1 A High-End Finish (13 page)

I lay unmoving, my cheek pressed against the wet, grimy ground, for a few long, humiliating minutes.

I wanted to cry. The palms of my hands were already stinging and I knew they had to be scraped bloody. I could feel the cold grass against my knees, which meant that my jeans had ripped there, too. My chin had taken a hit, as well, because my jaw was stiff and my neck felt jarred.

But I could breathe, so chances were that I hadn’t broken any ribs or collapsed a lung. A small victory.

I heard car brakes squealing along the highway, but ignored them.

After a minute, I lifted my left shoulder an inch to test whether it was broken or not. I did the same with both arms and legs, and then arched my back slightly to make sure I hadn’t damaged anything else too badly.

Sudden footsteps pounded on the ground and a man yelled, “Are you all right?”

I was alive, so yeah, I was all right. I held up my hand as well as I could, given my awkward position, and waved to let him know I was conscious.

I hoped it was a friend or even a stranger, because then it wouldn’t matter that I wasn’t exactly looking my best. As long as it wasn’t someone horrible from town who would ridicule me and make sure everyone knew about this.

You’re an idiot,
I thought, and shoved those concerns aside. Because who cared what I looked like? I was alive. Hallelujah.

Still, I had to look awful, what with my face caked in mud and stained with grass and dirt. But again, who cared? It wasn’t like I was trying to impress anybody with my grace.

It must’ve been quite a sight, though, to see me flying off my bike and landing in a heap. Pure elegance. Ugh.

I flinched when a warm hand touched my back. “Hey, are you okay? Can you move?”

“I’m fine.” I struggled to push myself off the ground and managed only to make an
oof
sound.

“Fine, huh? Hold on,” he said, pressing his hand down more firmly. “Don’t move yet. Can you tell if anything’s broken?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let me check.” His hands moved gently up my back, along my spine, across one shoulder, then the other, and down my arms. He had a firm, expert touch, but still managed to be gentle, like he did this sort of thing every day. I’d never felt anything so wonderful in my life. Which was a little pathetic, but I wasn’t going to complain.

“Really, I’m okay,” I said.

“Yeah, I think you are,” he said. “You took quite a leap there. I passed you on the road, but then I caught a glimpse in my rearview mirror from the top of the hill. You really went flying.”

“And all in front of an audience.”

His chuckle was deep, sexy. He continued to rub my back lightly. “Can you turn over for me?”

For that amazing voice, anything,
I thought dreamily, then wondered if maybe I’d hit my head after all.

He helped me roll over, his arm cradling my back to cushion me until I was settled on the ground. That’s when I got a close-up look at him for the first time. And almost groaned out loud.

It was MacKintyre Sullivan, world-famous author and newest resident of our little village. Oh, lucky me.

He was so much more handsome than his book covers portrayed him. Everything about him was more intense, more striking than those posed Photoshopped pictures could’ve ever revealed. His hair was darker, richer, short cropped, and utterly masculine. He always looked so dangerous and serious on his book covers, so when he flashed me an easy smile, it was startling. His teeth were white and straight and his soulful dark blue eyes actually twinkled. He had a shadow of a beard, which gave him a rugged, heroic look that made me want to crawl into his strong arms and stay for a long, cozy nap.

Good grief. Where were all these fanciful thoughts coming from? I had definitely hit my head on something.

He shifted his weight until he was sitting companionably on the ground next to me. Shoving up the sleeves of his faded forest green cable-knit sweater to reveal tanned, muscular arms, he gently brushed my cheek with his fingers to get rid of some attractive dirt clods or weeds that were still stuck to my skin.

“So, what happened here?” he asked.

“My brakes gave out.”

“You were going awfully fast.”

I sighed. “I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop.”

“Scary.”

“I was terrified.”

“Good thing you were wearing a helmet. And you’re sure nothing’s broken?” He reached over and lifted my leg at the knee, moving the joint up and down. “Does that hurt?”

“No.” I didn’t mention the thousands of tingles I felt from his touch. I figured they weren’t related to the fall.

He did the same with my other leg. Nothing was broken or sprained.

“You were lucky,” he said.

“Except for having my brakes go out, I guess I was.”

“My name is Mac, by the way,” he said.

“I’m Shannon.”

He grinned. “Irish. It suits you. So, let me know when you’re ready to stand up, Shannon.”

“I think I’m ready.”

“I’ll help you.” He rose easily to a standing position and held out his hands for me to grab hold of.

