The Treasure Man. Pamela Browning

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СКАЧАТЬ silence. She gazed up at the clouds scudding past the turret of the inn for a long moment before answering. “I’m not planning to run the house as a B and B.”

      Chloe felt the first spatter of rain. As she raised the window and cut the Volvo’s engine, the scene went dark, and all she could see was the white stripes of Ben’s shirt a few feet away.

      “C’mon, Butch,” Chloe said. She grabbed the cat and her backpack. Fortunately, the clouds from the oncoming storm had not yet obscured the moon, and as she slid out of the car she was able to get a good look at Ben Derrick. His eyes were murky in the darkness, and she couldn’t recall their color. Strange, since she’d thought she’d never forget anything about him. Were they blue? Gray? She had no idea.

      “Can I help you with that?” He reached for her pack, but she sidestepped quickly and whipped it out of his reach.

      “No, I’ll handle it. Thanks.”

      “I’d better check out the house with you this first time,” Ben said gruffly.

      “I don’t think so,” Chloe retorted. She turned, wondering what it would take to make this guy get in his Jeep and go. Couldn’t he take a hint?

      “The reason I suggested going in with you,” Ben said with great patience, “is that if the house has been vacant, no telling what’s inside.”

      Chloe was mindful of Gwynne’s stated reasons for offering to let her live in the sea-worn old mansion. She’d mentioned concerns about vagrants, beach bums, kids partying inside and no one detecting their presence until much harm had been done. Maybe it would be a good idea to let Ben check out the place.

      “Let’s hurry. It’s beginning to rain,” Chloe said tersely. She started along the winding sandy path to the house as huge raindrops began to fall. The wind kicked up, and the air took on a sudden chill as rain sluiced down in great torrents, drenching them both.

      They ran past thrashing clumps of sea oats and salt grass. When she reached the haven of the porch, Chloe set Butch down. The cat, spooked by the change in weather, shook himself and immediately bounded into the bushes below.

      “Butch! Get back here!” She could barely make herself heard over the wind and rain.

      Of course the cat didn’t. Chloe wasn’t concerned that Butch would try a disappearing act, since he knew who his food came from, but she wished he hadn’t left her alone with Ben.

      Who conveniently produced a flashlight from his pocket and beamed it on the rusty old lock. Chloe, clumsy in her haste, fumbled with the key, inserted it and swung the door open on a cavernous front hall.

      A flock of dust bunnies scattered in the fresh gusts admitted through the open door as something dark scurried toward the nether regions of the house. Chloe groped for the light switch and flipped it. The lone bulb remaining in the overhead fixture flared and died.

      “I’ll turn on a lamp,” Chloe said, wiping her face with her forearm before dropping her backpack on the hall settee. As she spoke, Ben trained the flashlight on the parlor to her right.

      The house had been in her father’s family since the early part of the century, and she and her older sister, Naomi, had spent many glorious summer vacations in the big Victorian mansion when she was growing up. A year ago when she’d last visited, the Frangipani Inn hadn’t been in this state of disrepair. The furniture, layered with white covers, loomed eerily as she felt her way into the parlor’s depths, where she knocked into a table, caught herself before keeling over and managed to turn on the light over the piano. It cast the shrouded shapes into gloomy shadows.

      Dust was everywhere, and cobwebs trailed spookily from the high ceiling. The windows were coated with a thick coat of salt spray, and the air smelled musty. As she stood taking in all the decrepitude of a place that she remembered as bright, light and uplifting, Ben said, “Things deteriorate rapidly near the ocean. The place has been unoccupied for how long?”

      “Almost a year,” Chloe told him, her voice echoing because of the high ceiling. In order to see what was what, she shoved aside white muslin to reveal a wicker chair that belonged on the porch. One of its wooden rockers was split, and she tugged the cover back over it. As she did so, something scrambled frantically across her toes, something warm and furry with quick little feet.

      At the same time, a flash of lightning and an earsplitting clap of thunder rent the silence. Chloe screamed and would have bolted if Ben hadn’t caught her and held her steady.

      “Easy,” he said. “That was only a field mouse.” His arms were hard-muscled and strong, she noticed through her panic. His heart beat steadily beneath his damp shirt, and his wet skin was slick beneath her fingers.

      “I h-hate mice,” she stammered.

      He released her, and she saw that his eyes were a deep, velvety brown. He smelled of sun and salt, of the sea and sand, bringing back memories of that summer so long ago.

      “There are bound to be one or two mice in here,” he said, the voice of reason.

      She recovered enough to scoff at that. “One or two? Ha! They breed,” she said. She stalked toward the door. “I can’t live with mice. I’m leaving.”

      Ben cocked a head toward one of the windows, which was rattling in its frame due to the energetic pummeling of the elements. “It’s raining hard now, and there’s lightning. Besides, there’s nowhere else to go.”

      “Where is that cat when I need him?” she muttered. She threw the door open. “Butch? Butch!” Rain blew in her face; it tasted of salt. There was no sign of a big orange cat, no glimmer of his white bib under the shelter of the rubbery round leaves of the sea grapes.

      Ben walked up behind her. “I saw him run under the house. He’ll have a grand old time there chasing the mice and palmetto bugs.”

      “Palmetto bugs?”

      “The state insect of Florida. See, there’s one on the curtain.” He pointed at a huge cockroachlike bug in the library on the other side of the foyer. It was an ugly dark brown, almost two inches long and waving curious feelers in their direction.

      Chloe shuddered. She’d rather eat roadkill than bunk near that creature. “I’ll sleep in the car. I’ll—”

      “No need to do any such thing. I’ll run over to the other part of the house and get the bug spray.” He started toward the kitchen.

      Since she had no intention of being left alone with the palmetto bug, Chloe wasn’t far behind. “Okay, but what about the mice?” She was seriously questioning her recent and possibly foolhardy choice to start a new life in this place.

      “I’ll take care of them, don’t worry.”

      “Humanely, I hope.”

      He glanced at her over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Oh, of course. I’ll invite them to leave in a pleasant voice, and I’ll reassure them it’s not them, it’s me. I’ll say that I hope we can still be friends, and even throw them a farewell party if you’d like.”

      “Please,” she warned, “don’t make light of this.” She wasn’t in the mood for humor.

      “I thought maybe kindness to rodents СКАЧАТЬ