Page 13 of Storm Warning
She gaped at the stunning view, her breath catching in her throat. Bathed in golden sunlight that turned everything to amber and honey, the mansion’s wings sprawled out like giant arms, cradling an exquisite pool shimmering in the early morning sun. Beyond, gentle waves rolled toward a white sand beach, the azure water so perfect it looked computer generated.
Kate stood still for a moment, overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding her—the kind of beauty she described in her books, but had never experienced firsthand. She couldn’t stop the pang of envy squeezing her chest; the men who lived here were fortunate to call this paradise home.
She may not belong here—might never belong anywhere this beautiful—but she intended to enjoy every second she was here.
“Oh. My. God. This is incredible!” Her voice came out breathless with genuine wonder. “Are you seeing this, Callie? Even in all my fantasies, I never dreamed anyone actually lived like this. This is a private home, Callie!”
She wandered down the stone steps, the sun-heated travertine warm on her bare feet. The pool was a work of art, more sculpture than swimming hole. Free-form, with a walk-in beach entrance that mimicked a natural shoreline, a swim-up bar with stools submerged in crystalline water, even a hot tubtucked into an alcove surrounded by tropical plants that provided the illusion of privacy.
She made sure she captured it all on camera, panning slowly so Callie could appreciate every detail.
“Okay, enough for now. I wanted to thank you for the gorgeous clothes. As you can see, I need them.” She gestured down at her new outfit, doing a little twirl to make her skirt flare. “I would never have been comfortable here wearing my own ratty stuff. Call me when you’re up, and I’ll tell you all about how I ended up as Cinderella living in Prince Charming’s castle.”
With a satisfied sigh, Kate stopped recording and sent the video off to Callie.
A couple of comfy chaise lounges beside the pool, positioned to catch both the breeze and the view, caught her attention and Kate sank into one. The cushions embraced her body as she curled her legs beneath her and wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic mug of coffee. She stared past the pool, past the swaying palms whispering secrets, to where the water lapped at the sand in an eternal rhythm.
Perhaps it was the crash after last night’s adrenaline—or the sudden stillness after so many weeks of noise and chaos—but something inside her felt scraped raw and restless. She was tired of acting the composed, polished version of herself her readers and publisher expected. Tired of smiling through interviews when she wanted to scream. Tired of being pleasant and accommodating when she wanted to demand better. Tired of feeling like an accessory in her own life, a character playing a role.
A few nights ago, over lukewarm pad thai and cheap wine in a cramped hotel room—after a signing ran three hours overtime—Callie had said gently, ‘You don’t let anyone in, Kate. You’re brilliant on the page, but you live like you’re hiding.’ Katehad laughed it off then, made some joke about artists needing solitude, deflected with practiced ease. But now, with nothing but ocean air and her own thoughts for company, the words echoed louder than ever, bouncing around in her skull, an accusation she could no longer ignore.
Maybe this trip shouldn't be about finishing a book—or taking a vacation. Maybe it was a chance to find a version of herself she didn’t need to enhance, polish, or hide. A version that was messy and uncertain, butreal.
She needed to get to work. The thought came with its familiar spike of anxiety. Her publisher extended the tour when early stops drew larger than expected crowds—hundreds of readers showing up clutching copies of her books, their enthusiasm both thrilling and terrifying. And so now, to make sure she hit her deadline, they agreed to subsidize half this stay—now half vacation, half writing retreat. The clock was ticking, each second bringing her closer to a date she wasn’t sure she could meet.
And this wasn’t just any book. It was the last installment in her bestselling romantic suspense series, the conclusion readers had been waiting for, and the pressure to stick the landing gnawed at her, a low-grade nausea which never quite went away. Fans were already speculating online—in forums and Facebook groups and Instagram comments—about who would die, who would give the final kiss, whether she’d deliver the twist she’d hinted at during interviews. She’d promised answers—and surprises—and now the blank page loomed like a silent dare, mocking her ability to deliver.
She’d pitched the premise as classic romantic suspense: a woman trying to escape the spotlight finds herself targeted on an isolated island, and the only person who believes her is a man with secrets of his own. By the halfway mark, Kate hadrealized with an uncomfortable clarity that she wasn’t writing a fictional heroine. She was writing herself.
Not the same circumstances, of course—Kate wasn’t being stalked or hunted, didn’t have a mysterious bodyguard watching her every move. But the emotional core? The raw vulnerability of standing up alone and saying,No. Enough. I deserve better. That was her. That was the story she needed to tell, and the words refused to come, perhaps because she hadn’t lived it yet. How could she write her heroine’s journey when she didn’t know how it ended?
The waves rolled in and out, a steady rhythm that soothed her jangled nerves like a lullaby. The salty air kissed her skin, warm and gentle, and a little more tension left her shoulders. She took a sip of coffee, savoring the bitter richness on her tongue.
Masculine voices drifted on the air, and she tilted her head to listen, her writer’s instincts perking up. She peered over her shoulder toward the mansion’s core.
Her breath hitched. The exterior wall of a great room stretched completely open—no doors in sight! She squinted, leaning forward in her lounge chair, her interest mounting as she realized the massive glass panels were folded back accordion-style against the side walls, unveiling the entire expanse of a sprawling living room now flowing seamlessly into the outdoor space. A rush of awe washed over her; what an extraordinary architectural feature! The kind of design that erased boundaries between inside and outside, that spoke of confidence and freedom.
Should she return to her own patio? The thought flickered through her mind, followed by a twinge of uncertainty.
No, whoever opened the wall must have seen her—her suite was visible from the main house, and she was sitting in plain sight. A thrill of naughty adventure raced through her veins,bringing her to life. There was no harm in staying and eavesdropping, was there? How else was she going to get more ideas for her writing? Research was research, after all.
She settled back into the chaise lounge, coffee warming her hands, and let herself listen to the rise and fall of male voices carrying across the morning air, the writer in her already taking notes.
Chapter 5
Daybreak
Nick strodeinto the great room just before eight, his bare feet silent on the cool travertine tiles. The sea breeze filtered through the open wall, carrying salt and jasmine, the scent wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. Morning light spilled across the long mahogany table where Zach and David sat hunched like soldiers after a siege, clutching coffee mugs, their exhaustion palpable in the slump of their shoulders.
“Emma’s solid,” Nick announced without preamble, dropping into his chair with more force than intended. The leather creaked beneath him, and the tension coiled in his spine began to ease. “I spoke with her about Victoria’s claims—and about Lena.”
David looked up, bloodshot eyes sharpening with curiosity despite the fatigue etched around them. “And?”
“She admitted to knowing Lena personally but stood by the hire. Said Lena had been falsely accused as retaliation by her boss who sexually harassed her. The charges were dropped, and she believed that Lena didn’t just deserve a second chance—she’d already earned it.”
Nick paused, letting the weight of his words settle over theroom like a blanket. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily, measuring the silence. “She didn’t deflect. Didn’t make excuses. Took full responsibility for the decision.”
The pride in his own voice surprised him—Emma had guts, the kind of integrity he valued above almost anything else in his organization.