laughed. “I’ve achieved cyber-fame? Has the INS posted a Most Wanted list?”
The response, though meant to be humorous, still spawned an uncomfortable twinge of nerves in the pit of Vicki’s stomach. “Let’s hope not,” she said. “Or if they have, let’s assume they’ve got more desperate criminals to find than the two of us.”
Jamie chuckled. “That’s a good bet. Anyway, it’s nice to see you again, Vicki. Even on a day such as this one.”
“You’ve been on my mind lately, Mr. Malone.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “I’m flattered,” he replied. “But it’s ‘Mr. Malone,’ is it?”
She looked down before he could read her embarrassment in her face. It was, after all, a ridiculous way to address one’s husband.
“Are you certain you’ve got your footing?” he asked. “The wind’s blowing hard up here.”
She nodded and he released her hand but stayed by her side. Vicki cleared her throat and spoke close to his ear so he could decipher her words in the wind. “As I said, I’ve been thinking about you. About what we did. That’s why I’ve come. And I can’t stay but a few minutes.”
He pointed to the causeway. “You didn’t believe me, but have a look for yourself.”
Vicki stared across the sound from this improved vantage point and gasped. The mist was thickening, making visibility difficult. “I can hardly see anything,” she said. He took her hand and guided her to where she could make out a stream of water surging in frothy ripples across several yards of the gravel surface she’d driven over not twenty minutes before.
“Do you see that?” Jamie asked.
It looked as though the causeway had broken in two. She dropped her forehead into her hand and fought a rising panic. “Maybe if I leave now, I can just make it.”
“In that little car?” Jamie nodded toward her rental.
“Of course.”
“You’d be swept off the road and into the sound like a teacup in a whirlwind. I wouldn’t even attempt it in my truck.” He shrugged one shoulder with matter-of-fact acceptance of her predicament. “Guess you’re stuck here for the duration.” He touched her arm, drawing her attention to a spot in the distance. “Do you see that man on the mainland?”
She did. Barely.
“I’m betting that’s Deputy Blackwell putting up barricades like he does whenever the causeway’s washed out.”
Through the soupy mist she detected a figure on the coast, and suddenly a location a mere half mile distant seemed a continent away.
“It’s official,” Jamie said. “Luther’s not letting anyone on or off now.”
The deputy swept his arm in a huge arc over his head, and Jamie waved back. Then Luther Blackwell, the man who’d just decided Vicki’s fate for the next several hours at least, climbed in his patrol car and headed on down Sandy Ridge Road.
“I can’t miss my flight home,” Vicki said.
“Maybe you won’t,” Jamie said. “When is it?”
“Tomorrow at noon.”
He squinted at the darkening horizon. The first fat drops of rain pelted them, driven by a sudden gust of wind. “On the other hand, maybe you will.”
She was trapped on a virtual island with a man who was practically a stranger! Vicki couldn’t imagine a worse outcome to what was supposed to have been an uncomplicated mission. She knew nothing about Jamie. He could be half-crazy living out here in the middle of nowhere. Or worse.
“Let’s get down to ground level,” he said. “This roof’s as secure as she’s going to get, but we humans are tempting the elements.”
She tried to control a trembling that began in her legs and was working its way up. And I’m tempting fate, she thought.
Jamie helped her to the ladder. “Are you cold, Vicki?”
“No, I’m fine.” She scurried down and retrieved her briefcase while Jamie stowed his tools in the metal box. He whistled for his dog, who still lay in unperturbed comfort under the picnic table. By the time Jamie opened the door to the houseboat, the rain was hard and steady. Since escape was impossible, Vicki went inside. Jamie took her jacket, hung it on a hook by the door and handed her a towel. She dried off as best she could while watching the darkening sky through a large window over the kitchen sink.
“Maybe I should turn on CNN,” Jamie said. “We can get an update on the storm.”
Vicki stepped over Beasley, who was now sprawled in the middle of the floor and followed Jamie from the kitchen to a living area furnished with a beige leather sofa and two matching leather chairs. It certainly didn’t look like the accommodations of a psychopath—not that she knew how psychopaths lived. He picked up a remote control from a glass coffee table with a ship’s steering wheel as its base. The brass trim on the spokes shone as if they were polished regularly.
The rest of the room showed similar attention. A pine dining set occupied one corner of the room. Its top was clear of clutter, prompting Vicki to remember her own dining table, which was currently layered with unopened mail and magazines. Nautical paintings hung in groups around the walls of the houseboat. Remembering her surprise at hearing Jamie was an artist, Vicki wondered if he’d painted the canvases himself.
He pulled the chain on a dark metal lamp with a leaded-glass shade. The outside gloom was transformed into a soft amber glow. While Jamie selected the channel for CNN, Vicki surreptitiously inspected two of the paintings in hopes of discovering something about the man she was stuck with. Jamie Malone was not the artist of either.
When a reporter’s voice caught her attention, Vicki looked at a twenty-five-inch television screen. The set had a built-in VHS and DVD player. Since the old Jamie hadn’t been a TV watcher, at least according to the information they’d exchanged in order to fool the immigration officer, she wondered when this later version of the man had become inspired to buy a state-of-the-art model.
Within minutes the focus of a news story was a radar screen splattered with colorful images in blues, reds and yellows. A meteorologist was saying, “This one caught us by surprise, folks. Imogene is now a category-one hurricane. Residents along the North Carolina coast should hunker down. The eye will pass near the Carolina/Virginia border by nightfall.”
Vicki stopped patting her hair dry and draped the towel over her shoulders. She gawked at the swirling mass in the center of the screen that had suddenly become even more terrifying than her runaway suspicions of Jamie. “My God, a hurricane. And we’re sitting on this narrow little spit of land in a houseboat! We might as well be a weathervane on top of a barn in a tornado.”
“We’ll be all right,” he said. “It’ll be a blow, and likely will claim some shingles.” He patted the wall nearest him. “But the Bucket o’ Luck is a sturdy tub. She’s withstood a good many storms in her thirty-five years.”
“Thirty-five years! This boat is that old?” Vicki cringed at the thought. Certain that the
