Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (37 page)

“She's
okay, she's at your neighbor's house,” he explained, and reached down to take
Nicole's hand.  Weakly, she shifted it away. 

“Nicole...”
he began.  Quickly, she averted her gaze because there was something about the
way Michael was looking at her now that made her want to forgive him, want to
believe whatever he told her, something so apologetic, so sincere in those
deep, chocolate-brown eyes of his—and she couldn't dare believe anything about
him again.

“What...am
I...?”

“You
knocked your head,” he told her.  “They did stitches, but the doctor says your
okay.  They just want to keep an eye on you for a couple of days.  Does it
hurt?” he asked then, and reached up to touch his fingers to her forehead, then
her temple. 

She
didn't bother to shake off his touch.  It would have hurt her head too much
anyway.  “It hurts a little.  Like there's pressure.  What are you doing here?”

“What
do you think?  I was worried about you.”

“No,”
she corrected, and directly met his eyes.  “What are you doing
here
—in
Chatham
?  Why did you
really come?  For that painting?”  As she recalled the details of that man,
Lucius, and the confrontation that had taken place in her kitchen, she said,
“I'm trying to understand.  I mean...all of this was an act?  Our whole...” 
She stopped short of using the word “relationship” because even in her groggy
state, she felt almost foolish calling it that.  But it had been a relationship
to her.

Suddenly,
tears crept behind her eyes.  Damn it, she didn't want to get emotional and
weak, not now.  She wanted to be angry and scornful, not heartbroken.  “I don't
get it,” she whispered.  Cleared her throat, or tried to; Michael reached for
the pitcher of water beside her bed, but she shook her head no. 

The
truth was, there was so much about this that she didn't get.  Who had told
Michael and that guy Lucius that there was an original Demberto painting in her
aunt's possession?  Why had the plan to steal it been so elaborate and drawn
out?  Those were just a few of the conundrums still in her mind.  Yet, for the
life of her, she couldn't get past the other thing—the personal, intimate
thing.  Right now she couldn't seem to dwell on anything but that.  “That was
you in the restaurant, wasn’t it?  In
Boston
, a couple of weeks ago?”  He
nodded.  “What were you doing there—checking out your ‘mark’?”

“Something
like that,” Michael said, sounding far from proud of himself. 

With
disdain in her voice, Nicole said, “Is that what you do?  Make women think
that—”

“No,”
he insisted.  Then he ran a hand over his face, as though tired, frustrated. 
“Nicole, look—yes, I've scammed people before—I admit that.  But corrupt
people, greedy people.  Not good people like you, and not women—not the way
that you're thinking.”

“Then
why did you...”  She couldn't bear to finish the question. 

But
she didn't have to, because Michael clearly read her thoughts.  “Nicole, I
slept with you because I'm very attracted to you—obviously.”  With a sigh, he
continued, “I didn't scheme what happened between you and me.  I didn't even
think I would get to know you as well as I did.  I didn't think I'd
have
to.  And none of this was ever supposed to turn violent, for chrissake. 
Ideally, I was gonna lift the painting without you even noticing, at least not
noticing right away.  But...”  His voice trailed off.

“You
didn't have to take it that far,” she murmured.

“You're
right,” he admitted with a short, humorless laugh.  “I shouldn't have.  But I
couldn't help myself.  I just wanted you so bad.  Nicole—”

“Don't
lie anymore,” she said, almost dismissively, as a way to force the conversation
to a close. 

“I'm
sorry,” he said.  “I'm not lying about that.”

“Fine,
but just go,” she said, her voice quiet and aloof as she turned her face toward
the bed rail.

“I
can't go until you listen to me.”  In that moment, she thought he was going to
plead his case, beg her forgiveness, maybe even confess his romantic attachment
to her; it was an insanely strong flicker of hope, insane because she knew she
could never be with him after everything that had happened, and yet, she hoped
that was what he intended to do. 

Instead,
though, his face turned more serious and he spoke firmly, not pleadingly. 
“You're not safe here,” he said.  “When the cops went by your house, Lucius was
gone.  I don't know where he is.  And since I don't know who Lucius was working
with
—I don't know what he really wanted with that painting of your
aunt's.”

