Stranger in Paradise

Stranger in Paradise

by

Amanda McIntyre

Chapter One

“You’re no better than a whore. Tossing fantasies out there just to rake in your millions. On top of that, you think you’re better than everyone else. Who do you think you are? I worshipped you. Did you know that? Right up to the day when my eyes were opened and I saw you for who you really are. I can’t stand the sight of you now. And I won’t let you get by with how you snubbed me. How you took my heart and walked over it. You selfish bitch. You’ll wish you’d been nicer. The pathetic thing is I would have been all you needed—your greatest fantasy come true. But your fantasies are a façade, just like the rest of you.

Kacey Winters listened to the monotonous tone of her agent’s voice as he read the note aloud. She stared out of the picture window of his Chicago penthouse office. The early morning haze had deepened to an angry pewter sky. Rain spattered intermittently on the window pane. It was a great day to write—cold and rainy. All that was missing was her cabin.

“Kacey?”

Her agent’s insistent voice jarred her from her musings. She’d already delayed her flight to the lake to appease his wish to try to talk her out of going on her writing sabbatical. The quiet serenity of the private lakeshore resort had been her salvation, a writer’s haven, where some of her best work had taken seed and been lovingly tended until blossoming into a bestseller.

“Did you hear a word of this nut-job’s note? I can’t let you traipse off into the wild with this kind of basket case on your heels. What kind of an agent would I be?” He tossed the note across the desk with an emphatic sigh.

“The kind that won’t get his juicy percentage in three months if I don’t produce another bestseller. You heard the publisher. He wants to step up production. We’ve got to strike while the iron’s hot.” She mimicked the higher ups with an exaggerated eye roll.

Harold Martin Rosenthal stared at her with the same concern that reminded her of her father’s just before she left college to road trip her way across the country with friends. He, too, had understood the need for adventure. It’s what had finally killed him, but he never denied her wish to do the same. And it was that creative spirit that eventually prompted her to take up a pen and write her first novella. That was nearly seven years ago. “If I crawled under a rock every time I received one of those kind of letters, Harry, I’d be a snail.” Kacey glanced down at the new boots she’d picked up the last time she was in New York. They were comfortable, fitting her laid-back urban gothic style perfectly. She turned her foot one way and then the other, admiring the worn, brown leather against the skintight jeans she wore. Topped with a buttery soft cocoa-colored leather jacket and her signature red turtleneck, she’d hoped to be sitting in her favorite quiet lounge at the resort by happy hour. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen. “I can’t let this hold me back.” She tried once again to reason with the man who’d taken her like Poitier, so to speak, from crayons to perfume.

“Have I ever steered you wrong?” He tented his fingers, and rested his chin on them.

This was where things could get sticky. In truth, she owed him a great deal. Probably more than the measly percentage he drew from her. But he’d never taken advantage, not even when her father died and they’d discovered his secret account—the proceeds of years of sales of his sidewalk beach paintings. She’d never taken one dime from him, wanting instead to make her own mark on the world; to be able to celebrate the head-rush of that first million. “You’ve never steered me wrong,” she answered, fiddling nervously with the sunglasses she’d perched atop her head.

“Then why not listen to me now?”

Kacey leveled him with an exasperated look. “Sweetheart, I know you mean well, but I’m a big girl. I’ve been taking care of myself for a very long time. Besides, no one knows about my hideaway--except you, anyway. The fact that you arrange my reservation so that they place the key under the front mat means that no one really knows who I am or why I’m there. It’s actually the perfect place for me to go, if you think about it.”

Harold sighed. “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

She hardened her gaze on him. “Nope.” Leaning forward, she rested her manicured fingertips on the edge of his desk. “But I promise to be careful. Besides, with cell phones it will be easy to stay in touch. Marty and the staff up there aren’t going to let anything happen to me.”

Another sigh.

She knew she was breaking his will. “Really, Harold, how many people book a six-person cabin for three months of the year, and pay in advance? I should just build a cabin of my own up there.”

