Closer Encounters. Merline Lovelace
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he followed Tracy up to the inn. To his surprise, he could still hear the echo of that smoky, sexy contralto.
Okay, so maybe his target wasn’t a couple of bricks shy of a full load. Maybe the song had just stuck in her head, like it had in his. The melody was liquid and smooth, the lyrics simple and repeatable. Drew was humming them under his breath when Tracy disappeared inside the inn.
Once she was inside her room, Drew entered his. His first order of business was to attach a small, almost transparent disk on the wall between their two rooms. The communications gurus had assured him the minuscule listening device could pick up a sneeze on a street corner in Gdansk.
When he screwed a wireless receiver into his ear, Drew heard no sneezes, Polish or otherwise, just the sound of gushing water punctuated by a series of irate mutters.
“Jerk!”
A tap squealed. The water gushed faster.
“How could he think I was going to jump?”
Another squeal, followed by another mutter.
“Do I look that pathetic?”
No, Drew wouldn’t classify her as pathetic. Weird, maybe. Suspect, certainly. Fingering the earpiece, he adjusted the volume. A bird’s-eye view of Avalon’s twinkling lights lured him out onto the balcony.
Leaning his elbows on the rail, he listened to the splash that heralded his target’s immersion in one of the inn’s old-fashioned claw foot tubs. Her long, drawn-out ahhh evoked images of bubbles and rising steam. The squish of something wet and spongy evoked another image altogether.
Drew could almost see a wet washcloth sliding over Tracy Brandt’s breasts and belly. Despite the cool night air, he started to sweat. From what he’d seen of her under that baggy windbreaker, the woman came equipped with a nice set of curves.
He’d worked his way into a serious consideration of those curves when a squawk jerked him from Tracy’s bathroom to his night-wrapped balcony. The gull landed less than a foot from his elbow.
“Hey, fella. You’re out late.”
Yeah, the bird’s cocked head seemed to say. So feed me.
“Okay, okay. Just hold on to your tail feathers.”
Halfway to the minibar he heard a scream from the next room. Drew had charged for the door even before his supersensitive mike telegraphed the crack of breaking glass.
Chapter 3
Straining to pick up some sound from inside the target’s room, Drew rapped his knuckles on her door.
“Tracy?”
He waited a beat, his mind conjuring a dozen different scenarios, and rapped again.
“Tracy, it’s Drew.”
He was about to put his shoulder to the oak panel when the lock snicked and the door opened a crack. Cool air whooshed out, then a pale face topped by a towel turban appeared.
“Are you okay?” Drew asked sharply.
“I…I…”
The fumbling response upped his pucker factor another few notches. What the hell had she done?
“The walls are thin,” he said with only slight exaggeration. They were thin—especially with a high-tech listening device transmitting every decibel of sound.
“I heard a scream and the sound of glass breaking. Are you all right?”
She put a shaking hand to her temple. “I think so.”
“What happened?”
“I, uh, dropped something.”
She scrunched her forehead, as if trying to remember what. Worried that she’d fallen and whapped her head, Drew softened his tone.
“Something’s obviously shaken you. Why don’t you unhook the chain and tell me about it?”
She peered through the crack for another second or two, still confused, still hesitant. While she debated, Drew angled his body to one side and surreptitiously removed his earpiece. One way or another, he was getting in to that room.
“Let me in, Tracy. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
The combination of brisk command and gentle persuasion produced results. The door closed, the chain rattled and Drew stepped inside.
Her rooms were smaller than his. A good deal chillier, too, with the breeze blowing in through the open windows. The view was incredible, but Drew spared the brilliantly illuminated casino framed by those windows barely a glance. His quick, intense scrutiny swept over a combination bedroom/sitting area done in brass and flowery chintzes. He spotted no bloodstains, no overturned furniture, no shattered windows.
The bathroom, on the other hand, looked as though a tornado had just roared through it. Wet towels were strewn everywhere. The entire contents of a cosmetic bag had been dumped on the counter. Glistening glass shards decorated the floor tiles.
Drew eyed them, his gut tightening. Had she dropped that drinking glass by accident? Or was the breakage deliberate, a prelude to slit wrists?
His thoughts grim, he faced the target. She appeared to be recovering from whatever had hit her. The dazed look was gone, anyway. Playing with the belt of her lemon-colored chenille robe, she offered an embarrassed smile.
“The mirror got all clouded with steam. I used my sleeve to clean it and knocked the drinking cup off the counter.”
That accounted for the shattered glass. Not the cry that preceded it.
“Did something startle you? I could swear I heard you scream just before the glass broke.”
“Was I that loud? I thought I just let out a small squeak.”
Small was in the ear of the beholder. Wondering if the ultrasensitive listening device had made him overreact, Drew shrugged.
“Maybe it was just a squeak. But something must have generated it.”
“Something did.” Her smile went from embarrassed to chagrined. “After I cleared away the steam, I got a good look at this face in the mirror.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t tell me you can’t see the bags under these eyes! And this hair.”
Tugging off the turban, she raked her hand through the strands of dark mink.
“Look at it! As straight as a board. Not the slightest hint of a wave or a roll. I have to get my hands on some bobby pins.”
Bobby pins? Drew had a hazy memory of his grandmother with her head hard-wired into tight curls, but had no idea women still stabbed those sharp little implements into their scalps.
He found Brandt’s sudden determination to acquire some reassuring, though. If she was so worried about her appearance, odds were she hadn’t been planning to slash her wrists. Judging by the angry mutters he’d heard just before she’d climbed into the tub, she evidently hadn’t intended to jump off the ballroom balcony, either.
Okay, maybe she wasn’t suicidal. Just strange. And mercurial as hell. For a few moments there on the pier, her shoulders had drooped with weariness and sadness shadowed her eyes. Now she seemed gripped by a sort of quivering energy.
“Do you want to go with me?” she asked eagerly.
“Go where?”
“To a drugstore, to buy some bobby pins.”
“Now?”
She flipped the ends of her wet hair. “I have to do something with this floor mop. Besides, the night’s young. How about I tie on a kerchief and we see what’s playing at the Roxy? Or grab a stool at the soda fountain and split a dusty miller? It’s been ages since I dug a spoon into one