Echoes (6 page)

He crawled out of bed at five, unable to sleep, and spent the morning packing and fuming. He didn't touch anything of Nikki's, or even the items they'd bought together. In ten months on the island, he'd acquired three boxes of books; a few clothes; climbing, sailing, and snorkel gear; and a darkly stained teak chest of drawers into which he folded all his clothes, including the two suits Nikki had insisted he buy. The only thing he intended to keep from their marriage was the Jeep. In the unlikely event of Nikki's return, he'd give it to her, but his motorcycle just wasn't practical for everyday use.

At ten, he locked up the house and set out. Because he planned to take Callie into Marigot, he drove rather than walked, cutting the travel time from fifteen minutes to five. He could have left later, but he wanted to observe Callie and John together, strictly for investigative purposes.

They sat closer than they had the previous day, their elbows almost touching. Dark hair spilled over Callie's shoulder and brushed her breast in a chaos of curls as she leaned over her pad to make notes, and Mac felt an unwelcome tug of desire. She looked up, catching his eye, and blushed. He raised an eyebrow, and she shifted her attention back to John, who covered her hand with his own and spoke to her for a few seconds before letting her gather her possessions to leave.

When she stood, Mac saw she'd donned a loose, sand-colored, knee-length linen dress rather than the shorts she'd worn the day before. She probably thought the straight line hid her curves, lent her a professional appearance.
Wrong
. As she approached, the dress shifted slightly with each step, each swing of her toned arms, and his body reacted as if the nubby material were caressing his skin rather than hers.

He reminded himself not to underestimate her. How many times had he watched Nikki hold up various outfits against her body, judging the effect they'd have on those she met? Of course, Nikki usually had only one goal, but a few subdued, conservative outfits did hang in her walk-in closet. She liked to wear them for her martyr appearances, after a particularly long night or a blowout argument, to prove people had misjudged her. So perhaps Callie was aware to precisely what degree that demure little dress raised his blood pressure.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Callie faltered, then stopped a few feet from him.

“Mac?”

“Ready to go?”

“Of course. But is everything okay? You look . . .” He raised an eyebrow, watching her struggle for the right word. “Nothing happened?”

“Not a thing.” He held open the hotel's door and let her out into the blazing heat. She squinted against the glare, reaching into her bag for sunglasses, and he wondered whether she'd slept any more than he had.

He led the way to the Jeep, opened the passenger door, and held out a hand to help her in.

She pushed the sunglasses down and looked at him over the top with skeptical astonishment. “Southern gentleman?”

Seldom-used muscles quirked his lips into a grin. “I'll give you the Southern part.”

“Oh, dear.” Her dark eyes sparkled as she rested her small hand in his and hopped into the car. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”

Without forethought, he tightened his fingers on hers, trapping them. She stilled but didn't pull away, her eyes—no longer sparkling with humor, but deep and shadowed—never leaving his.

“There are no gentlemen,” he said, remembering the way she'd sat so close to Lewis. “Never trust anyone who claims to be one.”

She swallowed before she spoke, and he watched the movement of the muscles in her throat. Her voice sounded hoarse. “But I should trust you?”

He let go of her hand and pushed the door closed without answering. As he rounded the front of the vehicle, he worked to regain control over his reaction to her. The attraction was too strong, almost violent. Every time he thought he had it contained with logic, it escaped the cage.
You're an ass
, he told himself.
You know damned well she can't be trusted
. But still, his unruly body responded to her the minute he slid into his seat and saw her knotting her hair up.

***

She was in trouble. Callie bent her head to gather her hair, taking the time to hide the warmth rising in her face. Though she ran her fingers and palms through her curls, she could still feel the burning heat of Mac's hand grasping hers. What was wrong with her? Less than forty-eight hours before, she'd admonished herself to steer clear of the man, but she'd willingly climbed into his car, the fly to his spider. She should have insisted on driving herself to the station.

