Love Spell (20 page)

“I think it’s time to wrap up,” she said, trying to pump venom into her words.

Clint stopped, looked at her, then at the moon and the Sound, and back to her. An odd look of realization dawned on his face, and he doffed his sport coat and held it toward her. “Here. This will keep you warm.”

She shook her head, and refused to reach for the coat. “No, Clint. I mean, we need to go back to the motel and sleep. Quickly. We’ll need it for our final—and I’m sure, successful—push to find her tomorrow. We’re running out of time. We can’t afford to be moseying along like dumb teenagers let loose on a Friday night.”

Clint put on a poker face, and she wondered what he was hiding. “Okay. Whatever you want.”

Lindsay forced her biggest smile. “Thank you.” Without waiting for him, she turned and power-walked back toward the restaurant.

Jonathan was right where they’d left him, and he helped Lindsay into the limo with gentleman-like grace. She pushed Clint’s portfolio aside (he’d brought it, why?), and gently moved the guitar and bag of clothing he’d gotten from who knew where. Clint, again, took the front seat. She was glad for that. For all she cared, he could walk back. One more day and he’d be out of her life again, and this time for good, right? Maybe? She stared out the window, ignoring the feeling of his eyes on her. Thoughts of him—of
them
—were shoved aside by fervent analysis of all she knew about this case. Several locations in the greater Seattle area were still available as possible targets for investigation, and Lindsay roughly remembered the direction she’d last seen Fey heading in. If she could safely assume a few things, it would narrow the search down considerably. Next, she’d have to determine…

When the drive to the motel ended far too abruptly—she was sure they hadn’t driven more than three minutes—Lindsay looked up. “Jonathan? Are we really already there?”

The driver glanced into the rear view mirror. “Not yet, miss. We’ve still a few minutes before the ten-oh-five to Bainbridge.”

“Excuse me?”

“The ferry. The next one comes at roughly ten o’clock. You and Mister Christopherson timed things well. There’s only one other ferry to Bainbridge this evening.”

That almost brought her to her feet. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake,” she said. “Our motel is north of downtown. We haven’t been to Bainbridge Island since arriving in town.”

“Yes, miss. Mister Christopherson mentioned that. He also said he believed the new accommodations would be more to your liking. They are part of the package. If you would like, however, I’d be happy to return you to your other accommodations. I should still have time to make it back here for the last ferry for Mister Christopherson.”

“No, Jonathan,” Clint piped up. “It’s fine. If she needs to go back, let’s go back. We can hit Bainbridge some other time, though I suspect we may be done here by tomorrow. Sullivan is good at what she does. Maybe I can cash out on the other place instead.”

“
Other place?
” she wondered.

“Very well, sir.”

Jonathan started the limo, but before he could engage reverse, Lindsay lunged forward, careful to steer clear of Clint. “What are you two talking about?”

“It’s a surprise.” Clint almost sounded smug.

“Look, Clint. I already told you I’m done with surprises. May I remind you—
yet again
—that I still have work to do, even if you can’t think of a productive use of your time? Go play. I’ll report back to you after I find Fey in the morning.”

Lindsay braced for the witty retort. Instead, Clint’s voice was strangely small as he replied, “I also won use of a beach house, Sully. I’ve seen pictures and floor plans. Nice digs. Large enough that I could stay out from underfoot if you really needed it, too. I really hoped you’d like it. That motel isn’t exactly five-star.

“I figured that we could enjoy our stay here even after we found Fey. Like I said, I’m really trying to pay my debts, but if this is going to be a problem—if
I’m
going to be a problem—then I’ll get out of your way. If anyone can peg down Fey, I’m sure it’d be you.”

Clint turned back to look forward. “Let’s go, Jonathan.”

The driver nodded, and began carefully backing up. Lindsay looked around frantically. A smattering of cars calmly waited for the white and green ferry that was even now pulling into dock. A sliver of silver across the water marked the lovely island Jonathan had been discussing. Lindsay wasn’t certain what kind of “accommodations” Clint had won, but her new clothes weren’t exactly hand-me-downs (she still couldn’t believe he’d guessed at her dress size!), and he hadn’t taken her out for tacos tonight. She’d also learned enough about the Seattle area to know that Bainbridge didn’t exactly qualify a ghetto.

