Falling back in love with his ex may be more dangerous than being trapped on an island…

Brenna Coleman’s past has caught up to her on the island of St. Sebastian…and she’s not happy to see him. FBI agent Casey McBride has a job to do, and he won’t let feelings for his ex-fiancée foil his mission. While investigating the activities of Marcus Bradley—a powerful billionaire commissioning a series of Brenna’s paintings—Casey discovers the island’s darkest atrocity. With Brenna at his side, he can’t ignore the love they once felt—and still feel—for one another. But as Casey keeps close watch on Brenna, one question remains uncertain: Who is keeping close watch on them?

She lifted her chin, meaning to ask him to back off. Mistake.

He was looking down at her, his probing eyes meeting her own gaze with such intensity that she caught her breath.

Green eyes. He had green eyes capable of registering a range of moods—humor, softness and, when they narrowed, a kind of tough, cold anger that could be dangerous. Could make a woman shiver. She had always been able to read those moods. But that had been then. Now she wasn’t at all sure.

Managing to breathe again, she asked him curtly, “What?”

He didn’t answer her. He simply kept staring.

“Casey, go away, will you? This commission is much too important to me to risk you screwing it up by your hanging around me like this.”

He didn’t move.

Voice shaky now, his presence unnerving her, she pleaded softly, “Please, just leave.”

Dear Reader,

I have to confess I have a love affair with the islands of the Caribbean and their people. I’ve been fortunate to travel to that area on several occasions. Each time I was able to visit different islands. No two are alike as far as looks, history and culture. The one thing they have in common is the fabulous colors, which are a joy to experience.

I knew early on that I wanted one day to set a Harlequin Romantic Suspense book in the Caribbean, but nothing seemed to strike the right chord. That all changed some months back when I met the feisty Brenna Coleman and the man from her past, Casey McBride. These two battling characters involved me in an incredible mystery on the island of St. Sebastian. Before you read on, I must tell you that St. Sebastian is not a place you can find on any map, but it does combine the best elements of the Caribbean. That being said, I’ll leave you here and let Brenna and Casey take you along with them for all the rest.

Jean Thomas

Lethal

Affair

Jean Thomas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JEAN THOMAS

aka Jean Barrett, lives in Wisconsin in an English-style cottage on a Lake Michigan shore bluff. The view from her office window would be a magnificent one if it weren’t blocked by a big fat computer that keeps demanding her attention.

This author of twenty-six romances was a teacher before she left the classroom to write full-time. A longtime member of Romance Writers of America, Jean is a proud winner of three national awards and has appeared on several bestseller lists. When she isn’t at the keyboard, she likes to take long walks that churn up new story ideas or work in the garden, which never seems to churn up anything but dirt. Of course, there are always books to be read. Romantic suspense stories are her favorite. No surprise there. Visit Jean at jeanthomas-author.com.

MILLS & BOON

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To my brother-in-law, Lonnie Stellpflug. Here’s the book I promised you, Lonnie. I’m sorry it’s not one of the Westerns you love so much, but it has as much adventure and emotion as a stirring Western. Enjoy.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Extract

Prologue

Casey couldn’t imagine what Will Coleman wanted to see him about. It had been—what? Almost two years when they’d last met? Not since... Well, no point in going there. It was enough to remember their encounter had been an awkward one. Understandable, considering the circumstances.

That was why Casey had been so surprised when Will called him this morning, asking for this meeting. Surprised and curious, too. He could swear there’d been a kind of urgency in Will’s tone. And something else. A note of mystery, which Will had refused to explain over the phone.

It was this that had won Casey’s consent to leave the warmth of his apartment on an afternoon like this one. Mystery being in essence his business.

No one could say Casey McBride didn’t love Chicago. But, hell, this was April. The weather should have been kind. Not like this, with snowflakes slashing through the air, driven by a mean wind sweeping down Rush Street.

He’d had to park a block away. A long block at that. Or so it seemed as, coat collar up around his ears, he finally battled his way to the door of Digger’s Sports Bar.

Ah, shelter at last, Casey thought.

He stood inside the entrance, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes to rid himself of the tears the wind had provoked. It gave him a moment to adjust his vision to the dimness of the place.

Digger’s was the traditional sports bar. Big screen TVs located in several strategic spots. The upper portions of its walls hung with assorted jerseys. The lower halves devoted to signed photographs of players on Chicago teams—the Bears, Bulls, Blackhawks and Casey’s favorite, the Cubs.

He located Will’s lanky figure standing next to a booth at the far end of the room, signaling to him with a raised hand. Will could have had just about any one of the booths, since this wasn’t the Happy Hour for the newspaper crowd who frequented Digger’s. Casey could only guess that Will, himself a sports writer for the Tribune, had chosen both the time and the rear booth as ideal for a private meeting.

Casey joined Will. The two men shook hands.

“Thanks for coming, Case. I appreciate it, especially when...well, you know.”

“Water under the bridge, man.” It wasn’t, but why make the poor guy uncomfortable for something that hadn’t been his fault?

Peeling off his coat and dumping it into a corner of the booth, Casey slid himself in beside it. Will settled himself across from him. The server rounded the end of the bar and approached their table. Both men ordered draft beers.

Will was silent until the beers were delivered and the server retreated. Casey waited, pretending to be patient. Only when they were alone again did Will, leaning forward, speak.

“Sorry to be so secretive like this, Case, but word has a way of getting around when it’s about someone so well-known in the city. And I’d rather it didn’t.”

There was an earnest tone in Will’s voice, a solemn expression on his face. Didn’t necessarily mean anything. Will had the kind of long, thin face that looked serious whatever his mood.

Casey paused long enough to sample his beer, deciding he hadn’t tasted any better. Unless he counted a hot summer afternoon at Wrigley Field watching his beloved Cubs. “So, who are we talking about here?”

“Marcus Bradley. You familiar with the name?”

“I’d have to be living under a manhole cover not to be. Chicago billionaire who made his major bucks in electronics, right?”

“That’s the one.”

“Okay, what about him?”

Will paused, sucking in what looked like a long breath to nerve himself before answering him. “Brenna is involved with him.”

Casey used his beer to collect himself, sipping at it slowly. Will had yet to touch his own mug. He was watching Casey, waiting for his reaction. He was going to be disappointed if he thought his news was going to matter to him.

“In case you’ve forgotten, Will, your sister and I stopped being interested in each other a long time ago.” It was what he had convinced himself, anyway, although from time to time he’d had to remind himself of that.

“I’m worried about her, Case.”

That was no surprise. With their parents gone, and no other close relatives that Casey knew about, the two of them had always been tight. Only Will had had a habit of being just a bit too overly protective of Brenna. It seemed like that hadn’t changed.

“Why? Why should you be worried? From what I’ve heard, Marcus Bradley is not only rich but handsome, currently single and well liked. Aside from an age difference—he’s in his late fifties, though that doesn’t seem to matter these days—I’d say he’s a match for a woman who knows her own mind. And Brenna,” he added dryly, “always knew her own mind.”

No jealousy here, McBride, he tried to convince himself. You’re no longer entitled to it.

“Thing is, Brenna insists they’re not involved romantically. That Bradley is only interested in her art.”

“Well, then.”

Will shook his head. “I don’t trust the guy. Okay, so he’s suave and charming, if you like the type, but there’s something not genuine about him. Something that isn’t quite right.”

“Will, why did you ask me here? If it’s just to complain about Marcus Bradley—”

“No, it’s more than that. See, Bradley has this vacation home on St. Sebastian. You know the place?”

“Not really. An island in the Caribbean, isn’t it?”

Will nodded. “He’s building a luxury resort there.”

“And?”

“Brenna is there with him now. She’s supposed to be producing a series of paintings, island scenes for this resort.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m uneasy about her being there. I tried to talk her out of going, but she wouldn’t listen. Said I was being ridiculous about something perfectly innocent and legitimate.”

“Maybe you are.”

“That was then. But since she left, I had the chance to talk to one of the investigative reporters in the newsroom of the Trib. I’d heard he was interested in Bradley.”

“What did you learn?”

“That Bradley is a respected philanthropist.”

“And that’s a reason for you to be concerned?”

“No, of course not, except my reporter hinted there’ve been rumors of, as he put it, ‘less virtuous activities.’”

“Like what?”

“He wouldn’t say, other than they were nothing he was able to pin down that would warrant a story his editor would risk a lawsuit for. But...”

“You’re still uneasy.”

“Yeah, I keep having this feeling I can’t shake. Like there’s something wrong about the whole setup with Bradley. Like he has an agenda he didn’t share with Brenna.”

“Sounds like you have an agenda of your own. And maybe I’m it.” Fearing he already knew the explanation, Casey hunched forward, demanding sharply, “Just why am I here, Will?”

“I need you, Case. I need what you are, a special ops FBI agent with all the skills required to protect the sister who means everything to me. If something is wrong, if she should end up at risk...”

Casey leaned back, laughing. It was a laugh without mirth. “You want me to go down there to St. Sebastian. You want me to be there for her.”

“You could do it. I know you’re available. I know you’re on temporary suspension from the bureau while a case that you were a part of that went bad is under investigation.”

“How did you learn that? It hasn’t been made public.”

“I have my sources. You forget I’m a reporter myself, even if my news is in the sports section.”

“Yeah, I could do it. Not in any official capacity, naturally. I could visit this island for you and not let myself be concerned that I might be taking a chance on screwing up being cleared at the agency, which I expect to be the outcome of the investigation. I could do it, but I’m not going to.”

“I’d pay all your expenses.”

“That’s not the problem. The problem is Brenna. Do I have to remind you, Will, that I’m no longer engaged to your sister? I haven’t set eyes on her since she gave my ring back to me two years ago.”

“So?”

“So, after the way we broke up, she’d no more welcome my interference than she did yours. Not that I’d let that stop me if I thought she was in trouble. Come on, man, face it. Your suspicions are groundless, the product of your imagination.”

“I take it that’s a refusal.”

“It is. Sorry, Will, but whatever my past feelings for your sister, I have no intention of chasing down to this St. Sebastian to help a woman who doesn’t want or need my help. You’ve got to start remembering that Brenna is intelligent and independent. She can take care of herself if she has to.”

