Shadow's Lady (A Pajaro Bay Cozy Mystery + Sweet Romance) (9 page)

In her mind's eye she saw the lonely widow trapped out here, with the responsibility for her child, and for her husband's job, resting on her narrow shoulders. "It's said that she kept the place running all alone throughout her pregnancy," she continued quietly. "Through the storms that rocked the coast, she never once let the light or the foghorn fail. And after she gave birth to their daughter Rose, she walked the widow's walk every night, carrying the baby around the light tower while she kept her watch, with only her faithful collie for a companion." She stopped.

He was grinning at her.

"Now what's so funny?"

"Nothing. You tell the story well. You bring Charity Aiden right into this room."

"I just read it in a book."

"But you have a gift for telling the tale. You'd make a good teacher."

"No, I wouldn't," she said firmly.

"Why not?"

"I have epilepsy," she blurted out.

"Yeah. You said so. I guess I don't see the connection. Why couldn't you be a teacher?"

"I have seizures. I can lose consciousness without any warning, so I can't be responsible for a bunch of children." She sounded more bitter than she meant to. She had wanted to be a teacher. But of course helpless little Lori couldn't do that.

He really knew how to push all her buttons, didn't he?

"What causes it? I mean, if you don't mind talking about it."

"I've answered it so many times, I don't mind. Every once in a while, I have these extra electrical impulses in my brain, like a short circuit, sort of. It's just something I was born with. My mother has it, too. And my grandmother did before her."

"So it's a flaw in your wiring."

"Yeah, basically. And when the system overloads, I lose awareness for a second or a minute. It doesn't hurt or anything, but I have no control over when it happens." And that loss of control was the worst thing.

"Like a thunderstorm in your head."

"Yeah. That's one way to put it."

He looked genuinely concerned. "I'm sorry, Lori. I guess that must be rough. Isn't there anything doctors can do to help you?"

"I'm on medication that helps. But it doesn't completely control the seizures. I could have part of my brain cut out. That sounds pretty outrageous, but it's actually a good solution for a lot of people. But the location of the problem makes that too risky in my case."

"I can understand that. Your brain is—" he paused. "Extremely impressive."

That may have been one of the nicest compliments anyone ever paid her. It was unfortunate the compliment came from a murderer.

"But can't you just go lie down when you're going to have a seizure?" he asked.

"Gee, why didn't I think of that?"

He frowned. "Not a good idea, huh?"

"It's a great idea. But it only works if you have an aura—a signal that warns you you're about to have a seizure, like getting a headache, or feeling an odd sensation. I don't have any aura, usually. I can avoid things I know trigger seizures. Like flashing lights," she added, thinking of the lighthouse ghost. "I'm convinced there's a spot in Hades reserved for the inventor of the rotating mirrored disco ball—"

Matt chuckled.

"—and don't get me started on those horrid frantically flashing video games. But most of the time I don't know I had a seizure until I wake up."

If she had a seizure. Everything in her life was restricted by that one phrase. She never knew when they were coming, and she never knew she'd had one until she woke up with a whopping bruise on her head or a crowd of curious spectators gathered round her like she was a sideshow attraction.

"Well, it doesn't seem to have affected your life much."

She touched the finger of her left hand, no longer weighed down by Richard's ring.

"No. It hasn't affected me at all."

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to pry."

Of course he wasn't sorry. He was nosy, and obnoxious. He looked sorry, though. He looked, as always, sympathetic and gentle, and understanding. Like someone she could bare her soul to. What a sham.

There was an awkward silence, broken only by the patter of rain against the windows, and the snoring of Shadowfax from his spot curled up on the kitchen floor.

She watched the man surreptitiously as he sat there. Though he appeared pale, and a bit worse for wear from his ordeal, he still managed to project, as ever, the rakish pirate quality that she'd noticed the first time she'd met him.

"So, um, what happened to Charity?" he finally asked. She supposed he thought he was steering their conversation toward more neutral territory, but Charity's fate was inextricably bound up with all those dashing pirates who, in her imagination, looked exactly like the man seated in front of her.

"Charity Aiden was killed by rum smugglers two months before Prohibition was repealed."

"Ouch. How's that for ironic?"