The ferry had completed its dock, and a cluster of vehicles rolled lazily out of its vast, open-air belly, while a steady trickle of weary foot passengers crossed overhead on a pedestrian bridge. The water was glass-smooth except for the rippling wake of the ferry, and the moonlight on the distant pines called to her. She squeezed her eyes as tightly as she could, and decided to do something stupid for once. She hoped she wouldn’t regret it too much in the morning.

“Let’s go to Bainbridge.”

The car stopped.

Clint leaned over his seat. “Say that again, Sully?”

She took one more moment to weigh her options. Motel. Beach house with Clint. Work. Pleasure. Safety. Virtually assured doom. It was a no-brainer, right?

Nursing a small migraine, she said, “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

Jonathan nodded. Five minutes later they were on the ferry.

SEVENTEEN

Even in the dark, Lindsay found the Puget Sound breathtaking. The argent, towering mass of Mount Rainier inspired visions of far off lands, where real men battled real monsters to save real women. Women like her. It was too bad that real men had become the stuff of fairy tales. Lindsay shook her head clear, and inhaled the fragrance of the majestic pines that kept their quiet vigil over the roads and homes of Bainbridge Island. Through their boughs she caught glimpses of the water, dancing in the night. It reminded her of home in some ways, and yet Seattle had a tangibly different feel from San Francisco. She liked it here. It felt… quieter. More magical. She wondered what demand for sleuthing was in this area, and laughed to think that once upon a time Meg Ryan had hired someone like her to stalk Tom Hanks.

“Something funny, Sully?” Clint asked from the front seat.

She frowned at once. “It’s personal.”

He simply nodded, and turned back to his conversation with Jonathan. Lindsay returned to her fantasies, wondering how much an apartment in the area would cost her. Her thoughts were rudely interrupted sometime later as Clint called her attention to the front.

“There it is, Sully. The best part of the night. Actually, I take that back. It’s the best part of the next week.”

“The next
week
?” she asked, even as she edged forward to get a better view of whatever he was babbling about. And then she saw it. White, wooden panels, and picture windows were arrayed around the quaint beach home. An expansive veranda wrapped around the ground floor, hovering above the back yard that abutted the beach below. The air temperature was perfect. Lights along the drive guided the sleek, black limo directly into an entryway faced by a beautifully carved oak door glistening with a stained-glass scene of a beach. Multi-colored glass balls were arrayed around stout, wooden stumps that looked as though they’d been taken directly from a nearby pier. The roof ended in rafters that jutted out generously beyond the roofline to shelter guests against rain.

The driveway and its compact garage were flush with the road, and the home itself was built into a low cliff face, leaving the rear half open to a view of the bay. A small, pier-like bridge led from the parking area to the upper gardens and the main entry. Lindsay caught a brief glimpse of a second, decorative garden winding around the exposed basement. The limo rolled to a gentle stop, and Jonathan was opening her door almost before she could realize it.

“Welcome home, miss.” Jonathan tipped his hat. Lindsay smiled at the treatment and stepped out of the car. Drawing another deep breath, she decided that if she ever needed to escape the Bay Area, this would be an excellent place to retreat to.

Clint was waiting at the front door, and opened it with his customary overwrought bow before handing her the newspaper that had been waiting on the porch. Lindsay glowered and rolled her eyes to fight down the smile inside, and took the newspaper as she passed. Once inside, she automatically surveyed the place. The décor was on par with her parent’s place, meaning it was about a hundred times nicer than her apartment. Nothing new, but still, she appreciated the sleek leather couches, the mottled sconces, and stone hearth. The telltale signs of an in-home security system were present, including closed-circuit cameras at strategic locations. A clipped view of the kitchen revealed brushed steel appliances and contemporary wallpaper. Her first instinct was to raid the freezer, just to see whether any ice cream had been included. Instead, she turned to Clint and gave him a pointed look.

Clint raised an eyebrow and gestured toward the living room. “After you. I’ll wrap up things with Johnny Boy and join you in a moment.”

