was a dispatcher. Lively and fun to be around. A lot of guys wanted to date her, and it felt great that she’d chosen me. After we got married, things that hadn’t bothered her before became a big issue.”
“Like what?”
“My working overtime, putting in rotating shifts. I supposed the fault was partly mine. I didn’t take her to dinner very often, didn’t bring her flowers. Maybe she was lonely. After a while, whenever I drew an inconvenient shift or had to spend my day off in court testifying, the only way to pacify her was to buy her earrings or a bracelet.”
“As a sign that you cared about her, surely.”
“Partially,” Mike conceded. “It was easier than fighting. We fell into a pattern—she threw a tantrum, I bought her off. Or anyway, it felt like I was buying her off. But let’s not dwell on that.” Mike caught her elbow to help her over a tumble of rocks that divided the small park from the quay. “Getting back to your glass collection, I didn’t see any identifying information on the shadow boxes. With all this history, I would think you’d try to document it.”
Paige was more than happy to return to that subject. “I got compulsive for a while, trying to label everything,” she admitted. “Then I realized I’d stopped looking at the beauty of the glass, so I threw out all my notes.”
His stride broke. “You threw them out?”
“Does that shock you?”
A hint of his citrus shaving lotion tickled her nose. “Kind of.”
“You would never do that,” Paige guessed.
“Throw away my hard work?” he returned. “Not without good reason.”
“Losing touch with what’s important
is
good reason,” she said.
Mike started to answer, but apparently thought the better of it. “Interesting point of view,” was all he said.
They reached the wooden quay that edged the harbor. Built on pilings over water, it anchored a series of small private piers that extended outward at right angles, securing sailboats, motorcraft and a few yachts. To their left, on the inland side, an array of shops offered swimwear and surfboards. Most were closed at this early hour except for one selling tackle and bait. Ahead, a few hardy fishermen perched along the public pier, lines trailing in the water.
“I wonder if they ever catch anything,” Mike mused. “They seem to enjoy just sitting there.”
“Aunt Bree once caught a halibut, or so she claimed.” Paige suspected her aunt had bought it at a fish market, but she’d been too tactful to say so. In any case, it had tasted delicious. “She said she caught sole and turbot sometimes. And once a stingray.”
“Ouch! What did she do with it?”
“Cut it loose, I presume.” Even small rays could inflict nasty wounds.
“How do you treat a stingray injury, Doc?” Mike asked. “Any home remedies?”
Paige shuddered. “It’s not like a jellyfish sting that you can sometimes get away with soaking in vinegar. With stingrays, there’s a serious risk of shock and infection. As far as I know, there’s no specific antidote to the toxin, but antibiotics and careful monitoring can usually mitigate the damage. Is this really what you want to discuss on a morning like this?”
“What I’d like to discuss is unfortunately confidential,” Mike said. “Not that I couldn’t use feedback.”
“A case?”
“That’s right.”
Nearby, on the deck of the Sea Star Café, a few hardy souls sat eating breakfast beneath heat lamps. A grizzled man was reading a newspaper, while a young couple and their toddler watched a pelican study their breakfast from a nearby post. A couple of seagulls circled noisily above, alert for crumbs.
“Isn’t your brother getting back from his honeymoon today?” Paige asked. “Surely you could talk to him.”
“This client would rather not involve my staff. Sensitive matter.” His forehead furrowed. Whatever was going on clearly troubled him.
“Why don’t we stop for a muffin?” Although Paige had eaten two slices of toast at the house, irresistible baking scents wafted from the café.
“I’m game.”
They stepped into a cocoon of warmth amid the aromas of coffee, cinnamon, chocolate and apple. “Grab a table by the window,” Paige said, not that they had much competition in the nearly empty café. “What would you like?”
“You have a seat. I’ll get the food.”
She fixed Mike with a stern look. “You are not in charge, Detective. I’m buying, so what’ll you have?”
He chuckled. “You’re a tough cookie.”
“Would that be an oatmeal cookie or a chocolate chip cookie?” She could see both varieties displayed in a glass-topped plate on the front counter.
“Blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee.”
“Done.” She chose an apple fritter for herself, along with herb tea, and resisted the temptation to add a lemon tart. If she weren’t careful, she’d balloon out like some of her patients. How many times had she blithely counseled them to moderate their weight gain? Only now did she understand the ferocity of their cravings.
As she waited for the barista to prepare the order, Paige studied Mike across the room. His thick, wind-tousled hair only added to his rugged impression, as did the watchfulness he maintained. Glancing out the window and then at the door seemed like second nature to him.
A memory haunted her. About a year and a half ago, she’d come here with a colleague she was dating at her old medical practice. Her mental image of Dr. Harry Myers made quite a contrast, with his pear-shaped build—narrow shoulders, heavy hips—and thinning hair. At the time, she’d found him attractive enough. They’d gotten along well, enjoying easy conversations and an uncomplicated relationship between equals.
Paige had begun to imagine a future for them, until Harry attended his twenty-year high school reunion and dropped her for his old girlfriend. Paige had found the atmosphere at work strained, especially after Harry showed up at a staff barbecue with his fiancée clinging to his arm, flashing a large diamond ring and giggling at his every word.
It had been a narrow escape, she supposed. She’d been so eager for a husband and a child that she’d been prepared to settle for a man who seemed simply good enough. In retrospect, she’d been more disappointed than wounded.
Now, if it were Mike…
Her jaw tightened. She didn’t want to fall for this guy. Too hard-edged, too self-contained, too dangerous to her equilibrium. Thank goodness she knew in advance that they weren’t suited.
When the barista called her name, Paige collected a fragrant tray and carried it to the table. Mike inhaled appreciatively. “That’s my idea of heaven. A beautiful woman with a tray of food. And don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not being sexist.”
“The hell you aren’t.” She set the food down and took a seat. “But I’ll forgive you this once.”
They sorted out their drinks and goodies. After consuming a few bites, Mike leaned back. “I wish I knew why this case bothers me so much.”
“Could you talk about it hypothetically?” Paige had occasionally solicited Bree’s advice on the emotional aspects of cases by changing the details to protect the patient’s privacy.
Mike didn’t have to think for long. “Okay, here’s the problem. If, or rather when, I tell this client what she asked me to find out, it might cause her to take action that could harm her.”
“She’s suicidal?” Paige guessed.
“No. She might confront someone she shouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.”
“Can’t you warn her?” That seemed obvious.
“I can’t be sure that will stop her.” He drummed his blunt-tipped fingers on the table. “Also, something about the situation doesn’t add up. I keep wondering what might be going on beneath the surface.”
Having finished her apple fritter, Paige focused on Mike’s concern rather than on the alluring array of baked goods across the room. “Doesn’t your client want to know the whole truth?”
“Not necessarily. I’ve already found the answer to the question she asked me to research.” He took a sip of coffee.
“But the more she understands, the better armed she’ll be against this person, right?” Paige said.
His distant gaze came into sharp focus. “That’s a good point. If she authorizes me to pursue the matter further, she isn’t likely to take action in the meantime. And by then, she should have a better idea what she’s up against. It seems obvious now that I hear it from you.”
“All I did was reflect back what you were saying.”
“You’d be surprised how rare it is to find someone who listens well.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” Paige answered. “Some of my patients are starving for someone who’ll pay attention.”
“I thought women confided all their problems in their girlfriends.” He cocked his head.
“Not everyone has close friends.”
Especially when they work long hours and lose the one person they trusted most.
“Ideally, they’d be able to share with their husbands or boyfriends, but a lot of men have trouble opening up.”