“That your final answer?”

“Afraid so.”

Will got to his feet, placed several bills on the table to cover their drinks and a tip and picked up his coat. “Thanks, anyway, for listening to me, Case.”

Not until he was gone, leaving him sitting there, did Casey realize Will had never touched his beer.

Casey should have been on his way himself, but he remained there in the booth, suddenly feeling lousy for disappointing a man who had once been a close friend.

He caught himself gazing unhappily at the photos on the walls. But it wasn’t any of the sports figures he saw up there. It was the radiant face of Brenna Coleman.

He couldn’t help it. Against his better judgment, much against it, he found himself reliving memories of the long, intimate months they had shared. There was one sizzling evening in particular Casey would never forget. It was the first time they had made love.

He had driven them in his convertible that wet summer night to one of the less popular Lake Michigan beaches, parking in a deserted spot looking out at the dark waters.

“You ever come down here with a boyfriend when you were in high school to watch the submarine races?” he’d teased her with that old euphemism for making out at the beach.

Brenna pretended she hadn’t, innocently asking him to explain what couldn’t be possible. He’d enlightened her without words, tangling his hands in her silky hair to draw her into his arms where he’d covered her lush mouth with his own.

Her responses to his deep, lusty kisses had convinced him this wasn’t the first time she had experienced those submarine races at the beach. In the end, like a couple of hormonal teenagers instead of the adults they were, they’d climbed eagerly into the back of the convertible. Thanks to the weatherman on channel nine, he’d raised the top earlier, so they were private enough while, between kisses, they tore at each other’s clothes.

It wasn’t the most comfortable arrangement trying to fit their naked bodies together on that seat, but it was one hell of a memorable one. He could still feel Brenna’s arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, still taste her tongue on his, still hear her whimpers of pleasure as the rain pinged softly on the roof.

The possibility of some police cruiser coming along to catch them made it all the more exciting. Maybe that was why their climaxes had been so cataclysmic.

Sitting there in the booth, Casey felt himself growing aroused just thinking about that night. Damn, he didn’t want this.

He dragged his cell phone out of his back pocket. He hesitated only briefly before, his mind made up, he dialed the number of another FBI agent at the Chicago division of the bureau over on Roosevelt Road. To his satisfaction, Ken Boynton, a trusted buddy, was at his desk and picked up immediately.

“What’s up?” Boynton asked after Casey had identified himself.

“Hey, Kenny, I need a favor. I’d like you to check and tell me if there’s anything on the bureau’s radar about Marcus Bradley.”

“The Marcus Bradley?”

“That’s the one.”

“Jeez, Casey, you don’t ask much. You know the records are classified, and with you on suspension...”

“Who’s going to know if you don’t tell them?”

There was an audible sigh from the other end followed by a reluctant “All right, hold on while I look.”

Casey heard the tapping of keys as Ken called up the files on his computer. He waited patiently until the agent reported back.

“Okay, here it is.”

What Casey listened to wasn’t much, but it was enough. Just enough to convince him, after he thanked Ken and hung up, that he needed a holiday in the sun.

Chapter 1

Brenna gazed out across the bay, frowning at the scene. It wasn’t the narrow, palm-studded spur of land giving her trouble. That she had already managed without difficulty.

As she always did, she’d chosen her subject with care, convinced that, simple though it was, it would make a highly effective painting. The colors were the problem.

Without question, the waters of the Caribbean were the most gorgeous she had ever experienced, ranging from a rich aquamarine to a deep, inky blue. But to capture these incredible colors on canvas and make them believable...well, this was what eluded her.

Come on, you can conquer them, she reminded herself.

With that stubborn self-promise firmly in mind, Brenna swung her attention away from the view, prepared to mix the pigments she needed on her palette. Along with her brushes and tubes of oil paint, the palette rested on the wide tray attached to her easel.

She was reaching for it when, out of the corner of her eye, she discovered something moving off to her left, ambling in her direction along the volcanic black sand beach. A tall, barefoot figure wearing a pair of snug white pants rolled to mid-calf and a matching white shirt carelessly open down to his waist.

There was something distinctly familiar about that long-legged, easy gait. It couldn’t be him. Not here on St. Sebastian.

But there was no denying his identity when he neared her, sporting that big, goofy grin on his bold mouth. A mouth whose sensual talents she was incapable of forgetting. Casey McBride.

Brenna never wore sunglasses when she was out on location. She felt they interfered with the truth of her painting. That was why it was necessary for her to squint her eyes against the brilliance of the tropic sun as she watched him approach her.

He did wear sunglasses, whipping them off when he reached her. Without any greeting, he leaned over the easel to inspect her painting in progress. That left Brenna free to examine him.

He hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d parted. Casey was still the rugged figure he’d always been with that angular, good-looking face. And, much to her disgust, he still had the power to set her pulses racing with his mere appearance.

Careful. You can’t let him know that. He’ll take advantage of you if you do.

Nodding, he placed a stamp of approval on the painting with a brief “Nice.”

“Thank you. Now would you like to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

He turned to face her. “That isn’t a very friendly welcome.”

“I didn’t intend it to be. Do I get an answer?”

His only reply was to keep on looking at her, still wearing that stupid grin. All right, it wasn’t stupid. It was sexy. So, somehow, were the beads of perspiration on his powerful, bare chest. At least the portion his open shirt revealed. The sun, after all, was hot.

“Never mind explaining. I can guess. Will sent you, didn’t he?”

“Could be.”

“You know he did. What I can’t figure out is how you found me in this particular spot.”

“Now, see, I just happen to be renting one of the cottages back there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction he had come from where she could see a palm-thatched roof peeking out from the trees. Below the roof was a deck projecting over the beach.

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, and I was out on the deck taking in the view—great, isn’t it?—when I spotted this woman working at her easel. ‘Could that be Brenna Coleman?’ I asked myself.”

“And what did you answer yourself?”

“Didn’t. I had to kick off my shoes—you know how I love to go barefoot—and go out on the beach for a better look-see.”

“Naturally.”

“Well, then I knew for sure. Who else, with that copper-colored hair blowing in the wind, could it be but Brenna herself? Lucky coincidence, huh?”

“Very,” she said dryly.

She knew it was no accident, his discovering her like this. Casey had always specialized in locating the targets the FBI assigned him. She could have pursued it, but she didn’t. It didn’t matter, because she had a more important challenge for him.

“Let’s cut the games, McBride. Exactly what did my brother have to say to convince you to come after me?”

“Not much. Hey, it’s still cold back in Chicago, and being in the mood for a vacation in a warm place—”

“I’ve never known you to take a vacation.”

“Kind of forced on me. I’m on suspension from the bureau.”

Knowing how dedicated he was to his work, she realized how hard this had to be for him. “I’m sorry, Casey. What happened?”

“Long story. Why don’t we save it for another time? Anyway, the island here sounded just about right. ‘That’s great,’ Will said. ‘While you’re there and if you have the chance, you can check in on Brenna.’”

“He said that, did he?”

“More or less.”

“No, he didn’t. I’ll tell you what he said. He said, ‘Gee, Casey, would you mind watching over my sister for me? I don’t like the company she’s keeping.’”

“He didn’t put it exactly like that. But, okay, close enough. He’s concerned about you, Brenna, and maybe he has reason to be.”

“What reason?”

“This is for your ears only. Something I wouldn’t tell you if you didn’t need to be aware of it. Happens that your friend, Marcus Bradley, is a member of a cabal of elitists, a group suspicious enough that the FBI is keeping an eye on them.”

Brenna blew out the breath she’d been holding with a sound of exasperation. “You’re as bad as Will. Like I told him, and I’m telling you, there are always rumors about the very rich. And in this case, FBI or not, they’re crazy rumors. Marcus is not only a friend, he’s a generous benefactor. Along with his other charitable projects, he’s building a resort here on St. Sebastian in order to bring much-needed revenue and jobs to the island’s poor.”

“Heard that. Good for him. Meanwhile, you’re staying with him in his villa. Cozy.”

She was close, very close to snatching up a brush, dipping it in fresh paint and swiping it across his nose. “You’ve been investigating me, Agent McBride, and I don’t like it. You don’t deserve to know it, but I’m not staying in the villa. I’m staying in the guesthouse.”

“That so?”

“Yes. Furthermore, whatever my connection with Marcus, it’s not your business or Will’s. Nor do I need you or anyone else playing watchdog.”

“Got it. But, uh, would you mind telling me something?”

“Like what?”

Casey jerked that strong, square chin of his in the direction of the road a few hundred feet off the beach. A late-model Jaguar sedan was parked there in the shade of a banyan tree. Its driver, leaning against the car as he smoked a cigarette, was eyeing them.

“What do you call him, Brenna, if not a watchdog? Guy seems real interested in us. He belong to you?”

“That’s Julio, and all he’s doing is passing the time waiting for me. He works for Marcus, who asked him to drive me around the island so I could paint the scenes he wants when his resort is finished. He’s not a watchdog.”

Brenna’s attention had been fixed on Julio and the car. When she turned back to face Casey, she found him standing close to her. So close she could feel the heat of his hard body.

She lifted her chin, meaning to ask him to back off. Mistake. He was looking down at her, his probing eyes meeting her own gaze with such intensity that she caught her breath.

Green eyes. He had green eyes capable of registering a range of moods—humor, softness and, when they narrowed, a kind of tough, cold anger that could be dangerous. Could make a woman shiver. She had always been able to read those moods. But that had been then. Now she wasn’t at all sure.

And something else. Casey’s right eyelid drooped a little. A sexy, bedroom kind of thing that never failed to fascinate women.

Managing to breathe again, she asked him curtly, “What?”

He didn’t answer her. He simply kept staring.

“Casey, go away, will you? This commission is much too important to me to risk you screwing it up by your hanging around me like this.”

He didn’t move.

Voice shaky now, his presence unnerving her, she pleaded softly, “Please, just leave.”

To her relief, he backed away from her silently. Only when he was a safe distance away did he speak.

“If you should get into any trouble, Brenna, and need me, I’ll be here for you.”