Once I was on my feet, he gripped my upper arms until I was no longer swaying. When he took a step back, I tried to roll my shoulders, but the slight movement had me biting back a moan. “That hurts,” I admitted.

“You’ll probably be aching for a few days.” He walked over to where my bike lay fallen in the grass. Lifting it effortlessly, he checked the tires, then played with the hand brakes. Standing the bike up with its kickstand in place, he gripped the left brake line between his thumb and index finger and followed it all the way to the back wheel.

“The brake wire is frayed right here. A strand of this thin plastic coating is all that’s holding it together.”

“How can that be possible?” I wondered. “The bike is less than a year old.”

“I’m familiar with this model,” he said, running his hand over the bike’s wide back bumper. “It’s expensive.”

“I wanted a good one,” I said, slowly bending at the waist to test my stomach muscles. “I like to ride.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He got down on one knee to take a closer look at the fraying and I stepped next to him to see what he was looking at. After a moment he glanced up at me, a frown marring that gorgeous face. “See this row of indentations on the wire? Looks like the brake line was cut intentionally.”

Wendell.

That was my first thought, that Wendell had sabotaged my bike. Maybe it was because I’d been consumed by his negativity all week. But it took only a few more seconds to realize that Wendell Jarvick would never waste his time and energy trying to hurt me
physically
. That would shine too much attention on
me
. His world revolved only around
him
.

“This is fascinating,” Mac said, as he casually turned the brake wire this way and that to study the striations on the thin plastic covering.

“Fascinating?” Was he crazy? “The only thing that’s fascinating is that you actually think someone did it on purpose. I don’t believe it.”

His expression was mildly curious. “Do you have enemies, Shannon?”

“No. I mean, not really.” I wasn’t about to mention Whitney or her annoying friends to him and, to tell the truth, I didn’t believe they would want to get their hands dirty fiddling with my bike. “I mean, well, there’s nobody who would deliberately try to injure me. Unless . . .”

His eyes brightened. “Unless
what
? Tell me everything. Don’t hold back.”

I laughed. He wasn’t even trying to hide his eager interest. I don’t know why I found it so honest and charming. “Somebody was murdered recently and I’ve been asking questions around town.”

“Ah. And somebody out there doesn’t want to provide the answers. I’m intrigued.”

“You would be,” I said acerbically, then blanched. “I mean, because you write mysteries.”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course I do. You’re MacKintyre Sullivan. Everybody in town knows who you are.”

“They do?”

I smiled. “You don’t come from a small town, do you?”

“No.”

“We’re all talking about you. It might take some getting used to.” Then, because I wanted to hear him say it, I asked, “So, it’s true? You really are moving here?”

“Yeah. I’ve always loved this part of the coast. I grew up in Oregon and I’ve stayed overnight in Lighthouse Cove a few times on my way home. I really like it.”

“That’s wonderful. I hope you’ll be happy here.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“My entire life.”

“Ah.” He chuckled. “And you don’t think you have enemies?”

I frowned at the implication. “I didn’t think so, but after today . . .”

He picked up the bike. “How about if I drive you and your bike back to town and you tell me all about it?”

“I’m not sure there’s much to tell, but I would appreciate the ride. Oh, wait.” I saw my notebook splayed nearby and grabbed it, then carefully checked the surrounding area. “I think I’ve lost my phone.”

He set down the bike and pulled his phone out of his front pocket. “What’s your phone number?”

I blinked at the impulsive question, but then realized what he meant to do. I rattled off my number, he called it, and seconds later, I heard my phone’s distinctive ring. It had sailed another twenty feet beyond where I’d fallen.

“That was smart.”

He grinned. “I used that little trick in a book a while back.”

“Oh.” I thought about it for a moment. “Wasn’t that in
Dead Shot
? I loved that book.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You read it? Hey, thanks.”

“You can’t be surprised. You must know that everyone loves your books.”

“Not everyone,” he said, his lips twisting ruefully. “But I am surprised. I’ve been writing for fifteen years and I still react with shock when someone tells me they liked one of my books.”

“You must live in a constant state of astonishment.”

His laugh rumbled out, full and deep. “It never gets old—that’s for sure.”

He hefted the bicycle up with one hand and we slowly crossed the field. Now that I was walking—or, rather, limping—I realized how badly I’d banged up my left knee. Both knees had been bloodied in the fall, but now I was concerned that I might’ve wrenched something.

