The Men of Thorne Island. Cynthia Thomason

saw a little corner of the kitchen that made her heart—and stomach—rejoice. Sparkling under the unforgiving light, next to a modern apartment-size refrigerator, was a scrupulously clean area of counter. A gleaming-white two-burner stovetop and a microwave oven sat side by side on the varnished pine surface. A cabinet above this miraculously neat oasis held two spotless pans, a pair of matching skillets and assorted clean tableware. If these items existed in this chaos of dirt and grease, could decent food be far away?

      She began a search for cans, bottles and jars, checking cabinets in the tidy corner of the kitchen.

      “Can I help you, Miss Crawford?”

      Like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Sara slammed a lower cabinet door and stood up. “Mr. Bass, you don’t have to sneak up on me.”

      Another of those smug grins tugged at his lips. “Now we’re even, eh?”

      He crossed the threshold into the kitchen and came toward her. A pair of brown chinos accentuated his long, lean legs and matched the sand traps on his shirt. Sara detected a slight limp in his gait, though it might have been caused by the uneven old brick flooring. She pulled her gaze away from him and continued her search for food. “I wasn’t aware we were keeping score.”

      She sensed his amusement even though she couldn’t see his face and hated the flush of embarrassment it brought to her face. “Oh, yes you were, Sara,” he said. “You’re just miffed because it’s a tie.”

      “What nonsense,” she responded, acutely aware that he’d called her by her first name. A chuckle rumbled from his throat and seemed to reverberate down her spine.

      “What are you doing in my kitchen—oh, pardon me, your kitchen—going through my things?” he asked.

      She banged another cupboard door closed. This one contained various cleaning supplies, and she tucked the information away for later use. “I’m looking for food. And while we’re on the subject, may I say that under your supervision, my kitchen has fallen into a state that isn’t fit for pigs.”

      “Then it’s fortunate we don’t have any pigs, or I don’t know where they’d eat.”

      She scowled at him, though judging from his teasing grin, her glare had lost its effectiveness. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Mr. Bass, I need something to eat. You’re not going to let me starve, are you?”

      “You can buy food on the island.”

      “Thank goodness. Where?”

      “At Brody’s cottage. He’s an ex-marine and he calls our supply store the commissary. He orders the groceries and we buy them from him. But he’s not there now. He fishes every day at dusk. But no, I won’t let you starve. In fact, you can even use my part of the kitchen, which I maintain for my own use.”

      She uncrossed her arms and managed a tight smile. “Thanks.”

      “What kind of soup do you like?”

      Soup. She could almost feel a steaming mug of delicious broth between her hands, almost taste the savory herbs and spices. “That sounds wonderful,” she said. “I like all kinds—broccoli and cheese, roasted chicken and wild rice, any of the new low-fat soups are delicious….”

      “That’s fine, but I meant, do you like Chicken Noodle or Tomato?”

      “Those are my choices?”

      “Brody volunteered to keep us supplied, but he isn’t particularly imaginative.”

      “I see. Tomato, then.”

      Nick went to a tall pantry cabinet near the back door and produced the trademark red-and-white can, which he set on his clean counter. Then he went to his small refrigerator. “Now, what kind of meat for your sandwich?”

      “Do we really need to go through this again?”

      “No. We have salami.”

      He took bread and meat slices from the refrigerator. “And to drink?”

      “You tell me.”

      “Actually I have six different brands of beer—”

      She wasn’t surprised.

      “—and one Mountain Dew.”

      “Shall I fight you for the Mountain Dew?”

      He took the can from the refrigerator and tossed it to her. “No. I’ll let you win this one.” He pointed to a stool next to the counter. “Have a seat. I’ll even cook.”

      The entire meal process took less than thirty minutes from preparation to cleanup. And during that time the few sentences Sara and Nick spoke to each other involved passing the condiments and a smattering of comments about Millicent Thorne. Sara admitted that she hadn’t known her great-aunt very well and even expressed her guilt about that situation.

      “It’s too bad,” he said. “You would have liked her. In fact, I see similarities between the two of you.”

      Since he didn’t elaborate, Sara decided to accept his statement as a compliment.

      Once the dishes were put away, Nick went out the back door and stood on the stoop. “Will you be needing anything else from the refrigerator tonight?” he asked through the screen door.

      “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

      “I always turn off the generator before I go to bed. Can’t see wasting fuel. The food stays cold all night if the refrigerator door’s not opened, and I’m an early riser.”

      He was turning off the generator? Sara’s stomach did a somersault of alarm. “But does that mean the lights won’t work?”

      “Sure does. Take one of the lanterns from the parlor. They’re not just decoration. There should be plenty of oil in the well. You’ll find a flashlight in the pantry, too.”

      Resigned to the conventions of Thorne Island, she got the flashlight and watched Bass step down from the back porch. His limp was more obvious now. In fact, a tightening of his facial muscles indicated that he was in pain. Since they’d just shared a few companionable moments, Sara felt comfortable enough to ask, “Are you all right, Mr. Bass?”

      He looked up at her from the yard. “What do you mean?”

      “Your limp. I couldn’t help noticing.”

      “And you want to know why I have it?”

      “I don’t mean to pry, but if you’d like to tell me…”

      “A few years ago I was shot. The bullet entered at the base of my spine and pretty well screwed things up.”

      The flashlight clattered to the floor. “You were shot?”

      “Yep. So when I told you earlier that if you meant to kill me, you’d better use a gun, I really wasn’t relishing the idea all that much. Good night, Sara.”

      That was obviously all the information she was going to get. She picked up the flashlight and spoke to his dark form as it blended with the angular shadows of the inn. “Good night, Nick.”

      THE NEXT MORNING Sara awoke to the sound of voices filtering through her second-story window. She got out of bed and opened the slats of her shutter just enough to peek outside. A cool breeze washed over her, and she breathed in the fresh, heady scent of the flowers in the porch baskets.

      Four men stood in the overgrown front yard of the inn just beyond the edge of the porch eaves. Sara could see three of them clearly and just an arm and a foot of the fourth. She recognized Dexter Sweet, his huge arms bulging from the short sleeves of an athletic T-shirt. She heard the low timbre of Nick Bass’s voice coming from under the porch. She didn’t know the other two men, but assumed they were the pair Dexter had mentioned the day before—Brody and Ryan.

      One man was short, thin, with brown, shoulder-length hair bound in a leather strap at his