Her Fifth Husband? Page 2

  “Hello? Yes, this is Sasha Lasiter. I’m at Driftwinds cottage in Kitty Hawk.” She gave the milepost and the street number—at least she remembered that much. “Look, there’s a man in the cottage next door that’s supposed to be closed, and either he’s pointing a weapon or taking pictures of me. Yes, I’m sure!” she replied indignantly when asked. “Well, whatever that thing is he’s holding, he was aiming it at me.”

  Maybe he was—maybe he wasn’t, but if she wanted help she needed to make out a worst-case scenario. “Look, I know—” She broke off in exasperation. “No, I am not in the hot tub! I am fully dressed, but I happened to be outside on the upper deck, and—” Impatiently, she explained what she was doing in an unoccupied cottage. “I don’t remember if I locked up behind me or not!” She was pretty sure she hadn’t. She listened as the flat voice gave instructions, then broke in and said, “Look, I am not about to take a chance on reaching my car and risk being mugged, so could you please send someone to check him out?”

  Feeling discouraged, a little bit frightened and in no mood to finish what she’d started earlier, she refused to stay on the line. Instead, she headed for the kitchen and located a block of kitchen knives. Armed with a filet knife that she would never have the nerve to use, she made her way back upstairs and looked around for the most defensible place to wait. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told the dispatcher she was afraid to go outside. A friend of hers had recently been mugged in a parking lot not two miles from here. Her own car was parked close enough to the house so that she could probably unlock it with a remote, jump in and lock it again before anyone could grab her, only her remote didn’t work anymore—she wasn’t even sure it was still in her purse.

  Besides, how safe was a convertible? The top was aluminum, not rag, but even if she got away, who was to say the creep wouldn’t follow her home?

  Who would ever have thought that being an interior decorator at a beach resort could be a hazardous occupation?

  “Hey, Jake. We just got a call from some lady that says you’re spooking her out.” The lanky deputy stepped onto the upper deck from the outside stairway.

  “Hey, Mac. How’d you know it was me?”

  “Call came from next door, but I saw your wheels parked outside, figured you’d know what was going down. You working?”

  “I was. Sorry if I upset the lady. I yelled at her, but she’d already gone inside.”

  “Oh, yeah—like yelling at a woman always sweetens ’em up. So, you want to tell me what you’re doing? She said you were either aiming a gun at her or taking her picture.”

  “Pictures. Hell, Mac, you know I can’t tell you who I’m working for.” John Smith, otherwise known as Jake, squinted against the low-angled sun. “Divorce case. Woman thinks her husband’s got a little something going on the side. She wants some backup evidence before she files. I figured I’d check out their cottage first since it was empty. The guy’s pretty well known in the area, so I figured he wouldn’t risk being seen at a motel with another woman.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet. I just started today.”

  The deputy nodded. Mac Scarborough had been three years ahead of Jake’s son, Tim, at Manteo High, but they’d known each other the way people in small towns did. Then, too, being in the security business, Jake knew most of the lawmen in the surrounding area.

  “How’s Timmy? He gone over there yet?” the young deputy asked.

  “Shipping out any day now.” Jake shook his head. “I don’t mind telling you, I wish he’d joined you guys instead of the army.”

  “Yeah, well…wait a few weeks till the season cranks up. You’ll be glad he’s over there working on heavy equipment in a war zone instead of rounding up DUIs and busting up drug deals and trying to untangle pileups at every intersection between Oregon Inlet and the Currituck Bridge.” The deputy shook his head. “Ah, hell, man, I’m sorry.”

  Jake ignored both the reminder of his loss and the apology. “You wouldn’t trade your job for one any place else in the world, and you know it.”

  Grinning, the younger man removed his hat and raked his fingers through short, sun-bleached hair. “You got that right. I guess nothing goes on here on the Banks that don’t go on a whole lot more in the big cities. Leastwise, here we get to go surfing on our day off.” He replaced his hat, angling the brim just so. “Reckon I’d better go next door and let that poor lady know you’re one of the good guys.”