How was she supposed to reply to that? She didn’t know, not with that sober tone in his voice, the equally sober look now on his face. He waited for a few seconds, but when she had no response for him, he turned and started to walk away.

Brenna found herself seized by a sudden, unexpected guilt. The same guilt she had suffered two years ago. Until now, she’d been able to convince herself she’d overcome that guilt, successfully put it behind her. Apparently not.

She couldn’t prevent herself from calling after him. “Casey, wait.”

He turned back, his dark eyebrows raised questioningly.

Even though she had expressed it at the time, she felt the need to tell him again. “I—I’m sorry I hurt you when I broke our engagement,” she told him quietly. “But I hurt, too, Casey. I hurt, too.”

“I know,” he said, his voice deep, husky.

And that was all. His hand lifting in parting, he turned again and moved back up the beach the way he had come. He left her with the forlorn, unwanted memories of what they had once shared. The love he had lavished on her both physically and emotionally, and what it had cost her to sacrifice them.

She went on gazing after his striking figure, damning him for reawakening all those potent feelings. Angry with herself, too, for her weakness, for still finding herself attracted to him.

Enough of this.

Facing her easel again, she considered the painting on it. It seemed to look back at her, demanding her renewed attention. Brenna complied, picking up a brush and her palette, prepared to attack the canvas. This time with a fierceness determined to shut out the image of Casey McBride.

* * *

The sprawling villa, Moorish in style, was perched on an elevated point of land overlooking the sea on one side. Stretched below on the other side were the winking lights of Georgetown, St. Sebastian’s capital and only city.

Brenna thought how different the setting here was by day. The stuccoed white walls of the villa glared with pride in the tropic sun. But now, at night, those same walls, with their arches and plastered domes, were subdued into something that resembled a soft, shadowy gray.

She was looking at the lamplit boats bobbing in the harbor that fronted Georgetown when Marcus spoke to her.

“How was your day?” he asked her in that gentle voice that had what she felt was a hypnotic quality to it. “Pleasant, I hope.”

They were having a late dinner on the open terrace. The perfect meal consisted, among other dishes, of pepper pot soup, an island favorite, and freshly caught, baked grouper.

“It was,” she said, meeting his gaze across the candles that glowed in their hurricane globes on the table.

His hair gleamed in that same light. Pure silver hair, without a touch of any other color in it, framed his patrician face. Brenna supposed most people would describe that face as distinguished. It certainly reflected the breeding of an impressive ancestry. And even in his late fifties as he was, with some noticeable lines, Marcus Bradley could be called handsome.

His blue eyes, however, had the clarity of a much younger man’s. Observant eyes that, at the moment, were watching her with a sharpness that made her slightly uncomfortable. Made her turn the direction of the conversation to a subject that would distract him from what she was beginning to suspect was an interest in her that was more personal than just her art.

“So how was your day?” she inquired brightly. “You were going to spend it at the resort’s building site, weren’t you?”

“I was and did. It’s coming along, although like most large building projects, it has its problems.”

“Oh? What are they?”

“Nothing that you’d find particularly interesting, I’m afraid.”

She knew how invested he was in his resort, both financially and emotionally, and she wanted to keep him discussing it now. “I’d love to see the place, Marcus.”

“I’ll have to take you there sometime, but right now it’s in a pretty rough state for any touring. Let’s get back to your own day. How is the painting coming?”

Her effort had failed. “I think you’ll like the scene I’m working on when it’s finished. It’s still in a rough state, too. Traditional, of course, but that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes. A seascape, I believe?”

“Basically. On location from one of the beaches.”

“I see.”

The blue eyes continued to search her as she briefly described the scene for him. This was growing awkward. She had the distinct feeling he knew she was withholding something from him, and that he also knew what that something was.

Marcus nodded slowly when she was finished. Then, stabbing a forkful of fish, he said smoothly, casually, “I hear you had a visitor on the beach.”

Casey. He’d learned about Casey. There could only be one source of information for that. Julio had reported it to him. Brenna had insisted the driver was not a watchdog when Casey implied he was just that. But now she wasn’t so certain that Julio’s employer hadn’t planted him to specifically spy on her.

“Just a tourist wandering by and stopping to look at what I was painting,” she said with what she hoped was a believable, innocent explanation. “I’m used to it. It’s a common occurrence when artists are painting on location.”

Brenna regretted the necessity of her lie, but she was afraid that Marcus wouldn’t appreciate learning the FBI agent she’d once been engaged to had turned up on the island. To her relief, he seemed to accept her explanation.

Placing his fork on his plate, he leaned toward her. “You mustn’t mind your driver looking out for you,” he said mildly. “I’m afraid there’s no shortage of crime on islands like St. Sebastian where there’s so much poverty.”

“I understand.” She found another, safer topic. “If you keep on feeding me like this, Marcus, I’m not going to fit into any of my clothes when I get back to Chicago.”

“Gilda is a marvelous cook,” he conceded.

Gilda, she knew, was his housekeeper here, as well as Julio’s wife.

“Are you ready for coffee yet?”

“If you don’t mind,” Brenna told her host after dinner, “I’m going to call it an early night.”

“Not a bad idea. I’m ready to turn in myself. We’ve both had a long day.”

“I’ll leave you here then,” she said, rising from the table.

“Why don’t I walk you back to the guesthouse before you leave?”

“That isn’t necessary, Marcus.”

“I insist,” he said, rounding the table to join her.

The guesthouse was behind the villa and the paved walkway to it was well lit. There was no reason for him to escort her. Brenna felt like she was being guarded, maybe a bit too closely, and she didn’t like the idea. But she didn’t feel she could afford to object, either to his company on the walk or his good-night kiss on her cheek when he left her at her door.

He’s paying you a lot of money for those paintings. What are you going to do? Risk offending him?

There was more to it than that, she reminded herself after letting herself into her quarters. How could she forget all he’d done for her back in Chicago? Not only buying two of her pictures when they met at the art gallery that held her first showing but broadcasting her talent to his wealthy friends, making possible the success she was now enjoying.

A lot to be grateful for.

Except Marcus Bradley wasn’t the first individual to admire her work. Casey was responsible for that.

Much as she might have wanted to, Brenna was unable to prevent herself from remembering their first meeting as she went around turning on the lights in the elegantly furnished suite she was occupying.

She’d been working in an art supply store at the time. Casey had strolled into the place to buy a set of paints and brushes for his nephew’s birthday. That first sight of him—hard body, tousled, dark brown hair—had been like experiencing heat lightning.

The store had permitted her to display a few of her paintings. She was wrapping Casey’s purchase when he called out, “Hey, who did this?”

She looked up to find him, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his jeans, gazing at her painting of the Chicago skyline with storm clouds gathering behind it.

“I did,” she answered.

“And these others?”

“I’m guilty of those, too.”

“They’re good. Damn good.”

His compliment had lit a warm glow inside her. As compelling as the man himself. And that’s how it had begun for them. With that stormy painting.

Speaking of which—

She crossed the sitting room to check on today’s painting where it rested on the easel in the corner, making sure it was drying properly.

She was getting ready for bed when her cell phone chimed, startling her. Who on earth—

It needed only the few seconds she took to pluck the phone out of her bag to guess who it was.

She answered the call with an irritated “Casey, how did you get this number?”

“From Will, of course, before I left home. I needed to be sure I could contact you down here. He said you had a GSM cell. Me, too.”

Brenna knew that, overseas like this, they would not have been able to connect otherwise.

“You’ll need to take down my own number.”

“Why?”

“To reach me if you need me. Why else?”

“Casey, I’m not going to need you.”

“Just do it, will you?”

It was easier not to argue with him. “Fine,” she sighed, finding paper and pencil on the desk where her bag lay. “What is it?”

He relayed the number to her.

“Happy now?” she asked him after jotting the number down.

“Reasonably so. How are you doing? Okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just wanted to check.”

“Don’t.” What was it with these two guys, Marcus and now Casey, determined to watch over her? “Look, I’m going to hang up now. I was just headed for bed when you called.”

They exchanged good-nights. Minutes later, after turning off all the lights in the suite, Brenna crawled into bed. She expected to be asleep within seconds of laying her head on the pillow. It didn’t work that way.

Casey kept her awake. She couldn’t seem to rid herself of the image of him that rose in the dark and stayed there.

It was as if that strong, forceful body was actually in the room with her, standing over her, wearing the same wounded look on his face he had worn the day she’d given his ring back to him.

But she didn’t want to go there again. Hadn’t she already suffered enough torment for weeks after? She had, yes, and in the end managed to survive it, too.

She didn’t deserve to fight that battle all over, spend a sleepless night being haunted by Casey McBride. And she didn’t. She finally willed herself into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Uninterrupted, that is, until what must have been hours later when she came awake with a restless inability to understand why. It took her a few minutes to realize she could no longer hear the peaceful hum of the air conditioner.

Brenna had learned that, in the deep hours of the night, the tropical heat of the day, even a steamy heat, was known to cool down to a degree that was downright chilly. Had to be the reason why the thermostat had shut down the air conditioner. It was no longer needed.

The temperature of the bedroom was comfortable enough without it, but the air in here felt stuffy now. She had to open a window.

She didn’t bother turning on a lamp. It wasn’t necessary. The security lights outside that bathed the property provided enough illumination through the blinds to guide her from the bed to the nearest window. Lifting the sash, she knelt on the carpet to breathe in the fresh air.

A breeze off the land not only cooled her face, it carried with it the wonderful scents of the spices that were grown on the island. Then, suddenly, she caught a whiff of something less pleasant. The odor of a cigarette. It had to be close by for her to smell it like this.

Peering through the slats of the blind she hadn’t bothered to raise, Brenna was able to immediately detect the source of the smoke. Julio was out there, a burning cigarette in hand as he paced along the path that circled the guesthouse.

This was no casual, midnight walk. His gait was too purposeful, too deliberate for that. Marcus must have ordered him to patrol her quarters. There was something else. He’d paused to crush his cigarette on the ground. Even in the shadows, the glow from the security light mounted overhead was sufficient enough for her to read his face.

There was no other word to describe his expression. Sinister.

She didn’t like it. Didn’t like that look on his face. Didn’t like Julio being out there. Didn’t like his keeping watch on her, because that’s what it was.

