Whiskey Beach Part 58

"Compet.i.tor?"

"A lot of people believe Esmeralda's Dowry exists. When treasure hunters found the wreck of the Calypso some thirty years ago, they didn't find the dowry. Haven't found it yet, and more have looked. Then again, there's no solid, corroborated evidence the dowry was on the ship when it wrecked on Whiskey Beach, or was ever on it. For all we know, it went down with the family's trusted liaison when the Calypso attacked the Santa Caterina. Or the liaison absconded with the dowry and lived fat and rich in the West Indies."

"Absconded. That sounds so cla.s.sy."

"I'm a cla.s.sy guy," he said, and finished the pepper. "Most of it's rumor, and a lot of rumors conflict. But anyone who'd go to the trouble this guy has, who'd kill, is a true believer."

"You think he'll try to get back in, while you're in the house?"

"I think he's taking some time, waiting for everything to settle down some. Then yeah, he's got to get back to it. That's one thing. The other is there are people in the village, people you know, you work for, you give cla.s.ses to, who-like what's her name-are going to believe I did it, or at least wonder. That puts you in the middle-of possible harm, of certain gossip. I don't want you there."

"You can't control what other people say and do. And I think I've already proven I can defend myself in the possible-harm category."

"He didn't have a gun-or didn't think he needed to use it. Then."

She nodded. She couldn't deny the idea unnerved her, but she'd decided long before not to live her life in fear. "Killing me, or both of us, for that matter, in our sleep, or when I'm scrubbing the floor, only brings the cops in, again. I'd think that would be the last thing he wants. He needs to avoid attention, not only to himself but to Bluff House."

"That's logical. I'm looking at the big picture, and he hasn't used a lot of logic so far. I don't want you hurt. And I don't want you dealing with anything like you dealt with this morning again because you're involved with me."

Eyeing him coolly, she took a slow sip of wine. "Are you cooking me a farewell dinner, Eli?"

"I think it's better all around if we take a break."

"'It's not you, it's me'-is that the next line?"

"Look. It's because I ... because you matter to me. You've got some of your things in the house, and cops pawed through them today. Corbett may believe me, but Wolfe doesn't-and he won't stop. He'll do everything he can to discredit you, because it's your statement that takes me out of the equation in Duncan's murder."

"He'll do that whether or not I'm with you."

For a moment she considered how she felt about being protected-from harm, from ugly talk. She decided she felt fine about it, even if she didn't intend to allow it.

"I appreciate your position. You think you need to protect me, to shield me from harm, from gossip, from police scrutiny, and I find I like being with a man who would try to do that. But the fact is, Eli, I've already been through all of it, and more, once in my life. I'm not going to give up what I want on the chance I may go through some of it again. You matter to me, too."

She lifted her wine as she studied him. "I'd say we're at an impa.s.se on this, except for one thing."

"What thing?"

"It's going to depend on how you answer the question. Which is, do you believe women should get equal pay for equal work?"

"What? Yes. Why?"

"Good, because this discussion would veer off into another avenue if you'd said no. Do you also believe women have the right of choice?"

"Jesus." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Yes." He saw exactly where she was taking him, and began to work on a reb.u.t.tal in his head.

"Excellent. That saves a long, heated debate. Rights come with responsibilities. It's my choice how I live my life, who I'm with, who I care for. It's my right to make those choices, and I take the responsibility."

Her eyes narrowed on his face. "Oh, go right ahead."

"And what?"

"Raised by a lawyer," she reminded him. "I can see Mr. Harvard Law thinking through how to make a complicated argument to tangle up all my points. So go ahead. You can even throw out a couple of 'wherefores.' It won't make any difference. My mind's made up."

He shifted gears. "Do you understand how much I'll worry?"

Abra tipped her chin down, and those narrowed eyes went steely.

"That always works for my mother," he pleaded.

"You're not my mother," she reminded him. "Plus you don't have mother-power. You're stuck with me, Eli. If you cut me loose, it has to be because you don't want me, or you want someone else, or something else. If I walk away, it has to be for the same reasons."

Feelings on the table, he thought. "Lindsay didn't matter anymore, but every day I regret I couldn't do anything to stop what happened to her."

"She mattered once, and she didn't deserve to die that way. You'd have protected her if you could." She rose, went to him, slid her arms around his waist.

"I'm not Lindsay. You and I are going to look out for each other. We're both smart. We'll figure it out."

He drew her in, stood with his cheek pressed to hers. He wouldn't let anything happen to her. He didn't know how he would keep that unspoken promise to her, to himself, but he'd do whatever he needed to do to keep it.

"Smart? I'm following a recipe for morons."

"It's your first day on the job."

"I'm supposed to cube that chicken. What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

She drew back, then moved in again for a long, satisfying kiss. "Once again, I'll demonstrate."

She was in and out of the house. Early cla.s.ses, cleaning jobs-his included-marketing, private lessons, tarot readings for a birthday party.

He barely knew she was there when he was working, yet when she wasn't, he knew it acutely. The energy-he was starting to think like her-of the house seemed to wane without her in it.

They walked on the beach, and though he'd firmly decided cooking would never be a form of relaxation for him, he pitched in to help now and then.

He had a hard time imagining the house without her. Imagining his days, his nights without her.

Still, when she urged him to come the next night she worked at the bar, he made excuses.

He did want to continue researching the dowry, the ship, he reminded himself. He carried books out to the terrace to read there while he still had enough light, and settled down near the big terra-cotta pots Abra had planted with purple and yellow pansies.

As his grandmother did, he remembered, every spring.

They'd take the cool nights, even a frost if they got another. And that was likely, he thought, despite the blessed warm spell they'd enjoyed the last few days.

People had flocked to the beach to take advantage. He'd even spotted Vinnie through his telescope, riding waves with the same flash and verve he'd had as a teenager.

The warm, the flowers, the voices carried on the wind, and the cheerful blue of the sea nearly lulled him into thinking everything was normal and settled and right.