Secret Assignment. Paula Graves
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backed away from her a few inches, his blue eyes narrowed to slits. “She’s a wealthy woman. She owns things of value.”
The picture became a little clearer. “You’re not just the caretaker at the island, are you? You’re her bodyguard.”
His grim mouth curved a little, carving a surprising dimple in his cheek. “Just don’t let her hear you say that.”
She dragged her gaze away from the dimple and tried to gather her suddenly scattered thoughts. “You think someone’s trying to keep you away from the island so Mrs. Ross will be more vulnerable?”
“I think we need to get back to the island. Now.”
She stepped aside when he moved forward, bracing herself as he reached for the Walther on the table where she’d placed it. But he just slipped it into the waistband of his jeans.
He stooped under the door and turned to look at her. “You coming?”
“Can I bring my GLOCK?”
His lips curved, triggering the dimple again. “Do you know how to use it?”
She gave him a withering look that only spread his smile so that the other side of his face formed a dimple as well.
“Do what you want,” he said, and headed up the ladder.
She grabbed her GLOCK, still in its holster, and clipped the whole thing to her hip. At the last minute, she went back to the galley and grabbed a couple of bottled waters, tucking them under one arm as she climbed one-handed up to the pilothouse.
“Here,” she offered, holding out one of the bottles to him. “I counted, by the way. Five bottles of water left. I drank one earlier and here’s two more. Eight total. How many did you put in the fridge?”
“Eight,” he admitted.
Suddenly a low moaning wail rose in the air, distant but loud. Beside her, Gideon Stone tensed, his features hardening.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Trouble,” he answered. He grabbed a phone receiver built into the instrument panel and dialed. “What’s wrong?” Anger darkened his face, ice forming in his blue eyes as the person on the other end of the call answered. “Are you sure?”
Shannon tamped down her impatience, peering in the direction of the noise. She realized she could see the island now, a dark mass in the middle of the murky gray-green of the Gulf. It was no more than two miles in length and, from the looks of it, even narrower in width.
The noise was coming from somewhere on the island.
Gideon hung up the phone and reached into his bag, pulling out a pair of binoculars.
“Was that Mrs. Ross? What’s happened? What’s that sound?”
“It’s a foghorn on the lighthouse on the western side of the island—see it there?” He pointed dead ahead. Sure enough, she saw a tall white lighthouse rising above the tree line. “It’s not in use anymore, but the horn still works. I don’t like leaving Mrs. Ross alone on the island, but sometimes I have to, so I had someone rig the power connection from the horn to go to the main house. Mrs. Ross can trigger the horn from the house now. You can hear it all the way to the mainland.”
“Why did she trigger it?”
“There was a boat attempting a landing. Rubber raft, really, with an outboard motor. She saw it from the widow’s walk on top of the house. So she ran and sounded the horn.” He swung his binoculars in an arc, apparently looking for the offending boat. “She said they turned back around and started hightailing it away.”
“Is that unusual?”
He lowered the binoculars to look at her. “We get trespassers,” he admitted. “They don’t always know the island is private. Sometimes you get people having boat trouble.”
“Could today’s incident have been something like that?”
His mouth tightened. “Maybe.”
“But you don’t think so.”
He didn’t answer, settling back in the pilot’s seat and starting the boat engine. To Shannon’s relief, the engine rumbled to life easily enough.
By the time they neared the island, the siren had died away to nothing. They rounded the southern tip of the island and aimed north toward the mouth of a cavernous boathouse. It had to have been built specifically for the Hatteras Convertible, Shannon thought. “How long have the Rosses owned this boat?” she asked as Gideon eased the boat into the shelter.
The interior of the boathouse was dark and shadowy, as if they’d gone from noon to twilight in a matter of seconds. Her eyes, accustomed to the bright sunlight bouncing off the water of the Gulf, had trouble dealing with the sudden darkness, making her temporarily blind.
Out of the gloom, Gideon’s answer rumbled like thunder. “I don’t know. It was here when I came.”
With sunlight through the entrance driving away the worst of the shadows, Shannon’s sight soon adjusted. She followed Gideon Stone down the ladder to the main deck and gathered her things.
“You might want to put away the GLOCK,” Gideon suggested. “Mrs. Ross is probably already on edge.”
Shannon unclipped the holster from her waistband and put the weapon and holster in her duffel bag. Gideon took the bag from her hands as if he were picking up a child’s toy. He slung it over his shoulder and nodded for her to precede him down the pier.
Where the pier ended, a river stone walkway began, winding through lush, tree-shaded grass uphill toward a large house near the top of a small rise. “Stafford House,” Gideon said quietly behind her. “Stafford is Mrs. Ross’s maiden name. The island has been in her family for generations.”
“And the house?” she asked, though she knew the answer.
“The old one was badly damaged by Hurricane Frederick decades ago, when Mrs. Ross’s parents were still alive. They rebuilt to make it more hurricane-proof. I’m told the house looks exactly as it did before. Just taller.” He withdrew his gaze from the house and looked at her, his mouth curving too slightly to trigger the dimples again. “Hope you’re not afraid of heights. The bedrooms are on the top floor.”
Stafford House gave the impression of a stately manor, with tall white columns supporting the front portico as well as the balcony on the top floor. Where the roof gable met at a point above the second floor, a widow’s walk ringed the entire roof area. “Is that how Mrs. Ross spotted the intruders?” she asked as they reached the front walkway. The river stones here were edged by monkey grass and unlit walkway lanterns. Shannon imagined it would be lovely at night with the lights on.
“Yes,” Gideon answered tersely.
The front door opened and a small woman in her late sixties walked out onto the long front veranda, a smile on her face. She must have been a stunner in her youth, Shannon thought, as elegant and lovely as she remained in her later years. She wore a short-sleeved cotton blouse in pale yellow and a pair of denim capri pants that showed off slim, smooth ankles.
“You must be Shannon.” She held out her hands in welcome.
Shannon took the older woman’s hands. “Mrs. Ross, it’s nice to meet you. Your home is absolutely beautiful.”
Lydia Ross smiled with pleasure at the compliment. “It will be heartbreaking to leave it behind. But the gentlemen with the Department of Conservation and National Resources have assured me that they plan to work with the Gulf Coast Historic Trust to preserve the house as a museum for visitors to the island.”
Thinking about the family home back in Gossamer Ridge, the shabby but well-loved house where her father had raised his six boisterous children, Shannon felt a twinge of sympathy for Lydia’s plight. Her father’s home was no longer the place she lived, but it was still home to her, a place