Could Casey be right? Was she making herself vulnerable to some unknown, potential danger just by being here at the villa?

* * *

Casey couldn’t sleep. He was concerned about Brenna, convinced that Marcus Bradley was an unpredictable presence in her life. This was why he was here on the deck, listening to the waves crashing on the beach, instead of in his bed.

He could tell the tide was coming in. There was no moon, but he could see a luminescence like foxfire on the crests of the waves, marking their position.

He had to be honest with himself. There was something more than just Bradley troubling him.

It was the memories of Brenna and him and why their affair had gone wrong. He had no business revisiting those memories, but he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t stop himself from placing the blame for their breakup where it belonged. With himself.

And there it is, McBride. The self-accusation you deserve.

Because hadn’t he known from the beginning that persuading her to marry him was a mistake? Brenna had made no secret of her fear for his safety. She’d been raised on it by a mother who’d lost her husband, a Chicago fireman who’d died in a warehouse blaze.

“It devastated her, Casey,” Brenna had confided to him. “It killed her in the end. Mom just seemed to fade away on Will and me.”

Casey had sympathized with their loss, but he hadn’t seriously listened to Brenna’s argument that his work as an FBI agent was every bit as dangerous, perhaps even more so than that of a fireman. She had made repeated efforts during the course of their engagement to talk him into leaving the field and taking a safe desk job at the bureau.

But he knew that wasn’t for him. He craved the adventure out there.

It might have turned out all right if, on assignment in the Mideast to rescue an officer from the American embassy captured by terrorists, he hadn’t been caught and held himself. The FBI was unable to tell Brenna during those long, nightmare weeks whether he was alive or dead.

In the end, a release for both the officer and Casey had been negotiated, but it was too late for Brenna and him.

“I can’t take it anymore, Casey. I love you, but I can’t live with the fear of losing a husband. I just can’t. It’s easier to live with the heartache of letting you go.”

That’s when Brenna had returned his ring to him. When his bitterness had followed. In time he had overcome that bitterness, but he’d never been able to forget her or what they had shared.

And now here they were, thrown together again.

Oh, hell, was this going to turn out to be another bad mistake?

He looked up at the stars overhead, brilliant in the night sky, and realized he had no answer for himself.

Chapter 2

The first thing Brenna did when she emerged from the guesthouse the next morning, besides noting that it was going to be another clear, beautiful day, was to deliberately seek out Julio. Providing, that is, he wasn’t asleep in his bed after patrolling her quarters all night.

She found him near the garage, where he was washing the Jaguar in the driveway. He looked much too alert to have spent the entire night without sleep. She decided he’d either deserted his post at some point or been replaced by another member of the staff at the villa. For all she knew, Marcus had a whole army of them working in shifts to guard her around the clock.

Or maybe, thanks to Casey’s paranoia on the subject of Marcus, she was simply letting her imagination run wild.

As it must have last night, she thought, when she had sworn the expression on Julio’s face was a grim, sinister one. His was nothing remotely like that this morning. He was all harmless smiles, greeting her with a cheerful, “Good morning, miss. I will have the car ready for you after breakfast.”

She returned the greeting, adding a careless “Thank you, Julio, but I won’t need you to drive me anywhere.”

“You are not doing the painting today?”

“Not today, no. I’m planning on walking down to town, where I’ll probably spend most of the day scouting subjects for possible paintings at some other time. There are a lot of interesting colonial buildings in the city, as well as some fascinating stuff along the harbor, don’t you think?”

He looked alarmed at her intention. “There are certain quarters in Georgetown that are not safe, miss.”

“Well, I won’t be going anywhere near those.”

“But you will let me go with you.”

And have her feel all day like she was a prisoner, like she did last night? Not a chance.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll be fine on my own,” she insisted. “It isn’t far to town, and with its being downhill all the way, it should be a pleasant stroll.”

“But if you should be tired when you are ready to come back...”

“Then I’ll just grab a taxi,” she assured him brightly, hoping he understood that, behind the brightness, was a stubborn determination that would permit no further opposition.

Brenna could feel him gazing after her unhappily when she left him and headed toward the villa.

Too bad. Because, like it or not, my friend, I mean to be free of you, at least for today and maybe all the other days I’m here on the island. And you can just report that to your employer and see where it gets you.

Breakfast was waiting for her on the terrace. Marcus was not.

Brenna must have looked puzzled by his absence, because the round-faced, plump housekeeper who was clearing his place at the table informed her, “If you are looking for Mr. Bradley, miss, I am sorry to tell you he has already gone to the place of the building of the resort. He is to meet the architect there at an early hour, you understand.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Gilda. I didn’t need to see him for anything.”

Actually, Brenna was relieved that Marcus wasn’t here. He would have wanted to know what her plans were for the day, and she didn’t want to have to lie to him again. He would learn eventually, anyway, from Julio that she’d insisted on going off on her own.

Well, what of it? She was not going to have any of them trying to control her, and that included Casey.

“What can I get you for the breakfast, miss?”

“I’ll just have coffee and one of the muffins from the basket there. They look delicious, Gilda. And maybe a glass of juice, too. Whatever you have.”

The housekeeper brought her a small pitcher of fresh papaya juice and while Brenna drank it and ate her muffin she consulted the guidebook for St. Sebastian she’d bought for herself the morning of her arrival on the island.

What she ought to be doing today, Brenna thought with a guilty sigh, was going back to the beach to finish yesterday’s work. But that would have meant Julio transporting both her and all her gear, as well as the possibility of running into Casey again.

And what she wanted, and meant to have, were several hours to herself. Not that she was going to ignore her obligation to Marcus. Which was why, when she set off on foot for Georgetown below, she went equipped with a tote bag containing her camera, sketchbook and the guidebook.

Brenna hadn’t lied to Julio when she’d told him she meant to scout out subjects for future paintings. What she’d omitted, however, was her plan to save those interesting colonial buildings for another occasion. This time the camera and the sketchbook were going to record another destination.

There was no shortage of taxis in the busy streets of the city, most of them used American cars that had seen better days. But any one of them was sufficient for her purpose. She had no trouble hailing a cab.

“The airport, please,” she directed the local driver, who flashed her an enormous grin with teeth so white they were blinding. His speed at the wheel was less pleasing, making her immensely grateful the airport was only a few miles from town.

Brenna was vastly relieved when he managed to drop her safely at the front of the terminal before racing off again to find a new fare. Entering the building, she made her way to the desk of St. Sebastian’s only car rental agency.

The young woman behind the counter greeted her with a wide smile and a kindly “Help you, miss?”

“Yes, please. I’d like to rent a car. Whatever you have that would be easy for me to manage.”

The cheerful smile of the attendant vanished, replaced by a regretful shake of her head. “I am much sorry, miss, but there is no car for me to check out, only ones for me to check in. Which,” she added, “is not yet happening this morning.”

“Are you telling me there’s nothing at all available? Not even for the day?”

“Sadly, our fleet of rentals is not a large one, and the last of them was claimed an hour or so ago. But, miss, if you would like to leave me your name and a phone number...”

Brenna decided against that measure. It could mean waiting for who knew how long, wasting her time hoping for a rental car to be returned.

Cabs were plentiful at the airport. It looked like her only disappointing choice was to hail one of them to take her back into town. She’d spend the day doing what she’d told Julio she would do, actually scouting painting subjects in the city. That would teach her to be deceptive.

The sunlight when she exited the terminal had her squinting against its intensity. Juggling her purse and tote with her head lowered, she searched for her sunglasses, found them and slid them into place.

The first sight that met her gaze when she looked up was Casey McBride. He leaned against the side of a silver Toyota, muscular arms locked across his chest and wearing a sly smile that said he was pleased with himself.

“All right, how did you find me this time?”

“Nothing complicated. Just cruising around Georgetown, you know, seeing the sights, when I spotted you grabbing the cab.”

“Another lucky coincidence, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

“I’d say it was more like you were waiting for me to turn up, probably watching the villa until I did.”

“Me? Never. How are things at the villa, anyway?”

“Fine.”

She had no intention of mentioning last night and Julio. If Casey got one whiff of that, he would be on her to move out of the guesthouse and relocate elsewhere. No way was she going to jeopardize her career by alienating Marcus with an action like that.

“So, you weren’t playing secret agent, hmm? You just went and tailed my cab in that silver chariot there for—what? The fun of it? Where’d you get it, anyway? Oh, no,” she said, “it was you, wasn’t it, who got the last rental car?”

“Don’t tell me I went and snatched it out from under you? Sorry, but I need transportation.”

“So do I.”

“I thought that was being provided for you. So where is your shadow today?” Casey looked around, as if he expected Julio to be lurking nearby.

“I suppose you could say I gave him the slip. A lot of good it did me, because now it looks like I went and traded one shadow for another one.”

“Yeah, but I’m a much friendlier one.”

He removed his sunglasses, as if to convince her with a full view of his face how harmless he was. It didn’t work. “I’m not so sure of that.”

“Well, let’s say a social one anyway. Didn’t look to me like the driver Bradley assigned you qualified for that.”

“That’s the point. I didn’t want friendly, social or any other kind of accompaniment. This was to be a solitary outing.”

“Feeling crowded, are we? Like maybe too many people sticking too close?”

“I just felt like being on my own today.”

“You could get that by going back to town.”

She hesitated too long. That perceptive mind of his, so valued by the FBI, guessed she was hiding something. “Or could it be that you have some other particular destination in mind?”

Her silence confirmed it for him.

“Tell you what,” he drawled in his faint Kentucky accent, “I’ve got the car and the time. So why don’t you let me drive you there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No?” He lifted those broad shoulders of his in a little shrug. “Of course, there is an alternative. You could always hire a taxi for the day. A cab driver should be impersonal enough for you. Providing, that is, you don’t mind the expense or the reckless speed these guys down here travel on questionable roads.”

“I’ve experienced enough of that already, thank you.”

“There you go then. You either abandon your intention or choose me, a safe driver.”

“You’ve covered it all, haven’t you?”

“Come on, Brenna. What’s holding you back? I promise to behave myself.”

“I seem to remember some occasions when you didn’t.”

