Page 56

REN

Siren Song, Maine

R en sat on the deck with his laptop resting on his thighs, the words on the screen a blur.

The sun had vanished behind the house, turning the sky a brilliant shade of pink.

His primary observation about Maine was the weather—there was a lot of it.

A single day could bring violent storms and brilliant fall days.

Ren was currently the beneficiary of a crystal clear evening that would give way to a star-lit sky.

But even as he pondered whether to pull out Franklin’s old telescope, Ren noticed the dark clouds lurking along the horizon like gangsters waiting to move in on new turf.

He didn’t look up when the screen door slid open.

Stella had become like a familiar ghost haunting his psyche.

From the corner of his eye, Ren spied bare feet and the hem of the thick robe.

His gaze traveled up her covered frame and the rope of glossy dark hair tumbling over one shoulder to her serene face.

Ignoring the unfamiliar pang in his chest, he said, “Did you need something?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Always a dangerous prospect,” Ren deadpanned.

“When I was a teenager, I was terrified of flying. I’d never been on a plane before Theo recruited me. The first time I flew, I pierced the leather upholstery of the armrest with my fingernails. I would shake uncontrollably, and a couple of times, I threw up.”

Ren pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your point?”

“Theo had a psychologist come in to talk to me. She explained the mechanics of flight and told me how safe it was. Ultimately, she suggested a treatment called flooding. That’s where you do something you’re afraid of over and over until it doesn’t scare you anymore.”

“I know what flooding is, Stella. My mother was a psychiatrist.”

“Right. So, anyway, I was thinking about your problem.”

Ren set the computer on the glass-topped table. “I don’t have a problem. I have a preference.”

She lifted one eyebrow.

“Fine. Continue, Doctor Keen.”

Her hands went to the belt of the robe. Ren shot forward in his chair and checked the yard and Ginny’s deck.

“Eyes on me, Jameson,” Stella ordered as she deftly untied the knot.

Ren obeyed.

With a gentle nudge, the robe fell from Stella’s shoulders and pooled at her feet. Ren’s eyes devoured the sight. Her body could drive a man to madness. How such a sly, savage woman could be encased in such softness, he’d never know. She was Zenobia. She was Helen of Troy.

“Stella—”

She rounded the table and stood before him.

“One: no one is looking. Two: if they were, I wouldn’t care.

” She stepped back and leaned against the deck railing, spreading her arms along the wood.

“There’s something erotic about it, don’t you think?

The idea that the jumpy realtor or our cranky neighbor could catch us. ”

Ren growled his frustration. On the one hand, Stella was right. He liked the idea of people knowing they were together, that they fucked like demons, that she was his.

On the other, the idea of anyone but him seeing Stella in such an intimate way made him want to throw a deck chair over the cliff.

He wanted to move past the dark shadows of his childhood, and as much as he hated to admit it, he wanted to please Stella.

Rising to his feet, Ren gripped the back of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head.

Whatever allure this woman held, it was a force too strong to resist. Stalking to Stella, Ren reached out and ran his hands down her body, coming to rest on her hips.

He opened his mouth to speak when the planks beneath his feet lurched.

Stella grabbed onto the railing as the deck groaned and dropped a foot. Ren looped his arm around her naked waist. “Let’s get off this thing.”

The wood closest to the house splintered and snapped.

They made it halfway to the sliding door when the entire structure gave way and dropped like a table flap.

Ren tightened his hold on Stella and wedged his free hand between two separated floor planks of the now nearly vertical structure as his laptop and the deck furniture toppled past them, crashing over the cliff.

Stella grabbed the robe as it rolled by, pulling the cloth belt from the loops with her teeth.

She braced her foot on a railing post and looped the cloth around an exposed floor crossbeam.

With a firm nod, Ren agreed with her silent plan and boosted her naked body as he hung one-handed from the board.

She tackled the deck like a free solo rock climb, finding foot and hand holds between the loosened floorboards.

Near the house, a jagged rock from the cliff beneath had broken through.

Stella grabbed on and propelled herself through the sliding glass doors and into the sun porch.

With a sharp crack, the board Ren clung to snapped, and he slid toward the treacherous drop, his hands and torso scraping the wood as he searched for something to stop his fall.

An instant before plummeting down the rock face, Ren caught the railing post at the edge of the deck.

Beneath his dangling feet, a firetruck wailed along Main Street, heading for the cliff road.

His hands bled as he dangled from the splintered wood.

