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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Landry found the latch on the old fishing shack and slowly opened the door.
The shack was small and dark inside. All he could see were old bait buckets, weather-ruined life preservers from another era, a few fishing poles and odds and ends.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. Maybe an unfinished painting by W. St. Clair. One of him. Stolen from her room.
It was just large enough that he could step inside. He stood in the darkness, not sure what he was looking for, just that he didn’t like this place any more than he did the villa.
The island gave him the creeps and he wasn’t sure if it was the people on it—or the evil he felt that permeated the place. He hadn’t been kidding when he told Willa he could feel that something horrible had happened here.
He found the small wooden box under a shelf hidden behind the life preservers. The lock was rusty, the hinges creaking loudly as he lifted the lid.
Old letters. Envelopes yellowed with age. Gingerly he picked up one, lifted the flap and carefully pulled out the thin sheet of paper.
The letter was written in Spanish, but he could make out enough of it to see that it was a love letter addressed to “My Dear One” and signed “Your Faithful.” The writing was neat but neither masculine or feminine, the paper plain.
He put it back in the envelope, noting that the letters had never been mailed. Had they been delivered?
Putting the letters back, he returned the box to its hiding place and checked to make sure no one was waiting for him outside. The island seemed too quiet, as if even the birds held their breath. It gave him a strange, anxious feeling, and suddenly he couldn’t wait to get back to Willa.
Slipping out, he stole back out to the beach. No sign of Carlos.
After circling the entire island, he hadn’t found any sign of another person on the island or a boat. Maybe there wasn’t anyone on the island he had to fear. Not that he was taking any chances with the odd group living here.
For now they were safe here. Bull would be arriving soon with the package from the gallery owner. Once they had the painting it would just be a matter of getting the disk to the right people.
As he neared the villa, he felt the heat bearing down on him. He needed a bath. The thought brought back an image of Willa in the tub. Not a good idea. A swim. That’s what he needed. He would get Willa and go down to the sandy part of the beach. The tide was going out. It would be nice to swim and maybe lie in the shade for a while. Better than staying alone in that small apartment with her.
Henri’s door was open, but there was no sign of her or of the others as Landry crossed the courtyard. Loud music throbbed from Blossom’s apartment. There was no other sound as he climbed the stairs.
He tapped at the door, wondering if he would wake Willa. He’d been gone for quite a while. She should be awake by now. She’d been so obviously exhausted earlier he figured she’d gone right to bed.
“Yes?”
“It’s me,” he said quietly.
She opened the door, a paintbrush in her hand.
He stepped in, her look questioning. He shook his head. “You’re working?” He glanced toward the bedroom and her easel, relieved to see a picturesque painting of the villa. No splashes of red. No hint of a bloodbath.
“Want to go for a swim?”
She cocked her head at him.
“We can talk on the beach.” He made it sound as if he thought the apartment might be bugged. It might be, but that wasn’t his reason for wanting out of here right now. Willa smelled and looked wonderful and the apartment was cool, the bed too inviting.
She studied him for a moment, then said, “I’ll put on my suit.”
When she came out of the bathroom, she was wearing a two-piece—chaste compared to that string thing that Henri was wearing yesterday.
But Willa in her two-piece was so damned sexy he felt poleaxed standing there looking at her. How the hell was he going to keep his hands off her?
“What?” Willa asked.
He shook his head, afraid to trust his voice.
She picked up a beach cover from behind the door and pulled it around her, leaving nothing exposed but a lot of leg.
