The Love Shack (6 page)

Mounted on the opposite wall from the movie advertisement was one of Skye’s mother’s plein air paintings—its “on location” style popular with the artists who flocked to the cove. She stood before it now, admiring how her mother had captured the sand, surf and a stretch of the cottages in impressionistic strokes the colors of summer. Way in the distance, at the far end of the beach depicted on the canvas, two children labored over a sand castle. You almost had to squint to see them, but Skye knew the boy was black-haired and sturdy, while the girl was more birdlike, with long brown tresses waving down her back. It was Skye and Gage.

Turning away from her mother’s work, she went to the bookshelf where her collection of sand dollars sat in a glass candy jar. “‘I’d be rich if I had a penny for every dollar you girls brought home,’” she murmured, repeating her father’s favorite phrase. She and her sister had never tired of finding them, believing they were the currency of the merfolk.

It had been a childhood perfect for such fancies, living at the cove. There was the bustle and excitement of summer, energized by the families moving in and out of the cottages, not to mention the day visitors who came to play at the sand and water. In the off-season, the surrounding beach houses most often stood empty, but the minds of Skye and her sister did not. They’d exercised their imaginations no matter how tranquil the cove became.

Which likely only added to the disquiet she’d experience at this summer’s end. Her ancestors had made movies, she and her sister had made up a thousand stories and this winter she could see herself conjuring up a bogeyman around every corner.

She’d have to leave to save her sanity. Then the other Alexanders, who loved the cove but had left it behind, would tell her it was time to place their property on the market. Even if they wanted to hold on to it for a few more years, that wouldn’t make it easier on Skye, who would be miles away.

If she couldn’t live here, it was no longer home.

Sighing, she returned to the chair behind the desk. In a minute or two she’d go back to her cottage, set all the locks, hang the cowbell on the doors designed to warn her of an intruder. Then she’d settle in for another night of fitful sleep. Until then...

She pulled open the right bottom drawer. Behind a stack of files was an old wooden box that had washed up onshore when she was a child. It was of some sort of resilient wood—it hadn’t warped from its bath in the salt water—and it used to hold a little girl’s treasures: a baby doll the size of her thumb, the shell of a turtle, a book of funny rhymes Rex Monroe had once given her. A packet of letters had been added to the contents.

As she reached for the container, her cell phone chimed. Skye started, cursed her jumpiness, then picked up the device. It was a text message, and the number wasn’t familiar to her. When she tapped to open it, a photograph appeared on the screen.

An open ibuprofen bottle, a ginger ale can tipped on its side and a washcloth folded into a compress.

It could only come from one person, the man she hadn’t seen since he’d walked her home last night.

She texted back:
Ouch
.

And Gage responded,
Ur talking to me?

Feeling sorry for u.

May not deserve ur pity, but will take it. & I apologize.

Smiling a little, she stared at the cryptic sentiments. After last night, she’d wondered—worried—how their first encounter would go after the incendiary exchange at her front door.

No apology necessary,
she typed.
Wasn’t sure u’d even remember.

She’d hoped he’d forget, actually, because then she wouldn’t have to explain her reaction to what he’d said. He’d been teasing her, of course, and hadn’t been subtle about it, but his words had poked at her all the same.
On my honor, I’d make you come twice before entering you.

She was aware she’d gone big-eyed and still, stunned to her marrow.

Gage texted back,
U looked as if I’d promised rats to eat ur entrails.

Making a face, she moved her thumbs over the keyboard.
Game of Thrones reference?

U betcha, baby.

He’d called her that last night, in a raspy, masculine tone.
“Baby. I swear I’d do right by you, baby.”
A shiver worked its way down her back and she stared at the screen, mesmerized by the memory. He’d been teasing and sexually frustrated and none of it was really aimed at her personally, but part of her, somewhere deep beneath the layers of clothes and nerves and nightmares, responded to him on a purely female, physical level. Maybe she should be glad about that, she thought.

But those tears stinging her eyes didn’t feel like gladness. They felt like loss. No matter what was stirring deep inside, there was too much ice and fear between it and any man.

