All That Glitters. Mary Brady

over and over, but he was speaking so she kept quiet.

      “McClure had four children with his second wife, one a dark-haired stepson now proven to be the child of Liam Bailey for which the town was named. The three others were most likely McClures. They all had flaming red hair as he did. The dark-haired son has two descendants in the town. Daniel MacCarey, an anthropologist from the university and married to the owner of a restaurant here. The other, Heather Loch, who runs the town’s museum in the original church.”

      “The church is a museum?”

      He nodded as she lifted her spoon for more soup.

      “What does Heather Loch look like?”

      “Sixties, a mass of gray hair. You can’t miss her.” His lips curved gently, and the emotion she read into the smile said, fondly.

      He glanced at her still smiling and she almost coughed up pea soup. Wow. Nice smile when he wasn’t being all businesslike. Electric. As quickly as her mind fired up with thoughts of Zachary Hale the real man, not monster, the smile changed to a frown. Had he seen the flicker of interest on her face?

      Had she really felt it? What were they talking about? Oh, yeah, the church and the gray-haired woman. “I saw her when I drove into town. I thought she was an apparition standing in the doorway of the old church.”

      “She’s guarding the museum from the storm.”

      “Against a hurricane. How could they let her stay there? It’s too close to water.”

      “Without a doubt, more than one person tried to talk her into leaving. Police Chief Montcalm most likely sent a squad car for her.”

      “And she told them the church has stood two hundred years and it would stand another two hundred.” Addy might interview that woman, for color if nothing else.

      “Something like that.”

      He looked directly at her when he spoke. Almost as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes gleamed a soft golden brown, matching his hair. Oh, he was a package.

      This was not the evil billionaire she’d expected. Could it be the beard?

      She dismissed the notion. Zachary Hale was sly, slick and treacherously dangerous. He had created false accounting records and a trail of phony investment reports, then he put his name on them and sent them off to the SEC, Securities and Exchange Commission, as proof of his extraordinary ability to make fortunes for people.

      She cleared her throat. “About the McClures. Do you know much about them?”

      “Patrick McClure seemed to be in the right place at the right time and in the right circumstances.”

      “The woman needed a husband.”

      “And McClure, Irish immigrant or not, needed a wife. The situation was urgent or the second richest man in town would not have chosen such a bridegroom for his daughter.”

      “So the first Mr. McClure came by his fortune in the new world through this woman in need?”

      “Colleen Fletcher McClure insisted her father set the two of them up in the home her lover had built. And when her father died, insisted the town’s name be changed from South Harbor to Bailey’s Cove.”

      The more he spoke, the more his voice became animated. Addy found herself leaning in, captivated.

      She pushed away from the table, took the dishes to wash them in the sink.

      “Has your family always lived in Bailey’s Cove?” If she sneaked in a question close to his personal life, he might not notice. If this one worked, she’d sneak one in about his life in Boston.

      When he came to stand beside where she busied herself drying the lid to her bowl, she became a picture of innocence.

      He turned and with one hand on the edge of the sink, he leaned in toward her almost as if he’d kiss her. His light brown eyes with golden flecks stared clearly into hers.

      He leaned in closer and Addy sucked in a breath.

      “I know what you’re doing and I’m going to ask you nicely to stop. Once.”

      Then he straightened and strode away to the fire and sat on the sofa near where his phone and computer rested on the wooden coffee table.

      He’s not who you think he is? The voice in her head insisted.

      * * *

      ZACH’S GRANDFATHER HAD told him his good nature would get him into trouble one day. And that day had come, in spades, four weeks ago, and now it just seemed to keep coming in the form of a reporter he wanted to toss out on her ear. He would, too, when it was safe, or at least he’d drop her off at the dry-goods store that doubled for a bus station.

      His phone no longer had a signal, so he opened his tablet to check for communication from Morrison and Morrison.

      The Wi-Fi wouldn’t connect either.

      When he left Boston, he had planned on hunkering down to think. Hadn’t planned on Adriana Bonacorda. Admirable in her willingness to persist.

      A flicker in the shadows told him the uninvited guest was loitering nearby.

      He powered down his computer and slid it into his briefcase.

      “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said as she tried to push her bushel of blond curls behind her ear. “I wanted to see if you were willing to sit down and speak with me some more.”

      He pressed back against the cushion and studied her. She wore slim black jeans that were showing their age and a pale pink tank top under a faded black one. The tail of her sweater didn’t bother to come to her waist, but the rolled collar hugged the back of her neck in a sensuous manner and dropped to her midriff, accentuating her full breasts. She wore a sloppy old pair of wool socks on her feet as her once red moccasins now sat in the breezeway most likely curling up toe to heel as the leather dried and contracted.

      The way her hair frizzed out around her head in a halo of blond almost made him smile. With her wide-set deep blue eyes and her generous mouth she carried the look off well. Her small chin jutted perfectly at the end of sharp jawbones and the color on her high pink cheekbones evened out the proportions of her features. Gave them a kind of perfection.

      She looked to be in her late twenties, about a hundred and twenty pounds, and she might be a natural blonde, rare, but not unheard of.

      “I won’t talk about anything south of the Maine border.”

      The lines of her mouth tightened, but she dipped her chin once and invited herself to sit on the sofa with him but nearer the fire.

      “What kinds of things do you do when you’re here in Bailey’s Cove?” she said, asking, he thought, as open a question as possible.

      He could list a few, but nothing she could use to build a story against him. He wondered when this reporter had last been interested in the truth.

      The wind whistled and roared as he sat and tried to decide what to tell her, how best to lead her away from anything involving Hale and Blankenstock.

      “This is a quiet town, struggling,” he said softly.

      “I’m afraid I didn’t get to see much of Bailey’s Cove.”

      He imagined her clinging to the wheel of her car, trying not to panic beyond the ability to function. Blue eyes glued to the centerline. Butt nearly lifted from the seat in anticipation. He wondered just how crazy she was.

      Locking her in a closet might be best for both of them.

      She lifted one eyebrow at him. “I was too busy chasing you.”

      He relaxed into press mode. She wanted to play casual, to get inside his armor with lightness and charm. Good for her. She wouldn’t be any good at her job if she didn’t pull out all her weapons.

      She would find his armor had hardened