Mac slowed down to match my pace and finally wrapped his arm around my back to support me. “Looks like you’re in worse shape than you thought. Where does it hurt?”

“My left knee, mainly.” I was unable to keep from hissing when I took my next step.

Without warning, he set my bike down and lifted me up in his arms. “If you wrap your arms around my neck, you’ll be more comfortable.”

“Oh no,” I protested, mortified by his intimate move. I wasn’t overweight, just tall and healthy and pretty much the opposite of petite. But he seemed to hold me with little effort. Either that, or he was really good at masking his own pain. “Please, this isn’t necessary.”

“You shouldn’t walk on that leg,” he said sensibly as he headed for his car. “Besides, it’s faster this way.”

“I’m perfectly fine to walk on my own.”

“No, you’re not. You’re injured. The sooner I get you back to town, the sooner you’ll be able to see a doctor.”

“It’s probably just twisted or bruised.” I wasn’t sure why I was complaining. He smelled wonderful. Not from cologne, but more like he’d gone walking through a redwood forest and had captured its essence. I caught a hint of bergamot and leather, too. I gave up protesting, wrapped my arms as he instructed, and just breathed him in until we reached his car. When he let me go, I almost whimpered.

“Thank you,” I managed as I regained my balance.

He smiled. “You’re welcome. My pleasure.” Pulling out his keys, he clicked the doors open. “Go ahead and climb inside. I’ll get your bike.”

His car was a big black SUV, so it was a little tricky sliding into the passenger’s side with my left knee beginning to throb badly. I finally turned around and faced the back of the car, and tried to lift my right leg instead. I managed to get my foot onto the running board and then I reached inside and gripped the overhead security belt with both hands to hoist myself up. When I had both feet on the running board, I rotated slightly and dropped into the seat. It was exhausting, but I gave myself a mental high five for my own ingenuity.

Mac returned and lifted the tailgate, slid my bike into the space, and slammed the tailgate shut. A few seconds later, he was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine. As he eased onto the highway, he flashed me a quick grin. “We’ve got time now. Feel free to tell me all about your enemies. Don’t hold anything back.”

“I don’t have any enemies,” I said, and tried to change the subject. “Isn’t this a beautiful day?”

“Yeah, beautiful.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. His touch was light, but I felt a definite connection. “Shannon, I don’t want to scare you, but I think someone tried to hurt you deliberately. I’d call that person an enemy.”

I wasn’t willing to accept it. “Maybe it was an accident.”

He glanced at me sideways.

“All right,” I grumbled, knowing he wouldn’t let up until I told him my story. Maybe it was because he was a writer and used to wangling all sorts of deep, dark secrets out of people. Not that I minded sharing the gruesome facts with him. After all, he had just moved to town. He was one person I
knew
didn’t have a grudge against me. It was more than that, though. I could tell instinctively that he was one of the good guys. Still, I had a feeling he would be relentless if he needed to be.

“I went on this date last Thursday,” I began, and went through the whole sordid history of threatening Jerry Saxton and later finding his body. And of calling the police, only to wind up a main suspect in the murder.

“You were lured to that house, Shannon,” he said after listening to my entire account. “And you were lured down to that basement. You were meant to find his body. Somebody planned that.”

I rubbed my stomach, feeling like I’d taken a blow. “I hadn’t thought about it like that, but . . . yes, I guess you could make the case that I was. What do you think it means?”

He came to a stop on the northern edge of the town square and turned to meet my gaze. “It means you have an enemy.”

•   •   •

When we got to my house, Mac parked, but instead of getting out of the car, he spent a full minute staring up at my refurbished Queen Anne house. “Wow, this place is fantastic. That bay window is something else.”

“Thanks. I love it.” I was truly proud of the work I’d done on my house and absurdly thrilled that he liked it. When I had taken over the place from my dad, I did a little refurbishing, just to put my own stamp on the place where I’d grown up. I had removed three small single-pane sash windows and their frames in order to add the large bay window Mac was talking about. It was built into the tower and the glass itself bowed gracefully around the curve. It had been a major pain in the butt to install, but the result was fantastic.

Mac climbed out of the car and jogged around to my side to assist me.

“I can walk,” I protested weakly.

“I don’t know.” He glanced at the house and back at me. “Those stairs look like killers to me.”

