The Masked Man Part 11

JILL WAITED in the cool shadows of the pines at the edge of the water until she saw Mackenzie Cooper leave his houseboat and walk up to the Beach Bar, just as Brenna said he did every evening.

The Beach Bar was a cla.s.sic Montana bar with silver dollars, elk antlers and stuffed lake trout on the walls. Brenna's family had built the bar at the end of the pier on pilings so that it overlooked the marina resort. One whole side was open to the air with stools and a few tables.

It was where both locals and tourists hung out, one of the few bars on the water and definitely blue-collar and fishermen friendly. Country-and-western music throbbed from the jukebox, blending with the sound of voices and the lap of water against the docks.

Jill waited until Mackenzie Cooper was well on his way to the bar before she slipped out of the pines and headed for the houseboat tied at the farthest dock from the marina, about thirty yards offsh.o.r.e.

She'd known she wouldn't be able to just walk down the dock to the boat without being seen. That left only one way out to the houseboat with any hope of going undetected. Swim.

No light glowed inside the houseboat as she waded into the dark water. She couldn't be sure that Brenna would be able to keep him at the bar. Jill couldn't even be sure that tonight he wouldn't change his routine, cut the evening short and return before she'd had time to search the houseboat and get away again.

She took a deep breath. She'd worn a shortie wet suit and a waterproof bag clipped to her waist with what she could find for tools to break into the boat. The water chilled her exposed skin as she dived under the surface. The small dry bag at her waist slowed her as she began to swim underwater through the open area to the docks.

She needed to stay under to keep from being seen for as long as she could. Once she reached the docks, she could swim alongside them to the houseboat.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, beating faster at just the thought of what she'd find in the duffel bag.

She tried to gauge her distance. If she surfaced too soon, she could be spotted from the bar. If she didn't surface soon enough, she'd come up under the docks.

Her pulse spiked when she thought of being caught under a dock again. When she was nine, she and a neighbor boy had been playing and decided to hide under the dock at her house. She'd gotten her suit caught on a nail.

She released a little of her held breath now, swimming through the cold darkness, calculating in her head how far she'd come, how much farther she had to go and trying not to remember that day so many years ago when she was trapped under the dock.

She was already running out of air, her growing panic stealing too much oxygen, stealing too much of the time she would be able to stay underwater. Something brushed her bare leg. Just weeds, she knew, but her panic, her fear fueled by the memory of almost drowning all those years ago, took over.

She surfaced in a rush, gasping for air, surprised by how far she still was from the docks and the houseboat. She shot a look toward the bar. She could see Mackenzie Cooper sitting on a stool, boot heels hooked on the rung, a beer bottle in his hand, a lazy look on his face, all his focus on the woman before him. Brenna. Thank heaven for Brenna.

Diving beneath the surface again, Jill swam toward the docks, more aware of the distance yet spurred on by a need to see what the man had found on the island today.

At last, she reached the docks and surfaced, then swam alongside to the houseboat and climbed the short ladder onto the deck. She stood dripping and trying to catch her breath as she heard the distinct sound of footsteps on the dock headed her way. Was it possible he was already coming back? That Brenna had rung the bell while Jill was underwater?

Jill placed a hand over her thumping heart as she realized there was more than one person coming down the dock. She could hear the voices, the clink of ice in gla.s.ses and the sound of laughter.

Peeking around the bow of the houseboat, Jill saw four people headed for a sailboat in a slip about fifty yards away. Mackenzie Cooper's boat was isolated from any of the other boats. She suspected that was the way he wanted it, which made her all the more suspicious.

The people boarded the sailboat, laughing and talking loudly, and Jill pulled the penlight from the dry bag at her waist and crept back to the stern of the houseboat where the small fishing boat had been tied.

Shining the light into the bottom of the fishing boat, she saw that the duffel bag wasn't still there. But then, she hadn't expected it to be. She'd noticed the way he'd carried the duffel, the way he'd laid it carefully in the bow of his fishing boat. Whatever he'd found in the restricted area of the island, it was something valuable, something too valuable to leave out in the fishing boat.

Keeping to the shadow of the houseboat, she moved across the stern to the back entrance. To her surprise the door wasn't locked. He must have figured he could see the boat from the bar and wasn't worried anyone would bother with it.

Carefully she slid open the screen door and slipped in, glad she wouldn't have to use the makeshift breaking-and-entering tools she'd brought from the bakery. Technically, then, she wasn't breaking and entering, right? She didn't close the screen. Just in case she needed to make a fast getaway.

It was dark in the houseboat, the curtains on the windows drawn. She swept the beam of the penlight across the cabin. The inside of the boat was modestly furnished, clean and uncluttered.

Was there a Mrs. Cooper? Jill didn't think so. No feminine touches anywhere that she could see. She quickly went through the boat. It didn't take long. One bedroom. Bed made. Bedding in the storage compartment under it. Bureau drawers, neat. Not a lot of clothing. Nothing fancy.

Lots of books, worn cla.s.sics. A man who read. In the living area, she found more books, stereo, TV, VCR. Some storage.

