Lethal Affair. Jean Pichon ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
was your day?” he asked her in that gentle voice that had what she felt was a hypnotic quality to it. “Pleasant, I hope.”
They were having a late dinner on the open terrace. The perfect meal consisted, among other dishes, of pepper pot soup, an island favorite, and freshly caught, baked grouper.
“It was,” she said, meeting his gaze across the candles that glowed in their hurricane globes on the table.
His hair gleamed in that same light. Pure silver hair, without a touch of any other color in it, framed his patrician face. Brenna supposed most people would describe that face as distinguished. It certainly reflected the breeding of an impressive ancestry. And even in his late fifties as he was, with some noticeable lines, Marcus Bradley could be called handsome.
His blue eyes, however, had the clarity of a much younger man’s. Observant eyes that, at the moment, were watching her with a sharpness that made her slightly uncomfortable. Made her turn the direction of the conversation to a subject that would distract him from what she was beginning to suspect was an interest in her that was more personal than just her art.
“So how was your day?” she inquired brightly. “You were going to spend it at the resort’s building site, weren’t you?”
“I was and did. It’s coming along, although like most large building projects, it has its problems.”
“Oh? What are they?”
“Nothing that you’d find particularly interesting, I’m afraid.”
She knew how invested he was in his resort, both financially and emotionally, and she wanted to keep him discussing it now. “I’d love to see the place, Marcus.”
“I’ll have to take you there sometime, but right now it’s in a pretty rough state for any touring. Let’s get back to your own day. How is the painting coming?”
Her effort had failed. “I think you’ll like the scene I’m working on when it’s finished. It’s still in a rough state, too. Traditional, of course, but that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes. A seascape, I believe?”
“Basically. On location from one of the beaches.”
“I see.”
The blue eyes continued to search her as she briefly described the scene for him. This was growing awkward. She had the distinct feeling he knew she was withholding something from him, and that he also knew what that something was.
Marcus nodded slowly when she was finished. Then, stabbing a forkful of fish, he said smoothly, casually, “I hear you had a visitor on the beach.”
Casey. He’d learned about Casey. There could only be one source of information for that. Julio had reported it to him. Brenna had insisted the driver was not a watchdog when Casey implied he was just that. But now she wasn’t so certain that Julio’s employer hadn’t planted him to specifically spy on her.
“Just a tourist wandering by and stopping to look at what I was painting,” she said with what she hoped was a believable, innocent explanation. “I’m used to it. It’s a common occurrence when artists are painting on location.”
Brenna regretted the necessity of her lie, but she was afraid that Marcus wouldn’t appreciate learning the FBI agent she’d once been engaged to had turned up on the island. To her relief, he seemed to accept her explanation.
Placing his fork on his plate, he leaned toward her. “You mustn’t mind your driver looking out for you,” he said mildly. “I’m afraid there’s no shortage of crime on islands like St. Sebastian where there’s so much poverty.”
“I understand.” She found another, safer topic. “If you keep on feeding me like this, Marcus, I’m not going to fit into any of my clothes when I get back to Chicago.”
“Gilda is a marvelous cook,” he conceded.
Gilda, she knew, was his housekeeper here, as well as Julio’s wife.
“Are you ready for coffee yet?”
“If you don’t mind,” Brenna told her host after dinner, “I’m going to call it an early night.”
“Not a bad idea. I’m ready to turn in myself. We’ve both had a long day.”
“I’ll leave you here then,” she said, rising from the table.
“Why don’t I walk you back to the guesthouse before you leave?”
“That isn’t necessary, Marcus.”
“I insist,” he said, rounding the table to join her.
The guesthouse was behind the villa and the paved walkway to it was well lit. There was no reason for him to escort her. Brenna felt like she was being guarded, maybe a bit too closely, and she didn’t like the idea. But she didn’t feel she could afford to object, either to his company on the walk or his good-night kiss on her cheek when he left her at her door.
He’s paying you a lot of money for those paintings. What are you going to do? Risk offending him?
There was more to it than that, she reminded herself after letting herself into her quarters. How could she forget all he’d done for her back in Chicago? Not only buying two of her pictures when they met at the art gallery that held her first showing but broadcasting her talent to his wealthy friends, making possible the success she was now enjoying.
A lot to be grateful for.
Except Marcus Bradley wasn’t the first individual to admire her work. Casey was responsible for that.
Much as she might have wanted to, Brenna was unable to prevent herself from remembering their first meeting as she went around turning on the lights in the elegantly furnished suite she was occupying.
She’d been working in an art supply store at the time. Casey had strolled into the place to buy a set of paints and brushes for his nephew’s birthday. That first sight of him—hard body, tousled, dark brown hair—had been like experiencing heat lightning.
The store had permitted her to display a few of her paintings. She was wrapping Casey’s purchase when he called out, “Hey, who did this?”
She looked up to find him, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans, gazing at her painting of the Chicago skyline with storm clouds gathering behind it.
“I did,” she answered.
“And these others?”
“I’m guilty of those, too.”
“They’re good. Damn good.”
His compliment had lit a warm glow inside her. As compelling as the man himself. And that’s how it had begun for them. With that stormy painting.
Speaking of which—
She crossed the sitting room to check on today’s painting where it rested on the easel in the corner, making sure it was drying properly.
She was getting ready for bed when her cell phone chimed, startling her. Who on earth—
It needed only the few seconds she took to pluck the phone out of her bag to guess who it was.
She answered the call with an irritated “Casey, how did you get this number?”
“From Will, of course, before I left home. I needed to be sure I could contact you down here. He said you had a GSM cell. Me, too.”
Brenna knew that, overseas like this, they would not have been able to connect otherwise.
“You’ll need to take down my own number.”
“Why?”
“To reach me if you need me. Why else?”
“Casey, I’m not going to need you.”
“Just do it,