Intimate Strangers Page 11

  Her tone and the expression on her face made him want to tell her things he shouldn’t. Instead, he stood and walked into the living room. Like the dining room, it was sparsely furnished. The sofa and easy chair looked like garage-sale purchases that replaced the comfortable pieces he remembered. But the coffee table was a beautifully restored sea chest, and a Victorian whatnot sat in the corner. Several pieces of china and cut glass decorated the shelves—along with something else that caught and held his attention.

  It was a Chinese puzzle box about six inches long and eight inches wide, the kind where pressing on certain panels gets them to slide open. As he looked at it, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir.

  Keeping his gait slow and steady, he walked to it, picked it up. He had seen it before—in his own house. Long ago Veronica had found the piece at a flea market and gotten it for a ridiculously low price. Maybe the box was broken, because neither of them had ever been able to work the mechanism.

  Was he mistaken? Was it just a similar box? He turned the antique in his hand. It was polished wood, inlaid with ivory, and at the back was a small place where one of the ivory pieces had fallen out. The same place where Veronica’s box had been damaged.

  He pivoted back toward Molly. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was Phil’s. He gave it to me.”

  “It’s a very unusual piece. Do you know where it came from?”

  “From a dealer going out of business, Phil said.” She was watching him, her head tipped slightly to one side. “Why do you want to know?”

  Because he couldn’t tell her the truth, he said, “A long time ago my parents had one like it. It always fascinated me. I kept trying to open it, but I never could.”

  “Yes. Sometimes I pick it up and play with it, but I can’t figure out the combination.”

  He tried to remember the last time he’d seen the box, even while he wanted to bombard her with more questions. The box had been one of Veronica’s treasures, something she wouldn’t have parted with willingly. Certainly not for money. She wouldn’t have sold it to Phil, yet Molly was claiming that it had belonged to her husband. So had Veronica given it to him? Because they were on very close terms, intimate terms? Had Phil taken advantage of the chaos after her death and stolen it? Or was Molly the one who had really acquired the box?

  Suddenly he knew that he had come very close to making a serious mistake this afternoon. He’d almost let his attraction to Molly Dumont cloud his judgment.

  Now he was back on track. He couldn’t tell her who he was because it would be foolish to trust her.

  “I’d better go,” he said.

  “Just like that?”

  “You’re the one who said it would be difficult for us to have a relationship.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe it’s better to walk away now.” Before she could answer him, he did just that—walked out of the room and out of the house, where he got into his car and drove away.

  FOR LONG MOMENTS Molly sat unmoving at the dining-room table. Something had happened. Something she didn’t understand. One minute she’d thought Mark was on the verge of trusting her, the next, the gates of his fortress had slammed shut again.

  She folded her arms across her middle, unconsciously hugging herself. When she realized what she was doing, she stood and picked up the two bowls that were still half-full of salad. She carried them to the kitchen and emptied them into the trash.

  She’d been stupid, she told herself. She’d invited Mark in because she’d thought something might change. But it hadn’t. That was pretty obvious. He was still closed up. And now he was also angry.

  There had been an edge of anger in his voice when he’d asked her about the puzzle box.

  Why? Had it triggered a painful memory? She didn’t know and she suspected she was unlikely to find out.

  She crossed to the living room and picked up the antique box. She was immediately conscious that Mark had cradled it in his hands only a few minutes ago, so that holding it now was somehow an intimate gesture.

  Was she that starved for intimacy? a voice inside her asked.

  Well, if she was, she could always pretend she and Mark Ramsey were amorous strangers who had met on a cruise. He’d made it clear that he’d go to bed with her anytime she said the word.

  He had made that clear. Now she wasn’t so sure, not after the way his expression had darkened so quickly.

  Still cupping the box in her hands, she sat down on the sofa and turned it in all directions, thinking about when Phil had first brought it home.

  He’d seemed pleased to have the piece, but he was always pleased when he got something for under the market price or sold something for more than it was worth. She’d understood the first because she shared his enthusiasm for a hidden treasure. But she’d never been comfortable jacking up prices of items beyond their value.

  She shook the box, detecting nothing inside. But that didn’t mean it was empty.

  Again she tried to figure out the combination of moving parts that would open the secret compartment. But the sequence wasn’t obvious, and she wondered if someone had glued the panels shut.

  That would certainly devalue the antique.

  So, had Mark seen this particular box before, perhaps, when he’d been at the antique gallery? Did he think there was something valuable inside? If so, what was he going to do, come sneaking back to the house to look? And was that why he’d been going around with her—because he was looking for something?

  She didn’t want to think that was true. And it couldn’t be the only reason. He wanted her physically, she thought as the memory of their last heated encounter came sweeping back over her like a firestorm.

  She gripped the box more tightly, trying to push that memory out of her mind. She had told him there wouldn’t be any more intimate encounters between them. Intellectually, she meant it.

  Now the problem was getting her body to go along with the edict.