She secured the knot of hair with a pair of intricately carved chopsticks she'd inherited from her mother as Mac buckled himself into his seat.

“A/C or windows?” he asked, inserting the key into the ignition.

“I'd prefer air conditioning, if you don't mind. I'm usually not such a wimp about the heat, but this trip is killing me.” She regretted the words immediately. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have put it that way. I didn't mean to be so insensitive.”

He flicked a glance at her as he put the car in gear. “Don't worry about it.”

But she did. She'd taken well to heart her father's lessons in diplomacy, in speaking carefully and acting even more so, and in always considering the feelings of others. Mac's wife was missing at best. At worst, the gendarmes had recovered her body. Callie's careless words doubtless reminded him of the sad situation. But she couldn't withdraw them, and anything she might add would only exacerbate the problem. So she changed the subject.

“How much did you know about St. Martin before you moved here?”

He huffed a brief laugh. “Not a damned thing. Travis, the Army buddy I told you about, he's been here for a couple of years, and started harassing me about coming to visit maybe a year ago. He'd tell me how the booze was good, the food was better, and the women were easy, but I just couldn't get a week free of work, or so it seemed at the time.”

“Did you tell him what happened? Or did you just show up?”

Mac went silent for so long Callie began to wonder whether she'd said something wrong.

“Neither. He called me. Two days after I was released from the hospital. Told me the island was a great place to retire, and he had a spare boat I could sleep on if I wanted it.”

“How did he know?”

“I have no idea. At the time, I was dealing with the disability paperwork and hearings, and the fallout from the knife fight. I was on painkillers and antibiotics, and every day it seemed like someone new wanted a piece of me, so I never even asked how Travis found out.”

“Was the fight, the arrest in the papers? Maybe he was keeping track of you online.”

“Nope. I was undercover at the time. Since we'd hoped I would be able to go back to work, the only name the press ever got was my cover.”

His voice had lost some of its intensity, and when Callie looked at him, he didn't turn his head. She assumed he'd divided his attention between the road and his memories, trying to figure out how his friend had become aware of his injury.

“Do you have friends in common? Maybe from your days in the Army?”

“No one who should have been keeping track.”

And wasn't that just the closemouthed answer she could have expected from him. But she had to admit that his private life, his friends, they weren't any of her business. She switched back to the original topic, thankful Marigot was close to the hotel.

“So what did you think of St. Martin when you got here?”

One side of his mouth tipped up, and her throat dried as it had when he'd grasped her hand. God, the man simply oozed sex appeal without even trying.

“Hot,” he said, and for a minute, she thought he was echoing her own thoughts. She felt a blush rise into her face, then realized he had merely answered her question.

“Surely it was hot in Georgia.”

“Yup. And in Afghanistan, too. But you asked what I thought of the island.” He shot her an unreadable look. “Everything about this place is hot. And wet.”

Callie tensed to keep from squirming in her seat. The way he said the words, he couldn't be unaware of the double entendre. Her blood suddenly pulsed very close to the surface of her skin.

“Well,” she said, striving for a lighter note. “It certainly is beautiful.”

“Oh, yeah.” He took his eyes from the road long enough to sweep over her body. “It certainly is.”

Which effectively put an end to her ability to speak.

***

Mac had no idea why he felt compelled to tease Callie. Maybe just because he hadn't seen a woman blush in such a long time. Maybe because her reaction assured him the sexual charges running along his nerves every time he looked at her weren't entirely one-sided. Either way, by the time they reached the village, his mood had improved.

He'd arranged with Michel Vichy to meet them at the station. The gendarme welcomed them, but examined Callie with eyes both curious and critical.

“I understand some items were removed from your room yesterday.”

Callie glared at Mac, who threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Don't blame me. I didn't make the call.”

“
Non
. Monsieur Lewis telephoned. May I ask why you did not?”

“It wasn't important, and I probably won't be here long enough for you to catch the thief.”