"The baby was adopted by some family," she added, wanting to get past the part with the pirates—and the murder. "She later grew up to marry their son. The book calls the family the leaders of Pajaro Bay society. And that's the end of the story. Is that tragic enough for you?"

Matt laughed. "That would be the Madrigals."

"What would?"

"The leaders of Pajaro Bay society. I played football in high school with Kyle Madrigal. His family founded Pajaro Bay, so Rose Aiden Madrigal would probably be Kyle's grandmother, or great-grandmother, or something like that."

"Wow, you've rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous," she joked. After the words came out they hung there in the room. He was the famous one. Famous for murder and mayhem.

He didn't seem to notice her gaffe. "My family doesn't rub shoulders with Madrigals," he corrected. "When the Madrigals were busy running Pajaro Bay, my family was gutting fish in Wharf Flats." He frowned, then added, "And never the twain shall meet."

Oh, please. Was that his explanation for turning to crime? Pleading poverty? Aunt Zee had said something about the infamous Matt DiPietro playing into all of Pajaro Bay society's stereotypes about low-class 'wharf rats from Wharf Flats.' But that was hardly an excuse for his crimes.

She turned away, disgusted, both at him for drawing her into conversation and at herself for momentarily forgetting who he was.

She stomped off to the kitchen to make herself breakfast. He could starve for all she cared.

Matt watched her as she poured herself a bowl of cereal. She was a bundle of prickly, poorly concealed anger. The easy rapport of last night was gone.

He knew what was wrong. All the signs were there—the wary sidelong glances, the distrust. He'd blown it.

Somehow she'd recognized him. The air hung heavy with her unspoken accusation.
Murderer,
her eyes screamed at him.

He should never have told her his name. Now she believed she was trapped here with a criminal. And he was going to let her keep thinking that.

Playing a notorious gangster gave him an in to every sleaze-ball international cartel the Project wanted to bring down, but it wouldn't help him impress the object of his desire.

And she was going to stay an object of his desire. Nothing more than a distant fantasy to haunt his dreams.

What had gotten into him? He couldn't blame his indiscretion on the hypothermia. He'd been in tight spots before and he'd never lost control so completely around a woman. He'd never felt this dangerous impulse to bare his soul before.

Some part of him had wanted her to know the truth—the whole truth about him. But this wasn't the time or place for self-revelation, so he'd ended up giving her just enough information to scare her, but not enough to let her know who he really was.

Now he was caught in limbo between the safety of anonymity and the dangerous truth. And he was stuck there. Until he left the Project and came back to the normal world. He doubted that would ever happen.

His partner George had urged him to give up the Shadow. It had served him well. It had served the Project well. But it had cost him years of his life. He had wanted it that way. No home life. No connections to anyone or anything but the task ahead of him. His job became all-consuming, and he had thought himself satisfied by work rewarded only with the friendship of fellow agents and the pride in a job well done.

But now he'd returned to the town that never wanted him, and all the old questions came rushing back.

The Shadow had been so easy at first. A faked crime, a false rap sheet, and college student Matt DiPietro was gone. In his place stood the murderous Shadow, working deep inside a network of meth dealers supplying every college campus in California. And he soon had his revenge for the innocent lives destroyed by that organization's cheap thrill. But after that syndicate fell, there was another case, and another. The years had spun past, until he was no longer sure where the Shadow ended and Matteo DiPietro began.

He watched Lori open the refrigerator and take out a carton of milk. Her hands shook. She was alone with a murderer, and knowing that he could wipe away her terror with one sentence—but knowing he would let her suffer—stabbed an ache deep into his heart.

He couldn't let go of the Shadow. Not now. Not yet. There was just this one case to solve.

And then?

She turned around to face him, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

And then there would be another case. And another.

He should go back to bed and leave her alone. She was an innocent caught up in this, and he shouldn't keep inflicting himself on her.

But he wanted to be closer to her. He loved to hear the sound of her voice. He loved how even when it was clear she was terrified of him, she still stood up to him, giving as good as she got.

She was more addictive than any drug. He should stay away from her, but he couldn't.

He'd already learned that she was smart, tough, and loved history; that she crinkled her nose when she was annoyed, and that her epilepsy had kept her from doing what she wanted to do with her life. And that the last fact bothered her more than she wanted to admit.

