Storm Surge. Celia Ashley

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СКАЧАТЬ brow wrinkled. Could this guy be any ruder? “At the moment, I am from around here. I’m renting the cottage next door.”

      He made an abrupt movement in her direction and Paige stumbled backward.

      “How long?” he demanded.

      “Am I staying? Not that it’s any of your business, but—”

      “No. How long have you been in the cottage?”

      Good Lord, was that any of his concern, either? “What does it matter?” Paige continued backing away, keeping the man in her line of sight. What had been a shadow had begun to fill in with muted color: faded blue jeans, the indistinct hue of his T-shirt, disheveled coal black hair. He possessed a handsome arrangement to his features, though the particulars remained veiled by darkness. Not what she wanted to find—the guy pissing her off in the middle of the night was good-looking. She’d rather he resemble the discarded leftovers from the vanished gulls.

      “Sorry to have disturbed you,” she said with mock sweetness. “As we’re to be temporary neighbors, I’m sure we’ll run into each other again at a more reasonable time of day.”

      A soft red glow appeared on the man’s face, highlighting a scar running down his jaw. Paige glanced toward the ocean. The horizon had lit up like a thin line of embers.

      “Red sky at morning,” she whispered.

      “Sailors take warning,” he finished.

      She snapped her attention back to him. “So the saying goes.”

      “That it does.”

      “Are you a sailor?”

      His jaw worked, dark eyes narrowing beneath lowered brows. Surely he wasn’t that much older than she, but something in his life had aged him, weathered him a bit—and not unattractively—by exposure to the elements. The sun lifted higher, sunlight dancing across the waves that washed over the rocky beach. His shadow lengthened along the sand, conjoining with hers. “I was. Why?”

      “No longer spending your days on the sea?”

      “I’m not out here for small talk. I have work to do.”

      “At this hour? What are you, a smuggler?”

      He said nothing, but something in him stilled. Crap. Maybe she had struck on the truth. Paige renewed her retreat, surprised when the man offered an abrupt, if not quite willing, introduction.

      “My name’s Liam Gray. I apologize for giving you a hard time.”

      “No apology necessary.” Paige spun on her heel and strode up the slope toward the rental.

      “And who are you?” Gray called after her.

      She stopped short, sneakers sliding in the sand. “I used to live in your house,” she said, pointing toward what was little more than a two-storey cottage, tall, limited in width, and looking not quite so decrepit in the daylight. “And my name is Paige. Paige Waters. Edwin’s daughter. I’ve come back for answers, and I plan to get them.”

      Chapter 2

      Edwin Waters’ daughter didn’t even reach his collarbone, yet her stride on the slope would put a person twice her height to shame. Liam watched her disappear over the hill. The ponytail flying behind her looked as if she’d whipped it with an eggbeater. And her clothes, well, they resembled something pulled from a trash bin. He refused to be intrigued.

      Liam crossed the porch and yanked open the door, stomping sand from his shoes before stepping into the shadowed kitchen. A kitchen once inhabited by Paige and her family. And, after all these years, she’d parked herself next door. Seemed to him she had more of an agenda than she was letting on. Seemed to him trouble had come in the form of a five-foot-tall whirlwind. The balance in his life was already fantastically out of whack. He had no desire to wage another battle.

      Not bothering with light switches, Liam climbed the stairs, heading for his office. He paused in the hallway, listening to the boards creaking across the attic floor overhead. He had given up checking. Whatever lurked up there didn’t want to be seen. There’d been a time when he thought he knew what resided in this house with him, but lately he hadn’t been so sure. Ironic, a man who wrote ghost stories for a living unable to uncover any history about the one in his own home. Paige Waters might know a thing or two about that, but he wasn’t about to ask her.

      The groaning timbers silent, Liam continued past the attic door into his office. Instead of turning the laptop back on, he went to the window, staring through a scraggly pine at the cottage roof eighty feet away. The timing of her return couldn’t be worse.

      “What are you really up to, Paige Waters?” he whispered. After a moment, he picked up the cell phone from the desk and dialed. He suspected she planned to storm the town with questions. Certain people needed a heads up.

      * * * *

      Paige parked her car in a space on the blacktop circle that surrounded the stone cross bearing the names of all the sailors Alcina Cove had lost at sea. She climbed from the vehicle, swung the door shut, and approached the etched names. Reading them, the sheer number of men and women who had died in pursuit of a living on the vast ocean in the past one hundred years dismayed her. The death notification she’d received regarding her father had only informed her that his ship had gone down, and his fate was not marked here.

      Around the cross, flowers bobbed in the manicured beds, planted lovingly by a local society, according to the small plaque set on a post in the middle of them. Red, white, and blue blossoms of geraniums, petunias, and some tiny flower Paige didn’t recognize reminded her that the Fourth of July was around the corner. Tiny flags on wooden dowel posts spray-painted gold lined the edge of the garden.

      Paige tarried a few minutes longer to study the most recent names. Some sparked a vague memory, the surnames familiar to her. Had she known a Donald Sweetwater as a kid? Or an Albert Dunwiddy? Probably. Despite its growth, the town wasn’t all that large. Many families remained in Alcina Cove generation after generation. Or so she’d been informed by both her mother, when alive, and web articles Paige had studied prior to heading north.

      The ocean pounded the jetty rocks behind her. The processing plant she had passed in her car yesterday filled the air with a distant thrum. Beyond the memorial, Alcina Cove’s main thoroughfare lay straight as an arrow pointing inland, the residential side streets angled out irregularly from the business center. Paige decided to leave her car parked by the cross and head into town on foot. Most addresses on the small spiral pad in her purse should be located on the narrow side roads.

      She stopped first at Cora Showalter’s home, a woman whose name she had found in her mother’s battered address book with Cora’s birthday noted. Even though Paige had never heard her mother talk about the woman, the fact that Debra Waters knew the woman’s birthday held some significance. Paige had sent Cora a note informing her of Debra’s passing and that she’d be coming north—she couldn’t quite bring herself to use the word “home”—in a few months and would like to stop and see her. Paige had never heard back, but that didn’t mean anything. For all Paige knew, there’d been little or no contact between this woman and her mother since that night long ago. Cora should still be able to provide her with information.

      Striding up a slate and crushed stone walkway, Paige practiced the few lines she’d СКАЧАТЬ