Hideaway Cove (A Windfall Island Novel) (8 page)

“I don’t like being threatened in my own home.”

“Oh, it’s not a threat.” They believed Dex was a lawyer, and Jessi wasn’t about to disabuse the Proctors of that notion, any more than she was above using him as a club to keep them in line. “I would do anything to protect my son. Anything. And I have friends who would help me hide the bodies, no questions asked.”

Joyce’s hands lifted to her throat, protectively this time.
Drama queen
, Jessi thought uncharitably, and was just pissed enough to get a small kick of satisfaction that there might be a little bit of real fear thrown in.

“Is that all?” Lance asked, and if Jessi didn’t know better, she’d think he was amused. Jackass, getting a kick out of seeing his mother put in her place.

“I’d tell you to use common sense, I’d tell you to put Benji’s welfare above your own, but I’m not sure you can do that. Until I am sure, this is how it’s going to be. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Lance said immediately.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, around four. Don’t let Benji down.”

“Jessi…” Lance said.

She turned back, but he just stood there, uncharacteristically hesitant.

Joyce wasn’t so reluctant to speak. “It’s about that Abbot person who’s hanging around the airport. You’ve heard, of course, that he’s slept in more bedrooms than George Washington.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“He’s around my grandson. Don’t think the courts would turn a blind eye to that kind of goings-on with a young, impressionable boy in the house.”

Jessi stepped forward, not just pissed now, but coldly, quietly, enraged. “What kind of goings-on would you be referring to, Joyce? Because you want to be really careful of what kind of nasty—and untrue—accusations you’re throwing around in front of my young, impressionable son.”

“Stop,” Lance said with a heavy sigh. “Neither of us is going to spread the kind of gossip that would only come back around to hurt Benji. Are we, Mother?”

Jessi didn’t wait for Joyce’s grudging agreement. She turned, not feeling the frigid air blowing straight into her face. She made her way back to the heart of town, pausing at the corner of Meeker’s store to look around. Not a single car drove by. Nobody walked the wind-scoured streets. Nobody stood—or lounged—on the next corner, watching her, waiting for her, even if she didn’t want him to.

She was alone.

Just like she wanted to be.

J
esus, kid. You shoulda told me I’d be taking my life into my hands.”

Paige Walker, star of stage, screen, and, currently, the Internet, looked over at Harvey Astor. He had both hands and one leg wrapped around one of the brass poles supporting the canopy over the captain’s wheel, under which Paige stood to pilot the boat that was taking them to Windfall Island. “Actually, your life is in my hands.”

She adjusted her balance for the roll of the old motor boat lugging along beneath her feet. She hadn’t graced the deck of anything smaller than a yacht since she was sixteen, but her sea legs had been easy to find again, and her stomach barely noted the rise and fall, the side-to-side sway, of eight-foot seas in a boat barely longer.

She might be draped in silk and fur, her hair artistically highlighted and her skin pampered at a spa that charged what most people lived on for a month, but truth be told, she felt sixteen again—sixteen with all the insecurities and fears of that age, and nothing to be done about it but to put one foot in front of the other and pretend she knew what she was doing when really she didn’t have a clue.

“Where are the cameras when you need them?”

Paige looked over, and when he went for his cell phone she narrowed her eyes at him until he put it away. “I’ve had enough publicity for a while.”

“No such thing as too much publicity, darling. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

“Oh, I’ve learned about publicity,” she murmured.

She did her best to keep her exposure to a minimum and her reputation clean. She shied away from the places where photographers lurked in hopes of getting a million-dollar picture. Yet it was her quest for privacy that had proven her undoing.

“You’re brooding.”

Paige shook back her hair, made sure her expression was placid, if not exactly happy. “I’ll be ready to work when it’s required.”

Harvey Astor clapped a hand to his heart, then grabbed wildly for the pole when the sea tried to take advantage of his momentary inattention. “I’m wounded,” he said as he fought to keep his footing on the spray-slicked deck. “You’re more than a workhorse to me.” He grinned, making his gorgeous face even more irresistible. “Besides, I’ve made enough money on you to lounge in the lap of luxury for the rest of my life.”

“Small price for the man who’s given me my dreams.”

“And his friendship.”

Paige rested a hand on his wrist. “Priceless,” she said, and meant it wholeheartedly. Harvey Astor was the only person in the world she trusted, although her so-called “friends” would have considered her insane for putting her faith in anyone in the entertainment industry. Especially an agent.

