Page 44 of The Girl Who Knew Too Much

Chapter 16

Oliver eased the car into a space at the curb in front of the Cove Inn. The guest rooms in the small establishment were all darkened, but a porch light glowed weakly over the front door.

“Looks like Mrs. Fordyce decided not to wait up for you,” he said.

“She gave me a key to the front door,” Irene said. “Told me to let myself in.”

Oliver thought about the lonely bed waiting for him, and then he thought about how he had grown accustomed to sleeping alone. Most nights it didn’t bother him. But tonight would be different. Tonight when he went to bed, he was going to be thinking about Irene. He had a hunch he would lie awake for a long time.

He took his time climbing out from behind the wheel. The fog had rolled in across the waters of the cove, but he could see the lights of the marina and the old fishing pier.

He wondered what Irene would say if he suggested a stroll on the pier before she went back to her room at the inn.

What the hell. The worst that could happen was she would say no.

He rounded the front of the car and opened the passenger side door. This time when he reached down to help her, Irene didn’t resist. Her fingers were warm and delicate, but there was strength in the light, firm way she grasped his hand.

This time she didn’t act as if her weight might pull him off balance. She trusted him not to fall on his face. Progress.

“Would you like to take a walk?” he asked, trying to make it casual, trying not to let her know that everything in him was willing her to say yes.

There was a short silence during which he was sure he actually stopped breathing.

“It’s late,” she said finally. She adjusted the light shawl. “And a bit damp.”

But she had stopped on the sidewalk, making no attempt to move toward the front porch steps.

The wrap wasn’t much protection against the cool night air off the ocean. Without a word he unfastened his dinner jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It was hugely oversized for her slender frame. It enveloped her like a cape. But she made no attempt to remove it. He savored the sight of her in the coat.

He offered her his arm. She took it. He started breathing normally again. But his blood was heating.

They walked slowly along the sidewalk, the streetlamps lighting their way for a time. He was grimly aware of the hitch in his stride. He wanted to snap the cane like a twig. But Irene paid no attention to it—probably because her thoughts were focused on someone else, namely Nick Tremayne.

“Well?” he said after a time. “What did you make of Pell?”

“I think I can understand why you consider him a trusted friend, even though he’s a few years older than you.”

That was not the answer he was expecting.

“What makes you think we’re good friends?” he asked.

Irene smiled. “You have two of his paintings on your office wall.”

“You noticed them, did you? Perhaps I like his work.”

“It’s more than that. I think you understand his work. I expect that you two have a few things in common.”

“Because we both offer glossy illusions to the public?”

“No, because you both have a surface image that conceals something deeper and more complicated,” Irene said.

“I’ve never considered myself complicated. But Luther Pell is definitely more complicated than most people realize.”

“Why is that?”

“As you said, he is a few years older than me. He went off to fight in the Great War when he was nineteen. He was fortunate. He returned with no visible wounds. But not all wounds are visible.”

“No,” she said.