Lethal Affair. Jean Pichon ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Yeah, and I was out on the deck taking in the view—great, isn’t it?—when I spotted this woman working at her easel. ‘Could that be Brenna Coleman?’ I asked myself.”
“And what did you answer yourself?”
“Didn’t. I had to kick off my shoes—you know how I love to go barefoot—and go out on the beach for a better look-see.”
“Naturally.”
“Well, then I knew for sure. Who else, with that copper-colored hair blowing in the wind, could it be but Brenna herself? Lucky coincidence, huh?”
“Very,” she said dryly.
She knew it was no accident, his discovering her like this. Casey had always specialized in locating the targets the FBI assigned him. She could have pursued it, but she didn’t. It didn’t matter, because she had a more important challenge for him.
“Let’s cut the games, McBride. Exactly what did my brother have to say to convince you to come after me?”
“Not much. Hey, it’s still cold back in Chicago, and being in the mood for a vacation in a warm place—”
“I’ve never known you to take a vacation.”
“Kind of forced on me. I’m on suspension from the bureau.”
Knowing how dedicated he was to his work, she realized how hard this had to be for him. “I’m sorry, Casey. What happened?”
“Long story. Why don’t we save it for another time? Anyway, the island here sounded just about right. ‘That’s great,’ Will said. ‘While you’re there and if you have the chance, you can check in on Brenna.’”
“He said that, did he?”
“More or less.”
“No, he didn’t. I’ll tell you what he said. He said, ‘Gee, Casey, would you mind watching over my sister for me? I don’t like the company she’s keeping.’”
“He didn’t put it exactly like that. But, okay, close enough. He’s concerned about you, Brenna, and maybe he has reason to be.”
“What reason?”
“This is for your ears only. Something I wouldn’t tell you if you didn’t need to be aware of it. Happens that your friend, Marcus Bradley, is a member of a cabal of elitists, a group suspicious enough that the FBI is keeping an eye on them.”
Brenna blew out the breath she’d been holding with a sound of exasperation. “You’re as bad as Will. Like I told him, and I’m telling you, there are always rumors about the very rich. And in this case, FBI or not, they’re crazy rumors. Marcus is not only a friend, he’s a generous benefactor. Along with his other charitable projects, he’s building a resort here on St. Sebastian in order to bring much-needed revenue and jobs to the island’s poor.”
“Heard that. Good for him. Meanwhile, you’re staying with him in his villa. Cozy.”
She was close, very close to snatching up a brush, dipping it in fresh paint and swiping it across his nose. “You’ve been investigating me, Agent McBride, and I don’t like it. You don’t deserve to know it, but I’m not staying in the villa. I’m staying in the guesthouse.”
“That so?”
“Yes. Furthermore, whatever my connection with Marcus, it’s not your business or Will’s. Nor do I need you or anyone else playing watchdog.”
“Got it. But, uh, would you mind telling me something?”
“Like what?”
Casey jerked that strong, square chin of his in the direction of the road a few hundred feet off the beach. A late-model Jaguar sedan was parked there in the shade of a banyan tree. Its driver, leaning against the car as he smoked a cigarette, was eyeing them.
“What do you call him, Brenna, if not a watchdog? Guy seems real interested in us. He belong to you?”
“That’s Julio, and all he’s doing is passing the time waiting for me. He works for Marcus, who asked him to drive me around the island so I could paint the scenes he wants when his resort is finished. He’s not a watchdog.”
Brenna’s attention had been fixed on Julio and the car. When she turned back to face Casey, she found him standing close to her. So close she could feel the heat of his hard body.
She lifted her chin, meaning to ask him to back off. Mistake. He was looking down at her, his probing eyes meeting her own gaze with such intensity that she caught her breath.
Green eyes. He had green eyes capable of registering a range of moods—humor, softness and, when they narrowed, a kind of tough, cold anger that could be dangerous. Could make a woman shiver. She had always been able to read those moods. But that had been then. Now she wasn’t at all sure.
And something else. Casey’s right eyelid drooped a little. A sexy, bedroom kind of thing that never failed to fascinate women.
Managing to breathe again, she asked him curtly, “What?”
He didn’t answer her. He simply kept staring.
“Casey, go away, will you? This commission is much too important to me to risk you screwing it up by your hanging around me like this.”
He didn’t move.
Voice shaky now, his presence unnerving her, she pleaded softly, “Please, just leave.”
To her relief, he backed away from her silently. Only when he was a safe distance away did he speak.
“If you should get into any trouble, Brenna, and need me, I’ll be here for you.”
How was she supposed to reply to that? She didn’t know, not with that sober tone in his voice, the equally sober look now on his face. He waited for a few seconds, but when she had no response for him, he turned and started to walk away.
Brenna found herself seized by a sudden, unexpected guilt. The same guilt she had suffered two years ago. Until now, she’d been able to convince herself she’d overcome that guilt, successfully put it behind her. Apparently not.
She couldn’t prevent herself from calling after him. “Casey, wait.”
He turned back, his dark eyebrows raised questioningly.
Even though she had expressed it at the time, she felt the need to tell him again. “I—I’m sorry I hurt you when I broke our engagement,” she told him quietly. “But I hurt, too, Casey. I hurt, too.”
“I know,” he said, his voice deep, husky.
And that was all. His hand lifting in parting, he turned again and moved back up the beach the way he had come. He left her with the forlorn, unwanted memories of what they had once shared. The love he had lavished on her both physically and emotionally, and what it had cost her to sacrifice them.
She went on gazing after his striking figure, damning him for reawakening all those potent feelings. Angry with herself, too, for her weakness, for still finding herself attracted to him.
Enough of this.
Facing her easel again, she considered the painting on it. It seemed to look back at her, demanding her renewed attention. Brenna complied, picking up a brush and her palette, prepared to attack the canvas. This time with a fierceness determined to shut out the image of Casey McBride.
* * *
The sprawling villa, Moorish in style, was perched on an elevated point of land overlooking the sea on one side. Stretched below on the other side were the winking lights of Georgetown, St. Sebastian’s capital and only city.
Brenna thought how different the setting here was by day. The stuccoed white walls of the villa glared with pride in the tropic sun. But now, at night, those same walls, with their arches