Solving the Mysterious Stranger. Mallory Kane
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a short laugh. That was more like it. Platitudes she could share with Carrie and Rita. “Right. Got it.”
She stood and firmly pulled her hand away. “A mysterious stranger, a path fraught with danger and deceit. Great,” she said wryly. “I can’t wait.”
Quelling the urge to wipe her hand on her jeans, she dug into her pocket and came up with a wad of twenties. Peeling off two, she dropped them onto the table.
“Nice special effects.” She turned and reached for the heavy curtain that draped the front of the booth.
“Wait!” The dozens of bangles on the woman’s wrists chimed. “That case on the table there, it’s yours. You should take it with you. Keep it close—you’re going to need it.”
So it was her makeup the fake fortune-teller had used. She grabbed up the case.
“And, Amelia Hopkins…”
She paused—only inches from freedom. “Aren’t you done yet?”
“Remember. Nobody is good enough for you.”
Amelia shook her head and pushed through the curtain, just in time to run into a solid wall of flesh.
“Oh, sorry,” she muttered, putting out her hands to steady herself as the man grasped her waist.
She pushed against him, but he held on. “Let me go,” she demanded, slightly alarmed by his unrelenting hold.
He loomed over her, dark and ominous. A few days’ growth of beard darkened his square jaw. A black wool fisherman’s cap shadowed the upper part of his face. But no shadows could hide the steely gray of his eyes.
Something flickered in those eyes—curiosity? Recognition? Then he let go of her and held up his hands, palms out. He ducked his head, letting the brim of his cap shadow the upper part of his face. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he muttered.
Amelia pushed past him.
“Ma’am, you dropped this.”
She turned.
He knelt and picked up her makeup case. She must have dropped it when he collided with her.
He held it out.
She took it, but before she could thank him, he’d turned away, moving off through the crowd. His black leather jacket strained across his shoulders, and his long legs looked powerful in black wool pants. He was taller than most of the people around him, and yet he moved with the fluid grace of a big cat.
“Amelia,” Carrie Singleton called, waving.
Amelia pulled her gaze away from the stranger’s leather-clad shoulders in time to see Carrie duck around a clown who looked suspiciously like Hal Smith, the owner of the hardware store. He blew an obnoxiously loud whistle.
Rita Maxwell laughed as she followed Carrie.
“What did the fortune-teller say?” Carrie asked.
“You weren’t in there long enough,” Rita said, eyeing her suspiciously. “You just gave her some money and left, didn’t you?”
“No.” Amelia gestured down the street in the direction the stranger had gone. “Did you see the way that guy grabbed me?”
“A guy grabbed you?” Rita asked.
Amelia gestured, but he’d disappeared into the crowd. “You couldn’t miss him. He grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. I was about to scream for help.”
Carrie glanced down the street and frowned.
Rita shook her head. “I saw you bump into someone—tall guy with shoulders out to here—but you barely brushed each other.”
“He’s probably a sailor, docked here for Boat Fest,” Rita added. “I’m sure you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen in six months.”
Amelia stared at her two friends. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t let go. And he didn’t look like a sailor. He looked like a—” A captain, she thought.
“Come on. Let’s go get an Irish coffee. I want to hear what the fortune-teller told you.” Carrie hooked her arm through Amelia’s and pulled her in the direction of The Pub—the direction the stranger had gone.
Amelia glanced at her watch. “If I have a drink, I’ll fall asleep standing up. I’ve been hawking yachts all day and my feet are killing me. I should be getting home. Dad and I have an early meeting tomorrow and we need to coordinate our talking points.”
“It’s not even ten o’clock. Honestly, you’re like an old maid sometimes,” Rita said.
“Yeah.” Carrie guided Amelia through the weathered cherrywood doors of The Pub. “The richest, most gorgeous old maid on the entire coast. Not to mention the A-Number-One party pooper.”
“Carrie, stop it.” Amelia chuckled. “I’ll have some coffee—regular, decaf coffee, but then I’ve got to go home. Hopkins Yachts doesn’t run itself. Especially not during Boat Fest—and especially not this year.” She didn’t specify that the main reason she needed to be at home was to make sure her father got to bed by eleven o’clock.
“Did you get a lot of orders at the boat show?”
“Yes. Too many. That’s what this meeting tomorrow is about. Some megacorporation wants to meet with Dad about a major contract.”
“That’s great,” Carrie commented absently as they picked their way through the crowd.
The Seafarer Boat Fest attracted a lot of people—tourists, sailors, yachting enthusiasts who came to see Hopkins’s newest designs.
Amelia felt a faint prick of guilt. Hopkins’s preview drawings for next year’s designs were a myth. There was no inspired new Hopkins yacht for the coming year. Probably only a seasoned aficionado would notice, but Amelia still felt as if they were cheating their customers.
Since her father’s heart attack a year ago, he hadn’t created one new workable design. That was bad enough. But he’d insisted that no one know that this year’s new designs were glossed-over versions from the past three years.
Even worse, this year’s Boat Fest had drawn more people than usual—many of them curiosity-seekers who’d heard about all the trouble Raven’s Cliff had experienced throughout the summer. But as was true every year, a lot were boaters looking for the latest fancy yacht.
Everywhere Amelia went, she steeled herself for the accusation she knew would come one day—Reginald Hopkins has lost it. He’s recycling old designs and calling them new.
As they pushed through the crowd toward the bar, the bartender, Seamus Hannigan, nodded a greeting. His eyes crinkled at the corners, which pulled at the scar that ran from his chin up his jawline. His gaze followed Carrie.
Amelia poked her friend in the ribs.
“Stop it.” Carrie slapped at her hand.
“Seamus is looking your way. Wink at him and get us a table.”
Rita chuckled.
“I mean it, Amelia,” Carrie said. “I’m totally not interested. I’ve never winked at a man and I’m sure not going to start now.”
But even in the dim, smoky pub, Amelia didn’t miss Carrie’s flaming cheeks. She caught Rita’s eye. “Let’s sit at the bar then.”
“There are only two seats,” Carrie protested.
“I’ll stand,” Rita said.
“I won’t be here long enough to sit,” Amelia said at the same time.
They pushed through the crowd. Amelia guided Carrie to one empty chair and shot a look at Rita. With a shake of her blonde head, Rita sat next to Carrie.
“I’ll