She’d never be able to get close to one in that way again.

Her phone pinged again.
Skye?

Here.

R u ok?

Sure!
The exclamation point was added for emphasis. To cover up any awkwardness he might pick up between them. She wanted him to think she was normal. Like the sanctuary of this little building, the friendship she had with Gage was another thing that made her feel secure. Normal, even.

Her damage had to remain hidden from him.

C u 2morrow?
she typed.

C u then.

Her phone went quiet and, letting out a sigh, she slumped back in her chair. If these were her last weeks at the cove, then she wanted to enjoy them as best she could with the pen pal who would be on his way again soon. She’d hide her weakness, her unruly responses and anything else that might reveal too much.

On another sigh, she let her head rest against the seat cushion and wrapped her fingers around her phone. It felt warm to the touch, and she tightened her hold on what seemed like a tangible connection between herself and Gage. Maybe it was dangerous to want to hold even such a small piece of him. After all, she knew he wasn’t going to stay. But then she didn’t have what it took to follow up on the ache she had for him, anyway.

What if he’d arrived last summer? she wondered.

But he hadn’t, and perhaps that was a boon. Perhaps this poignant pain served to underscore how futile it would be to care for a man who would never settle in one place. With one woman.

Maybe she dozed. She must have, because she was suddenly alert, heart galloping in her ears. The phone had fallen from her lax fingers to the desk. Was that what had woken her?

Her breaths were unsteady and loud in the room. Outside the office, the ocean spoke
shh shh shh,
and she struggled to heed its warning. Something was tickling at her primal brain and she carefully moved her head to look about.

All seemed normal, these four walls still her safest haven.

It was just her skittery nerves, she told herself.
Keep it together. Breathe through the anxiety. Don’t be such a ridiculous goose.

It was still summer and she couldn’t afford to let the fear get the best of her so soon.

Then a new noise came from outside. It was a scraping sound. Maybe metal against wood? Like someone prying at the locked door.

Someone was trying to get in!

Her brain screeched the words in her head, and her flesh went cold. Rigor mortis seized her muscles as her gaze glued to the entrance. There was no inward sign of tampering, but that noise came again.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

This time, she lurched out of the chair. Her half-paralyzed body moved with clumsy jerks as she Frankenstein’d toward the bathroom. She could lock herself inside there, she thought in urgent panic. There was a hook and an eyebolt—

—that wouldn’t stop anyone.

She knew it wouldn’t stop
him.

Frozen again in fear, Skye stood in the middle of the office as horror dried her mouth and seized her lungs. That other night, she’d managed one scream before his hand had been there, fleshy and foul with bitter sweat, and then he’d gagged her with a kitchen towel. Later, she’d realized she could have yelled until she was hoarse and it wouldn’t have mattered. It had been off-season and there was no one near enough to hear her over the ceaseless surf.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

The sounds grated against her hypervigilant nerves. Skye’s skin twitched and she stared down at her feet.
Move,
she commanded them.
Move!

Move where?
a dull voice in her head countered, resigned to what she’d been dreading all these months.
He’ll just find you. He’ll just touch you again. He promised he’d finish what he started.

And then she thought of the last man who had touched her. It wasn’t him, that disgusting bastard with his stinking sweat. It had been Gage, dancing with her at Captain Crow’s, making her feel like a normal woman for the first time in a very long while.

Gage. Gage!

She found herself by her desk, unaware of how she’d made it there. Snatching up the phone, she fumbled with the buttons. The screen lit, and then she managed to tap Call. His voice sounded in her ear.

Relief and fear made her head spin. “I’m at the office,” she choked out. “I need you.”

“What?” he said. “Skye?”

She swallowed, and then revealed everything she’d vowed to keep from him. “I don’t feel safe. Help me.”

CHAPTER SIX

G
AGE
SPRINTED
UP
THE
BEACH
.
His phone was in his pocket, but he didn’t pause for a 911 call, though the thought flitted through his mind. Not only was he unsure of the exact emergency, but he knew he could reach Skye way before any patrol car.

