Lethal Affair. Jean Pichon Thomas

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.