Secrets of His Own

“What?” he asked sharply.

She shook her head. “Nothing. I got the impression she wasn’t too happy to see us, that’s all.”

He shrugged, but not before Carrie had seen something dark in his eyes. “She’s not exactly thrilled with having tenants on the property, but she’s harmless. Crazy as a bat, but harmless. You don’t need to concern yourself with her. I doubt you’ll even see her again. She keeps to herself most of the time.” He turned back to the path. “Come along. Tia’s apartment is this way.”

Crazy as a bat, but harmless.

Hardly a ringing endorsement, Carrie thought uneasily. Just what had she gotten herself into?

Not that she was in any position to judge. She’d spent more than a few hours on a therapist’s couch herself.

And Tia…

Poor Tia had her problems, as well. A precarious mental state was nothing new for her, unfortunately, which was why Carrie was so worried about her.

Tia had been emotionally fragile for years, but Carrie had hoped that she’d grown stronger since they last met. Evidently not, or she would have stayed and faced Trey herself on their wedding day.

Unless she had good reason not to.

Cochburn led Carrie around to the back of the house and through an old gate that opened into a large, central courtyard enclosed on one side by a long L-shaped wing of the main house and on the other by a freestanding, two-story pool house. At the far end was a cracked adobe wall topped with faded red tiles that matched the roof. Terra-cotta pots dotted the stone floor, but the flowers had mostly withered in the heat and the water in the pool was blackish green and opaque.

In spite of the obvious neglect, however, touches of a once-gorgeous oasis remained in the cascade of scarlet bougainvillea over the walls and in the tinkle of a nearby fountain. A lazy breeze drifted through the palm fronds, carrying the scent of jasmine and the barest hint of rain. And through an arched opening in the back wall, Carrie caught tantalizing glimpses of water undulating in the sunset like yards and yards of russet satin.

The only thing to disturb the almost total quiet was the sound of the ocean and the distant drone of a generator that supplied the island’s electricity.

Carrie wanted a moment to take it all in, but Robert Cochburn seemed in no mood to linger.

“Your friend’s apartment is just over there.” He pointed to the pool house. Like the main house, it was white stucco with a red tile roof and a curving staircase that led up to a shady loggia on the second level. “She’s on the ground floor.”

“Thank you for taking the time to come out here with me,” Carrie told him. “I’m not sure I could have found the right island without you. You never said, but…how did Tia know about this place?”

“She saw one of our newspaper ads,” Cochburn said. “The same way most of our tenants hear about the apartments.”

Carrie nodded. “I assumed it was something like that. Well, thanks again for everything.”

He smiled. “No problem. Glad I could help.”

She watched until he disappeared through the gate, then she turned to Tia’s apartment. Carrie had no idea the kind of reception that was in store for her. Tia was hard to predict. She could be warm and effusive one moment, distant and brooding the next. But Carrie understood better than anyone her friend’s mood swings.

Bracing herself for Tia’s possible irritation, Carrie walked up two stone steps and stood in front of a set of French doors that opened onto the courtyard. Shades had been pulled over the panes making it impossible to see inside. She knocked softly at first, but when she got no response, she rapped harder and called out Tia’s name.

Stepping back from the door, she scanned the other windows, her gaze rising to the loggia. No one was about and the predusk calm that settled over the courtyard seemed ominous, as if the place had been abandoned in a hurry.

Moving back to the door, Carrie knocked again, then tried the latch. It was unlocked, which could mean that if Tia had stepped out for a few minutes, she probably hadn’t gone far. Then again, maybe there was no reason to lock doors on Cape Diablo.

Carrie hesitated, not quite sure what to do. She didn’t want to intrude on Tia’s privacy, and yet she’d come this far. She couldn’t turn around and leave without making sure her friend was all right.

Another thought suddenly occurred to her. Tia had run away from Miami with barely a word to anyone. What if she’d already packed up and left Cape Diablo?

Only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath, Carrie pushed open the door and stepped inside the gloomy apartment.

COCHBURN GLANCED WARILY over his shoulder as he walked up the steps to the old servants’ quarters located on the south end of the island near the swamp. He’d spotted Nick Draco on the roof of the main house when he and Carrie were in the courtyard so he thought this might be an excellent time to have a look around.