She still hadn't found the duffel bag. She went into the small kitchen-dining room and looked in the cupboards. He had a lot of spices and staples, well-worn cookbooks, a well-stocked pantry and fridge. He must like to cook. That, of course, appealed to her.

No navy duffel. Could he have gotten rid of it between the time she'd left and returned?

She saw something through the bedroom doorway that made her heart jump. The closet door stood open. She'd been so busy looking for the duffel that she'd given the clothes hanging in his closet only a cursory glance, her attention more on the floor under them.

But now her gaze settled on something dark, something familiar.

She moved toward the open closet like a sleepwalker. Even before she touched the fabric, she caught the faint hint of her perfume still in the weave. As she stared at the Rhett Butler costume, her pulse pounded so hard she almost didn't hear the bell ring down at the gas dock.

Now more than ever she needed to find the duffel bag. She had to know what this man was doing on the island. What he was doing in the cottage last night.

Her hands were shaking as she looked around the boat, frantically trying to see if there was some hiding place she'd overlooked. She glanced at her watch. She had a few minutes. Three at the most before he reached the boat.

The duffel wasn't in the boat. She'd looked everywhere. As she moved toward the open doorway at the stern, she spotted a storage compartment she hadn't noticed before. She rushed to it, unlatched the door and shone the penlight inside.

It was deep, so deep she realized it must have another opening out on the deck. All she could see from this vantage point was the side of an orange plastic crate.

She hurried out the door to find she'd been right. There was another opening to the compartment. She lifted the hatch.

Her heart leaped at the sight of the navy duffel bag. Any moment now she would hear his footfalls on the old wooden dock.

Her pulse pounded as she reached for the duffel, then stopped. The bag sat on top of the plastic crate, and under it she could see an old anchor, some worn rubber boots, an a.s.sortment of old gloves. The zipper on the bag was open a few inches.

Maybe she'd been wrong about the value of the contents, she thought as she stared at the mud-encrusted duffel bag. She glanced at her watch. Time was up!

Hurriedly, she unzipped the bag fully, now expecting to find rocks or driftwood, and shone the beam of the penlight inside. Her chest tightened as the beam skittered over what appeared to be a volleyball-size clod of that distinctive mustard mud from the restricted area of the island.

The beam stilled on a dark place in the dried mud. A hole. No, not a hole-she moved the light-two eye sockets! A skull! A human skull! The scream caught in her throat as she heard the creak of a heavy step on the deck behind her.

Chapter Nine.

Mac had hoped for news of Shane at the bar. Instead, the daughter of the owner of the marina had bought him a beer. She was attractive and nice, but had seemed nervous in her attempt to make small talk.

He'd downed the beer quickly, not sure exactly what she'd been hoping for. Whatever it was, it wasn't happening.

He'd left a lot of messages around town, but still nothing from Shane. Now he was just anxious to grab what he needed and head for Jill's apartment, where he would spend the night making sure she was safe.

It was his own fault for getting involved with her. Once he found Shane and returned the coins to Pierce, he told himself, she would be safe. Then he would pack up and leave Flathead Lake earlier than he'd planned, even though summer wasn't quite over.

Change of plans. Thanks to that one instant in time when he'd kissed Jill Lawson.

As he neared the houseboat, he heard a scuffling sound and tensed. It was growing dark now, but he could see movement in the shadows by his houseboat. His pace quickened.

He was within yards of the boat when he saw what appeared to be two figures fighting. A man in a black ski mask and a woman in a wet suit. The man struck the woman and she slumped in his arms just an instant before the man spotted Mac running down the docks toward him.

Mac saw at once what the man was about to do and knew there was nothing he could do to stop him. In one swift movement, the man threw the unconscious woman over the side of the boat. She hit the water with a splash and went under. Then the man ran the length of the dock and dived into the lake, disappearing into the darkness and water as Mac raced toward the spot where he'd seen the woman go under.

He dived in. The water was shockingly cold, as well as dark and murky, but fortunately not deep. He brushed her arm and quickly made contact with her rubber-clad body and dragged her to the surface and up onto the dock.

As he laid her down on the dock and brushed her long dark hair from her face, he let out a curse. Jill Lawson. Quickly he leaned down to see if she was still breathing. What the h.e.l.l had she been doing on his boat?

He started to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but the moment his mouth touched hers, she let out a gasp, her eyes flying open. She looked surprised, scared, confused, all at once. Then she coughed and tried to sit up.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he helped her into a sitting position.

She coughed a few more times, then looked around as if she wasn't sure where she was. She was shaking either from fear or the cold. Or both.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the houseboat. Her teeth chattered as he took her into the bathroom, sat her on the closed lid of the toilet and reached in to get the shower going.

"Wh-what are you d-doing?" she stammered.

"Getting you warmed up."

Something flickered in her gaze.

"Can you get out of that wet suit by yourself?"

She made a determined try, but she was shaking too hard. He turned her around and unzipped the back, revealing a strong, bare tanned back and a small, red string bikini. This woman was going to be the death of him.

