Under the Moon Gate (10 page)

The first order of business was to lose the stalker, or maybe lure him into revealing himself. The closer Nathaniel got to the gold, the more the predator would want to question or silence Patience. The stalker had to know about the gold. Why else would he be threatening her?

Maybe he should stay away from her, but she was in too much danger. He and Patience were going to be—what was the term she had used?
Intertwined
—whether she wanted it or not. It wasn’t going to be easy, because she didn’t trust him. She didn’t even like him. He had made the right decision when he left the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club and presented himself at her door, a
fait accompli
. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. If she balked, he could always threaten to go to the authorities and reveal his secrets about her family.

Nathaniel found her up on the deck leaning against the railing, braced for a brawl, eyes swollen with tears, sensuous mouth stubbornly set in fierce determination. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her, kiss the breath out of her. But it was obvious she didn’t want to be touched or comforted. Certainly not kissed. Not by him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

He watched her lift the journal from her canvas beach bag, settle herself on the deck, and begin reading intently. He wouldn’t disturb her now. He would let her learn the truth for herself. The words in the journal did not lie. Even if she was lying to herself.

“Let’s go back in, Patience,” Nathaniel said. “It’s getting dark and cold.” He massaged her shoulders a moment before guiding the boat to the dock and assisting her onto land. His arm around her shoulder, and they walked back into the house together.

“Have you had enough for today?” he asked quietly. “Do you want to stop now?”

“No,” she said firmly, her refusal to quit punctuated by the stubborn set of her jaw.

After she had changed into a diaphanous white ankle-length dress, he settled her onto the couch, covered her with a wool blanket, and gently positioned her neck on a pillow he had brought in from her bedroom.

He left her alone in the room and wandered around the house, continuing to look for clues, looking for the fortune in gold he was convinced was somewhere on the premises. Nothing he had read in the journal had been definitive about the location of the gold. Nathaniel was certain that if Patience were to read it, it might trigger a clue in her mind about the location of the treasure. And he was going to be close to her when she had that revelation.

The prospect of staying so close to Patience, in the same house, was disturbing. He constantly fought his unbidden attraction for her. She was a bewitching puzzle. She had haunted his dreams and invaded his privacy. And that was before he’d even met her. Half the time he didn’t know whether he wanted to strangle her or seduce her. He would definitely have to watch his step around this enchantress.

Nathaniel paced the length of the residence. As comfortable as he was around Patience, her house was also casting its spell on him.

He looked over at Patience, who hadn’t moved since he’d settled her on the couch.

Nathaniel looked around at the luxurious surroundings. “Things aren’t that bad. The wolf is not exactly at the door, is it?”

“I’m not helpless,” Patience sniffled.

“I never said you were.”

“But you were thinking it.”

She would probably be surprised to know he’d like to wrap her in a protective cocoon and never let any harm come to her. In that respect, he wasn’t much different from her grandfather.

A study in balance and symmetry, with its steep Bermuda buttery punctuated by the large snowball-looking finial perched on top, the house was grand, yet it managed to reflect intimacy and romance. Double French doors opened onto a courtyard that led to a sheltered swimming pool and a pool house tucked away in a magnificent setting. The lush, walled formal garden bloomed quietly in a riot of color, with blue Bermudiana, hibiscus, oleander, snapdragons, day lilies, and poinsettia. Rustic cedar benches rested under rustling palms that flanked a circular stone moon gate.

The veranda spanned the length of the house and offered a magnificent view of the restless Atlantic Ocean on one side and, beyond a deep lagoon, peaceful Tucker’s Town Bay on another.

The spacious drawing room featured a large, brick-lined fireplace, exposed cedar beams, and cedar banisters, and was decorated with Bermuda cedar furniture, Oriental rugs, and a respectable row of Blackburn portraits lining the wall. Nathaniel had been around luxury all his life, and he recognized it in the delicate porcelains and the Chippendale pieces.

