“I’m going to lower my hands, okay?” He did so. “I think it’s apparent that I’m unarmed.”
Unarmed and disconcerting, dressed only in a pair of cargo shorts, the fly of which was still partially unzipped. They were riding dangerously low on his hips. He was the one half-dressed, which made her wonder why she felt exposed.
She took a tighter grip on the canister and thumbed the sprayer. “Answer my question.”
“I forgot it.”
“Whom do you work for?”
“I’m a staff writer for NewsFront.”
She was relieved and grudgingly impressed. She’d imagined him affiliated with a publication much more lowbrow, a tabloid possibly, not a serious-minded, hard-news magazine. From his long blond hair to his bare feet, she gave him a once-over and arrived at an uncomplimentary opinion.
“You don’t look that respectable.”
“Well, you don’t look like a museum curator.” He grinned. “Not that I’m complaining.”
She was about to snap, Don’t be cute, but she didn’t want to play into the mild flirtation even to that extent. She was still as mad as hell, and also as creeped-out as she’d been when she found her wristwatch and realized that someone had to have been spying on her.
After discovering her watch, she’d gone down to the beach and helped fly the kite until Bernie cried uncle and returned to his house to rest, promising to join them for supper that night. Then she and the boys played in the water while Stef finished her chores indoors.
At lunchtime, Stef brought the picnic hamper down to the beach, as she had the day before. After they’d eaten and were stretched out on the quilt, relaxing, Amelia experienced again that sensation of being watched.
Shading her eyes against the glare, she’d scanned the eastern horizon. The same boat was still anchored offshore, but was too far away to pose any threat. She looked back toward her house, then at Bernie’s, and then at the row of houses that stretched down the beach in the direction of the village. Nothing had alerted her to danger.
She’d then turned toward the house on the other side of hers, the last one in the row. It had been vacated by long-term renters the previous Sunday. But when she’d looked toward it…
Speaking as calmly as possible, she’d told Stef she had something to do inside, and had left her and the boys beneath the beach umbrella. She returned to the house only long enough to retrieve the pepper spray from the drawer of her nightstand. Going out the back way, she walked to the neighboring house and let herself in through an unlocked sliding glass door. She had hoped to catch the window peeper, for lack of a better word, in the act. If he hadn’t been taking a bathroom break from his spying, she no doubt would have.
When he’d emerged from the bathroom, it was all she could do to keep from gasping. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but not this. Not him. He didn’t look like a man who would require perversion to satisfy his sexual urges. Nor did he fit her image of a writer, which was someone with an absent-minded demeanor, delicate hands, and a pallor. Someone much softer around the middle. Much softer everywhere.
She said, “The IDs could be fake.”
“They’re not.”
“I’ll Google you.”
“Be my guest. You can use my laptop.”
She’d noticed it and the printer on the table, certainly tools of his trade, but she ignored his gesture for her to help yourself. “How did you track me here?”
“Two things I never reveal. One, a source who asks to remain anonymous. And two, how I tracked—Okay, okay,” he said quickly when she thrust the canister toward his face. “There’s a researcher at the magazine. Her name is Glenda. I ply her with candy and wine at Christmas. She comes through for me.”
“My house was bought over twenty years ago.”
“June 1985.”
“Under a corporate entity—”
“WareHouse, LLC. Want to know the purchase price?” Reading the dismay in her expression, he said, “Glenda could find a flea on a single hair on a woolly mammoth. During a sandstorm.”
That last was tacked on with a crooked smile, which only annoyed her. “Did you rent this house?”
“As opposed to what? Breaking in and squatting?”
“Nothing would surprise me.”
“Saint Nelda’s Island Rentals. I spoke to a nice lady. The house was vacant. I have a credit card.”