Page 8 of Christmas Harbor Secrets
Torres again,in the flash of her jaw.You can wait if you want,she’d said. And he had. A moment that left his partner vulnerable. A moment when the world exploded sideways with a spray of bullets and disbelief. He blinked the memory away until the edges dulled.
“Fine, but the second I find a buyer, you’re gone,” he said. “In the meantime, you don’t open anything you didn’t close. We double up on lines.”
“We?”
Darn if he hadn’t said that aloud. Inserting himself into the hero role before he knew what he was doing. Torres had been right; he couldn’t help himself. But he needed to because his hero complex only got people killed. “Shade’s people don’t have patience.”
“His people,” she repeated, voice hollowing just a little like the words were stepping on her throat. “You talk like you knew him.”
“I knew the wake he left.” Rone angled his head toward the starboard cabinet with files spilling out. “And I know how to read a boat that’s been staged for a message.”
Isobel looked at Echo, then back at the ornament dangling from the wheel. Its red glass swung in a lazy arc, tapping thehelm with a patienttick. The sound felt louder now that they were quiet.
“Fine,” she said at last. “In exchange, no more condescendingsell it to metricks.”
He would’ve told her he wasn’t trying to con her. He would’ve told her he was trying to keep her alive. He didn’t bother. Men who said that sounded like liars, even when they weren’t.
“Deal,” he said. “Long enough for me to find a buyer. Then you’re gone.”
“Like the wind.” She laughed.
He wanted to tell her this wasn’t a laughing matter, but if he was honest, he liked the way she smiled like the world wasn’t falling apart around them. And the one thing he’d never do is tell her he suspected her father wasn’t dead but captive. Captive by people who would make him wish he were dead.
CHAPTER THREE
Al greetedher the moment Isobel stepped into the front office, his voice a mix of gravel and good humor. “Enjoying the boat? She’s a fine vessel, if you don’t mind her moods. Kinda like my ex-wife—pretty, but temperamental.”
“I guess. Haven’t really settled in yet. Can I get the mailing address? I had an accident with my suitcase, and I need clothes.”
“Heard about that.”
“You did?”
“People talk ‘round here. They gossip faster than an old ladies’ knitting circle.” He slid a paper across the counter.
He handed her a pen. “You can borrow my broken pen.”
She thought to ask why she’d want a broken one but then saw it was a pen with a bend in it for some salesy reason. For the first time since arriving, a small laugh escaped her.
Al’s eyes brightened at the sound. “See? Already improving the atmosphere in here.”
She shook her head, smiling faintly as she wrote down the information Al gave. The simple kindness, the easy humor—itwas such a brief, ordinary thing, but she savored it like a sip of water after too long in the heat.
After Al dictated the address and she had it written down, he came around the counter. “Come on, I’ll walk you out. You should meet our resident statue down on the dock.”
“Statue?”
“Big fella. Broods for a living. Moves every once in a while to prove he’s not made of stone.”
They stepped outside, the warm air wrapping around her like damp cloth. Down by the main dock stood Rone—arms crossed, shoulders tight, his gaze somewhere far beyond the waterline.
Al tilted his head toward him. “See? Told you. He’s got that‘I wrestle my demons before breakfast’look. Classic case.”
Isobel smothered a smile. “You’re terrible.”
“Only on weekdays.” He tipped his cap. “Welcome to the marina. Holler if you need anything—or just want someone to entertain you.”
When she reached her boat again, Rone was already there, leaning against the railing like he’d been waiting.
