Brookwell Island wasn’t quite in step with the rest of the world. The pace was slower, conversations familiar and relaxed, even with strangers. But that was the whole point of a beachside community. Here, with a population almost equally divided between locals and tourists, life was good.
A generally safe adventure.
Especially at Hargrave Hideaway, where there was someone new to meet nearly every week as their guests came and went.
So why didn’t she feel more like herself? Lately, she only got clear of the sadness when she was involved with an art project or guest teaching a class. Though she kept busy, she couldn’t be “on” all the time.
Over the last couple of months, she’d started worrying that this might be a sign of a bigger issue. She squeezed her toes as the tide sucked the sand from under her feet. She really didn’t want to be the depressed Hargrave sister.
The obvious cure was to get out of her own head. She could call her sisters and get together. Talk about it. Laugh over fond memories.
Or she could go into Charleston tonight and dance with a stranger. Have fun with folks who didn’t know her or her weaknesses.
For now, she waded along the tide line, admiring the views and colors, considering how she might turn the ocean into a sculpture. A familiar exercise that filled her creative well and helped her find her gracious-hostess mode before their guest arrived.
The water and sand tickled her toes. She turned her face to the breeze and breathed deeply of the salty sea air. Gathering up her skirt, she waded out up to her knees. She studied the coastline, then turned back to study the house.
It was so charming from every angle. She never tired of sketching it. A couple of charcoals had been turned into prints they sold on the website and at a couple of shops in town. The extra money was helpful—consistent revenue that made her life easier.
Something bumped the back of her leg and it took all her willpower to remain still. Having grown up around the ocean, she knew better than to panic. Glancing down, the sunlight bouncing off the ocean made it hard to see what was under the surface.
She shifted slowly toward the shore, moving away from what was probably a hunk of driftwood or a curious fish. Whatever it was bumped her again, this time dragging across her heel. An eerie cringe skittered down her spine. As the wave washed backout, it sucked the sand from under her foot and she stumbled backward. Her foot landed on something that was neither fish nor sand.
She looked down and saw an arm. Limp, only the movement of the water gave it life.
Startled and shocked, uncertain, she realized that arm was still attached to the body. That was a good thing, right? Better than a body part out here all by itself.
The next roller came in and she sidestepped as the persistent waves nudged the body closer to the shore.
Swearing under her breath so she wouldn’t vomit, she caught the limp arm and tugged the body onto shore. The authorities couldn’t do anything if she let the body wash back out to sea.
She dug into her pocket for her phone to call the police and remembered she had left it in the kitchen. Cursing that poor choice, she waffled between staying with the body and hollering for help or leaving it long enough to call from the house.
The nearest people were the construction crew at the neighboring property. They’d never hear her over the tools and equipment. She had to handle this before their guest arrived.
Confident she’d dragged the body away from the ocean’s reach, she raced up to the house, stumbling a little in the loose dry sand.
Crossing the dunes, she found her footing and aimed for the back door into the kitchen.
“Hey! Hello?”
A deep, masculine voice hailed her from the driveway.
She nearly tripped as she skidded to a stop. He was gorgeous. As in model-athlete, paparazzi-should-be-hovering gorgeous. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but his sandy brown hair was ruffled by the breeze and his skin had a healthy golden glow of a man who enjoyed the outdoors. A sexy scruff of beard shaded his jaw. A man in vacation mode. His t-shirthugged his muscled torso and the board shorts revealed strong legs.
Her fingers tingled. And her lips. She was momentarily consumed by the fantasy of kissing him.What on earth?She’d never experienced such a visceral, immediate attraction.
Well, only once. All she’d gotten out of that encounter was a fascinating hour of conversation over coffee and a business card.
Hang on. Her brain backpedaled. “Trent?”
“You remember.” The slow smile only made him more irresistible. “Hi, Natalie. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh.” She forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Are you checking in?”
In the back of her mind, she frantically assessed the angles, hoping he couldn’t see the body behind her in the cove.
“Yes,” he said. “The Guardian Agency arranged it.”