“But not today. Guaranteed.” He opened the passenger door of the Toyota, holding it for her temptingly. Here she was about to make a mistake with a stubborn, take-charge agent determined to safeguard her.

Oh, hell, she thought, harmless or not, either way she wasn’t going to be able to lose him.

“You win.”

Settling herself into the passenger seat, she placed her tote and purse on the floor at her feet. Casey was about to close the door after her when he realized something.

“No painting gear?”

“Not this time.”

“Why is that?”

She launched into a brief art lesson. “Painting on location is great. It can lend a kind of immediacy to a canvas you don’t get in a studio. It can also be a nuisance having to transport all your materials to the site, or ending up with the kind of weather that decides to shift its mood.”

“Does that mean you’re playing truant today, Rembrandt?”

“Not really.” She reached a hand down to pat the side of her tote. “I’ve got my camera and sketchbook to record the subject I’m considering for another painting. What I capture might be enough to justify a studio picture. Your eyes are beginning to glaze over. You’re excused from class.”

Laughing, he slammed the door, rounded the car and climbed in behind the wheel. After buckling his belt and putting his sunglasses back on, he turned to her. “Okay, what is this mysterious destination we’re headed for?”

“A place called Braided Falls up in the highlands. It’s supposed to be spectacular. That’s what the guidebook says, anyway. Hey, what are we waiting for?”

* * *

She could be damned exasperating, Casey thought as he swung the Toyota around and headed them back toward Georgetown, which she’d indicated was the route they needed to go.

On the other hand, she could also be bewitching with that flaming copper hair, amber-colored eyes known to spark with anger when she was provoked to it and a lush, seductive mouth. Not to mention those long, elegant legs, which were on full view in a pair of pale green shorts paired with a matching green-and-white-striped tee.

There was something else he could tell with his sneaky, sidelong glance. With the free spirit of a true artist, she wasn’t wearing a bra under the tee. Damn, how was he supposed to deal with that and not lose control of the wheel?

He’d promised Brenna to behave himself, but with her assets so close like this in the confinement of the car, Casey wasn’t so sure now he could restrain himself.

Try, he ordered himself.

They were approaching the city when, to his relief, he was distracted by a glimpse of her guidebook open on her lap.

“What are you doing?”

“Unfolding the map provided inside.”

“What for?”

“We’ll need it to get to the falls.”

“Uh, both the car and our phones are equipped with GPS.”

“Not reliable functions here on St. Sebastian, says the guide,” she informed him. “A paper map is a safer bet. You’ll have to go straight through Georgetown to reach the shore road on the other side. That’ll take us to the highlands road.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Casey concentrated on weaving through the dense traffic of the city. After passing a cricket field, which Brenna reported was the favorite sport here on the island—another gem from the guidebook, Casey assumed—they found themselves on the open shore highway with the broad, blue Caribbean on their right and on their left an unbroken expanse of vegetation.

“What are you doing?” he challenged Brenna when he glanced over and saw her lowering the passenger window. “We’ve got air-conditioning operating in here.”

“I know, but I’d rather breathe the warm, outside air.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she explained, her head practically hanging out the window, “it carries such wonderful scents. Can you smell them? The cinnamon, the nutmeg and that sweet fragrance...that’s frangipani. I saw it growing at the villa. They’re enough to make you drunk on them.”

“If you say so,” Casey said. Personally, he’d much rather be inhaling Brenna’s own faint, flowery scent, which he’d been enjoying with a sensual freedom before she’d opened the window.

Maybe she was drunk. That might explain why, after traveling another mile down the road, she cried out, “Pull over!”

God Almighty, was he about to hit a goat? The nuisances seemed to be wandering everywhere on the island, often in the road. Casey dutifully parked at the side of the highway, where he was reminded that scents weren’t enough for Brenna.

“What now?”

“The flamboyant tree over there! Isn’t it magnificent?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. The tree was in full bloom, like a crimson torch. Why hadn’t he remembered that scents alone wouldn’t satisfy her? Brenna lived for color. It was a heady wine for her.

Casey recalled how she never wore drab colors if she could help it. And even on those rare, formal occasions, like her gallery showings, when she wore a form-fitting black dress that emphasized her hips and breasts, she’d always managed to accent it with a bright neck scarf or a carefully selected piece of jewelry.

You remember too much about her, McBride. Not healthy. Not when you’re no longer a couple.

He needed to stop being aware of her beside him. Needed to stop thinking about her and Bradley. He had no right to any jealousy. Concern, yes. Because, like her brother, he didn’t trust Marcus Bradley and Brenna’s living arrangement with him. Just that. Nothing else, he ordered himself.

They moved on up the highway, Brenna switching from flowers to birds. Scarlet ibises, a blue tanager, jeweled hummingbirds. They were as plentiful as the flowers.

Or they were until she instructed him to leave the highway for the road that would take them up into the highlands.

“Where are they?” she wondered. “All the flowers and birds?”

She was right. There was suddenly none of them in evidence. The contrast between the shore highway behind them and the road here was startling, with its dark, shadowed green growth close on either side of them. Like an impenetrable jungle, Casey thought.

Brenna was silent now as they traveled along the gloomy tunnel. Even the engine seemed quieter to him.

“It’s...weird, isn’t it?” she finally remarked. “Not the same St. Sebastian at all.”

“Another one, anyhow. Ah, here we go. Sunshine up ahead again.”

The Toyota emerged from the dim passage that was the road into the open. The change should have been encouraging, cheerful even. Somehow, it wasn’t.

The thick forest was still off to their left, but on the right the land had been cleared away to accommodate expansive fields. They must have once grown crops, but now they were nothing but weeds.

“What’s left of an old sugar plantation, I bet,” Brenna said. “I read in the guidebook that in the slave days the island once exported a lot of sugar.”

Casey had slowed the car to a crawl. “Understandable,” he responded. “But with the land no longer cultivated, what’s with the fence?”

It was not an old fence. It was a modern, high cyclone fence that seemed to enclose the entire property. He stopped the Toyota in front of a pair of padlocked gates.

Behind them, in the distance up a narrow driveway, was a galleried mansion from another century. Shuttered, it looked abandoned and decaying.

“They called a place like that the great house in the plantation days,” she said.

“Yeah, but why would the security of a fence and locked gates be necessary now? It’s odd.”

“It’s eerie, is what it is. Come on, Casey,” she urged with a shudder, “let’s go on.”

He didn’t argue with her. He sent the silver chariot, as she’d referred to it back at the airport, along the road again.

The route began to climb, winding into the first of the highlands. The vegetation thinned again here.

Rounding a bend, Casey sighted what seemed to be a small, dilapidated general store at the side of the road. He pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of it.

“Why are we stopping here?” Brenna wanted to know.

“I’m thirsty. Let’s see if we can get a couple of bottles of water. And while we’re at it, maybe some answers.”

Chapter 3

The area was modest in size, but every foot of it was crammed from floor to ceiling with merchandise. Had there been time for it, Brenna would have treated herself to a tour of those shelves. Mixed in with a jumble of modern products were such old-fashioned wares as rolls of fly paper and dust-coated, metal electric fans.

A curtain of beads hung in a doorway at the rear. Suddenly it rattled, parting for a young black man who appeared from a back room wearing one of the island’s famous smiles and a head of dyed orange hair.

“Welcome to de store,” he greeted them. “What can I git for you?”

Brenna knew that St. Sebastian had been British owned before it was granted the independence it had requested. This explained the English that was spoken by the native population, although with a flavor of its own possessing a melodic cadence she loved to hear. This young man’s speech was a strong example of that.

“We’d like two bottles of water,” Casey said. “Cold, please, if you have them.”

“What you tink? We don’t have cold here?” Chuckling, he turned away, removed a pair of bottled waters from a cooler and placed them on the counter he stood behind.

Casey paid for them and handed one of the bottles to Brenna.

“De steel band, dey play tonight in Georgetown. Dey something when dey come togedder. Tickets don’t cost you much.”

“Maybe another time,” Casey said. “But there is something I’d like to ask.”

“Sure.”

“We passed this old plantation back down the road. The one with the high fence around it. What can you tell us about it?”

The exuberant smile on the clerk’s face vanished. He was no longer looking at them. His gaze had shifted to something behind them.

Mystified, Brenna turned. An equally puzzled Casey also twisted around. No one else had entered the store. She figured the clerk must be staring through the front window at what was outside.

And this, she convinced herself, was another car that hadn’t been there when she and Casey arrived. It was parked directly across the way at the side of the road, an old sedan as dark a green as the deeply shadowed stretch of jungle she’d been grateful to leave behind them.

The window on the driver’s side of the car had been lowered, revealing the figure at the wheel. He was looking in their direction, a man with a Nordic face, a buzz cut, and cold, blue eyes.

Brenna and Casey faced the clerk again, waiting for the answer to Casey’s question. His dark gaze turned reluctantly back to them.

“Mon, we don’t talk about dat place.”

“Why is that?” Casey persisted.

“You givin’ me too much worry,” he mumbled.

They were clearly being dismissed.

The green sedan was gone when they left the store.

“What was that all about?” Brenna wondered when they’d settled themselves in their own car. “The guy was spooked. You could see it in his face.”

Casey shook his head. “Dunno. Maybe our mystery plantation is haunted, and the guy in the green heap is its ghost.”

“With old legends in the West Indies so common, that’s not so funny.”

“But nothing to do with us.” Casey started the Toyota and backed out onto the road. “Come on, let’s go find your waterfall.”

His intention wasn’t so simply achieved. A mile or so farther up the road Brenna caught a movement in the angled outside mirror on her side of the car. Leaning to the right for a better view, she was able to identify the green sedan tailing them.

She’d had no reason before this to check the road behind them, but it did seem that the vehicle had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Tempting as it was, she resisted the urge to call it a phantom. Casey would have loved teasing her about more ghosts.

“Casey—”

“Yeah, I see him. Spotted him in my rearview,” he said, indicating the driver’s mirror above his head.

“Um, you don’t think he’s deliberately following us? I mean, his car back at the store was headed in the direction we’re going. Now he’s somehow ended up behind us.”

“Could be he waited off on some side lane for us to pass and then pulled out.”