An intriguing collection of antique maps was displayed under the stairwell. The parlor walls were painted a pale yellow, trimmed in high-gloss white, and the room was graced with antique English imports. The comfortable couch, covered in a robin’s-egg-blue stripe, blended with chairs dressed in a sea green floral pattern and seemed to extend a leisurely invitation to sit and stay awhile. Beckoning floor-to-ceiling windows all opened to water views.

He was interested in exploring the bedrooms and backrooms that held the promise of unexpected treasures. Although Patience was still jittery around him, Nathaniel sensed an aura of peace settling over the house, an atmosphere he hoped would dissolve her resentment. But he knew she was desperately clinging to her anger and her fear as she steeped herself in her grandfather’s past, threatened by Nathaniel’s determination to dig up her family secrets at any cost.

PART TWO

The Socialite and the Spy

Bermuda 1937-1958

Prologue

Hamilton, Bermuda, May 1937

Nighthawk worked best under cover of darkness. But on this particular Sunday morning, he was forced to come out into the light. His typical style was, in effect, to swoop down on long, broad wings, like a giant bird of prey or a sleek, shadowy vampire, and pluck up unsuspecting victims in his sharp talons.

His latest victim, Sir James Markham, hardly presented a challenge. Sir James should have been born a fish. Weekends invariably found him on the water in his trim, two-masted seventy-two-foot luxury yacht,
Guilty Pleasures
, a craft worthy of the richest and most powerful man on the island.

“James, be sure to wear your hat,” his wife chided, as he skillfully maneuvered the boat out of its slip behind their waterfront estate in Hamilton. “You know how easily you burn.”

Nighthawk knew Sir James had no intention of wearing a hat to protect his mottled skin. He wouldn’t need it. He planned to spend most of the day in his cabin—entertaining. But he was probably already burning for his exotic mistress. When he was with Yvette, he undoubtedly fancied himself young, vibrant, and in love again. Who could put a price on such a glorious feeling?

Yvette claimed to work for the Imperial Censorship Staff handling transatlantic air mails. If there was one thing Nighthawk knew for certain, it was that Yvette, if that really was her name, was no British censorette. She
was
an expert linguist—proficient in German and French—and perhaps she
was
even engaged in the wartime censorship work being done in the colony. But she was no more British than the American-born Duchess of Windsor.

Sir James knew very little about Yvette’s past. After some discreet inquiries, Nighthawk’s sources had revealed that her parents, a French mother and a German father, had been labeled “enemies of the state” and imprisoned in one of the detention facilities the Nazis started in Germany soon after they took power in 1933. Yvette, some kind of German-French mutt, had narrowly escaped the roundup.

Compromised, Yvette knew she was no longer safe in Germany, so she passed herself off as French and aligned herself with the British. Sir James had arranged for her travel from England to Bermuda for an assignment in which her particular talents would be put to good use.

Sir James had no idea what that assignment was. All he knew conclusively was that they were on the same side and that his contacts and position were useful to his mistress in her vendetta against the Germans. And that she was eternally grateful for the small role he had played in arranging her safe passage to the colony.

Sir James had touched and tasted every hot-blooded inch of his petite French pastry, sometimes right in plain sight on the deck of his yacht, out in the middle of the Atlantic when there was no one around but Nighthawk to see. And what Nighthawk couldn’t verify with his own eyes, his new loose-lipped friend Sir James bragged about to his brash young drinking buddy after being primed with a bottle of five-star brandy.

Yvette never asked anything from Sir James, but he would gladly have given her whatever she wanted. She claimed she only wanted to be with him, to be loved by him, for him to fill the empty spaces in her heart. He was the only family she had now. Sir James had no illusions about why she was with him. Perhaps he
was
just a doddering old fool. But if she thought of him as a father figure, he was perfectly willing to place her under his paternal protection.

Sir James had offered Yvette diamonds, money, anything her heart desired, to keep her in his bed. And, with a little coaxing, she had graciously taken what he had to give. She had told Sir James she would use it to start her new life in America, as far away as possible from the unpleasantness of the past, where she would finally be safe.