Confused,
Nicole's head began to pound.  “What are you saying exactly?” 

“I'm
saying that Lucius was working with someone in town, but I don't know who.  I
have some theories, but nothing solid.  Whoever it is, though, obviously wanted
that painting of your aunt's—while keeping a far distance—badly enough to set
all this up.  So, if Lucius
didn't
hand over that painting by now, his
partner might get desperate and come to you looking for it.  If Lucius
did
hand it over, you still might be in danger because you know too much now. 
Basically, what I'm saying is: regardless of how much you hate me, I need you
to trust me. 

“Whenever
they discharge you from the hospital, you need to leave
Chatham
and go back to
Boston
,” Michael told
her.  Their eyes locked for a moment.  He asked her, “Do you have any idea who
might be involved in this?  Anyone you've met here that strikes you as a
possibility?  Or what about Lucius—did he mention anything to you before I got
there?”

How
could she answer him, as if they were “working together,” as if they were a
team?  They were on opposing sides now.  He was bad, she was good.  He was a
liar, she was a trusting fool.  There was no alliance anymore; in truth, there
never had been. 

As if
reading her mind, Michael urged her, “Please, Nicole.  Trust me.”  When she
didn't say more, he must have realized that it was a lost cause, because
finally, he sighed with resignation and turned to go. 

She
wasn't sure what came over her when she suddenly called his name.  He glanced
back.  “Where are my clothes?” she asked. 

Confused,
he furrowed his brow and motioned to a chair in the back.  “The nurse folded
them for you,” he observed. 

“In
my jacket pocket,” she said, just as the nurse opened the door. 

“Sir—visiting
hours are over.”

“Okay...um...let
me just say a quick goodbye.”  With obvious reluctance, the nurse ducked her
head out.  Quickly, he reached for Nicole’s jacket and pulled out the letter
that she had found with the paintings in the tree house.  He didn't bother
asking what it was, just stuck it into his own pocket.  But he did pause at the
door before he left.  “Goodbye, Nicole.  I'll miss you a lot.”

***

“Ginger,
get that dog off Mama's settee.”

With
a sympathetic look, Ginger tried to coax the dog onto the parlor rug, but yet
again, the precious thing just blinked at her. 

“And
why is she staring at me in that manner?” Hazel demanded, shifting in her seat,
and dramatically turning the page in the book she was reading. 

“I'm
sure she's just curious and uncertain.  From her point of view, it must be
scary to come into a new environment.”

Hazel
scoffed righteously.  “Ginger, need I remind you—we are talking about a
canine
here?  Not a person, but a wild animal.”  Doubtfully, Ginger glanced at
docile and domesticated Puddle and shook her head.  “What?” Hazel demanded. 

“Nothing,”
Ginger assured her and continued her crocheting.  At the moment, she was
working on an ivory cardigan for Betna and hoped to finish it in time for
Christmas.  Although Betna was Hindu, her ex-husband was Protestant and so
Betna had come to love Christmas.  It was always such a special time...for
Ginger, too...

“Ginger,
did you hear me?”

The
impatience in Hazel's voice indicated that she was getting rattled about one
thing or another.  “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

Obviously
annoyed, Hazel harrumphed and shook her head.  “Never mind.  You clearly have
no interest in doing what's right.”

Confused,
Ginger angled her head.  “What do you mean?”

“You
promised me that you would call the police about that man next door.  And you
never did—did you?  You
lied
to me.”

Setting
down her crochet, Ginger looked purposefully at her sister.  Poor Hazel.  Walt
Baker had truly been good for her, and with him gone...well, who else would
come to love Hazel's demanding ways? 

As if
hearing—and understanding—her thoughts, the dog jumped off the settee and
trotted right up to Hazel's feet.  Puddle began to rub her nose against Hazel's
chenille slippers.  “Do you mind?” Hazel said to the dog, moving her feet out
of reach.  “Oh, this is unseemly.”

Ginger
held in a laugh.  “You did say that you preferred her to be on the floor.”