He didn’t know why, but he was starting to get nervous about bringing Draco to Cape Diablo. In hindsight, he should have been a little more careful in screening the applicants who’d responded to his ad, but there hadn’t been that many. And no wonder. Who in their right mind would want to spend a summer working on this godforsaken island?

Nick Draco had seemed the most capable of the lot, and when he hadn’t balked over the miniscule wages being offered, Cochburn had hired him on the spot.

But he’d been second-guessing his decision ever since. For one thing, the background information Draco had provided on the application seemed a little sketchy, and for another, the guy’s cold, relentless stare was the most unnerving thing Cochburn had ever experienced.

Draco had the look of a man who’d as soon slit your throat as not, and Cochburn was a coward at heart. Always had been. But he also had a vested interest in Cape Diablo—and what might be hidden here. According to local legend, Andres had left a fortune buried somewhere on the island. If Draco had come here to look for that money, Cochburn wasn’t about to get caught unaware. It wouldn’t be the first time a fortune hunter had wormed his way onto the island.

The outbuildings were even more dilapidated than the main house, and as Cochburn crossed the rickety porch, he glanced around in distaste. He supposed some might find the overgrown island quaint and primitive, but he detested coming out here. He preferred the yacht clubs and the exclusive condo communities in Naples.

Cape Diablo was an albatross around his neck, and he couldn’t wait to unload it. Unfortunately, because of Andres Santiago’s trust, that wasn’t going to happen until Alma Garcia was either dead or committed. A missing tenant, however, might go a long way in convincing the authorities that the old girl needed to be institutionalized. Especially—God forbid—if evidence of foul play turned up.

With Alma finally out of the way, Cochburn would have free rein of the place. If the money was here, he’d find it before he put the place on the market, but in the meantime, he had more pressing worries.

Taking out a handkerchief, he mopped the sweat off his brow as he knocked on the door, even though he already knew the carpenter was still up at the villa. Still, he was wary enough of Draco to take precautions.

Throwing another look over his shoulder, Cochburn took out a key and slipped it into the keyhole. When the door refused to budge, he realized that Draco must have changed the lock. Cochburn gave the knob a frustrated rattle, then withdrew the worthless key and walked over to peer into one of the windows.

“Looking for something?”

Cochburn froze. He hadn’t heard so much as a twig snap in warning, and now the deep timbre of Draco’s voice sent a chill up his spine. Sweat trickled down his temples and he swore under his breath. He was no damn good at this. He should have sent a professional to investigate Draco. But the fewer people who knew about the island’s secrets, the better.

He gave himself a split second to recover before he turned. Whatever nerve he’d managed to recover fled at the sight of Nicholas Draco.

The younger man had taken off his shirt in the heat, and the sheen of sweat along sinewy muscles made Cochburn uncomfortably aware of the spare tire around his middle. He hadn’t worked out in years, and in a fair fight against Draco, he’d be a dead man. In a dirty fight…he’d still be a dead man.

Draco propped both arms against the newel posts, but the relaxed pose didn’t fool Cochburn. His muscles were bunched, as if ready to spring like a cat, and his gaze—that relentless stare—never left Cochburn’s face.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said softly. “Are you looking for something?”

Cochburn cleared his throat. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was looking for you. I wanted to ask how you’re progressing on the repairs.”

One brow lifted. “That’s funny because I could have sworn you saw me on the roof a few minutes ago.”

Cochburn assumed what he hoped was a look of mild surprise. “You were on the roof? Sorry I missed you. I guess I was a little preoccupied.”

“So I noticed.”

Cochburn smiled in a knowing way. “She’s a real looker, isn’t she?”

Draco shrugged. “If you like blondes. Who is she?”

“Her name is Carrie Bishop. Actually, she’s the other reason I came down here to find you. She’s a friend of one of the tenants…Tia Falcon, the brunette who lives in the pool house. I’m sure you’ve seen her around.” When Draco didn’t respond, Cochburn said hurriedly, “Anyway, she seems to think that something may have happened to her friend.”