All looked quiet ahead of him. Some of the cottages had their roof-mounted canister lamps, trained to spotlight the surf, turned on, but the sand itself was shadowed and empty of people. There was a glow coming from the direction of Captain Crow’s at the northern end of the cove, but Skye’s office was a quarter mile south...and appeared dark and deserted as he drew closer.

As unease bubbled in his belly, he redoubled his pace while trying to maintain his calm. During his career he’d faced dozens of dire situations and always managed to keep his head. But it felt near to exploding now—his chest, too, as his heart thundered against his ribs.

“Skye!” he shouted as he leaped onto the office step. His knuckles thumped against the door. “Skye? Are you all right?”

Silence. His composure fractured, and he found himself hammering the wood with both fists. “Skye!”

More silence.

He yanked out his phone and started jabbing at the display to dial her number. Was she hurt? Had she left?

A dozen questions whirling through his fragmented mind, he almost missed the crack in the door. A yellow edge of light leaked out. “Gage?” a voice croaked.

He shoved at the wood to make room for himself. Skye gasped, but the sound didn’t register over his vital need to assess the situation. Inside the brightly lit room, he blinked, getting his bearings.

Everything appeared fine. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Upended furnishings? A threatening stranger? But the room looked cheerful, with everything in its normal place...

Oh, shit.

Everything in its normal place except for Skye, who’d retreated to the far corner. She slid to the floor and curled into a self-protective ball, her knees to her chest, her arms wrapping her shins, her head tucked low. The pose was so disturbing he felt a clutch at his throat.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded in a harsh voice, then winced as she cringed, her body folding tighter as if she was trying to disappear.

His gaze sped around the room again, still finding nothing alarming. In quick strides, he made it to the bathroom doorway. The closet-sized space was empty of anything other than toilet, sink, soap and towel dispenser.

But ghostly feet were tapping up and down his spine and Skye hadn’t moved. Anxiety shook his insides again, but he tried to smooth his expression as he hunkered near her. “Skye?”

She jolted as if in fear, shaking him to the core.

Keep your head,
he reminded himself.
Keep her calm.

“Skye. Honey.” This time she didn’t twitch a muscle, and it felt like progress. “Was...was someone here?”

He could feel her struggle to find her voice. Finally she spoke, the words low and thready. “I don’t know.”

Ignoring his yammering pulse, he studied what he could see of her. Sloppy, oversize clothes. Bare feet shoved into a pair of shoelace-less sneakers. Her person didn’t seem to have come to any harm, but her body shuddered with a fine tremor.

“Why did you call me?” he asked.

“I want to feel safe.”

Okay. “What made you feel unsafe?”

“I thought I heard someone trying to get in.” Her head inched up and she peeked at him over her knees, her pupils nearly overtaking the gold band surrounding them. “Did you see anyone?”

He shook his head slowly, as if she were a wild animal that might flee if he moved too fast. “No. But let me go look again.” He made to stand and her hand shot out, gave his knee a brief grip, then retracted as if she’d been burned.

“Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”

“All right.” He blew out a silent breath of air and tried to determine what the hell he should do next. Clearly she was frightened, traumatized maybe, and he didn’t want to make a misstep. Maybe her friend Polly? But Skye had called him.

Gage kept his voice gentle. “Would you like some tea? I can take you back to your house—”

“No.”
New tension stiffened her body. Then he saw her shoulders slump. “Maybe. In a minute.”

They kept to the corner, she with her spine to the wall, he sheltering her with his bigger body. He could smell her flowers-and-water fragrance and he breathed in the scent, using the long inhale to steady his ragged pulse. She was physically fine, there was no immediate threat, but he still felt on high alert, nerves jangling. It took all his newfound patience not to leap up and pace about the room.

But he’d learned that sometimes the only power he had was that of waiting it out.

Long moments later, her chin lifted. She didn’t meet his gaze. “There was no one around? You’re sure?”

“I didn’t see anyone. I’ll check further when you’re ready for me to do that.”

“I heard scratching. Maybe at the lock or at the door?” The hand she used to push her hair back from her pale face still trembled.