He watched her plop into her seat at the kitchen table, set her bowl of cereal in front of her, and stare down at it.

What other secrets were hidden inside that remarkable mind of hers?

He pulled himself up out of the settee. He felt like he'd been stomped by a linebacker. But he had finally stopped shivering. And he didn't feel so woozy any more.

He took a step toward the kitchen and she looked up, startled.

"We probably won't be stuck out here much longer," she volunteered.

"Really?" he responded. "Why's that?"

"Fishermen come by here all the time. All the time," she repeated, pointedly. "Even with a small-craft advisory, the big boats are out on the bay."

Of course he knew that. He knew the life of a fisherman. Nothing short of an earthquake would keep them ashore. They had boat loans to pay. Families to feed...

"Hardly a day goes by without someone stopping by just to say hello," she added.

...Attractive lady lighthouse keepers to visit. He noticed how that one blonde curl was drooping down over her forehead again. Like flies to honey, every fisherman for miles around would be throwing himself on the rocks to get a peek at Ms. Lorelei York.

Like an addict going for one more fix, he made his way to the kitchen, and sat down at the table opposite her.

•••

She felt like she was going to scream. Why wouldn't he leave her alone?

"What's your favorite Shakespeare play?" he asked.

She sighed. He was really pushing her to the limit. But he didn't know he was doing it. He had no idea she'd recognized his name. And she couldn't let him find out, or he could become dangerous.

If only she were a stronger person. He was grateful she'd helped him. Now he was bored and wanted to talk. She should put the horrible stories Aunt Zee had told her out of her mind and just relax. Be pleasant. Make small talk. Wait for the storm to pass.

She looked up and met his soulful brown eyes.
And whatever you do
,
don't fall for this gorgeous monster.

"
Romeo and Juliet
," she said, trying to pretend she was talking to a normal human being. "Everybody loves that play."

He looked appalled.

"What? Oh, don't tell me—you hate
Romeo and Juliet
."

"Anything but that play." He said
that play
like he was discussing a slimy eel or something. "A bunch of sentimental pap about how romantic death is."

"That's not what it's about. It's about true love. Sheesh, you don't have a romantic bone in your body, do you?"

He smiled. "Nope. Not a one. But I don't see any rings on your finger, Ms. York."

He'd done it again—turned this conversation back on her. "I've been in love. It just didn't work out."

"Why not?"

She tried to think of a short explanation for her relationship with Richard. "Because he wanted to take care of me."

"Well, I can see why you dumped him," he said dryly. "Any man who would want to take care of you must be a creep."

"I can take care of myself."

"But if a man loves a woman, he wants to take care of her."

"I'm not helpless."

"I didn't say you were. But when you love someone, it's your responsibility to keep them safe."

"I'm not anyone's responsibility. Everybody always thinks they have to take care of me, but I can take care of myself. Nobody is going to tell me what to do."

"That's why you're out here all alone? To spite him?"

"I don't have to prove anything—to anyone."

"Uh huh. He wouldn't let you do this, so you ran away?"

"Let me? I'm not a child."

"Okay," he said calmly. "So why would you, an apparently intelligent adult, come out here all by yourself and risk getting killed? It's pretty stupid."

"Pretty stupid?" She stood up from the table. "You've got a lot of nerve."

"Okay, it's not pretty stupid. It's extremely stupid."

"As opposed to going kayaking on the bay right before a storm hits?"

"That's totally different."

"Why? Because when you do it you're an adventurer? An adrenaline junkie? An X-games hero? Those are just words for people who risk their necks for fun. I'm not doing this for fun."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Then why are you doing it?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"Have you ever been told you can't climb a ladder? Have you ever been told you can't drive a car? Go to school? Hold down a job? Take a bath? Walk down the street? Travel? Live on your own? Ride a bicycle? Make a cup of tea? No. You've never been told those things. You risk your life for some stupid thrill. I'm not trying to die. I'm trying to find a way to live."

"But do you have to do it here? On an island where you have no one around to help you?"

"You couldn't possibly understand."

"Haven't you ever read Donne?" he asked. She must have looked confused at the sudden turn in subject, because he continued: "Let me see if I can remember it." The chair creaked as he leaned back and closed his eyes. "
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
"

She put aside that odd feeling it gave her to have this murderous thug reciting poetry at her again and said, "so what's your point?"