But this particular agent wasn’t just the best in the trade; he was the only true friend she could count after more than a decade in a business that chewed up and spit out the unworthy.

“God, do you remember how naïve you were?”

“I was never naïve, Harve. Green maybe.”

“Yes, well, lucky you skipped into my office first.”

“I never skip. It isn’t dignified. And yours wasn’t the first office I ventured into when I hit Los Angeles. With a little foresight and imagination, someone else could have made their fortune off this workhorse.”

“Oh?” Harvey’s eyes lit. “Let me guess. There were strings.”

“G-strings, to be exact. I passed.”

“Well, aren’t you just the sterling judge of character.”

“Like I said, green, not naïve.” At least she liked to remember it that way. Truth was, she’d still been new enough, optimistic enough, to turn down promises of stardom—at least the kind with a price tag attached. She hadn’t yet discovered that she was just one of the thousand pretty, talented girls who arrived in Hollywood every year determined to conquer the fickle place.

She wondered what might have happened to her if Hollywood had had time to beat her down as it had so many others, until they took one of those offers. If not for Harve…She glanced sideways, met his eyes. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Are you sure about this?”

She watched the shoreline of Windfall Island coalesce out of the mist, swimming into life like a quaint and ramshackle Brigadoon, rising after a century of sleep to rub its historic shoulder up against the modern day. But while the village had been kept ruthlessly historical, its people were anything but. They might be isolated, they might stay that way by preference, but they dwelt firmly in the twenty-first century, movie theaters, televisions, magazines…

Paige sighed, then put such thoughts firmly out of her mind. She hadn’t been back in more than a decade, and she was coming back the way she’d sworn to, with fortune and fame tucked securely in the pockets of her mink coat.

And if—just to herself, she admitted—she hadn’t so much come home as run away from scandal? What else could she have done but escape and leave the furor to die down?

“Doesn’t look like the kind of place they’d take your latest cinematic offering in stride,” Harve observed with just the kind of snobbery that made Paige smile again, indulgently.

“Don’t let appearances fool you. A sex tape is right up their alley.”

“Then I’m doubly worried.”

“Relax, Harve.” And when he didn’t look like he would take her advice, she reached over and patted his hand. “They love to gossip.”

“That’s what worries me. The tabloids are salivating to find out where you are.”

“Windfallers would rather cut out their tongues than talk to a reporter.”

“Even one who’d offer fistfuls of money?”

“It looks like they could use fistfuls of money, doesn’t it?”

“It looks like they could use spare change.”

She laughed.

“There’s a sound I haven’t heard in a while.”

“I guess it’s good to be home.” Even knowing what kind of reception she’d likely get.

“Paige, my love—”

She stretched up and kissed his cheek, smiling over the embarrassed blush that came to it. She’d been a bit miffed, once upon a time, that he’d never hit on her. But that had been back in the early days, before she’d realized he would have preferred her brother—if she’d had one. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be safe here.”
At least physically
, she thought, looking forward again, at her past.

The past had a way of hurting like nothing else ever could, and when you least expected it. Just look at the way hers was sneaking up on her, the sharp, sweet tang of wistfulness when she guided the boat alongside the weathered, rickety dock, the yearning to be welcomed with open arms, even knowing she didn’t deserve it, that she’d burned bridges with the gleeful, youthful certainty that she’d never need to cross them again.

“No welcoming committee,” Harvey observed as he tied the boat to the dock with pretty bows that wouldn’t hold for more than a minute or two.

“I didn’t let anyone know to expect me.” Because she’d been worried over the tabloids’ habits of picking through garbage, bribing friends and employees, even hacking phones to get the dirt they needed to sell their pitiful rags. It was a plausible excuse, one she might have believed if she hadn’t always been so brutally honest with herself.

She took Harvey’s hand, let him help her step off the boat and onto the dock. He didn’t let go of her right away.

“You have to get back to the mainland,” she reminded him. “Worry about yourself.”

“If I don’t make it, I’m coming back to haunt you,” he said, but he squeezed her hand and added, “Give me a call sometime, kid, just so I know the cannibals haven’t had you for supper.”

Right. Cannibals
, Paige thought as she watched Harvey leave and felt like her last hope was puttering away in that small rented boat with him. Cannibals, Windfallers, not exactly the same thing, but close enough. And she was one of them, she reminded herself. You could take the girl from Windfall, but you couldn’t take the Windfall out of the girl.