Her agent rolled his pen between his hands and raised one graying brow. He turned his chair to face the rain-spattered window. “I’d feel better if you had someone there with you.”

She chuckled. “But that’s why I go up there—to get away from the noise, the people.”

He glanced at her. “You are more stubborn than anyone I know.”

“My father thanks you.” She smiled. Tenacity. Just another attribute her father taught her by example. She stood then and tipped her head. “I’ll check in with you when I get there, okay?”

He nodded, albeit reluctantly.

Kacey rounded the end of the desk and leaned down to place a soft kiss on the man’s balding silvery head. “I’ll be fine. You worry too much.”

“Part of my job,” he muttered, and then looked up at her, his blue eyes bright with thought. “You know, I have a few favors to pull in. If I can do it, I think I can find someone to send someone up there.”

She sighed and shook her head. “You do whatever you have to do so you can sleep. Just book them in a separate cabin and tell them to leave me alone unless they happen to hear me scream in the middle of the night.” She headed toward the door. A wicked grin slid across her mouth as she rested her hand on the doorknob. “On second thought, better tell them to knock first if the screams are in the middle of the night. I may not want to be interrupted.” Kacey offered her agent and friend a hooded glance.

He’d stopped mid-shuffle of a stack of papers, his expression less than amused.

“Kidding, Harold. Relax. We both remember too well the
nightmare
who shall remain nameless. I’m not looking to check into Heartbreak Hotel anytime soon, so no worries. This is for me. So I can write.” She’d recently split from a somewhat-whirlwind-but-passionate relationship with a fellow writer only to discover that he’d been using what she thought were brilliant lovemaking techniques on her to inspire the sex scenes in his next book—the worst part being that he’d had no problem making his research public knowledge. Of course, he hadn’t used her name, but the media had a heyday with the speculation. She found out about all this the day the book hit the stores, which consequently was the same day she’d tossed all of his belongings out her apartment window to the busy street below. The tabloids ate it up. Live and learn. It hit the
New York Times
bestseller list on release day.

“I’ll let you know when I get in.” She tossed him a smile, anticipating breathing in the lakeshore air.

After a quick plane change in Minneapolis, she landed in Duluth and chose a compact little Fiat 500. With windows at half–mast, she reveled in the wind blowing through the car as she sped up the old Highway 61. Off the beaten path, the scenic two-lane road was a featured slice of pure Americana. Known also as the North Shore Drive, it stretched alongside the Lake Superior coastline from Duluth to Grand Portage. She breathed deeply of the balmy upper eighty-degree weather and the crystal blue of the cloudless sky. Her kind of heaven. The breeze teased her hair, as though welcoming her to her most favorite spot in the world. There were few cars, fewer tourists yet in early June. Many of the schools in the area were just wrapping up the year.

She followed the winding road through patches of sunlight poking through the dense thicket of tall pine. Her thoughts drifted to the few times she’d gone to the lake with her father. He was an avid camper, hippie to some, but it gave her a sense of herself and an independence that she came to know in later years.

She made a quick stop at a local roadside grocery to pick up a few last-minute items that she’d not had on the list she’d sent ahead to the hotel. As was the custom for her annual writing sojourn, she sent a basic grocery list to the lodge and they saw to it that her cabinets were stocked on arrival. She made another quick “must-have” stop at Betsy’s Pies to pick up a single slice of their BumbleBerry Heaven, and with it safely tucked on the seat beside her, she drove on.

It had grown dusky by the time she found the turn-off that lead to the long entrance to the main lodge. After checking in, she refused the offer of help with her bags and drove the short distance to the other end of the property where the two-story rustic cabin stood. Perched on a bluff, the structure’s large paned windows along the back wall offered panoramic views of the water and the pine-covered cliffs that lay sheered and open against the harsh winter weather. Consisting of four bedrooms, two baths, a living room, and a dining area, adjacent to the large kitchen, the cabin also offered a small deck with patio dining. A path lit by solar footlights led alongside the cabin, to where the earth dipped gently and a dirt path led to the rocky shore. Fire pits built and maintained by the lodge dotted the rough shoreline and stumps from dead trees served as makeshift seats for roasting marshmallows. Tucked in among the tall pines sat paired Adirondack chairs facing the watery horizon as though awaiting the sunrise.