He opened his eyes. "You don't get it? There's no such thing as being independent. We're all stuck on this planet together."

"So why were you out in a kayak by yourself in the middle of a storm?"

"It wasn't storming when I went out."

"That's not the point. It's not your place to judge me." He started to say something else, but she cut him off. "I'm going to go lie down. You'll have to find some way to entertain yourself for a while."

She marched out of the room. Shadowfax got up from his place by the stove and trotted down the hall after her.

"You're deserting me, too, pup?" she heard him say, but she—and apparently the dog—ignored him.

The dog followed her into the bedroom. "And what do you want?" she asked him, but he just plopped down by the door and went back to sleep.

She didn't have as much luck. After throwing the covers off the bed, she lay down and tried to stop thinking. It didn't work.

If it weren't for the thunderstorms in her brain she wouldn't be trapped out here on this stupid rock.

She thought back to the Christmas tantrum that had changed her whole life....

Mom had said a winter ceremony would be best because Lori's favorite colors of burgundy and forest green would be perfect for a January wedding. Mom had picked out gorgeous green velvet gowns for the bridesmaids, and deep claret roses to line the reception hall, and Lori had honestly felt no opinion about the arrangements. That should have been a warning something was wrong. But she was so used to being discussed in the third person by her family, she didn't even notice no one seemed to be asking her opinion. As usual, she just drifted along in the direction her family led her.

They—her parents, her fiancé, her doctor—had all agreed on what her life would be like. She would live with Richard in the house he would build for her, near to her parents' house. She would have a maid to clean so she wouldn't have to risk falling off a ladder while washing windows, and she would have a chauffeur to drive so she wouldn't have to risk an embarrassing seizure while taking public transit, and she would have a husband who would happily take over the care of little Lori from her family.

She would have a life a lot of people dreamed of. Wealth, and comfort, and most of all, security. She would be safe and protected. And she would be forever somebody's burden.

'I like taking care of you,' Richard had said, patting her on the shoulder, as if his willingness to coddle his childlike bride-to-be was the important issue.

He cheerfully wove a cocoon around her. Her family had trapped her in their lovingly crafted cage throughout her childhood, and Richard had honestly thought that was what she wanted from him. Maybe it was.

But something that had been building up inside her for years had finally exploded when she was informed at Christmas that Richard had passed parental inspection, so he would be 'allowed' to take over the care of 'little Lori' on their wedding day with her parents' blessing.

She was so sick of being patted on the head by him, by everyone. She was an adult, and just because she had an annoying habit of falling flat on her face every once in a while, that didn't mean she'd be content to be helpless little Lori for the rest of her life.

It was only fitting that Aunt Zee had been visiting for the holidays. Only Aunt Zee (being the one member of the family to properly appreciate theatrical flair) had applauded Lori's performance: first when she threw her engagement ring across the living room in the middle of Daddy's toast welcoming Richard to the family, and then as she stormed out of the house, slamming the door dramatically behind her...

Of course Aunt Zee's applause could no longer be heard once she was outside the door, shivering in the snow, and realizing she had taken a step she couldn't easily undo.

So here she was. As far away from Mom and Dad and Richard as she could get.

Thanks to her own flair for the melodramatic (no doubt inherited from Aunt Zee), she had made an impressive symbolic stand for independence. And landed herself on a fogbound island with a coldblooded murderer.

"Brilliant move," she said. "Now what?"

Well, she wasn't helpless. She could take care of herself. And the Shadow wasn't going to get the best of her.

But to be on the safe side she got out of bed and shooed the dog away from the door so she could brace a chair against the doorknob. Just in case.

After that she slept.

•••

They remained in their neutral corners for the rest of the day. Twice she left the bedroom, first to let the dog out to relieve itself, and later to get herself a glass of water. Both times she found her houseguest in the parlor. Both times she nodded hello and then scurried back to her refuge.

The next morning she awoke to a strange silence. The foghorn's bellow had finally stopped again. Outside the window, the sky was gray, with high clouds, but she could see to the horizon.

Quickly she dressed, then went to the kitchen, followed by Shadowfax, who seemed to have bonded to her.

The dog's owner was in the bathroom, so she had a few more minutes before she had to put on her friendly face for him again.