  Knowing that whatever chance he’d had of collecting evidence was shot for the time being, Jake said, “Might as well, now that you’ve scared my red-feathered pigeon off.”

  “Hey, at least I didn’t use my lights and siren.” Mac grinned and turned toward the outside stairway. “You take care now, Jake. Tell Timmy I said hey and don’t go upsetting any more ladies, y’ hear?”

  Just then they heard a door slam. Mac hesitated, and then both men leaned over the rail in time to see the shapely redhead run that awkward way women did when they were wearing those ridiculous shoes. She unlocked the door to a fancy red convertible and climbed in, her miniskirt-covered hips being the last thing to disappear before she slammed the door, backed out of the driveway and scratched off down the beach road.

  “Well, hell,” the deputy muttered.

  “Guess that takes care of that,” Jake said.

  He’d just have to try again tomorrow. Waste another day, probably. Common sense told him if anything was going on over there, as his client seemed to think, it would be during the day, not at night when lights might arouse curiosity in a supposedly empty cottage. The day wasn’t a total loss, though. The redheaded woman had obviously been waiting for someone.

  He packed away his digital camera, shoved his sunglasses back on his face and jogged down the outside stairs, his mind on the comely redhead. Except for the hair, she reminded him of that classic poster of Marilyn Monroe, especially the ankles. A little shorter—maybe a little rounder. Whoever she was, she had what it took to tempt any man between the ages of can-do and can’t-do.

  On the other hand, he mused as he climbed into his middle-aged, slightly rusty SUV, since she’d called the law, there was some room for doubt as to her identity. Would she have done that if she’d just stopped by for a little afternoon delight with Jamison?

  Either way, pictures of the woman alone weren’t going to do Mrs. J. any good. He must’ve snapped off a dozen shots from different angles before she’d wakened up and caught him at it.

  At age forty-one, Jake Smith, owner of a small security business, had allowed his PI license to go largely unused while he was single-handedly raising his son. A few years ago he’d taken a refresher course at Blackwater, one of the world’s best security training outfits, which happened to be just up the road in the next county. But as there was far less demand for private investigators than there was for security engineers, he’d concentrated on the latter. Even so, as a spook, even a slightly rusty one, he knew enough to take down the license number of any potential suspect.

  Which he had—and which he should have asked Mac to run for him. They occasionally traded favors, JBS Securities and the sheriff’s department.

  She’d cut over to the bypass and headed north. So did Jake, even though it was getting late and he lived in the opposite direction. On the way, he placed a call to his second-in-command. “Hack, I need some information quick. Red Lexus convertible, I make it about an oh-two model, vanity plate S-A-S-H-A.”

  “Gimme a minute.” The nineteen-year old electronics whiz snapped his gum and ended the call.

  Hack was as good as his word. By the time Jake reached the point of decision—whether to take a right and head toward Southern Shores and points north, or turn west, cross the Wright Memorial Bridge over Currituck Sound and go from there, he had an address.

  Muddy Landing. Slapping his hand against the steering wheel, Jake didn’t even try to come up with a logical reason for what he was doing. There was a good barbecue place on the way, and he hadn’t taken t
ime for lunch.

  As for what he hoped to accomplish, that was another matter. The sexy little redhead might or might not have been waiting to meet Jamison, who might or might not have been delayed, scared off or otherwise held up. In an area where either of them might have been recognized, it stood to reason they wouldn’t risk meeting in a more public place, not when Jamison owned a big empty cottage with all the comforts of home.

  On the other hand, the woman could have had legitimate business there. She might be a rental agent, or even a potential renter. Before he dumped the pictures he needed to find out whether or not she was involved. She was definitely tempting enough, especially compared to Jamison’s wife.

  But no matter how great the temptation, carrying on an affair in a property you owned was pretty stupid.

  He passed the barbecue place, inhaled deeply and promised himself to stop in on his way back. More an overgrown community than a town, Muddy Landing was small enough so that he had little trouble locating the address, even without the gizmo Hack had installed in the SUV.