“When you’re ready,” he reiterated, “I’ll look.” Though he wanted nothing more than to take her into his arms, he held his position. “Should I call the police?”

“No.” Her hair swirled around her shoulders in adamant refusal. “It’s okay. I...I guess I’ll just have to go home.” Placing her palms on the plaster behind her, she drew to a stand.

Gage came to his feet, as well. “Whatever you say.”

But it was what she didn’t say that became the sticking point. At her nod, he did scrutinize the front door and the lock. Both the wood and the device were old, pitted and scarred by their exposure to the wind and salty air. The rustic look suited the cove, but effectively hid any sign of recent tampering. Then he followed her to her house, another three-quarters of a mile south. She was maddeningly silent during the walk.

And still wordless as she unlocked the door and made to slip inside.

“Skye?” he said, astounded. That was it?

Pausing, she gave him a wan smile. “Sorry for your trouble. Thank you.”

Thank you?
His temper sparked. She’d scared the shit out of him—she was still scaring the shit out of him—and she expected he’d walk away without a full explanation?

“What kind of fucking friend do you think I am?” he demanded.

She flinched.

Keep your cool. Keep your head.
Shoving his fists inside his pockets, he took a deliberate inhale through his nose. Then he tried again, using a gentler tone. “What kind of friend are you, who doesn’t offer a pal a beverage?” Without giving her time to demur, again he pushed his way past her and shut the door, closing them both inside.

He glanced over his shoulder as he headed for her kitchen. “I’ll take beer if you have it. Or some of that wine you like.”

Her footsteps clapped against the hardwood as she followed him toward the room at the center of her house. When he reached the refrigerator, he yanked it open, then threw her another look.

The handle slipped through his suddenly nerveless fingers.
Oh, God.
“Skye? What is it, honey? What’s wrong?”

She stood in the kitchen entry, staring inside the tiled interior of the room as if a horror movie played out on a screen he couldn’t see. “This is where he tied me up,” she said in a colorless voice. “I thought he’d come back tonight. I thought he’d found me at the office.”

He leaped for her in a Superman bound—he must have, anyway, because one moment he was ten feet away and the next he was close enough to hear her stuttered breathing. But he wasn’t sure she was completely aware of his presence, because her body swayed as she looked past him, to the table and chairs at the far end of the kitchen. “One minute I was looking through some mail, and the next, he had my arms pinned behind my back.”

Gage lifted his hands to grasp her shoulders, yet halted before he made contact.
Keep your cool. Keep your head.
“Maybe we should go somewhere else, honey. No. 9? Or leave the cove altogether?”

“Not yet.” Her gaze flicked to his. “I’m not leaving the cove yet.”

“The living room, then.”

“No,” she said, and color flagged her pale cheeks. “
No.
I grew up in this kitchen. I have a lot more happy memories here than bad ones.”

He stepped aside as she walked past him, her stride resolute. “I carved pumpkins on that counter. We had a family dinner every night at that table.” She made it to the refrigerator, rummaged around and came out with a couple of beers. “You okay with one of these?”

“I’m not okay!” He wasn’t okay with any of this. “Jesus Christ, Skye, what the hell have you been hiding from me?”

He saw her fingers tighten on the long necks of the bottles as her gaze drifted to her feet. “I haven’t shared this with anyone—besides the police, that is. I don’t want to—”

“What happened?”

Her eyes jumped to his. “I—I was the victim of a home invasion. Five months ago a pair of men broke into the house.”

Stunned, Gage just stared. Skye frowned, muttered, “You asked,” then made her way to the wooden table, where she dropped the beers with a
clack.
In a jerky movement, she pulled out one of the chairs and took a seat. Her hand trembled a little as she drew one bottle toward her.

Gage sat down across from her and allowed seven seconds of silence to pass by. Then he couldn’t stand it any longer.
“What the hell happened?”

“I don’t—”

“What. The. Hell. Happened?”

Her gaze flicked to him, flicked away. “Fine, then,” she said, sounding angry.

He liked the fury much better than the fear. “Spit it out, Skye.”