“You have very little faith in our abilities.” Mac wondered whether Michel had added the hint of defensiveness to try to get a rise out of Callie, or whether he really was offended. Either way, it immediately set Callie aflutter. She didn't, apparently, enjoy making people feel small. She kept surprising him; he'd have to stop judging her by Nicole's yardstick.

“No, no. That's not it at all. But surely more serious cases occupy your attention.”

“Every case is serious. The island relies on tourists. We cannot have them robbed at every turn. But the choice is yours, of course, if you choose to ignore the theft.”

“Either way works for me. I'm happy to fill out the paperwork to make the report, but replacing the laptop and the jewelry won't cost more than flying back here and finding a hotel for the duration of the trial. And whether you'd need me here for that or not, I'd want to come.”

Michel nodded, accepting her explanation far more readily than Mac did. DNA collection took all of ten minutes, including the time Callie spent filling in the permission forms that required her address and phone number, both of which Mac memorized on the spot.

Michel engaged Callie in casual conversation during the process, slipping in questions about whether she had any friends or acquaintances on the island, whether this was her first trip, whether—aside from the theft—she was enjoying herself. He kept the whole discussion light and innocuous, eliciting the information he needed without Callie becoming aware of the interrogation. Unfortunately, none of her answers—which Mac judged honest despite his reservations—exposed any connection to Nikki.

When they left the station, Callie insisted Mac drop her back at the Paradis so she could get her car. As he couldn't follow her from the hotel inconspicuously, he took the afternoon to check the feelers he'd put out about Nikki's whereabouts, updating them to include requests for information about Callie. His description of her as his wife's virtual double raised some eyebrows but conveniently explained his curiosity.

Rumors of the body on the beach had multiplied, and Mac found himself spending more time giving answers than getting them. Especially once word got out he'd rented an apartment overlooking the marina in Marigot. He stocked the kitchen in the new apartment and hauled the three boxes of books he'd packed up from his old house to the new place, then wandered down to his favorite bar and settled in a corner where he could see every one of the restaurants that lined the marina. If Callie planned to write about the island, chances were good she'd show up sooner or later, as the open-air eateries along the lagoon in Marina Royale attracted more casual diners than did any others. Having ordered a beer, he opened a book and kicked back to wait.

A few people stopped by his table as the night wore on, but his mood must have been evident; for the most part, they left him alone.

At seven, Mac ordered a pizza. At eight, his quarry approached. He tensed, afraid she'd choose his restaurant for dinner, but she stepped into one two doors down instead. Finally, something was going his way. From his position he could watch her without her being aware of him.

She'd changed clothes, this time dressing down in khaki walking shorts and a boatneck tee, and he wondered how she'd occupied herself during the day. She'd switched rooms at some point, down to one of the fancy bungalows. Lewis's offer had set every alarm ringing in Mac's skull. What the hell did the man want with her? Not sex, despite the goading insinuations Mac had made, because Lewis always kept his women away from the hotel.

And what did Callie want with Lewis? Having spent a little more time with her, he was pretty sure she wouldn't trade her body for a five-star room, as she'd let him believe that first day. Which made liars out of both of them.

She chatted with her waiter, flirting a little, laughing a lot, drawing a fair amount of attention and more than one double take. He'd hear soon enough from friends of Nikki's. Full dark fell while Callie ate, but she didn't immediately head back toward the parking lot when she left the restaurant. Rather, she passed directly in front of his position, strolling in an unhurried fashion toward the main shopping street.

Marigot's business district was well lit, and Mac kept several yards back as he tracked Callie's progress. Once in a while she'd stop and make notes on a pad she pulled from her black tote. When she hesitated a moment and then turned down an alley, Mac picked up his pace, not wanting to lose her. He couldn't imagine what had drawn her attention; no stores or tourist attractions lay down the dark lane. Could she be meeting someone? Five feet from the corner he paused. Adopting a nonchalant manner, he sauntered past the narrow opening, glancing into the shadows as he did.