have sent a professional to investigate Draco. But the fewer people who knew about the island’s secrets, the better.
He gave himself a split second to recover before he turned. Whatever nerve he’d managed to recover fled at the sight of Nicholas Draco.
The younger man had taken off his shirt in the heat, and the sheen of sweat along sinewy muscles made Cochburn uncomfortably aware of the spare tire around his middle. He hadn’t worked out in years, and in a fair fight against Draco, he’d be a dead man. In a dirty fight…he’d still be a dead man.
Draco propped both arms against the newel posts, but the relaxed pose didn’t fool Cochburn. His muscles were bunched, as if ready to spring like a cat, and his gaze—that relentless stare—never left Cochburn’s face.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said softly. “Are you looking for something?”
Cochburn cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was looking for you. I wanted to ask how you’re progressing on the repairs.”
One brow lifted. “That’s funny because I could have sworn you saw me on the roof a few minutes ago.”
Cochburn assumed what he hoped was a look of mild surprise. “You were on the roof? Sorry I missed you. I guess I was a little preoccupied.”
“So I noticed.”
Cochburn smiled in a knowing way. “She’s a real looker, isn’t she?”
Draco shrugged. “If you like blondes. Who is she?”
“Her name is Carrie Bishop. Actually, she’s the other reason I came down here to find you. She’s a friend of one of the tenants…Tia Falcon, the brunette who lives in the pool house. I’m sure you’ve seen her around.” When Draco didn’t respond, Cochburn said hurriedly, “Anyway, she seems to think that something may have happened to her friend.”
“Why?”
Cochburn hesitated. “Something about a letter she received, I gather.”
“And what does any of this have to do with me?” When Draco placed a foot on the porch, it was all Cochburn could do not to back away. Unfortunately, he had no place to retreat.
He moistened his lips. “I wondered if you’d seen her lately…say, in the last day or two.”
Draco gave him a quizzical look. “I thought you were paying me to fix the roof, not keep tabs on your tenants.”
“Yes, of course. But it did occur to me that your paths might have crossed. It’s a small island. Not much in the way of distractions.”
Draco’s gaze narrowed. “What are you getting at, Cochburn?”
Sensing he was treading on dangerous ground, Cochburn immediately backpedaled. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just thought I’d alert you to the fact that we have company on the island. If Carrie Bishop doesn’t find her friend, she may come down here looking for her.”
“Then maybe you’d better pass on a friendly piece of advice.”
The edge in Draco’s voice chilled Cochburn’s blood. “What’s that?”
If possible, the gray eyes went even colder. “You go poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong, what you might find is trouble.”
“TIA? ARE YOU IN HERE? It’s me…Carrie.” She paused just inside the door of the apartment to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dimness.
Slowly the room came into focus, and Carrie glanced around with interest. To the right of the French doors was a small sitting room furnished with wicker chairs and gauzy white curtains and to the left was a kitchenette. Straight ahead an arched doorway led to a shadowy hallway and presumably a bedroom and bath.
It was cool inside the apartment, which meant that the stucco walls were thick enough to keep out the heat. And sound, Carrie realized. Inside, she could no longer hear the generator.
Her gaze moved back to the sitting room. A tiny niche in one wall provided just enough space for an old ebony desk. The surface had been neatly cleared, but the chair had been shoved back and left askew, as if someone had risen abruptly. Carrie frowned when she spotted it.
The misplaced chair was the kind of detail no one else would even have noticed, but she knew her friend too well. Tia was a stickler when it came to her personal space. Everything had to be orderly. Throw rugs positioned precisely. Pillows arranged on the sofa just so. Her tidiness was the one thing she could always control, no matter what.
So what had brought her up from the desk and driven her out of the apartment so quickly that she hadn’t taken the time to straighten the chair or lock the door?
Carrie tried to convince herself she was making too much of that chair, but the premonition that had gripped her for days wouldn’t let go. Something was wrong. She could feel it.
Had Tia’s nightmares come back? Had they driven her from her own wedding and brought her here, to the almost complete isolation of Cape Diablo? Had she tried to shut them out by pulling the blinds over the windows and immersing herself in another family’s tragedy?
Or was something far more sinister at work here? Had Tia inadvertently stumbled upon the answer to a thirty-year-old mystery?
Carrie turned to search the rest of the apartment. As she made her way down the narrow corridor, she became aware of a smell. Something faint. A lingering odor of decay that turned her stomach and made her heart pound in agitation.
It was only a trace. She’d watched enough crime shows to know that the stench from a dead body would be overpowering so she tried not to panic.
Tia is fine, she told herself over and over. The apartment needed airing out, was all.
But as she stepped into the tiny bedroom, her gaze darted almost fearfully around the small space. Her first reaction to the spotless condition of the room was intense relief.
“Thank God,” she whispered, realizing that she had been bracing for the worst ever since she’d gotten off the boat.
Like the rest of the apartment, the room was immaculate. The bed was made and the floor free of discarded clothing. Tia’s things were stored in the closet and her suitcase shoved out of the way on the overhead shelf. Everything was in its proper place, just the way she would have left it.
So why did she still feel that terrible sense of doom? Carrie wondered.
Walking over to the French door, she drew back the curtain and stared out at the overgrown garden. She unlatched the door and pulled it open, allowing a fresh breeze into the room. Almost immediately the scent from the hallway faded.
Carrie started to turn away when a movement beyond the garden stopped her. Someone was coming up a path that led back into the mangrove forest, and for a moment, she thought it was Cochburn.
But as the man emerged from the trees, she saw that he was younger and taller than the attorney, with closely cropped hair and a lean, muscular body. He wore faded jeans and a shirt that hung open, revealing a bronzed chest and—Carrie would have sworn—the handle of a gun protruded from his low-riding waistband.