  IT WAS DARK when Mark drove past Molly’s house again. He had made the decision to stay away from her, no matter how much he wanted to be with her. He reminded himself that he couldn’t trust her. He reminded himself that she wasn’t going to let him touch her again unless he told her why he was in Perry’s Cove.

  So why was he here, looking through the lighted windows, watching her in the kitchen fixing dinner?

  Seeing her inside and knowing he couldn’t cross the barrier between them made his hands clench on the steering wheel. With a low curse, he pressed on the accelerator and sped away, heading for the north side of town where they’d inspected the rental property that morning. This time he was equipped with a set of lock picks and some tools for breaking into the boxes.

  When he reached the driveway, he switched off his headlights, then sat for several minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, as he considered what he was about to do. He was taking a chance coming back. But it was an acceptable risk, he told himself, unwilling to examine his own logic too closely as he started the engine again and plowed forward.

  Tonight he’d let some of the air out of his tires to make it easier to drive on the sand. Nevertheless, it was a nerve-racking ride up the driveway. In the distance he could hear loud music and party sounds. Apparently at least one of the mansions was rented, and the present occupants were making the most of their week at the beach. He took the fork to the mansions and parked with a bunch of other cars.

  On foot, he circled back and approached the smaller house and waited for several minutes to make sure nobody was around, particularly Dean Hammer. Then he crossed the parking area and pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. The moon slid behind a cloud, and he switched on his flashlight so he could study the lock.

  Nothing too complicated, he decided as he got out his picks. It took only minutes to open the front door.

  The moment he stepped into the living room, he knew that he’d gone to a lot of effort for nothing. The boxes were gone.

  He cursed under hi
s breath, then walked to the wall where they’d been stacked. Stooping down, he swept his hand across the floor, but found nothing to indicate that the boxes had even been there.

  Quickly he took a tour of the rest of the house. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen were all as empty as the living room.

  He closed a kitchen cabinet, then crossed to the front door and stepped outside. He had barely closed the door behind himself, when a noise to his right told him he wasn’t alone.

  Chapter Nine

  Instinctively going into self-protective mode, Mark ducked low, feeling a rush of air above his head as someone barreled toward him. The assailant had struck at him, but he avoided the blow by making himself a smaller target.

  In the darkness, the man swore. He’d like to see the guy’s face, Mark thought as he whirled, his hand lashing out and connecting with muscle and bone. All he could see was a bulky, featureless body. He was pretty sure the attacker was a large man and not too fast. When Mark landed another blow, the assailant went into a kind of desperate overdrive of flying fists and panting breaths. The furious effort managed to drive Mark backward as he sought to avoid the blows. A few landed, and he got in several of his own. Mark was about to surge forward again when he stumbled over a rock half buried in the sand and landed on his ass, the wind temporarily knocked out of him. By the time he managed to push himself up, he heard the sound of a car engine starting. Apparently the vehicle had been parked out of sight around the side of the house, which meant the assailant had been here the whole time.

  Mark dashed toward the sound of the engine and was rewarded by a cloud of grit kicked up by the wheels as the vehicle crossed the parking space in front of the house and sped down the driveway at a dangerous speed. Grains of sand hit him in the face and mouth. Cursing, he wiped at his lips. The debris in his eyes was more of a problem. He knew he couldn’t rub them. He opened his eyes to mere slits, ignoring the pain as he jogged to where he’d left his car. Working by feel, he fumbled for the bottle of water on the passenger seat. With his head tipped back, he poured the water onto his face, rinsing the sand and blinking to clear his vision.

  By the time he had finished with the first-aid treatment, the other car was long gone. With a low curse he started his vehicle, then sped down the access road, knowing he was already too late—unless the bastard who had attacked him had somehow plowed into a sand dune.

  No such luck. There were no cars on the driveway, and when he reached the highway, it too was empty.

  He stared at the stretch of vacant blacktop, trying to get inside the assailant’s head. Did he have friends in town he’d go to, or would he tear off in the opposite direction?

  One theory was as good as the other, Mark decided as he turned left toward town.

  A few miles down the road he saw another car and sped up. The driver was a woman—and he knew no lady had been tangled up with him. So he passed her and kept heading toward town. On the outskirts, he encountered several more cars. In one, a couple was making out—and making themselves a late-night hazard on the highway.

  By the time he got into the nighttime traffic in the business district, he silently acknowledged that he was too late to catch up with whoever had been staking out the empty house.

  On the way into town, he’d been trying to figure out who had jumped him. Had the guy been guarding the stash? That didn’t quite make sense, because the boxes had already been cleared out. Maybe the guy had helped transfer the stuff and then been about to leave when company had come snooping around.

  Stopped by a red light, he clenched his hands on the wheel, angry that he had missed a chance to get some information. But as he passed the combination service station–convenience store that had once marked the southern edge of town, he realized that he wasn’t too far from the antique mall. With a renewed sense of purpose, he sped up. A few minutes later, he pulled into the parking-lot entrance farthest from the front door and let the car glide slowly by with the lights off. The side of the building that faced the street was dark, but when he cruised around the right side, he could see dim illumination shining through one of the windows.

