the stranger was starting to head toward the dunes.
Lit by the yellow glow of a three-quarter moon, the majestic sand of the drifts swept upward, casting long dark shadows. As the gorgeous man walked into them, his body seemingly dematerializing and fading into darkness, he appeared oblivious of the peaking bluffs just above his head. Pansy’s heart skipped a beat. Not so much because he was so tall, or so strong, with lanky, sinewy limbs and well-defined muscles, but because, with his flowing black hair and devastating eyes that had captured hers a few minutes before in the town meeting, he really was a dead ringer for Jacques O’Lannaise, the pirate who’d haunted Pansy’s dreams and inspired her fantasies for years, ever since she’d first heard his name. Jacques had been the lover of Pansy’s ancestor, Iris, and after Iris was tragically lost at sea, Jacques was said to have begun walking the dunes at night, searching for Iris as if he was hoping to find her and make wild love to her in the sand.
Pansy tried to chuckle, but the effort only produced a shiver of excitement and a soft, strangled hitch of breath. “At least Vi and Lily don’t know I’m out here, following a tourist,” she muttered, hoping the mention of her sisters might lend some reality to the situation. After all, her sisters would never let her live this down. Pansy was usually the most commonsensical Hanley sister, but when it came to Jacques O’Lannaise…
“It can’t be him,” she whispered insistently. She was being ridiculous! Pirate ghosts didn’t exist! Her breath quickened with anticipation anyway. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d lose this guy! Pulled as if by the tides, she speeded her steps, unable to shake the uncanny sense that meeting him face-to-face was…well, somehow necessary. Destiny, she thought.
“You’re really going crazy,” she whispered. She was out here on a dark night following a stranger. She just hoped he didn’t turn around. Of course, if he did, she could go home, climb into a hot sudsy tub and relax with a good book because he’d turn out to be your average vacationing tourist. Probably married and cruising Sand Road to buy T-shirts for his kids. Yes, once he turned around, Pansy would get a better look at him, and he’d no longer bear a resemblance to Iris’s sketches of Jacques O’Lannaise.
But what was Pansy supposed to do if she caught up to him? She swallowed hard. She knew what she wanted to do.
Live her fantasies. She imagined strands of his hair brushing her cheeks as his lips lowered for a kiss, how hot his gaze would feel on her bare skin as they laid in the sand and removed their clothes. She pushed aside the thoughts, then gasped. He was stopping! Slowly, he turned, and as he did, his hair rippled. It was gorgeous, like dark waters into which someone had dropped a pebble. Awareness flooded her. “No,” Pansy protested when he didn’t turn enough to make his face visible in the darkness. For a second, she could swear he crooked a finger in her direction, but of course, he hadn’t. “Turn all the way around,” she urged, even more determined to catch him. The man really was the spitting image of the pirate who’d long been a part of the Hanley family legacy. Pansy couldn’t let him get away. He headed into the strange, surreal, craterlike dunes, as if he knew she would follow him, as if he wanted to make love….
And then the man seemed to vanish.
1
One week ago…
AS SHE SWUNG OPEN the carved oak door to the New York brownstone she shared with her husband and where she still tidied her three sons’ rooms daily even though they’d long ago left home, Sheila Steele felt the sticky summer heat gust inside, dislodging loose gray strands from her pinned-up hair. Anxiously smoothing them, in case this was another officer asking her to come to police headquarters to talk about her husband, Augustus’s, disappearance, she peered out, heart clutching.
When she saw the man on the stoop, her heart sank. A lost tourist, she decided, taking in the khaki shorts, Hawaiian print shirt and shaggy blond hair. Dark blue eyes surveyed her from behind black-framed glasses, and a camera was slung around his neck. As a female New Yorker related to four cops, Sheila was safety conscious to a fault, and so, despite her husband’s disappearance, which was consuming her with worry, she was also regretting that she’d be unable to let this poor stranger inside to use the phone, if that’s what he wanted. He looked honest, like the kind of young man who’d get robbed on city streets if he wasn’t careful. “Can I help you?”
He squinted. “Ma? It’s me, Rex.”
Her lips parted in frank astonishment. “I didn’t even recognize my own son!” Underneath the disarming attire, her son Rex was as dark and swarthy as a pirate.
“I came as soon as Sully called with the news about Pop.”
Sheila pressed a hand to her heart as her middle child stepped into the foyer, giving her a hug and kissing her cheek. “Don’t feel bad about not recognizing me,” added Rex, who’d worked undercover for years. “Nobody does, you know. That’s the point.”
Despite the circumstances of the meeting, Sheila leaned back to study the son who most shared her passions and temperament. “Hard to believe the tall, dark, handsome man I gave birth to is really under that costume somewhere.”
“He is,” Rex assured. Without the wig, contact lenses and cheek pads, he had dark unruly hair and hazel eyes that shifted between shadowy, moody colors—gray, blue and green. His cheeks were shallow, his lips full, his body sculpted from the hours he spent in the precinct gym. “My big case broke yesterday,” he explained, “so I spent this morning riding the F train.” The Mr. Nice Guy outfit was designed to make him an appealing target for pickpockets who rode the subway, hoping to fleece tourists.
Sheila managed a watery smile. Under other circumstances, she would have laughed. “My son,” she murmured. “The professional victim. How many times have you been robbed this morning, sweetie?”
“Three,” Rex admitted. “But I arrested them all, Ma.”
“Good for you.” She took a deep breath. “Well, c’mon inside. Everybody else is in the courtyard.”
He followed her down a long hallway. “Everybody?”
“Both your brothers. Sullivan got here first. And Truman brought the woman he’s been dating, Trudy Busey.”
“The one I met the other day at lunch? From the New York News?”
Sheila nodded. “Truman was with her at the newspaper when I called him.” Sheila grasped Rex’s hand for support. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Pop’s gonna be fine,” he said, his voice reassuringly soft and yet grimly masculine, his eyes focused on the summery light at the end of the hallway. Through a screen door, riotous leaves sprawled in a courtyard garden that was one of Sheila’s passions.
“I can’t imagine what’s happened to your father.” She sighed. “You were supposed to go on vacation tomorrow, right?”
“To Seduction Island. Just off Long Island.”
“That’s where the boat was anchored before it…”
Exploded. Rex didn’t blame her for not wanting to voice the word. “Pop knew I was going there as soon as my case broke.”
“Maybe he wanted to meet you there,” she probed, her voice catching. “Are you sure he didn’t tell you why he was going there? Or who he was going with? Did he say anything about what he’s involved in?”
