The Lottery Winner. Emilie Rose

but not so light that he couldn’t blend in. Miri got into Jack’s old truck and drove away in the opposite direction.

      He hustled to his car and waited until Jessie was a block down before starting the engine. A vehicle passed him, then a second. He pulled out behind them, going slowly as if searching for a parking space but keeping Jessie in sight. She slid into a small sedan. Hanging back, he let another car pull out and get between them, then he followed Jessie’s vehicle onto Highway 1.

      “This is nuts,” he muttered after she passed several mile markers. “I’m acting like a stalker.”

      But Miri’s safety depended on him protecting her from further harm—financial or otherwise—and there was something about the new waitress that didn’t add up. A furtiveness that worried him since he’d seen, ignored and been burned by a similar situation.

      The car between them peeled off. Finally, Jessie signaled and turned left. That posed a problem. There would be less traffic off the highway, making it harder to remain undetected. But at least he was familiar with the area since he often explored the Keys. She kept her speed slow. The street was long and straight. She’d be onto him if he stayed behind her. The first road to his left was horseshoe shaped. If he took it, he’d come out farther down the main road. He might lose her, but it was a risk he had to take. He turned and hit the gas. She passed in front of him just before he reached the stop sign. He braked and watched her taillights. Her indicator flashed by a driveway near the end of the road. He waited until she disappeared through the fence before rolling forward.

      An electronic gate slid closed, blocking her driveway. Making note of the house number, he drove past and circled back, pulled off the road and killed his headlights. Each of the houses on that stretch was surrounded by tall fences of either stone or block. That worked in his favor by concealing him. He checked both directions to see if anyone was watching. It was all clear, but he felt like a criminal. With his heart racing, he exited the car and ambled up to the iron gates to look through the white bars. Nice house. But not movie-star expensive. Still, an acre of waterfront property wasn’t cheap. Jessie’s car was the only one parked beneath the house. She climbed the stairs to the front door and tapped in a code, then disappeared inside. Lights came on.

      To the left of the house, he spotted a hot tub beneath a thatched roof with a pool beyond it. A lamp-lit pier stretched out into the water.

      He scanned his surroundings again and spotted the discreet real estate agent’s sign. A rental, but still an expensive place, and not something a waitress could afford unless she had a rich husband or a sugar daddy. He’d noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring.

      How could Jessie afford a house that rented for thousands each week? Her calluses and demeanor led him to believe she wasn’t a socialite, and her shoes were the same brand he saw in big-box stores—not designer or high-end. He ought to know—his ex had worn both. Besides, if Jessie were rich, why would she be so damned good at waiting tables?

      Tonight’s investigation was only leading to more questions. Something about Jessie didn’t add up. He had to find out how she was paying for her expensive accommodations—for Miri’s sake. If Jessie’s money came from swindling others or selling drugs, then he’d have to stop her before she snookered his aunt.

       CHAPTER THREE

      THE HEAT OF the overhead sun penetrated Jessie’s floppy straw hat. Rivulets of sweat trickled down her bare back. It might be December, but the Keys were experiencing a heat wave.

      A boat motor droned in the distance, but she was too caught up in putting the last strokes on her cormorant to look up. She’d lost count of how many boats had passed since she’d raced out here early this morning trying to get ahead of her unwanted squatters. Nightmares starring the birds had kept her awake, and she hoped getting this painting out of her head would give her peace.

      She added one last daub of raw sienna to the beak, then sat back to study her work with as much objectivity as she could muster. Not bad. The bird itself was finished and lifelike enough to be creepy. She checked her watch. Noon. If she stopped now, she could take a swim before showering for work.

      She washed out her brush then removed her hat and crossed to the edge of the dock. Arching left then right, she stretched the kinks from her spine. She curled her toes over the edge, anticipating a dip in the cool, clear water, but then she spotted the nurse shark lurking by the crab pot and backtracked. Locals claimed nurse sharks didn’t bite, but she wasn’t testing that theory. She’d settle for cooling off in the pool.

      She gathered her painting supplies. Only then did she notice a boat engine’s noise—it was closer than any previous boat had come. Curious, she turned to see a center-console boat with one man on board heading straight for her dock. Her brother’s daily warnings echoed in her mind, and alarm skittered through her. Was some guy going to try to kidnap her and demand her lottery winnings for ransom?

      Nervously, she mentally measured the distance to the house. The pier was more than a hundred feet long and it was fifty more across the beach to the bottom of the steps. Could she reach the house and lock her doors before the stranger caught her? No. Worse, she’d left her pepper spray inside, and her nails were clipped too short to do much damage. But she refused to become a statistic. She’d have to stand and fight and hope he didn’t have a gun. She had nothing except her easel to use as a weapon. Her best bet would be to introduce him to the nurse shark then run.

      Praying she was just being paranoid but determined to be the best witness she could be if she wasn’t, she studied the vessel’s shirtless occupant. He was tallish with short, dark hair, and muscled enough that he’d be hard to fight off. Mirrored lenses covered his eyes, but his attention appeared to be fixed on her.

      “Jessie?” he called out.

      Logan Nash. Shock made her stomach drop. She should have recognized that square chin.

      A different kind of panic set in. She wasn’t wearing her colored contacts or much of anything else. Ducking her head, she scrambled for her hat and sunglasses, shoved them on and cursed the fact that she hadn’t brought out her cover-up or even a towel. She’d bought the skimpy bikini top and low-slung boy short bottoms soon after arriving. She’d been pretending to be someone else, and she’d decided she wanted to dress like someone else, too—someone who didn’t always wear a modest one-piece. Of course, this swimsuit didn’t cover enough skin for anyone else to see her in it.

      The craft thumped against the dock’s rubber edge, jarring her deep inside. He killed the engine then shoved his glasses into his thick hair, revealing blue eyes that skimmed over her then the house. “Your place?”

      How had he found her? And why? “For now. What are you doing here, Logan?”

      He dropped his glasses back over his eyes. “I was riding by and thought I recognized you.”

      He tossed a rope toward her. It landed a yard away. She left it there. Without invitation he stepped onto the platform, rocking the surface beneath her feet, then he looped the rope through one of the metal cleats stationed around the deck and straightened.

      She couldn’t see his eyes and felt exposed on so many levels as she stared at her reflection in his mirrored lenses. Dropping her gaze, she found herself entranced by the smooth curves of his pectoral muscles, the light dusting of dark curls. She’d only seen him in polo shirts and khaki pants before now, and she wished she could have kept it that way. He had the body of an athlete, from his broad shoulders to his tapered waist and long legs. Lordy, he’d be a joy to paint.

      No, Jessie! She gulped, trying to dislodge the knot in her throat, and wrapped her arms around her middle.

      He abruptly stepped around her to the easel holding her picture. “Did you paint this?”

      “Um. Yes,” she forced out, feigning calm she didn’t feel.

      She didn’t like him knowing where she lived. How would she get rid of him? “It’s a beautiful day to be on the water,