They both had their reasons for the way they chose to conduct the affair. She sensed that Luther did not stay for breakfast because he was afraid of falling asleep beside her; afraid of waking up in a nightmare that had its origins in the war. She knew something about his nightmares, because she had seen his paintings. The dark, stormy landscapes that hung in his office and in his private quarters above the Paradise were straight from his dreams. Painting was his therapy, his way of surviving the memories.
Her reasons for not inviting him to stay until morning were similar. She did not want to wake up in the middle of a nightmare about a home that had become a prison.
“Now that you’ve got an apprentice who can watch the office, what do you say to taking off from work early tomorrow?” Luther said, fastening his white shirt. “I can order a picnic lunch from one of the local restaurants. We could drive out to Smuggler’s Cove and take a walk on the beach.”
“That sounds like a lovely idea,” Raina said. “Assuming I’ve still got an apprentice.”
“Something tells me Lyra will show up at the office,” Luther said.
Raina smiled, amused by his certainty. “You sound very confident of that.”
Luther leaned over the bed and planted a palm on either side of her. “She may be feeling the effects of all that champagne she drank tonight, but I’ll bet she shows up. Get some sleep.”
He kissed her, straightened, collected his jacket, and headed for the door.
“Good night,” she said. “Drive carefully.”
She wanted to say, Good night, Luther, my love, but she didn’t. Neither of them had used the word love; not yet. Maybe never.
“Don’t worry,” Luther said. “At this hour there won’t be anyone else on the road.”
A moment later she heard the front door open and close. She waited for the distinct click that told her he had used the key she had given him to lock it.
She settled back into the pillows, taking comfort in the faint, lingering trace of his scent. She was not surprised when sleep eluded her. She lay quietly gazing up at the shadowed ceiling and wondered if Lyra was able to sleep. Probably not.
Luther had sent her home in the Paradise limo with instructions to the driver to see her safely inside her beachfront cottage. She had been flushed and giddy from the champagne and the dancing, but the nervy energy unleashed by what had happened at the Adlington residence had not yet burned itself out.
At five o’clock Raina abandoned the effort to get some sleep. She got up, took a shower, put on a floral dressing gown, made a pot of coffee, and opened the front door. The early edition of the Burning Cove Herald was on the doorstep.
She took the paper inside and settled down at the kitchen table to read the headlines. Not surprisingly, Lyra was on the front page again. This time there was a photo of her glamorously dressed in her silver evening gown arriving at the Paradise. The headline said it all: Lady Private Eye Who Dispatched Crazed Killer with Golf Club Celebrates at Local Nightclub.
If Lyra did show up for work today, she was likely to be inundated with clients, probably of the male variety. Last night the men in the Paradise had lined up to take her out onto the dance floor.
A woman who radiated an aura of danger and glamour fascinated a certain kind of man. Those same men would be terrified by the prospect of marrying such a woman, of course. But the possibility of going to bed with one would be an irresistible challenge to a lot of males who assumed that an affair with a fast woman came with no strings attached.
Raina was quite certain that Lyra could handle any man who thought it might be exciting to seduce—or be seduced by—an attractive woman with a killer golf swing. She had been raised in the hothouse of San Francisco’s high society. She had been taught from childhood to navigate the treacherous social waters of that world. She could deal with the male of the species.
The question was whether she would change her mind about her newfound calling. Raina hoped she didn’t. Yesterday I was ready to fire her for her own good, and today I want her to stay.
Lyra might be naïve and inexperienced when it came to the harsh realities of life, but she radiated positive energy the way a light bulb chases off the shadows when you flip the switch. It would be nice to have that sort of energy around the office. Lyra could put the clients at ease. People would open up and talk to her.
There were a number of logical reasons for employing her at Kirk Investigations, but was it the right thing to do? Maybe it would be better to offer Lyra a job as the firm’s secretary. That way she could deal with the clients, but in a much safer capacity.
On the other hand, my last job as a secretary nearly got me killed.
It was a moot question, because Lyra had no secretarial skills. She had not been trained to type or take shorthand. In any event, although she was happy to do anything asked of her, she had made it quite clear she wanted to become a full-fledged investigator.
Raina put down the paper and got to her feet to pour herself a second cup of coffee. For a moment she stood at the kitchen counter, contemplating the bright California dawn.
Luther was right, she decided. She should let Lyra make her own decision.
She went back to the kitchen table and turned the page to read the list of celebrities who had been seen checking into the Burning Cove Hotel. It was always good to know who was in town. Sometimes film stars who wished to have discreet investigations conducted preferred to hire someone who was not connected to the powerful studios. There were no secrets in Hollywood.
Things were different in Burning Cove. The studio fixers had very little power here. If you wanted something hushed up or discreetly buried in this town, you went to Luther Pell or Oliver Ward, the owner of the Burning Cove Hotel.
The phone rang at seven. Raina turned cold. Her palms tingled. No good news ever came over the phone at that hour of the day.
She got to her feet and plucked the receiver off the wall phone.
“Yes?”
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to a ghost, and as was the case with specters, it brought a warning. A body that had been safely buried had come out of the grave and wanted revenge. Raina forced herself to listen carefully.
“I understand,” she said.
The ghost hung up.
A wave of panic slammed through Raina.
Unthinking, driven by force of habit—secretarial training ran deep—she made a note on the small pad of paper that hung on the wall beside the phone. She certainly didn’t need the reminder. The ghost’s instructions were seared into her consciousness. But seeing the words written down made her realize she was not in the middle of an old nightmare. She was wide awake, and this was real.
She took a deep breath and fought back the wave of terror that threatened to choke her. She would not run, not this time. But one thing was blazingly clear. She could not put everyone she cared about in Burning Cove in danger. This threat came from her past. She would deal with it.