Desperate Measures. Christy Barritt

wasn’t a promise of anything—not a promise of friendship or trust or anything other than a professional relationship.

      Despite that, Samantha should have probably said no. Her jaw ached. She was tired. And she was scared.

      The fewer people who saw her face here, the better. It was bad enough that the sheriff had already seen her. The last thing she needed was for him to run some kind of background check on her.

      If he did, then she’d be out of a job, behind bars and Connor would have no one. The cops back in Texas still thought she was involved in the scheme her husband and his friends had devised. When Billy—the ringleader—had heard she was going to turn them in, he’d put money into her personal bank account—large sums of money. Money that made her look guilty. He’d planted emails that made it look as though she was the mastermind behind his scheme to scam people out of their investments. He’d lined everything up just right so that, if he fell, then she’d fall with him.

      That’s why it was so important that she remained low-key and not arouse anyone’s suspicions.

      The problem was that she could already see in her boss’s eyes that he was perceptive and intelligent. How long would it take for John to put it together that she was running from both the bad guys and from the law?

      If he discovered that information, would he turn her in?

      The smell of a charcoal grill billowed in the air as they approached. John looked up from an old, park-style grill—one that was cemented into the ground—and grinned.

      “How’s the cabin coming?” he asked.

      “I think it will be fine. I really appreciate your letting us stay here.”

      “I appreciate the help. I was sincere when I said I needed a hand.”

      Samantha paused by the grill, second-guessing herself for a moment. Maybe she should have refused his offer. She’d done such a good job keeping to herself. She couldn’t let herself feel too safe here on the island. “Is there anything I can do to help get dinner ready?”

      “It’s nothing fancy. I’m fine. You can just relax.”

      Relax? She almost wanted to snort. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d relaxed. No, she was always on guard, always alert.

      Despite that, she sat in an old deck chair on the porch of John’s cabin. Connor plopped on the steps and began running a stick over the sand, drawing pictures.

      She looked out in the distance.

      The Chesapeake Bay was blue and pristine. The sun was setting across the water, smearing pink and purple lights together. Wisps of dune grass sprinkled the area. Pelicans flew overhead, and the smell of seawater brought an unusual sense of comfort.

      A false sense of comfort and security, for that matter.

      “So, tell us about Smuggler’s Cove,” Samantha urged.

      “It’s a national treasure, if you ask me.” John flipped the fish and a scrumptious scent filled the air.

      Samantha took a moment to soak him in.

      The man was gorgeous with his broad frame, his head full of dark hair, and his warm brown eyes. No one could deny that.

      But that didn’t matter to Samantha. It was the single life for her, from now until eternity. Every man she’d ever trusted had ultimately let her down. She didn’t see that changing...well, ever. Men were all the same, as far as she was concerned.

      At five, her father had left. Her boyfriend in college had cheated on her. Her husband had swindled people out of thousands of dollars, choosing money over his family.

      She’d never met a man she could trust.

      Which was why she needed to concentrate on something else at the moment.

      “I think the neighborhood where I grew up is bigger than this place,” she said, careful to not reveal too much about herself.

      But her words were true. The whole island could only be maybe fifty acres. It was small enough that Samantha, as she’d traveled from the wharf to John’s yesterday, had seen tombstones in people’s front yards.

      He chuckled. “You could be right. I think there’s only around a thousand residents here. It’s unlike any place I’ve ever been. At high tide, the waters rise and small wooden bridges connect various parts of the island. Only about sixty percent is inhabitable. The rest is marshland.”

      “I hate to see what that means during hurricane season.”

      “They say the island was formed from a hurricane and another one could easily erase it. In fact, there’s an island north of here—locals call it the Uppards—that was once inhabited. Residents abandoned it about forty years ago because of flooding. The entire island became submerged during storms.”

      “It was probably a good idea that they ditched the place then.” She crossed her legs, soaking in the sun for a moment. “What about the accent I heard on some of the locals. I wasn’t imagining that, was I?”

      John closed the grill and leaned against a picnic table. “Not at all. When the island was first settled by the British back in the 1880s—yes, we’re talking nearly as far back as John Smith and Pocahontas—they were isolated. Really isolated. More so than they are now. Their way of life was preserved for a long time, even the accent stuck around. In recent years, it’s become not as prominent with television and visitors and so.”

      “Fascinating. I didn’t get a good look at what’s here. I take it there’s not a Macy’s.”

      He chuckled. “No, no Macy’s. But there is a general store, three restaurants, a bed and breakfast, the docks and the homes of the residents living here.”

      “Why’s it called Smuggler’s Cove?” Connor asked.

      “Many years ago, pirates were said to have buried their loot on the island, thus the name Smuggler’s Cove.”

      “So, if I look hard enough, I could find treasure? Awesome! Can I start now?”

      Samantha shrugged. “Go for it. Just don’t wander too far away.”

      As Connor scurried off, John turned toward her. “So, you said you had experience in construction?”

      She nodded. “I worked for a construction company, doing their books. I also helped Connor’s father with flipping houses. My uncle was a handyman, so he taught me a lot.” Even her uncle had ended up leaving his wife for another woman. He’d totally lost contact with the rest of the family when that happened.

      She leaned back into the chair, imaging herself living a different life. A life where she could sit back and relax and enjoy the world around her. But there was no need to dwell on what wasn’t. She had to concentrate on survival. “How about you? Is this what you do for a living? Restoring cabins?”

      “Nah, I quit my regular job at the Coast Guard Training Center. Decided I needed a change of pace.”

      Why would someone do that? Samantha wondered. But the question wasn’t hers to ask. Not now. Besides, too many personal questions could be dangerous. She needed to stay on neutral ground.

      She nodded. “Where are you from?”

      “Texas originally. Gloucester for the past several years. Smuggler’s Cove now.”

      Tension crept up her spine at the mention of Texas. “Really? What part of Texas?”

      “The Houston area.”

      Just a coincidence, she told herself. He probably hadn’t heard of Billy. Probably hadn’t heard about what happened to her husband. But what if somehow he made the connection that her former husband was a part of the gang that had cheated the city’s richest out of their money? What if he put two and two together?

      She stared out to sea. The island seemed so secluded, so far off