  Nice place, he thought as he pulled up two houses down on the other side of the street, although he wouldn’t have chosen to paint a house light purple—orchid or lavender, whatever the color was called—with dark green trim and a red car parked in the driveway. But what the hell, no one had ever accused him of having good taste.

  Jake considered the best way to approach her. “You looked like a hot number, so I decided to follow you home,” probably wasn’t going to cut it. She’d slam the door and call the cops, same as she’d done before, and this time he couldn’t blame her.

  On the way up the front walk, he tucked in his shirt-tail and ran a hand over his thick, dark hair. While he waited for someone to answer the doorbell, he took in the details of the well-kept two-story house. He liked the fact that not all the houses were the same style or color. From here he could see three whites, two yellows and a blue. When it came to color, the influence of the nearby beach had evidently spread inland. Over on the Banks, the county commissioners had actually considered limiting the colors a property owner could use. Talk about government running wild. At least on his own two properties in Manteo, some 40 odd miles south, he stuck to plain white, inside and out. Nobody could complain about that. He was in the process of having the duplex repainted and the roof re-shingled, partly because of storm damage, but mostly on account of it was long overdue.

  He pressed the button again and was about to give it another try when the door opened. “Ma’am, my name’s Jake Smith and I—”

  He got no further than that when a short creature with raccoon eyes growled at him. “Leave me alone, I don’t want any, I’m not interested, and I don’t do surveys.”

  “Oh, hey—” Jake had the presence of mind to wedge his foot in the opening before she could slam the door shut. “I’m not—that is, I’ve got credentials.” When he reached for his wallet, she lunged and stomped on his foot. Pain streaked all the way up to his groin. “Legitimate business,” he grunted through the pain. Quickly, he flashed his PI license and the sheriff’s courtesy card he’d been given years ago, that had no official bearing, but hell, he’d have shown her his mama’s recipe for cornmeal dumplings if he thought it would help.

  “Ma’am, I just wanted to apologize—to explain in case you were still worried.”

  Was this even the same woman? Same height, same hair color, but instead of that hot little number she’d been wearing less than an hour ago—red miniskirt, thin flouncy top and a pair of sexy spike-heeled ankle-strap shoes—she was covered from the neck down with what looked like a deflated army tent. Her feet were bare, with red toenails and red places on the sides where those pointy-toed shoes had rubbed. As fetching as they were, shoes like that were a crime against nature.

  He lifted his gaze to her face while his own throbbing foot held the door open. When a hint of some exotic fragrance drifted past, he inhaled it, eyes narrowing in appreciation.

  “You’re dead meat,” she said flatly. “There’s a deputy living two doors away. All I have to do is call him.”

  “You want to use my cell phone?” He made a motion as if to get it, although he’d left it in the truck.

  She blinked and relaxed her death grip on the door. At least, her fingers were no longer white-tipped. Actually, they were red-tipped to match her toenails. “Just state your business and leave,” she said grimly. “I’ll give you thirty seconds and then I’m calling Darrell.”

  He might have taken her more seriously if she didn’t have eye-makeup smeared halfway down her cheeks. At least he hoped that’s what the black and blue stains were, otherwise this might be a worst-case domestic situation. The hair that reminded him of the color of heartwood cedar was mashed flat on one side, standing up on the other. His wife used to call it bed-head.

  Hell, maybe this was where she was meeting Jamison. Could they have got their signals crossed? That perfume she was wearing smelled like torrid sex in a tropical garden.

  But then, why would she be dressed like this to meet a lover?

  Not that even dressed in what looked like a Halloween costume gone wrong, she wouldn’t make any normal man think of tangled sheets and damp, silky skin.

  “Would you please remove your foot?” she demanded.

  Khaki-colored eyes. He could’ve sworn they were some shade of blue, but then, at any distance of more than a dozen feet, eye color was hard to discern. “Ms. Lasiter, I just wanted to reassure you that—”

  The black-rimmed, khaki-colored eyes widened. “How did you know my name?”

  Jake thought, I’m too old for this. No matter how good she looked under that disguise—no matter how good she smelled, it just wasn’t worth the wear and tear.