“Yes,
but at what cost?”  Puddle grabbed an inch worth of chenille in between her
teeth and tugged lightly.  Hazel's mouth dropped open, as though appalled by
the dog's presumptuous behavior.  The dog tugged again and lifted her eyes up,
obviously seeing if Hazel was paying attention, or maybe if Hazel wanted to
play.  Now Ginger had to laugh.  Just a slight one, but it drew her sister's
pointed gaze all the same.  “This isn't funny,” Hazel insisted.  “We shouldn't
even
have
a dog here.  Did Nicole ask us to take the dog?  No, she did
not.  Yet, we had to leave the Harvest Parade early to baby-sit a canine.”

“We'd
arrived home already,” Ginger pointed out.  They had not missed the Harvest
Parade one bit, and surely Hazel knew that.  “And Nicole's in the hospital,
after all.  I asked The Hermster to call her family since he had Nina's
emergency contact numbers.

“According
to Mimi Frances, Nicole's doing very well.  It was a spill and a bump on the
head.  Which reminds me, I'm going to go pay her a visit first thing tomorrow. 
I'll bake her some cookies.”

Hazel
scoffed.  “Bake her cookies, call her family, watch her dog—what else will you
do, Ginger?  Because you certainly aren't calling the police as you promised
me
you would.”  To anyone overhearing this conversation, it would undoubtedly
sound ridiculous; because if this issue bothered Hazel so much, why didn't she
just call?  But Hazel had been so shaken up after Walt's disappearance on that
fishing trip, and then to torture her more, she had been questioned and
re-questioned, and not only by the police, but also by the insurance company
and Walt's family...oh, it had been just dreadful for her.  In turn, she had
become ever fearful of drawing police attention to herself.  

“For
all we know, that hooligan out there is responsible for what happened to Nicole
today.  Maybe we could have done something to stop it, if you—”

“No,
I don't believe so,” Ginger interrupted.  “According to Mimi, that young man
has been at Nicole's bedside, watching over her.  She said the nurses were all
saying how sweet it was.”

“Mmm,”
Hazel mumbled with disbelief. 

“Based
on what I heard, I think Michael King is about as harmless as a fly.”

That
drew Hazel's curiosity.  Arching her brows, she tipped her head at Ginger. 
“What do you mean?  What have you heard?”

“Well,
I ran into Vickie Finn at the fish market a couple days ago.  I must have
forgotten to mention it.  We were looking over the cod and we struck up a conversation. 
She shared a bit of gossip.”  Setting down her crochet, Ginger leaned in a bit
and repeated what Vickie had told her
:
 

How
Michael King—when not vacationing in their sleepy town—was actually a
thirty-year-old student, taking classes at a community college and still living
with his parents.  How he worked part-time as a Walmart check-out clerk.  How
he spent his free time volunteering at a nursing home.  How he had an
artificial leg.  And how his Saturday nights were spent moonlighting at a local
pet store, cleaning cages and sweeping floors. 

“I
don't believe it...” Hazel remarked, her voice more filled with wonder than
incredulity.  Because, really, who could make something like that up?

“Vickie
swears her information is solid.”

“Well,
who told her all this?” Hazel asked.

“A
friend in the police department, Vickie said.  And you see that?  Our local
police force was obviously a few steps ahead of us.  They looked into the young
man's background for themselves just to be sure.  Can you believe, all that and
a false leg!”

“Hmm...”

“See
that,” Ginger said again, “no one is going to let anything bad happen here.” 
While Hazel seemed to mull all that, Ginger put in, “You must admit, he hardly
sounds like someone we need to worry about.”

Something
else had Hazel's attention now. 

“Please,”
Hazel begged, talking directly to the dog.  “Really, now, that's quite
enough!”  Puddle froze.  Blinked around.  Then tugged again with her teeth and
shot her eyes up toward Hazel’s.  “Oh, for heaven's sake,” Hazel grumbled. 
“Have this.”  She broke off a piece of one of her tea biscuits and tossed it on
the floor.  Puddle released her slipper and scampered over to snatch up the
cookie.  Stunned, Ginger couldn't believe her eyes.  Hazel throwing food on the
floor?  Allowing the scatter of crumbs on the rug?