J
essi let the curtain on her front window fall back in place and took a couple of deep breaths. She’d stopped looking for Hold; she hadn’t seen him since Friday. Since Lance had returned. Her life was falling apart, and now Hold chose to disappear. When she needed him…

She needed him. The truth of it completely appalled her. She wasn’t his responsibility. It was just that she’d gotten so used to seeing him everywhere, to feeling warm and wanted when he smiled at her, soothed by the honey-dripping sound of his voice, the center of the universe when he leaned in close and focused his melted chocolate eyes on her face.

She was an idiot, she concluded.

But she was an idiot who didn’t hide from the truth. And the truth was, she’d missed Hold Friday night, when sleep deserted her in the whirl of speculation and worry over Lance’s sudden reappearance. She’d missed Hold when she walked away from the Proctor house Saturday, hurt and angry and badly in need of a distraction. She missed him now, as she stepped outside because she wasn’t inviting Lance Proctor in one minute sooner than she had to.

The mist that had wreathed the island the afternoon before had finally wafted away. It was still damn cold but outside she could breathe; she could feel, if only for a moment, like she hadn’t been boxed in—even if it was by her own sense of justice and fair play.

After all, she had no obligation to let Lance see Benji. He’d given up any rights to his son the day he walked away. Benji, however, hadn’t given up on his father; he deserved to make his own judgment.

“What’s she doing here?” Lance said, his head jerking to Maggie, who’d followed Jessi out onto her front stoop.

“I’m here to support Jessi,” Maggie said equably. “The question is, why are you here? And don’t tell me it’s because of Benji. You’re working an angle.”

“What angle could there possibly be? Jessi doesn’t have anything.”

“I have Benji,” Jessi said.

But she was thinking about Maggie’s observation, barely listening when Maggie said to Lance, “And I’m here to make sure you don’t talk her into anything stupid.”

“Like trusting me with my own kid?”

“That would be top of my list,” Maggie said.

“Still jealous?”

“Still useless?”

Lance made a rude sound. “I hear you’re getting married, Maggie. What’s her name?”

Maggie folded her arms, her mouth shifting into a sneer. “Just because you’re afraid of strong women doesn’t mean the rest of the male gender is equally lacking”—her eyes dropped to his crotch before lifting back to meet his—“in courage.”

“As pleasant as always, Maggie.”

“Aw, Lancelot. You just bring out the best in me.”

“Likewise,” he snapped.

Maggie smiled broadly. “Your best was the day you left Windfall.”

“I’d have thought my best would be Benji.”

“There’s nothing of you in that kid. Not even your name.”

When Lance’s face went red, Jessi stepped in. “Stop before someone gets hurt.”

“Why didn’t you give him my name, Jessi?”

“You left. I took that to mean you didn’t want any part of him.” She shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re insulted after all this time.”

Lance drew himself up.

“You know,” Maggie said, “I never saw your resemblance to Joyce until now. She likes to look down her nose at people, just like that.”

Lance spared her one last glare before he turned to Jessi, his tone heavy with better-than-thou, definitely channeling his mother. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“It’s a pretty nice side benefit, though.” Maggie took a step forward. “Hurt Jessi or Benji, and you’ll get more than sharp words from me.”

“I can fight my own battles,” Jessi said before Lance could snipe back. Or worse.

“Fine, Jess,” Maggie said. “Just as long as you know I’ll be happy to help you dispose of the body.”

“How about you go get Benji for me, Mags,” she suggested. Not that she wanted to give Lance any advantages, but the last thing she wanted was Lance having a mad on when he spent time with Benji for the first time.

“Sure, but about that angle, Lance? I’ll be watching.” Her eyes shifted to Jessi. “We’ll be watching.”

“Judging,” Lance muttered after Maggie walked away.

“I’d say she has a right.”

“You have a right. Maybe. But—”

“Who do you think picked up the pieces after you took off?” Jessi said quietly.

“God, Jess…I’m sorry. I just, I was suffocating even before…before. I needed to get away from here and, well, I didn’t think of anything but what I wanted.”

“Lance—”

“I know you don’t trust me. I know you don’t think I’ll stick around, but you have to give me a chance.”

“You’re right. I don’t believe you’ll stay, Lance, and no, I don’t trust you. But if I weren’t prepared to give you a chance, for Benji’s sake, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Lance took one look at her face and stepped back, his earnest expression fading into uncertainty. “You’ve changed, Jessi. You’re not the sweet girl I knew in high school.”

“Sweet is easy when you’re sixteen, Lance, with nothing more challenging than choosing the right earrings to wear with an outfit. I like to think I’ve improved with age. And experience.”

“And I haven’t?”