“But why? Why should he want to follow us?”

Casey had no explanation for her. His only response after a few seconds was a simple request. “Break out that map of yours again, will you?”

“You want me to see if that side lane behind us does exist?”

“Nope. I want you to see if there’s another road ahead of us branching off this one.”

That didn’t make sense to her. “For what reason?”

“I want to test something.”

Brenna waited for a further explanation, but again he gave her none. Grumbling to herself, she consulted the map as he’d asked.

“There is another road up ahead on the right, but it doesn’t make any more sense than your wanting to know it’s there.”

“Why is that?”

“Because after winding all over the place, it ends up looping back to join this one. And this one is a much shorter, more direct route to the falls.”

“The other road...lots of twists and turns, huh?”

“Yes.”

Casey nodded, looking satisfied. Why, she couldn’t imagine, and this time she didn’t bother asking him.

“I suppose,” she theorized, “since its being there at all doesn’t make sense when it doesn’t go anywhere but back to this road, it must have been constructed earlier. And then this one was built later, cutting off the old one to make a shorter route.”

“Sounds right. Our green sedan is still behind us,” he added, casting a fast glance into his rearview mirror. “Keep checking on it for me, will you? I’m going to be too busy before long to do it myself.”

He does love keeping me guessing, doesn’t he? Brenna thought wryly. But she obeyed his newest request, turning in her seat as much as the restraint of the belt would permit. Her view through the back window was considerably more accurate than what her outside mirror provided.

She waited a minute to report, “He’s sticking with us.”

“Coming up just ahead. Hang on.”

She did and learned why when, without slowing, Casey sharply and abruptly swung the Toyota into the side road he must have been watching for and found.

She was watching, as well. “The green demon turned, too,” she announced.

“Good.”

She understood now just what Casey was testing. He wanted to learn whether the green sedan only seemed to be following them or if this was a deliberate pursuit. Well, he’d evidently determined which was correct, but Brenna wasn’t certain it had been worth the risk.

She was even less certain of that when the Toyota bounced over a deep pothole, jolting her harshly. The road had obviously not been kept in repair. There’d been no reason to when the newer road was built. Worse than being in a rough condition with its broken pavement, it was narrow and without any guardrails. And now that they were fully in the forested highlands, with long drops over the side... Unnerving.

“Casey, this isn’t smart. The road is bad, and there’s nothing along it. If that guy tailing us is dangerous and should catch up with us out here in the middle of nowhere...”

“He won’t. I’ll lose him before that happens.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

He turned his head just long enough to favor her with one of his smug grins. “Hey, I’m an experienced FBI agent, remember? I know how to chase the bad guys and I know how to outrun them. Besides, that heap back there is in no shape to keep up with us. You’ll see.”

Maddening. He was maddening.

Moreover, Casey failed to ease his foot on the accelerator, and with the tortuous road growing more treacherous with every mile, she thought he might have realized that was imperative. He didn’t.

Brenna felt dizzy with all the rapid twists and turns. And when she found herself looking over the side into a deep gorge, and had a vision of the Toyota plunging into it, her giddiness morphed into absolute terror.

Casey’s only reaction to their perilous situation was a placid “Nice scenery up here, huh? I’d say they’re more mountains than highlands.”

“And I say I’m going to lose my breakfast if you don’t slow down.”

Much to her relief, he braked the car to, if not a crawl, at least a cautious speed. “Look,” he said.

“At what?”

“At what you were supposed to be on the lookout for. Your green demon is no longer behind us. He must have decided we weren’t worth it and headed back. Told you he’d give up.”

“Aren’t you the clever one? So, why are we stopping then?” she wondered when he pulled the Toyota over to the side and put the shift gear into Park. “The direct road can’t be much farther.”

He turned to face her. “Because I have some questions for you.”

“Such as?”

“Kind of funny, isn’t it, that some guy should turn up out of nowhere and decide to follow us?”

“Why should you imagine I would have an answer for that any more than you do?”

“I don’t know, Brenna. We had a pretty good view of him back at the store. It’s got me wondering whether you might have realized who he is.”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I don’t know who he is. Why on earth would I?”

“Maybe you saw him hanging around at the villa and recognized him from there. Could be Bradley is using thugs like him to keep tabs on you.”

“To an extent like this? That’s nuts, even if he did have a reason to have me watched, and I can’t imagine what that could possibly be. Why is it that you insist on connecting anything at all negative with Marcus?”

“Just trying to cover the possibilities.”

“Well, don’t. Can we please forget this and go on?”

“All right,” he said, shifting back into Drive, “let’s find your falls.”

She was ready to put the whole episode behind her. Wanted to do just that. Except Casey left her reluctantly remembering Julio last night outside the guesthouse.

* * *

A graveled parking area had been provided for visitors to the falls.

“Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves,” Casey observed, pulling into the small, empty lot.

Brenna left her tote and purse in the car, taking only her camera with her. By the time Casey locked the Toyota and joined her, she had located a sign posted at the mouth of a trail, the arrow on it indicating the direction of the attraction.

“It can’t be far,” she said. “I can hear the sound of the water from here.”

The trail was wide enough to permit them to walk side by side. Although the ever-protective Casey offered no comment on this feature, Brenna knew it satisfied him to be able to keep her close. There was no point in objecting. He wouldn’t have listened.

A few hundred yards brought them through the forest to their destination. They suddenly found themselves in the open, standing on the lip of a ravine.

Casey spoke his approval in her ear. “It doesn’t disappoint, does it?”

She shook her head, marveling at the sight. She understood why it was called Braided Falls. There was no single stream of water tumbling over the ledge high above them on their right, but three distinctly separate ones. Several feet along their descent, the projecting rocks of the cliff face squeezed them together into one cascade. A little lower, and they separated again, then still lower joined once more, like strands of hair twined into a fat braid.

A pool at the bottom rimmed with moss and banks of ferns finally received the waters. From here they rushed through the ravine they had carved, their course taking them beneath a sturdy, hanging bridge that faced the falls.

“I’m going out on the bridge,” Brenna announced. “I should get some great shots from there.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t safe,” Casey agreed.

By the time he’d followed her to the center of the bridge, she was busy with her Nikon compact, adjusting it for color, sharpness and clarity. She was ready to record a series of photographs when she heard it.

“Listen!”

“What?” Casey questioned. “All I can hear is the roar of the falls.”

“Not that. It’s the sound of drums coming from somewhere off the other side of the bridge.”

“You’re imagining it.”

She shook her head in denial. “I don’t think so. There’s a path there. I’m going to follow it and see what I can learn about those drums. I don’t think they can be the usual steel ones. Could be really interesting.”

Before he could stop her, she was off the bridge and hurrying along the path.

“Brenna, come back here!” he yelled after her. “Damn it, now who’s being reckless?”

She ignored him, knowing he would catch up with her. He did, muttering, “You’re going to get into trouble with this appetite of yours for local color.”

“You should talk. You weren’t worried about trouble when you took us over that rotten road.”

“So we’re even.”

They left it there, the drums growing louder as they proceeded on through the forest. Sunlight ahead of them poured down into what promised to be a large clearing. When the path widened, Brenna could see a collection of small houses. More like shacks really, their peeling wooden walls painted in the rainbow hues favored by the natives everywhere on the island. Vibrant colors that had faded but which she still admired.

“It’s a village.”

“A poor one, from the looks of it,” Casey said.

Brenna could make out garden plots devoted to vegetables, banana plants at the sides of the houses and scrawny chickens scratching in the dust, but nowhere was there a sign of human life that would explain the drums. It was odd.

The path divided here, the branch on the right curving around a blind corner. Casey nodded in that direction. “It’s coming from around there.”

They followed the sound, turning with the path that brought them to the edge of another clearing, the origin of the drums and probably the strangest sight Brenna had ever seen.

Kneeling on the ground in a wide circle was a collection of women, none of them old and none of them probably younger than their upper teens. There were only three men present. Two of them were seated back to back in the center of the clearing, slapping out an alternating rhythm on a pair of hip drums.

Added to the beat was a shaking rattle in the hand of the third, older man wearing a fantastic headdress, his dark face streaked with white paint. In his other hand was a pot. Progressing slowly, regally around the circle from woman to woman, his forefinger dipping into the pot, he smeared a careful symbol on the forehead of each, his lips moving in what Brenna convinced herself was an incantation.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Casey mumbled, “I’d say what we’re seeing here is an episode from Survivor.”

“It isn’t funny, Casey. I think we’ve wandered into a private, and probably very sacred, ceremony of some kind, and maybe we’d better—”

She got no further. There was a sudden, somber silence. The two men had abruptly stopped smacking their drums and were staring at the pair of intruders. The entire gathering had discovered them, including their leader, who was plainly unhappy with their presence.

Glaring at them across the clearing, he stretched out his hand that gripped the rattle and shook it at them menacingly. Shouting out some dire threat Brenna didn’t understand, he started toward them.

Casey didn’t wait. His hand closing on her wrist, he started to thrust Brenna protectively behind him. Another shout from a different source stopped him in midaction. The witch doctor, or whatever he was, never reached them. That second shout effectively halted him, too, in the middle of the clearing.

Brenna was as startled as the rest of them when an attractive young woman, with skin the color of smooth milk chocolate, charged into the clearing from the direction of the village.

“I’m guessing that’s our shouter,” Casey said.

Whoever she was, she was fearless, Brenna thought. Without the least hesitation and no evidence of intimidation, she approached the glowering witch doctor.

She had to stop thinking of him as that. Other than the apparent leader of this group, she didn’t know what he was exactly.

As she and Casey watched, their savior began to lecture the fellow. Or so it seemed from the tone of her voice, because from their position they couldn’t make out her words. But whatever they were, her target was actually listening to them.

“I knew it,” Casey insisted. “I just knew it. It’s a reality TV series. Has to be.”

She wished he’d be serious. This was a serious situation. On the other hand, she had no right to complain about his attitude when he’d tried to prevent her from coming here. Although it seemed the bold young woman must have won them their exoneration since the leader, with the sulky look of a child, turned his back on them and retreated to the other side of the circle.