The moment she felt the zipper stop, she was working at the sleeves, trying to pull them from her arms, struggling without much success as she said, "I can get it."

"Uh-huh. Here." He slipped the sleeve from her arm. She clutched the neoprene to her chest with a modesty that made him smile. He knew every wonderful inch of that body. "Let me help you. I'll close my eyes."

He dragged the wet-suit sleeve from her other arm, then-closing his eyes more for his protection than hers-pulled the neoprene down her slim body. The wet suit fit like a glove and sucked down over her contours like a second skin. He peeled the rubbery material down her legs to her feet.

She rested a hand on his shoulder for balance as he tugged the wet suit off her feet.

Then, the wet suit in hand and his eyes still closed, he rose slowly to a standing position. "Will you be all right in the shower alone?"

"I'll be fine," she said, sounding a little breathless, her teeth still chattering.

"Okay. I'll be just outside the door if you need me." He turned his back to her, opened his eyes and left with the dripping wet suit. He went out on the deck, needing the cool air, and sucked in several breaths. He hung the suit over the railing to dry and listened for her. He could hear the shower running.

He worried she might pa.s.s out and fall. But he heard no alarming thumps, just the water running. He was still shaken from how close she'd come to getting killed.

He swore, angry with himself. Angry with her-what was she doing here, anyway? Angry that he'd let the bad guy get away. He told himself that protecting Jill Lawson wasn't his job. His job was finding Pierce's coins. But he knew he was only telling himself that because he'd failed at both.

He had to get this woman out of his hair, out of his mind, and soon. The shower stopped.

He started to go back inside, but spotted something on the deck. A penlight and a small, dark dry bag. He picked up both. In the dry bag, he found bakery tools and smiled in spite of himself. It appeared Jill Lawson had intended to break into his houseboat with a spatula.

He stepped back inside and looked up as she came out of the bedroom, her face flushed from the shower. She was wearing one of his shirts, a pale-blue chambray. Behind her he could see the wet string bikini on his towel bar.

She stopped when she saw him and looked ill at ease even though his shirt hung down to her knees, more than covering her. She plucked the fabric away from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with her right hand, making him keenly aware that she wore nothing under the shirt. Her other hand was down at her side, hidden behind the folds of the shirt, but all he could think about was the body he knew so well beneath those folds.

Her long, golden-brown hair was pulled up off her neck, wet tendrils curling at her temples and framing her lightly freckled face.

His chest constricted. G.o.d, she was something! She smelled of his soap and a heat that wasn't all from the shower. He'd never wanted a woman more than he wanted her right now.

She raised her chin and met his gaze. His knees almost buckled. He stepped to her, lost in those big brown eyes and the chemistry shooting like sparks between them. His hand cupped the nape of her neck. Gently, he pulled her to him. His gaze dropped to her full mouth, the lips slightly parted. Lost. He was completely lost.

He breathed her in as he dropped his mouth to hers. She tasted just as he remembered. Sweet, warm, wet- He froze when he felt cold steel jab into his ribs. His pistol. He'd left it beside the bed before he went to the bar.

"Who are you?" she asked, sounding scared.

"My name's Mackenzie Cooper." Carefully he removed his hand from her neck and stepped back, concerned in her current state she just might shoot him. From the way she held the gun, she'd used one before. Just his luck. If she pulled the trigger, it wouldn't be an accident.

"I know your name," she said. "Who are are you?" you?"

"I'm a private investigator. Want to tell me what you were doing on my boat?"

"I followed you from the island. I know you were behind the restricted area. I know there was a human skull in the duffel bag you brought out of there."

He tried not to show his surprise. "I see." He glanced toward the compartment where he'd put the duffel earlier. The door was closed and the man who'd attacked her hadn't taken it-he'd had nothing in his hands when he'd dived into the water.

"How's your head?" he asked. "I think I have some aspirin."

"My head's fine. So you're a private investigator." She frowned. "Were you investigating last night at the Forester party?"

He glanced toward the closet. The door was open and that d.a.m.ned costume was right where he'd hung it. He should have burned it, but he hadn't been able to. So much for sentimental value. "Why don't you put the gun down and we can talk about this."

She kept the weapon trained on him. "Were you investigating in the cottage last night?"

He flinched. She'd finally gotten to the heart of it. "I found the Rhett Butler costume in your closet," she said, "with these in the right-hand pocket." She pulled out her black panties and dangled them before him.

He swore under his breath. She'd think he was some kind of pervert.

"I'd like my engagement ring back," she said. "I a.s.sume you picked it up, too."

He met her gaze. "I don't have it."

She lifted a brow. "Then maybe Arnie has it. Maybe he's the one I remember from the cottage, after all."

Ouch, that hurt. "One of us was definitely a lucky man," he said, then wished he'd bitten his tongue.

Anger flashed in her eyes. "You're lucky I don't shoot you. When you were in the bakery this morning, you could have told me who you were. You saw the deputies there. I know you overheard what was being said, and you knew I needed an alibi for the time of Trevor's murder."

He nodded. He might be a lot of things, but he wasn't a liar. At least not about this.