He scanned the planks, looking for a way to pull himself up.

Or he could let go. Ren rechecked the terrain beneath him, calculating his odds of survival and where best to aim. Climb the crumbling planks that most likely wouldn’t hold him or drop over the edge and hope for the best?

A thwack on his arm halted the internal debate. Ren looked over to the sheet rope hanging beside him. At the other end, Stella sat on the floor of the sun porch, both feet braced against the door frame, with Newton beside her, barking his encouragement.

“No!” Ren shouted. “I’ll pull you over!”

With a heave, Stella tipped one of the heavy decorative urns by the door across her lap and yelled back, “Just climb!”

Ren gripped the sheet as the plank he held peeled away and floated down the cliff.

Hand over hand, he climbed the sheet, watching to ensure Stella was secure.

If he saw her pitching forward, Ren would let go.

That’s just who he was. When he glanced up, Stella held steady, and Newton had his jaws locked around the sheet rope.

He reached the protruding rock and swung his bare foot to the edge as he hooked his fingers over the base of the door frame.

He powered himself over the threshold and fell on top of Stella.

The granite urn thunked to the floor beside them as Ren buried his face in Stella’s neck, panting.

At the front of the house, the firetruck blared. Ren lifted his head and met Stella’s relieved silver gaze. “So, is this flooding thing always so extreme?”

As he intended, Stella burst out laughing. Ren wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. He rolled his hips into her thigh—the combination of adrenaline and her warm body having a surprising effect.

Three volunteer firefighters burst through the door, but Ren didn’t move his attention from the naked woman beneath him. He slipped a hand beneath her thigh, leaned forward, and whispered. “I’m looking forward to our next therapy session.”

T he firefighter, who also happened to be the handyman they met on their first day, Lowell, stood in the living room.

Ren and Stella had quickly thrown on clothes and were seated on the couch.

Lowell held up a corroded piece of metal in his gloved hand. “I checked these support beams last year. They were in good shape. I don’t see how this could have happened.”

Ren examined the jagged edge of the pipe. “Looks like some sort of acid.”

“Yeah, I was thinking the same. The acid ate through the steel. The damaged beams still supported the deck.” Lowell set the piece he held on the coffee table and pressed his two fists together to demonstrate.

“But as soon as additional weight was added to the far end of the deck—” He split his fists apart.

Stella looked at Ren. “Someone sabotaged it.”

Lowell picked up the section of beam. “Looks that way. Our captain is talking to the police chief now.”

Ren stood and led Lowell to the front door. “Thanks. Let us know if they learn anything.”

“Will do.”

When Lowell and the other volunteer firefighters were gone, Ren grabbed the first aid kit and led Stella into the kitchen.

She sat obediently at the table as Ren removed splinters from her hands and bandaged a nasty scrape on her knee.

When he finished, Stella slid the kit across the table and repeated the procedure on Ren.

As she ran an alcohol pad over a cut on his forearm, he said, “When I was a kid, I cut that arm retrieving a baseball that had smashed our living room window.”

“Oh, yeah.” She ran her finger over the raised skin. “I see the scar.”

“My mother told me she was busy and to put a Band-Aid on it. When I bled through the entire box of bandaids, I walked down to a friend’s whose dad was a doctor, and he stitched it.”

Stella didn’t look up from tending him. She simply bent forward and kissed his injury. Ren wasn’t sure anyone had ever cared for him like this before.

Amid the turmoil surrounding them, Ren settled. He reached for her cheek, still hovering over his bandage, then withdrew his hand.

Her breath dusted the hairs on his arm. “We have a problem.”

“I know.”

Stella tipped her head toward the place where the deck once was. “Do you think it’s connected to Franklin’s murder?”

Ren stared at the destroyed deck. “No one knows we found the knife.”

“Could Ginny have seen?”

Ren shook his head. “I doubt it. She’s eighty-something, and we were two hundred yards away at dusk. I don’t think she could see Newton at that distance, much less a knife.”

Stella agreed.

“Could the spy have found us?”

“It’s possible. Although, in my experience, hitmen never much cared about making something look like an accident.”

Ren said, “But in a small town where—if you don’t count Franklin—there hasn’t been a violent crime in thirty years? An assassination brings attention.”

“My gut is telling me this is local.”

“I’m with you.” Ren liked the sound of his words. “So, either someone knows we found that knife, or—”

“Somebody wants us out of this house.” Stella finished his sentence.

He leaned over and kissed her as he stood. “Or both.”