Brenna watched the woman as she approached Casey and her, thinking, she’s different from the others. It’s something in her attitude.

It wasn’t just her friendly smile either. It was her language when she reached them, an apology she expressed without any hint of the native dialect. “Sorry about that, folks.”

“It looks like we owe you a vote of thanks,” Casey told her. “You know, the cavalry riding to the rescue at the last minute.”

She received his gratitude with a laugh. “Oh, you weren’t in any danger. He was just upset because of that.” She nodded at the camera in Brenna’s hand.

“I wouldn’t have photographed any of this,” Brenna hastened to assure her. “Certainly not without permission.”

“I appreciate that. My people don’t mind having their pictures taken by the tourists, but they do like to be asked first. I’m guessing you came to see the falls and heard the drums.”

“We did, yes.”

Their deliverer glanced back over her shoulder. “Um, if you don’t mind, why don’t we leave the ceremony here to continue, and I’ll walk you back and try to explain.”

Casey waited until they were out of sight of the clearing, where the drums had resumed beating, and on the path to the falls before asking, “What was that we were seeing? Voodoo?”

“Not voodoo, no, though it is similar but with different rituals. Both of them originated from Africa, but this one is called obeah.”

“And the guy in charge?”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t call him a witch doctor. He hates that. He considers himself an obeah priest, and when he’s conducting a ceremony his name is Lubomba. And when he’s not,” she confided, following another melodic laugh, “he’s plain Frankie Wilson. Works on a melon farm outside a village below ours. Like most of our men do whenever the work is available.”

Brenna stopped on the path, Casey and the young woman stopping with her. “Speaking of names, I’m thinking introductions are in order here. I’m Brenna Coleman, and this is Casey McBride.”

She shook their offered hands. “And I’m Zena King.”

“You, uh, live in the village then, Zena?”

“I’m from the village, but just visiting family there right now. Why do you— Oh, I understand. It’s my English being so different from my people’s. There’s a reason for that.”

They strolled on toward the falls, the sound of the drums fading behind them while Zena offered a second explanation.

“My village is a poor one. Most of the villages are on the island. The only schooling here is not regular or very good. I was lucky. Because I was considered exceptionally bright, my parents had the opportunity to send me at a young age to a Catholic boarding school in Georgetown.”

“And that’s where you learned to speak without an accent,” Brenna assumed.

“The nuns were excellent teachers. Also very strict. I’ll always be grateful to them for preparing me for a higher education.”

“In Georgetown?” Casey asked.

Zena shook her head. “In Florida. I was able to earn a scholarship at a medical school in Miami. Like I said, I’m home for a couple of weeks to visit family.”

“Ah, you’re studying to be a doctor maybe,” Casey said.

“Nothing that grand. I’m training to be a nurse-practitioner. When I qualify, I’ll come back here to offer my people the kind of medical help they badly need. Right now, with the nearest doctor in Georgetown, they think it’s the obeah priest who can help them.”

They were nearing the falls. Brenna could hear the waters pouring over the ledge. “Am I right in supposing that’s what the ceremony in the clearing was about?” she asked. “Some kind of medical crisis?”

“In a way,” Zena said, leaving Brenna to wonder what this mystery was about.

They had reached the falls. The three of them stopped in the middle of the bridge where they gazed for a silent moment at the flowing waters. Zena, who seemed to have reached a decision, spoke to them again.

“It’s complicated. I don’t want you thinking my people are worshipping some primitive African god. Most of them, including Frankie Wilson when he’s in the mood, are actually devout Christians. But they’re also superstitious, and sometimes when the situation is desperate enough and their prayers aren’t answered, they’ll turn to the old religion, hoping for a solution.”

“Desperate how?” Brenna questioned.

Zena hesitated, as if searching for the right words to enlighten them. “Did you notice the sad faces in the circle?”

“I did. I also noticed that, except for the two drummers and the priest, all of them were women.”

“There’s a reason for that. You have to understand that children aren’t just important to the islanders, they’re everything. The arrival of new babies is always celebrated. But—and I know this is hard to believe, because I can hardly believe it myself—there hasn’t been a single baby conceived in my village over the past eight months.”

“You’re telling us,” Casey said in wonder, “that this is what the ceremony back there was all about? This obeah priest doing his thing to lift what the women are convinced is a curse?”

Chapter 4

“That’s exactly what you were seeing,” Zena told them. She went on to elaborate, “Of course, there are children in the village, some of them infants, but no pregnancies since last August.”

“I’m supposing it wasn’t for want of trying,” Casey said.

“You can trust me when I say the villagers have never had any problem in that department.”

“But wasn’t there any effort to consult a doctor?” Brenna asked.

“A doctor was persuaded to come up to the village. The women most eager to get pregnant, the youngest ones who have yet to have babies, were more than willing to be examined.”

“And?”

Zena shook her head. “Nothing. The doctor—and he’s a capable one—could find no reason for their infertility.”

“What about the men?” Brenna wanted to know.

Zena rolled her eyes. “You don’t know the St. Sebastian males if you think any of them would even consider himself incapable of fathering a child. Much too proud to submit to any test. I suppose it is unlikely at that that every husband, or for that matter, lover, would be sterile.”

No more unlikely than the infertility of the women, Brenna thought, but she refrained from voicing it.

Zena changed the subject. “Do you have a car nearby?”

“Over in the parking lot,” Casey said.

“Why don’t I walk you there before we say goodbye?”

Casey waited until they reached the Toyota before he verbalized a consideration that must have occurred to him on the trail from the bridge. “This infertility thing...is it possible there was some kind of epidemic in the village that could be responsible?”

“Nothing like that. In fact, the village has been healthy since it got itself a safe supply of drinking water last year. It wasn’t the case before then. I don’t know. It all seems a mystery with nothing to explain it.”

“Where does the new supply come from?” Casey asked.

“A deep well was drilled.”

“And the village was able to afford that?”

“Not the village, no. I wasn’t here then, but they tell me a wealthy benefactor who preferred to remain anonymous provided it.”

Before saying their goodbyes to Zena, they thanked her for befriending them and wished her well in her training.

They were on the road when Brenna expressed her sorrow. “What a tragedy. An entire village with its women suddenly barren. That’s got to be one for the medical records.”

Casey agreed and was silent after that. Whatever his thoughts were, he didn’t share them with her.

It wasn’t until they were descending the highlands that she realized she’d never gotten either her photographs or sketches of Braided Falls. It was too late to turn back. She’d have to wait for another day.

They had reached the cyclone fence that enclosed the old sugar plantation when Casey slowed the Toyota.

Now he slows down, she thought, when what she wanted him to do was speed on by. The place was too creepy for comfort.

He not only slowed, he stopped the car altogether in front of the closed gates to the drive.

“You see what I see, Rembrandt?”

She couldn’t help noticing it. Parked outside the main door of the mansion was the dark green sedan that had followed them earlier.

* * *

When Brenna had no response for him, Casey turned to look at her. Was it his imagination, or had she turned pale under that golden tan that so became her?

“No thought on the subject?” he asked her.

“Please, can we just forget it and go on?”

She doesn’t want to discuss the car, he realized, complying with her request. Probably doesn’t want to even think about it. Its presence, both earlier and now, seemed to scare her.

But Casey couldn’t forget what they’d referred to as the green demon as he headed them toward the shore highway. His mind, trained by the best instruction Quantico had to offer its agents, examined the puzzle.

The vehicle wouldn’t have followed them, as it had tried to do, without a reason. The obvious explanation was the driver had wanted to know just where they were going. But why? Casey’s FBI training had no answer for that. Couldn’t be expected to provide answers without the information he lacked.

No sense in denying it. He had the questions, just not the solutions. Questions like why the clerk at the general store had been frightened by his discovery of the green sedan out front. And why it was now parked in front of the great house behind the locked gates. What connection did its driver have with that sinister plantation?

Those thoughts alone were enough to keep Casey’s brain busy. Because it seemed to be a day for puzzles. He couldn’t forget the most significant of them. Zena King’s village. It just didn’t make sense that a whole village could go barren.

It had to be a coincidence that he and Brenna had been confronted by two major mysteries, one following directly after the other. Casey resisted the urge to try to relate the plantation, the driver of the green demon and the village in any way. Much too unlikely to even consider such a possibility. Or was it?

Managing to put the whole thing out of his mind, at least for now, he resumed paying attention to Brenna. She looked like she was recovered from her alarm over their second sighting of the green demon. They were on the shore highway now, and she was contentedly occupied with finding new flowers and birds outside her window.

He was occupied with her. Hell, he would have been better off still worrying about puzzles than getting all bothered now by the woman beside him. Whatever their different moods of the day, shifting with the frequent events that had triggered them, Casey had never lost his awareness of the sexual tension that existed between Brenna and him. Nor did he think he’d be wrong in swearing she had been just as conscious of it, as well.

This heat he was experiencing whenever his gaze drifted in her direction had him frustrated with need. And what could he do about it? Nothing. She had made it clear on more than one occasion that she was off-limits to him now.

But he could look, even though it did raise his temperature with no possibility of release. And so he did, stealing frequent glances.

Damn, but she was one alluring woman with that abundant, copper hair any healthy man would love to run his fingers through. Probably while longing next to get his hands on those breasts. Breasts that, without a bra, enabled him to fully appreciate their lushness. Even that smattering of freckles across her nose—

“Watch!” she cried out. “You’re drifting across the center line!”

Sweet Jesus, what was he doing? Trying to get them into an accident?

Casey immediately corrected their position on the road. After that, he made a determined effort to keep his eyes off Brenna and on his driving.

They had reached Georgetown when he managed to think of his stomach and not his libido. “I just remembered we missed lunch. It’s not too late. There’s this little seafood place on the harbor. My treat.”

“Thanks, but I’ll just grab something up at the villa. I want to make use of what’s left of the day. I’ve been neglecting my work. I don’t need to be on location to finish the seascape in the corner of the guesthouse I’m using as a studio. The light is good there.”

Back to business, huh? Disappointed or not, he couldn’t argue with her. She’d only agreed to come with him this morning because she needed the transportation he offered and not his company.

“So, I’ll deliver you to the villa.”

She shook her head emphatically. “No, please drop me at the bottom of the hill. It’s an easy walk up from there.”