Sir James considered Yvette the perfect companion. She had the face of a goddess and managed to maintain an aura of innocence while loving him with the practiced body of a courtesan. She didn’t scold or whine or nag like his aging wife. She was attentive and seemed interested in every detail of his business. Her whole purpose in life seemed to be to give him pleasure.

The wind veered to the east as the
Guilty Pleasures
docked at the Princess Hotel and Sir James stepped out to meet a smiling Yvette. Holding a bottle of Champagne and a large wicker picnic basket, Yvette looked fresh and delicious in her bright blue sundress. Even from Nighthawk’s motorboat, the glint of a giant emerald on her finger caught the light—an emerald her benefactor had presented to her on their last ocean outing.

After steaming out of Hamilton Harbour and taking a brief pleasure cruise, Sir James brought the boat to anchor. Lunch would have to wait. And so would Nighthawk. No matter. He was used to waiting.

On the heels of what Nighthawk hoped was a particularly satisfying and exhausting romp in Sir James’s cabin—he imagined the elderly gentleman crushing Yvette against his bloated body, kissing her greedily, then gently nuzzling her as she lay still, naked and vulnerable in his arms—he visualized a sated Sir James by now fallen into a drunken stupor. The sound of the waves rocking rhythmically against the boat would already have lulled him into a sound sleep.

As he snored loudly, a contented smile on his face, he never saw the shadow that crossed the cabin toward him with silent but deadly purpose. He never felt the curved blade that sliced his throat wide open as easily as if it were an overripe melon. He never heard Yvette’s terrified but muffled screams as the predator’s strong hands clamped over her mouth when she struggled at the sight of Sir James’s blood saturating the sheets.

“Oh, God, James,” she breathed in terror, trying to scream but never making a sound. She was probably wondering if her actions had precipitated this attack, if Sir James was just an innocent victim being punished because of her, if the Germans had finally discovered her. Tender-hearted girl that she appeared to be, she wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of that. She couldn’t possibly be in love with Sir James, but she obviously cared for him.

Nighthawk choked off the air to Yvette’s delicate throat as he dragged her away, struggling, to the waiting launch pulled up beside the
Guilty Pleasures
. She kicked and scratched and bit and lashed out until, finally, when she had no strength to continue fighting, her body hung limp at his side. She would have been surprised to learn that Sir James, not she, had been the target of this particular foray.

****

Nighthawk’s mission had been simple. Out with the old, in with the new. When the British Navy finally found the
Guilty Pleasures
, after an exhaustive search, Sir James was not on the craft. Nor was there any evidence he had been entertaining. It was assumed that Sir James had consumed too much alcohol, accidentally fallen overboard, and been eaten by a shark. Evidence of blood and some of his personal effects were conveniently discovered in the water around the boat. The sea never gave up its dead.

At the funeral, Bermuda’s elite paid Sir James the proper respect, appropriate to his position. At his perch, Nighthawk stood apart as he listened attentively to the suitable eulogies from Sir James’s business associates and friends, and appeared sympathetic to the tears that spilled from the eyes of the wealthy widow. Everyone wondered how Bermuda Power Company, Ltd., would ever recover from the tragic loss of its chairman. But Nighthawk knew that no one was irreplaceable.

Chapter 8

Tucker’s Town, Bermuda, 1940

William Whitestone had only come to the Starlight Terrace of the Castle Harbour Hotel for a quick diversion. A few drinks. Maybe one dance. He’d heard there was a fancy coming-out party for the spoiled daughter of the new vice admiral. He’d do his best to steer clear of the vice admiral and his snobby socialite daughter at all costs tonight.

Since his arrival in Bermuda three years ago, William had attended an endless round of such boring balls, exchanging meaningless chatter about everything and nothing, so he could be in the right place at the right time. Since Britain and France had officially declared war on Germany, information was king in wartime Bermuda, and secrets were as negotiable as coin of the realm.