  But she deserved an answer, and he’d come here expressly for that purpose. Among other things. “I’m in the security business and I was on a job I had to check out your license I’m sorry if I upset you I just wanted you to know you’re in no danger from me.” He said it all in a single gust of breath, hoping she wouldn’t finish breaking every bone in his foot. Now he knew how a fox felt when it was caught in a steel trap.

  Jake Smith, Sasha thought. A variation of John Smith. Right. How likely was that? Staring through bleary eyes, she tried to convince herself that the man who called himself Jake Smith was on the level. Silhouetted against the sunset he’d been impressive enough. Up close and personal, he was—

  Yes, well regardless of what he was, she didn’t need any. Didn’t need it, didn’t want it, knew better than even to think about it. By the time she’d got home her headache had grown to the four-alarm stage, which meant pills alone weren’t going to do much good. Nevertheless, she’d downed three with a swallow of milk from the carton. Then, not bothering to remove her makeup, she’d shed her clothes, pulled on her oldest, most comfortable caftan and fallen into bed with a package of frozen peas over her eyes.

  “Just so you know,” he said, “I’ll probably be there again. I’m not finished with my job.”

  Even in her semi-demented state, she couldn’t help but notice that he was sort of attractive, his tanned, irregular features bracketed by laugh lines and squint lines. Under a shadow of beard there was a shallow cleft on his square jaw. A few strands of gray in his dark hair. Obviously he’d reached the age where a man either started to fall apart or ripened into something truly special.

  This one was ripe.

  “Well, just so you know, neither am I,” she warned, belatedly coming to her senses. “Finished with my business, that is.”

  He stepped back, freeing his foot. She didn’t wait for him to turn away before slamming the door.

  Two

  Distracted enough without trying to drive and eat at the same time, Jake ordered a barbecue plate to go and drove the rest of the way to Manteo, a distance of some forty miles, listening to a Molasses Creek CD and thinking about the unusual woman he’d just met.

  Sasha Lasiter. It had a ring to it. He wondered if it was her real name. T
he first thing he’d noticed about her back at the Jamison cottage was her shape. That thing she’d been wearing when he’d tracked her down might have covered her curves, but he’d already seen ’em firsthand. The short skirt and that wispy thing she’d been wearing on top, while it was a lot more than most women wore at the beach, barely covered the essentials. His imagination had filled in the rest.

  A guy didn’t see curves like that every day. Jake had heard about hourglass figures. Hers fit the description, with maybe twenty-minutes more sand in the bottom than in the top. The fact that those same generous curves extended all the way down to her ankles meant it was probably genetic and not silicon.

  Damned fine genes, he mused.

  The scent of barbecue drifted up to his nostrils as he crossed the Washington Baum Bridge over Roanoke Sound and headed home. He had a feeling that it might take more than ’cue and fries to satisfy him tonight. His sex life had died of neglect while he was single-handedly raising his son.

  Almost as tall as he was, Jake’s wife Rosemary had been a local track star and dreamed of making the Olympic team. They’d gone to school together, K through twelve. In the tenth grade Jake had made up his mind to marry her. They’d eloped the week they’d graduated—by that time she had given up on her Olympic dreams. Neither of them had ever regretted it.

  Seven years later Rosemary had been killed by a drunk driver at one of those intersections Mac had mentioned. Because of their son, Timmy, Jake had managed to hold it together—just barely. After a year or so of fighting the memories, he had rented out the house he and his wife had bought cheap, decorated on a shoestring and shared, and moved himself and his son into the other side of the duplex where his office was located.

  God, how long ago had it been? Sometimes he had trouble visualizing her face. Looking at the pictures—which he hadn’t done lately—no longer seemed to help. Not that the styles back then had been all that different—blue jeans were blue jeans; shorts were shorts. But the goofy, self-conscious grins on their faces, especially after Timmy had been born seven-and-a-half months after they’d been married, were hard to relate to after all these years. There were pictures of the tree house he’d built when Timmy was six months old and of the rust bucket they’d bought as a second car and been so proud of.