He understood. She didn’t want to chance being seen with him by any of the staff and having one of them report it to Marcus Bradley. Bradley wouldn’t like it. It was a realization that soured him.

Casey concentrated on dealing with the traffic as they crossed to the other side of the city, not speaking again until he stopped to let her off where she indicated.

“What about tomorrow? The silver chariot here and I will be available to chauffeur you wherever you might want to go.”

“I appreciate that, but I plan to stick close to town here on foot. The cab driver who drove me out to the airport this morning mentioned it was market day in the center of the city tomorrow. The stalls should offer some rich subjects.”

“And you wouldn’t like an escort, either by car or on foot?”

“Afraid not. I’ll be careful. I hope you understand.”

“Oh, sure, I get it. You want to be alone.”

We’ll see about that tomorrow, he promised himself.

He watched her undo her seat belt, gather up her things and start to exit the car. But she hesitated with her hand on the door handle.

“Forget something?” he asked.

She didn’t answer him for a moment. Then, as if impulsively making up her mind, she twisted around to face him again. “I need to ask you something. It’s been bothering me ever since you landed on the island.”

“Fire away.”

Another pause from her. What was it this time? Summoning the courage for whatever it was she wanted to know? She must have found it, because she suddenly blurted out her question.

“Casey, did you ever manage to forgive me for breaking off our engagement? Completely forgive me?”

He could see in her face how important this was to her. And, unlike Brenna, he didn’t need to hesitate. He answered her, not with words, but with a swift, decisive action that allowed her no chance to resist.

It was an action that involved his arms reaching out and drawing her so tightly up against him she was unable to escape. An action that involved his mouth descending to angle across hers in a forceful kiss meant to leave her in no doubt about whether or not he’d ever forgiven her.

It was also a kiss he’d been longing to give her from the moment he had discovered her the other day on the beach. A kiss that he made certain permitted him to savor the faintly flowery scent of her he had been missing all these months. A kiss that he refused to make anything but lengthy and thorough.

Whether she intended it or not, her mouth opened to him. It was all the invitation Casey needed to slide his tongue inside where he experienced the familiar, heady taste of her. He captured her own tongue in a hot wetness that threatened to spiral both his emotions and his need in a lower area out of control before he managed the wisdom to release her.

His voice was as raspy as a file when he asked her, “Does that answer your question?”

She was breathing hard, unable to form a reply. Her purse and tote had slid back onto the floor. Collecting them again, she fumbled for the handle and opened the door. She couldn’t get out of the car and away from him fast enough. He watched her hurry up the hill toward the villa.

Nice performance, McBride. She’ll probably never let you get anywhere near her again.

After that episode, Casey wondered how he could still be hungry when he drove off in search of the little seafood joint on the harbor front. But, heck, if he couldn’t satisfy one appetite, he might as well satisfy another.

He found the place all right, but there was nowhere to park. The fishing boats had come in with their catches for the day, and the area was crowded with customers wanting fresh fish.

He had no choice but to park two blocks away and walk back to the restaurant.

The waterfront was a busy place. There were vessels everywhere at the docks loading and unloading. Mostly unloading. He knew that on islands like St. Sebastian much of what was consumed had to come in from elsewhere.

He paused to watch steel drums, the kind that contained chemicals and other liquids, being transferred from a freighter into a secure, fenced enclosure. The burly white guy directing the operation had a long ponytail and tattoos covering his bare arms. He also had an unpleasant disposition. Casey didn’t much care for the way he growled at the native workers under his command. But it wasn’t his business to interfere.

With anger simmering, Casey moved on. He was nearing the restaurant, working his way through the crowd, when he felt something hard pressed tight against his back.

This wasn’t the first time in his FBI career he’d experienced this kind of thing. Not a frequent occurrence but enough to identify the barrel of a gun.

Great. Just great. As if he hadn’t already had enough excitement over the past few hours, he was about to be mugged.

He had no weapon of his own. His Glock had been confiscated, along with his FBI identification folder, back in Chicago when he was placed on suspension. And although his training had taught him several tactics for defeating an opponent, even with a gun in his back, he didn’t dare use one of them. There were too many people here, kids as well, and he wasn’t going to risk one of them being shot.

All this went through Casey’s mind in no more than the span of several seconds before he muttered a resentful but resigned “All right, let’s not hurt anyone. My wallet is in my back pocket. Just take it and clear off.”

He could feel a breath stir near his ear as a rough voice informed him sharply, “Sorry, but this ain’t any robbery.”

No native dialect, but Casey did detect a slight foreign accent. Eastern European, he thought. He’d heard them before in his work. He figured the gun must be a small one and that the guy holding it had to be pressed against him so closely that no one seemed to be noticing.

“If it isn’t a robbery, then what do you want?”

“Just to warn you, that’s all.”

What in the— “Warn me about what?”

The voice that hissed back at him had the venom of a deadly snake in it. “Stay away from her, McBride. If you know what’s good for you, stay far away from her.”

And that was it. Casey could feel the barrel of the gun retreating from his back. He should have waited for a moment more than he did to be sure it was safe before he whirled around, but he was afraid of losing his enemy. As it was, there was no sign of anyone like that. Whoever he was, he’d managed to melt off into the crowd and disappear, leaving Casey with a fuming inability to deal with him.

It wasn’t until then that it occurred to Casey. He had known his name. The bastard had known his name. With that came another realization. Marcus Bradley. Yeah, he would swear to it. That was the explanation here. Bradley had connections, probably had spies everywhere on the island. And one of them had told him that Casey McBride had been seen in the company of Brenna Coleman. And Bradley didn’t like it.

That was the her Casey had been warned to stay away from. Like hell he would.

* * *

The first thing Brenna did when she reached the guesthouse was to hurry into the well-lighted bathroom and peer into the mirror. She expected to see her lips redder and more plump, but there was no change in her face.

Only the eyes that stared back at her were different. There was a wildness in them. And why shouldn’t there be when she was still shaken from Casey’s mind-numbing kiss? There had been nothing sweet or tender about it. It had been a fierce demonstration of masculine possessiveness.

She should have been furious with him when he let her go. Why hadn’t she been? Why wasn’t she furious with him now?

Maybe because she didn’t have anyone to blame but herself. After all, hadn’t she willingly contributed to that savage kiss?

In want of some relief for her cheeks that felt as if they were flushed with a fever, she ran the tap and splashed cold water on her face. It helped. At least physically. Emotionally, she was a mess.

They had been parted for two years, convinced themselves they had gotten over each other long ago. Had that been a lie she’d inflicted on herself? And had he, as well? Was she, in truth, still in love with Casey McBride?

Dear God, she couldn’t let herself get involved on that level all over again with him. Couldn’t relive the hell of being sick with worry about his safety whenever he was on some dangerous assignment.

What was she going to do about him? Brenna asked herself as she wandered back into the sitting room. She stood there for a moment gazing at the unfinished seascape on the easel.

She knew what she needed to do. Work. It always helped keep her mind clear when she had a brush in one hand and a palette in the other.

And it did help to steady her nerves when she got busy, determined to complete the painting. For now, anyway.

* * *

Brenna would have preferred not sharing dinner with Marcus that evening. But asking for a tray in the guesthouse would have raised questions, probably brought him to her door to express a concern for her absence. It was easier to join him at the table on the terrace.

Marcus looked tired. It was an opportunity to defer any questions about her and instead ask him what was troubling him.

“Rough day?” she wondered, dipping her spoon into the savory turtle soup Gilda had served them.

“It was a bit,” he admitted.

“Oh? Trouble at the site?”

“I’m afraid so. We have a problem with missing building materials. It’s not uncommon for theft to occur whenever construction is underway on the island, but this time it’s also tools. The poverty, you know, makes things that can be sold or traded attractive. I’m sorry to have to do it, but I’m afraid we’ll have to post nighttime guards at the site.”

“That’s too bad.”

Gilda brought in a platter of steaming pork roast, island vegetables and two plates and placed them in front of Marcus, knowing he liked to serve the entrée himself to his guests. Removing the soup bowls, she retreated to the kitchen.

He was silent while he helped Brenna to a generous portion of the pork and passed her plate to her. It was only after he served himself that he spoke again.

“What did you do today?”

“I spent a portion of it in town hunting for other subjects to paint.” It wasn’t totally a lie. She had gone down to the city to catch a taxi to the airport.

“And the other part of it?”

“In the guesthouse. I finished the seascape there. When it’s dry, I’ll show it to you.” She was glad this was the truth. She hated lying to Marcus.

“I’ll look forward to that.”

“I think you’ll like it. It turned out well.”

He was quiet again, his cool blue eyes searching her face in the gleam of the candlelight. His possible suspicion made her uneasy.

“I understand,” he said softly, “that you also spent some time with your friend from the beach.”

Not just possible suspicion, she thought, but a certainty. She should have known better than to try to hide anything from him. Marcus Bradley had the kind of power and connections to uncover whatever secrets he wanted.

“He gave me a lift back to the villa.”

“Did he? I heard it was a bit more than that. Do you think it’s wise, Brenna, being with him? He is, after all, under investigation.”

So Marcus knew that, too. And if he knew that much, then he also had to know her “friend from the beach” was her ex-fiancé. “And just how did you manage to find out Casey McBride turned up here?” she challenged him.

Marcus was disturbingly casual about it as he cut into his pork. “Most of the island’s resort keepers are very good about letting me know who’s staying with them.”

“Marcus, I don’t appreciate all this surveillance. I think it’s my business where I go and who I see.”

“You musn’t mind if I’m concerned about you, Brenna,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “After all, you’re my guest. I feel responsible for you while you’re here on the island. Why don’t we forget all about it? You haven’t touched your pork. It’s one of Gilda’s specialties.”

Brenna resisted the urge to scrape her chair back from the table and march back to the guesthouse. She couldn’t afford to alienate Marcus. He had paid her a generous advance on the paintings he expected her to produce, money she had loaned to a friend back in Chicago who had a baby on the way and whose husband had lost his job. A sum that Brenna didn’t have to repay Marcus. She had no choice but to fulfill her commission and that meant keeping her anger in check.

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