Escape with Me

Lana had to laugh. “Just the opposite,” she told Gia. “If my dad had his way I would never have left Pea Island.”

* * *

“Damn it!” Aaron Braithwaite spat out as he struggled to pull the kayak onto the beach. What had he been thinking taking Bowser fishing with him? He laughed at his ill-conceived decision. The two-year-old yellow Lab had gotten so excited when Aaron had landed a five-pound redfish that he tried to grab the fish in his jaws as Aaron pulled the hook out of the fish’s mouth. Aaron had jerked around, trying to prevent the fish from winding up as dog food and had lost his balance. It was a good thing they weren’t too far from shore that fine July morning. Man, dog and fish wound up in the ocean. Used to being dunked, Aaron had managed to get the kayak righted, and he and Bowser back on board. The fish unfortunately ended up back in its element, the sea.

“Next time, you stay home,” he said to Bowser who looked up at him and wagged his tail. The dog whined plaintively as if he knew his master was berating him and he had something to say in his defense.

Aaron laughed. “So, you think I’m being unjust, do you? Well, you weren’t the one who had to save both our asses.”

Bowser whined again. He went up to Aaron and licked his hand.

“Okay, I know you’re sorry,” Aaron said. “And I admit I should have known a kayak was no place for a dog. Let’s get home and get dry.” The temperature was in the lower sixties and the wind was blowing pretty fiercely. Before long he would be chilled to the bone.

He began walking toward the three-story beach house only 150 feet away. The house had weathered many lashings from Outer Banks storms. Gray with white trim, it had multiple decks and, due to the big porthole-like windows, from a distance looked like a ship that had run aground.

Aaron smiled. When he was a fisherman he never would have been able to afford such a house. But now that he was a mystery writer, and a very successful one, he lived very well. Once again, every time he thought of how happy he was his mind took him to his daughter whose life, by contrast, was not a happy one.

The father in him wanted to demand that she come home. The realist knew that demanding anything of Lana, who was as stubborn as he was, was a sure way of getting her to dig her feet in and refuse to budge.

It was his fault. After his wife, Mariette, had died in an accident when Lana was eight he had raised her to be independent. Afraid that if he should die Lana would be left helpless, he stressed strength and determination within her. He taught her everything he knew about fishing and, a runner himself, he introduced her to the sport and was surprised when she took to it and ran circles around him.

Aside from fishing and running, Lana knew as much about the flora and fauna of Pea Island, parts of which were a nature reserve, as he did. If need be, she could live off the land for the rest of her life. Admittedly he had gone overboard with the survivalist agenda, but he was secure in the notion that his daughter could take care of herself in a pinch. This thing with Jeremy Corday, though, was not a physical challenge. It was something that ate away at her heart and soul. He feared more for her now than ever before in her thirty-two years.

“Mr. Braithwaite?”

Aaron had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the foot of the house’s front stairs.

He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and tie. Aaron glanced down at his shoes, which were highly polished black wingtips. A government man, Aaron deduced. His mind first traveled to his taxes. Nah, he’d never cheated on his taxes. He didn’t have a problem giving the government its fair share of his earnings.

The guy removed his shades and smiled at him. “You are Aaron Braithwaite, aren’t you?”

Aaron chuckled. “Last time I checked, I was.”

Bowser approached the stranger and growled softly. Not an aggressive show of dislike, but more of an inquisitive act. The guy held his hand out to Bowser who sniffed it and, deciding he was okay, licked it. The man gave him a fond ruffle of the fur on the top of his head for his efforts.

“Nice Lab,” said the stranger.

“There’s an old blues song that says ‘Don’t pat my dog and don’t hug my woman,’” Aaron told the guy. “I don’t have a woman around for you to get familiar with, so would you mind introducing yourself?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the man with an easy smile. “My name is Tennison Isles, and I’m with the FBI.”

“FBI, IRS,” mumbled Aaron. “Had to be one or the other.”

“Excuse me?” Ten said, having not heard Aaron clearly.

“Nothing,” said Aaron. “May I see some ID?”

