was clearly torn between wanting to know more and wanting to just look at the brooch. Though most Travers women in the past century had decided it was just too showy to wear, it was definitely impressive. A small gold peacock stared at you with emerald eyes, its tail spread wide open, almost as big as the palm of a woman’s hand. And what a fantastic tail…a full fan of graceful gold feathers, each studded with emeralds and sapphires, which were in turn circled with onyx and gold.
Allison was still speechless. Still staring.
“The legend is that the Travers Peacock was given to one of my ancestors, back in the sixteen-hundreds, a gift from King Charles II of England. Her name was Elizabeth Travers and apparently she was very beautiful.” He smiled. “If not altogether virtuous.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “If Lincoln took it, then what—”
“More than a hundred years ago, some sensible Travers husband had a copy made, so that his wife could wear it without fear of losing it. It’s exact, right down to the last millimeter. The gold is genuine, because that’s hard to fake. But the stones are paste.”
She shook her head. “I can hardly believe it’s not real.”
“It’s not.” He took it out and handed it to her. “It’s a very good, very expensive fake. I can’t imagine that anyone, short of a jeweler with a loupe, could tell it from the real thing.”
She looked up, her eyes intent. She wasn’t stupid, was she? He had the feeling she already knew where he was going with this.
“Why did you bring it down here?” She frowned slightly. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m hoping we’ll get lucky. I’m hoping you might be able to find out where Lincoln keeps it. If you can, I’m going to make a switch. This brooch is very important to my sister. It’s part of our heritage. I do not intend to let Lincoln Gray pawn it for a hundred bucks if I can help it.”
She stroked one of the tail feathers with a fingertip, very gently, as if she didn’t dare risk damaging it. She seemed to have forgotten that it had already survived for more than a hundred years.
She shook her head. “That’s a lot of luck you’re talking about.”
“I know.”
“What are the odds that he’d carry a thing like this around with him?”
“A thousand to one. But if there’s even that one chance, I’d like to take it. I agreed to your plan, Allison. Will you help me with mine?”
She gazed at him for several seconds. And then, holding out the peacock, she nodded. “For what it’s worth, I’ll try.”
He settled the brooch back into its velvet nest and slid the box back into his duffel. When he looked up again, he realized the cab was slowing down.
“We’re here,” she said. So much for his distraction. Her tension had returned.
From the street, O’Hara’s Hideaway looked unassuming—with none of the Irish “old sod” kitsch of its name. It had, instead, a strong Spanish-Mediterranean influence. The stucco walls were pale salmon, with clean white trim and glossy black wrought-iron balconies. The deep orange tile roof rose cleanly into the cloudless turquoise sky.
Thick green palmettos and red bougainvillea spread over everything, giving the small entrance a shadowy, cloistered feel—just what a visitor craved after taking a few soggy breaths of this hundred-degree Florida sunshine.
A red-haired teenage boy opened the front door the minute the cab came to a complete stop. He would have been good-looking if he hadn’t had a typical adolescent glower, announcing that nothing had pleased him since he was about ten and nothing ever would again until he had his own apartment and regular sex.
He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he was dressed better than any teenager would voluntarily, so obviously he was on the payroll. Mark eyed that wavy auburn hair. Family, maybe?
The boy opened Allison’s door. “Welcome to the Hideaway,” he said with rote courtesy but no change of expression.
Oh, yeah, he was an O’Hara, Mark concluded as he found his own way out of the cab. Only a family member could get away with that attitude.
Emerging, Allison smiled at the boy. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Allison Cabot. This is Matt Travis. We were on the same plane, and when we realized we were both headed here, we decided to share a cab.”
She wasn’t a great liar—here she was, spilling the whole thing to the first person she met—but Mark had seen worse. She’d get better with practice and she had an innocent smile that just might pull it off.
Obviously, Mark had to use an alias. Though Lincoln had never met Mark and wouldn’t recognize his face, he would recognize the name. Mark had chosen a pseudonym as close to his own name as possible, so that if Allison slipped it might pass unnoticed.
They’d also decided on this strangers-on-a-plane story, agreeing that it would be foolish to reveal too much. Island communities tended to be close-knit—it was impossible for a newcomer to guess exactly how all the residents might be connected. For all they knew, the O’Haras might go fishing with Lincoln Gray every Sunday afternoon.
“Allison Cab—” The kid looked oddly troubled. “You’re—” He frowned. “You’re Allison…Allison who?”
“Cabot.” She smiled again. “I’m checking in. I’m here for two weeks.” She shifted her purse to her other arm, clearly wondering if something had gone wrong with her reservation. “From Boston?”
“Yes. Yes.” The boy looked right, then left, as if he needed backup. “Umm…excuse me just a minute.”
Allison shot a worried glance toward Mark.
No room at the inn? Mark knew from the Web site that the hotel had only twelve suites, six in each wing, with the family quarters in the center of the U-shape building that enclosed an old-world courtyard. They’d been lucky to get reservations on such short notice.
He nodded, assuring her that everything would be fine. If the paperwork had gone awry, she could always take his room and he’d find somewhere else to stay.
But within a few seconds, a storm of people poured through the arched entryway, all redheads with beaming grins and outstretched arms.
“Allison Cabot! Could it really be you?”
Allison turned, looking half startled, half embarrassed. “I—”
If she finished the sentence, Mark couldn’t hear it. The oldest of the group, a man with a leonine shock of wavy white hair, got to Allison first and, without waiting for permission, enveloped her in a robust embrace.
“Sure and I’m not believing my eyes,” he said. “It’s our own little Allie, come home at last!”
“You must have thought we were terrible people,” a woman with matching white hair added, cupping Allison’s cheek with the palm of her hand. “Taking your reservation like that, as if you were a stranger.”
“I thought she said Talbot,