I frowned. Mac was right, of course. It would take me a week to climb those ten stairs in my present condition. But the reason I was frowning was that I was starting to wonder why he was being so nice to me—although why I would
frown
at the thought of someone being nice to me was a question for the headshrinkers. But, really, did he like hanging around murder suspects? Maybe he thought he could get some good ideas for his next crime novel.

You should just stop thinking,
I thought, shaking my head.

I let him lift me out of the passenger’s seat and carry me up the stairs to my front door. He set me down and I unlocked it and turned to say good-bye.

“Can I get a tour sometime?” he asked. “I just bought a house and I’m looking for ideas.”

“You bought the old lighthouse mansion.”

“How’d you know?” He snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah. Small town.”

“Yes. But also I’m a general contractor. When a house sells, I usually hear about it, especially when it’s one that might be up for rehab. I specialize in old Victorians.”

“You’re a contractor.”

“Yes.”

He looked around the porch again and ran his hand along the painted window frame. “You did this.”

“Yes.” I pushed open the door and stepped inside. “I won’t be able to give you much of a tour in my present condition, but if you want to see the front room, come on in.”

He followed me through the foyer, past the staircase with its impressive iron balusters, and into the living room—or what the Victorians would’ve called the front parlor. He wandered around, checking out all the classic Victorian features. Crown moldings, medallions on the ceilings, the massive fireplace, the wainscoting throughout.

Despite those touches, I hadn’t kept entirely with tradition in this room. There were no dark wood walls or heavy patterned wallpaper. No clutter on the tables or Oriental carpets, although I appreciated all those charming facets of the era. But the bay window was so big and allowed so much indirect sunlight into the room that I had decided to go with a different feeling altogether. Light taupe with white trim for the walls and coffered ceiling, and comfortably contemporary furnishings: a pale khaki overstuffed couch; two fat, comfy chairs; light wood tables. The window seat was wide enough to nap on and cushioned in a pale buttercream. I’d added splashes of color with throw pillows and artwork.

Other rooms in the house were more classically Victorian, and I loved them, as well, but this was the room I lived in most of the time. I sat down at one end of the long couch and stretched my leg out while Mac studied the elaborately beveled wood around the fireplace and the heavy marble mantel. I’d stumbled upon that unique chunk of thick marble at the landfill a few years ago and had to bring it home.

He sat down at the opposite end of the couch. There was plenty of space for him, so why did the couch and the room and everything around me seem smaller with him here?

Tiger came from out of nowhere and pounced up onto the couch. Instead of coming my way, she went immediately to Mac, and who could blame her? She stood and stared at him until he pulled her into his arms. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying
Awwwww.

“What a beauty you are,” he murmured as he stroked her fur. Then he looked at me. “Her coloring is remarkably similar to yours.”

“My father picked her out for that very reason.”

“Two beautiful redheads,” he said to the cat. “How did I get so lucky?”

The lucky cat settled in his lap, her petite frame appearing even smaller than usual. Maybe it was because Mac’s imposing presence filled the room, overwhelming everything. Including me, apparently.

“So, you’re a contractor,” he said, and laughed. “I’m stating the obvious again. Sorry. I’ve just never met a female contractor before.”

“There are a few of us,” I said, struggling to sit up straighter. It was time to pull myself together and act like a professional, despite my torn jeans and grass-streaked face. He was, after all, a potential client. “I grew up working with my dad, mostly building or restoring Victorian houses.”

He scanned the room again. “Damn, I’m slow. It’s still sinking in that you did all this. You’re hired.”

I laughed. “You might want to check out a few other builders before you make your choice.”

“But I like you best,” he said, grinning boyishly.

“You don’t know that yet.”

“I do. But fine, we’ll do it your way.” He shifted in his seat and faced me directly. “Do you have a résumé I can review, with a list of your latest projects?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Okay, good. Do you want to tell me where it is, or would you like me to carry you around the house until we find it?”

Yes, please,
I thought, but said, “That won’t be necessary.” I struggled to stand and stopped him when he moved to help me. “I need to do this. It’s going to be fine; I’m just a little achy.”

“I admire your spirit, but I don’t believe you.”

“I’m trying to be optimistic here,” I said, making a face as I took a step toward the doorway.

“It would help if you didn’t limp.”

I laughed as I limped down the hall. “My office is right through here.”

I led the way to the alcove off the kitchen where I’d built a desk and shelves to fit the compact space. Pulling open the top drawer of my file cabinet, I took out a business-sized portfolio that held my résumé, a list of clients and projects, and several sheets of before and after photographs. “Here you go.”