She only arched her brows, then Benji raced up, sort of plastering himself against her side. Jessi wrapped her arm around him and held on tight, just for a moment, while her stomach pitched and then finally settled. The sick feeling didn’t go away, but it was only her fear for Benji, she told herself. What pitched in her stomach had nothing to do with Maggie pointing out that Lance had an angle for coming back to Windfall.

“Mom?”

She didn’t want to do it, but she said, “Benji, this is your father, Lance Proctor.”

He glanced at Maggie, who definitely didn’t look happy about the situation. Benji arranged his pointed little features into a similarly wary expression and peered up at Lance.

Lance stuck out his hand, not hunkering down like Hold had done to put Benji at ease.

Jessi nudged him a little, and when Benji put his hand in his father’s, Lance pumped it enthusiastically.

“Pleased to meet you,” Benji said, curling his little hand against his stomach.

“I’m sorry, kid. I should have come back sooner. But you know how it is.”

Perplexed, Benji looked up at his mother.

“He’s seven, Lance. He doesn’t ‘know how it is.’”

Lance frowned, but she could see him tamp down his impatience. Maybe he had learned something in the years since he’d left Windfall.

“Come on,” she said, and they all trooped inside.

Except Maggie. She put a hand on Jessi’s arm. “Benji is going to feel awkward enough without me hovering, Jess.”

“But…” Jessi sighed. “You’re right.” She hugged Maggie, and hurried inside just in time to hear Lance ask to see Benji’s room.

“Let’s all stay downstairs this first time,” she said.

She’d known Lance would object, but at least he had the presence of mind to pull her aside. “You’re going to watch my every move?”

Jessi very deliberately removed his hand from her arm. “Yes. And you’re going to live with that because, again, Lance, it’s not about you.”

“I get that, Jessi.”

“Do you?”

He heaved a sigh. “I just want to see his room. It’s his personal space.”

“Exactly. So what makes you think you can demand to see it? Why don’t you wait for him to invite you?”

Now he scrubbed a hand over his face, still playing up the emotional weariness angle. And he was pretty convincing, Jessi had to give him that. Or maybe it was simply easier to understand because she was holding on to her own emotions, not to mention her patience, with a death grip.

“I’m new at this,” he said.

“Well, here’s a tip,” she said. “Benji is seven. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have rights, or that he doesn’t deserve respect, or even basic courtesy.”

He sighed, looked over at Benji for the first time since they’d walked into the house. “Yeah, I get it, I just don’t like it. I missed the first seven years of his life, Jess. I know that was my fault, but I’m here now. And I’ve never been long on patience.”

That made her smile. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that gives me hope. But you can’t make up for seven years in a couple of hours.”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I really do want to get to know him—and you, Jess. Maybe we could start fresh?” He held up both hands, a peacemaking gesture. “I know you need time. You both need time to believe in me, but it’s the truth. I just want what’s best for both of you.”

“Even if it means sending you away? Because I will if I think it’s the right thing to do for Benji.”

“For Benji or for you? So you can be with that Abbot guy who, by the way, is screwing half the women on the island?”

Jessi drew in a breath, felt her hands fist as she took a step away, then back. “My personal life is off-limits to you,” she said, keeping her voice low and even, although it tried to shake as much as she was shaking inside. “You want to be angry that I don’t trust you yet, be angry, Lance. But you will not—
will not
”—she bit off when he tried to interrupt—“make another comment like that. About anyone in my life. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Use that kind of language around my son again, and you will be gone.”

“Mom,” Benji said impatiently.

“We’re done talking, Benj,” she said, but she kept her eyes on Lance, waited until he looked up, nodded. But he wasn’t meeting her eyes, and if that worried her, she’d have to think about it later.

“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” she said to Benji.

Lance answered for him. “We’ll be fine.”

Damn straight
, Jessi replied silently, because she’d be there to make sure of it. And yeah, the idea of it made her feel utterly exhausted.
I’ve had it easy
, she thought to herself, wondering how single mothers everywhere put up with their jerks of ex-whatevers. Then she heard Benji’s voice, tripping over his words because he was so excited about introducing Lance to his collection of super heroes, and it wasn’t such a mystery anymore.

She listened another minute, smiling because Benji was already working his father over. Lance grumbled something, clearly not happy about circumstances but going along anyway because what choice did he have? But she smiled when she heard his voice lighten, when he began to respond to Benji’s irrepressible good humor.

Lance Proctor might be a hell of a good con man, she thought, but in the hands of his seven-year-old son? He was toast.