  He nosed the car to the edge of the lot, got out and walked quietly back toward the building, hoping he wasn’t giving Dean Hammer or Cory Daniels another crack at him. He should go back to the lodge, he told himself. But he was too pumped up to obey the advice. He had come out tonight to get information, and he wasn’t going home empty-handed if he could help it.

  He exited the car, then crossed the parking lot and carefully stepped into the narrow stretch of crushed shells that had been spread under the window.

  Lifting his head, he looked through the window. The action he saw inside froze the soles of his shoes to the bed of shells where he stood. When he could move again, he ducked to the side of the window, although the precaution was pure reflex, since he doubted the occupants of the room were paying attention to anything besides each other. Cautiously, he took a second look and saw Oliver Garrison and a woman in a clinch. He couldn’t see her face, only her back. She was wearing a dark-colored knit dress that molded her figure almost as tightly as the hand that Garrison had clamped around her ass.

  This was Mark’s first experience as a voyeur, and good manners dictated that he should turn away, but he couldn’t help gaping at the antique dealer and his female companion. Oliver moved his mouth to her ear, saying something that made her laugh, although the sound didn’t carry through the window glass. But Mark didn’t need to hear her response. It was perfectly apparent that Oliver was suggesting taking the intimacy to a new level.

  As Oliver unbuttoned the front of his companion’s dress and buried his face between her breasts, she clasped the back of his head, holding him to her as he turned first to one side then the other to give her breasts equal attention.

  Mark tried to identify the woman. Her shoulders were broad for a female, and she wore her blond hair short and curly. He could tell it was dyed, because the strands had separated in back, and he could see brown roots emerging near her scalp. Her neck was short, and her bottom was generous. There was something familiar about her, although he couldn’t figure out what. She had a rather full figure, and he thought that losing twenty pounds probably wouldn’t do her any harm. He stopped analyzing her body type when Oliver bent her backward across the desk, leaning over her, then reached to undo the fly of his slacks. Before he could complete the action, the phone rang.

  The woman raised her head as she looked at the phone. She said something that Mark couldn’t catch. Oliver shook his head. It was obvious from their body language that they were arguing over whether to answer the phone or continue their present activity. From where he was standing, Mark couldn’t tell which of them had taken which side of the argument.

  Finally Oliver snatched up the receiver. Mark watched him listen, then respond, then listen again. Apparently, he didn’t like what he was hearing. The woman was looking at him, and he spoke to her.

  Mark cursed the glass between him and the interior scene. Both occupants of the room were obviously agitated by the call. They were talking at once now as the woman straightened her clothing, then turned to a large gilt-framed mirror on the wall and ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing up the curls, giving him his first look at her face.

  He had expected that she’d be one of the antique dealers. But she wasn’t, not unless she had joined the group after his time. Yet her features left the impression that he’d met her before. She was still saying something over her shoulder to Oliver as she hurried from the room.

  Seconds later Mark heard a door slam at the back of the building. There was no good place to hide, but he pressed into the shadows against the wall as the woman emerged. She took a deep breath, crossed the parking lot, then climbed into a car parked under the trees. Luckily it was at the other side of the lot from him. She wrenched the car into reverse and backed up with a jerk. Within moments she was speeding toward the highway.

  Mark debated following her, bu
t he was more interested in Oliver, and he might have a good opportunity to get something out of the man now. He’d transferred the case with the mask to the trunk of his car. Suppose, now that Oliver was alone and upset, he met up with Mike Randall? That would definitely create some additional tension. Maybe it would make him blurt out some important information.

  Mark had never used the mask before, although he’d practiced putting it on several times. But he’d better not do it in the dark, he told himself. So he drove to an all-night gas station. There was only one car beside the pumps when he pulled up next to the men’s room and went in. After locking the door, he set the case on the sink and opened it. Goose bumps rose on his arms as he gazed down at the face lying on a bed of dark foam rubber, its eye sockets as empty and dead as a skull. He hesitated for a moment, then picked it up and shook out the wrinkles, feeling the rubber slap at his skin like cobwebs blowing in the wind.

  He paused for a steadying breath, then opened the jar of special adhesive and began to dab it onto various parts of his face the way he’d been taught. He pressed the mask into place and smoothed the artificial skin against his features, working his way carefully to his hairline and below the curve of his chin.

  The layer of rubber felt confining against his skin, as though it were a barrier between himself and the world, and he knew he couldn’t wear the damn thing for very long.

  For several heartbeats he kept his gaze downward. When he finally lifted his eyes to the mirror, he saw the face of Mike Randall. While the mask had looked spooky in its carrying case, it was nothing compared to how it made him feel now. He gripped the edge of the sink, fighting a feeling of disorientation. His throat constricted as he stared at his reflection, seeing Mike Randall, victim.

  He wasn’t that man! He wouldn’t be that man. He had taken charge of his life. Suddenly, he wanted to explain that to Molly. Make her understand why he’d hidden the truth of his identity.