“It was late one night. The off-season. I was in here, flipping through mail like I said, when a man grabbed me from behind. There were two, but only one...only one was
him.
”

“Someone you recognized?”

“No.” She shook her head. “In the glimpse I had of them before I was blindfolded, one wore a ball cap and bandannas over his face. The other, a ski mask. That one, he went through the house, searching drawers and cupboards—presumably looking for stuff to sell. The first man—” She broke off.

Five months ago they’d been regular correspondents. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this? You wrote me about a dozen important moments in your life.”

She smiled a little. “And a hundred unimportant ones.”

But those had brought them close, too. He’d read and reread every detail under a sputtering lightbulb, and the accounts of everything from her first date at fifteen to her current fight with the cable company had made him sure he knew her like he knew his own heart. “You kept this from me,” he said.

“What was I supposed to say?” Skye asked, lifting a slender hand. “‘Dear Gage, unsettling situation here. A man blindfolded me, gagged me, tied me up. Then he used a knife to slice off my clothes. I was...touched. Threatened sexually. I was sure I was going to be raped.’”

Gage shot to his feet so fast his chair tipped, the back slamming to the floor. Skye jumped, and he cursed himself for betraying his upset.
Keep your head. Keep your cool.
Leaning down, he retrieved the chair. With it returned to its upright position, he sank back down and ran his hands through his hair.

Feeling slightly more in control, he met her gaze. “How bad were you hurt, honey?” he asked in his gentlest voice.

“I was scared out of my mind,” she admitted. “He enjoyed that, I think. As he ran a knife over my skin he spent a lot of time talking about what would come next.”

Gage could hardly breathe. “What did come next?”

“The searcher returned to the kitchen and hauled my—my molester into the living room. From what I could tell, he was honestly appalled by his partner’s actions. They had a low-voiced argument, and then they left. I managed to inch the chair to the landline phone, work a hand free and call 911.”

Sweet Jesus.
Gage picked up the sweating bottle of beer and rolled it across his forehead. “I assume they didn’t catch the men?”

She shook her head. “No fingerprints, no clues left behind.”

What remained instead was Skye’s lingering fear. “How have you managed after that?”

“I...” She bit her bottom lip. “It’s like I said. I have many more good memories than bad. And in the summer...the cottages are full and people are having fun on the beach and it’s almost as if it never happened.”

Except for when it wasn’t like that, he realized...when a strange noise or unbidden memory would reach out to catch her. Catch Gage’s girl, the talisman that had kept him sane. The lodestar that had brought him safely home.

He rubbed his temples. “What now?”

“Now?”

“I won’t just leave you here.”

Some expression he couldn’t name crossed her face. “You’re going to just leave me here before September ends. We both know that.”

“I mean right now. Skye—”

“Don’t worry. I get through these little upsets. I’m accustomed to spooking myself.” She got to her feet. “Let me see you out.”

He stared up at her, disgruntled by the dismissal. “What if I want the beer?”

“You don’t want the beer.”

What he didn’t want was this! Skye, his Skye, having gone through such a thing.
“I was...touched. Threatened sexually. I was sure I would be raped.”
His gaze took in the stubborn set of her chin, then ran over her camouflaged figure in the masculine, too-large clothes.

He’d told Griffin she wasn’t a woman to him, but now he hurt for her because he understood why she was pretending she wasn’t a woman to herself, either. “Oh, honey,” he murmured. “I hate what he did to you.”

“Me, too.”

“Nightmares?” he asked, well acquainted with the monsters the dark held.

“Some.” Then she yanked on the hem of her oversize sweatshirt, her gaze on her shoes. “And you probably realize I...cover up.”

“The experience left you cold?”

Her head jerked up, her gaze met his. “Yes. I’m cold, outside and inside. When people—men—look at me I remember the feel of his eyes on me, the scrape of the knife along my skin, the rough touch of his hands. I hear his voice and think of what he promised to do and I feel cold and dirty and ugly. I’m no longer Skye. I’m something—someone I don’t even like to see in the mirror.”