As he turned back to the bridge, she made sure he would hear her exasperated sigh. Satisfied with her protest, Lindsay took herself on a little tour. At the end of the hallway leading from the living room, double doors opened into a master suite that dominated the eastern half of the home. A miniature refrigerator was set in the corner of the room, and flanked by windows offering the kind of vistas found only on postcards. A king bed lay sumptuously in the middle of the room between a walk-in closet and a spacious bathroom. She entered the bathroom and squealed ever so slightly when she ran her hands across the supple towels and matching bathrobes hanging above the marble flooring in the master bath, and gratefully noted the knob to activate the floor heating units. Yes, she could live here.

Returning to the living room, she noticed a stairway directly across from her. She skipped down the stairs and discovered a cavernous great room. Where the upstairs furniture had been elegant and proper, the basement was clearly about
fun
. Overstuffed beanbags were scattered around a 72-inch plasma TV abutted by a closet filled with movies and games. The wall across the great room had doors leading to another pair of suites—queen beds and a shared full bath. A compact laundry was tucked away in the far corner. Lindsay noticed unopened boxes of detergent and dryer sheets resting on a shelf above the hamper. Finally, the basement was fleshed out with a kitchenette and a wet bar set beside glass French doors leading into the back garden Lindsay had glimpsed on her way in.

She stepped to the back door, and swept her gaze across the horizon. To her right, the Space Needle poked up from Seattle’s darkening skyline. To the north, the bay spread toward Canada. A fishing trawler chugged home for the night   a stone’s throw from the house, and Lindsay could see the dark shapes of the fishermen laboring over a net full of fish on the deck. Opening the door, Lindsay stepped out amongst the carefully manicured lilies, crocuses, roses, and orchids that hugged the rear wall of the home. Beyond her, an abbreviated lawn that virtually glowed separated the home from the beach, and ended in a jetty sprouting from a boardwalk running along the shoreline. A sleek, red and blue motorboat bobbed languidly at the end of the small pier, waiting patiently to take its patrons wherever they would go.

Goosebumps popped up at the prospect of spending a week in a place like this. It wasn’t the luxury—she was used to that—but the
freedom
that tingled in her spine. Freedom and time alone with Clint. It was enough to make her wish Fey a fond farewell and never spend another moment hunting the woman. Lindsay could die happy by locking Clint up in this place and enjoying it for all it was worth. Oh, wait. She was pretending to hate him. Grr. That stupid,
stupid
curse! Her dreams were coming true around her, and yet she couldn’t do a thing about them! Her eyes misted slightly.

“I’m told she’s got three hundred horses,” Clint said from behind her.

Lindsay turned and caught her breath. She’d consciously ignored how dashing he looked once properly cleaned and dressed. “Her who?” she asked. She hoped he hadn’t noticed the lapse.

He gestured behind her. “The boat. That’s what Jonathan said. Three hundred horsepower engine. On a rig that small, that’s plenty of guts. It’ll get us back to the mainland quicker than the ferry. Jonathan will be waiting on the other side. But what do you think?” He swept an arm around. “Pretty nice, huh?”

She began to nod, but caught herself in time. “It will do.”

“It will do.” He chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you actually liked the place.”

Lindsay gave an exaggerated shrug. “It’s better than the motel. I need to sleep. I’ll take the master suite.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but nearly sprinted into the house and took shelter in her bedroom. She refrained from actually slamming the doors—it was unprofessional—but she bolted them at once. Certain the room was secure, she threw herself down on her bed and pretended not to cry.

EIGHTEEN

Clint had never been much of a morning person, but nothing ruined a new day like waking up to a gun at your head.

After Sullivan had charged wildly off last night (Was it the comment about the boat? Couldn’t be…), Clint made his way downstairs and pulled out the game console in the closet. Shooting Nazi Zombies from the safety of a beanbag only satisfied him for about half an hour before he retired the controller out of boredom. His fingers itched to do something better, so he pulled out the guitar he bought the day before. He picked at a few songs he’d been working on until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, and then finally staggered off to crash in one of the bedrooms.