Ten showed him his badge and picture ID.

After making a careful perusal of the items, Aaron met Ten’s eyes. “What does the FBI want with me?”

“Hopefully, your cooperation,” said Ten.

“Come on up,” Aaron told him.

Fifteen minutes later, Aaron was in dry clothes, Bowser was fairly dry having been rubbed down with a warm towel and the two men were sitting across from each other in the spacious living room drinking strong coffee.

“I’m listening,” Aaron said.

Ten told him what the Bureau wanted to do, with his help. Aaron listened intently. After he’d finished, Ten waited for Aaron’s reaction to his proposal.

To his surprise Aaron said, “My doctor has been trying to get me to go into the hospital for a series of stress tests on my heart. Now is as good a time as any, I guess.”

* * *

The next day, Lana received a phone call from Gladys Easterbrook, her father’s closest neighbor. Gladys and Henry Easterbrook ran a bed-and-breakfast out of their huge beach house. “Aaron’s in the hospital. It’s his heart. That old reprobate told me not to call you, but I think a daughter has the right to know when her daddy’s sick.”

It had been a genius move on Aaron’s part to have Gladys do the phoning. Everyone in Dare County knew Gladys had a talent for melodrama. She was the first person to start crying at every wedding and she hadn’t missed a funeral, whether she knew the person or not, in the last thirty years. Just the sound of her angst-ridden Southern drawl got Lana moving in the direction of her hometown.

Gladys told her that her father was in the hospital in Kitty Hawk, the nearest hospital with full diagnostic services.

Lana had known Gladys Easterbrook nearly all her life and there was no reason to distrust her. However, she tried her father’s cell phone anyway. There was no answer.

This heightened her fear and she immediately called the airport to book a flight home.

Chapter 3

Lana arrived at Norfolk International Airport at noon the following day. Once she departed the plane she looked everywhere for Gladys Easterbrook. She had tried to talk the older woman out of driving all the way to the airport when she could just rent a car and drive directly to the hospital. But Gladys had insisted.

“Mrs. Lana Braithwaite-Corday?” said a masculine voice behind her.

Lana spun around and peered up into the face of a gorgeous giant. He had burnt-caramel skin and eyes that were so dark brown they looked black. High cheekbones, a strong, masculine chin and a clean-shaven jaw added to his appeal. The neatly shorn hair on his well-shaped head was dark brown and its texture was wavy. She had this inane thought that when he was a boy, and his mother had let him grow it out, it must have fallen to his shoulders in thick spirals. He was wearing jeans, athletic shoes and a T-shirt with the University of Virginia emblem on the front. Her first thought after being confronted by all that hotness was, Oh, God, not a reporter way down here! True, he wasn’t wearing a suit or shoving a microphone at her, but he was definitely TV-ready.

She brushed past him, clutching her shoulder bag and a small carry-on bag close to her side, as she headed for the exit. “Bug off. I’ve said all I’m going to say to the media.”

“Your dad sent me to pick you up,” the stranger called. “Miss Gladys’s back is acting up today.”

Lana stopped in her tracks and turned to regard him with a surprised expression on her face. She knew Miss Gladys often had back problems. “Who are you?” she asked tightly.

“Tennison West,” Ten said, holding out a big hand for her to shake. “I’m a filmmaker working on a documentary about your father.”

Lana briefly shook his hand, her eyes still locked with his as if she were trying to discern whether or not she could trust him by the intensity of her gaze.

“You got a driver’s license?” she asked cautiously.

Ten showed her his driver’s license which stated he was Tennison West and he lived in Washington, D.C. The bureau had established a whole new identity for him. They had even set up a website for him replete with samples of the past documentaries he’d produced.

They hadn’t prepared him for Lana, though. Ten felt a bit vulnerable under her scrutiny. He had seen her only in photographs and in videos. He had read about her life in reports given to him by agents he’d assigned to observe her. To be this near, smelling her perfume, a light, enticing floral scent, was entirely different. He could feel the warmth emanating from her denim-clad body and it ignited his senses.