As she climbed the front porch steps, she noted the inner door stood open wide, light from inside pouring out across the shadowed porch. She slowed and tried to remember whether the front desk mentioned housekeeping being here tonight. “Hello? Who’s there?” She stopped when a young man, probably in his early twenties, stepped around the corner. He was dressed in the customary lodge uniform of khaki slacks and pine-green polo. “Ms. Winters? They told me you weren’t expected until morning.” He stepped quickly toward the door and, in an awkward dance of bags and protocol; she let him carry her luggage inside. “I was just finishing up with your groceries.” He stood in the foyer, holding her suitcase. “Um, my name’s Andrew.” An adorable dimple accentuated his grin.

Noting the groceries still on the counter, she darted him a look, uncomfortable to find him staring at her. “Okay…well, thank you, I can take care of putting away the rest.”

“Oh, no, ma’am. I can’t let you do that.” He blinked as though suddenly aware he’d been staring at her. He dropped her luggage and went back to his task, hastily emptying the bags and stuffing them when finished under his arm. “There we go. All done.”

He couldn’t be more than twenty-one, she’d stake her life on it, but she couldn’t help the storyline ideas that flirted with her muse.

A little young on the hoof, if you ask me.

Kacey mentally shook her thoughts and her muse from her mind. Most days she was grateful for an active imagination and a muse that played havoc with it. Today, though, she wanted to be alone to soak in the quiet and the beauty around her. “Oh, wait.” He paused at the door as she fished through her purse the size of Cleveland. “I know it’s in here somewhere. Ah!” She pulled out a five and offered it to him.

He shot his palm in the air. “No, ma’am. I can’t take that,” he said with emphatic pride.

“Please, I insist.” She pushed it toward him, wishing he’d stop calling her ma’am.

He stepped toward her, curled her fingers around the money, and closed his hand around her fist. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Winters. Aside from being big fans, we like to think of you as family here at the resort.”

“Family,” she repeated. His warm hand covered hers. The intensity of his gaze set gooseflesh to rise on her arms. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, not unlike the lake sky on a clear summer day.

Do the words little brother mean anything to you?

Brushing away her annoying muse, she gently extracted her hand from his grip. “Thank you, I’ll be sure to put in a good word to management.”

His smile was charming. “No need for that. It’s
my
pleasure.” He held his hand to his heart. “And if you need anything—day or night—you call the front desk and ask for Andy.”

She swallowed. “Thank you, Andrew.”

“Andy,” he insisted with a brief smile.

“Right. Well, goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Winters.” He started down the steps and walked away, glancing once over his shoulder with a jaunty wave.

Easing the door shut, she latched it and released a deep sigh. Alone, at last.

Hey, you’ve still got me,
her muse tapped at her brain.

***

Zack’s nerves stretched tight. As easy as Riley assured him that this assignment was, he felt the pressure of responsibility warring with the demons of his past. That darkness, buried deep inside him, taunted him that he’d fail this time as he had before. Bile rose in his throat. Over two years of more required counseling sessions than he cared to admit to and being relegated to a comfortable desk job pushing papers wouldn’t change things. Nothing would. Jessica was gone and he’d had to learn to live with the pain…the guilt.

Late morning, he sat across from his chief officer and longtime friend, Riley Morgan. He’d been the one to groom him into the special agent for his investigations team. He’d been trained to deposit people into witness protection programs, get others to safe houses—in short, protect and keep the innocent people away from the bad guys. Outside of his job, things had been good--great, in fact, until that fateful morning two years ago. He’d never given any thought to the possibility that the
bad guys
might target his personal life; that they might take Jessica.