A Clandestine Affair

He expected more argument, but she skipped ahead for the last few yards, kicking through the surf and playing chase with Tamale like a small child. Her mixture of innocence and intensity left him more confused than ever about her reasons for coming to Cape Diablo.

She stopped when she reached the overgrown garden surrounding the courtyard, and stooped to pick a late bloom from a bush all but strangled by a lush crop of weeds.

When Andres had lived here, there had been enough servants to keep the house and gardens in impeccable condition. It still saddened Carlos to see it in such disrepair, but what could one old man do?

He caught up with Jaci just as she stepped into the courtyard.

“Why is it the swimming pool has been left in such a state of disrepair?” she asked. “It’s seems a shame not to use it when the setting is so enticing.”

“With all the gulf to swim in, why would one need a cement pool?”

“Yet someone built it here.”

Yes, and if it were up to Carlos, he’d have had the hole filled in so that there was no sign it had ever existed. The señora wouldn’t hear of it.

“What kind of fish do you catch around here?” Jaci asked.

Thankfully, she’d let the subject of the pool drop. “Flounder, redfish, pompano—too many to name.”

“I’d love to try my hand at catching some of them. Would you consider taking me out in your boat? I’d pay you, of course.”

He knew it was a mistake to leave his boat out in the open for renters to see. They always thought it should be at their disposal, the way they thought he should be. “I’m having a little trouble with my motor right now. If I get it fixed, I’ll let you know.”

He didn’t know why he’d said that, but maybe taking her fishing wasn’t such a bad idea. It would give him a chance to check her out, see if she was just a tourist as she claimed, or another of the curious here to search for answers to the Santiago mystery, or go ghost hunting.

He waited for Jaci to enter the gate, then headed to the main house to search for the señora. He saw her standing at the window, staring down at him. The look on her face was anything but pleasant. And this was even before he told her of Raoul’s visit.

“I DON’T WANT HIM HERE,” she said, speaking in Spanish though she spoke fluent English. She’d learned it as a young girl and now mixed the two languages as if they were one.

This was exactly the reaction Carlos had expected. He dropped into one of the uncomfortable antique chairs in Alma’s sitting room and prepared himself for a bout of her childlike pouting.

“He’s my brother’s grandson,” he countered.

“He doesn’t like me.”

Carlos couldn’t argue that with her. Raoul had no more use for her than Emilio had had. “You don’t have to see him. He’ll stay in the boathouse with me if he spends the night. Most likely he won’t stay that long.”

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t say. I assume he only wants to see me and assure himself that I’m doing well.”

“Of course you’re doing well. Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Maybe because I’m getting older, even older than his own grandfather was when he died.”

Her expression changed from one of pouting irritation to apprehension. “Don’t talk like that, Carlos.”

He placed his rough hands on her thin shoulders. “Relax, señora. I’m not planning to die anytime soon. Raoul will visit and then he’ll leave. Nothing will change.”

She exhaled slowly and the drawn lines of her face eased. For a second, he caught a glimpse of the beautiful, sensual woman who used to live behind her dark, tortured eyes. Then she’d reminded him so much of another woman. But she’d never had her grace, her sweetness or her courage.

He stepped away, and the señora walked back to the window where she spent so much time.

“What were you talking about with the new tenant?” she asked without turning her gaze from the island and the gulf beyond.

“Fish.”

“What about them?”

“She wants to pay me to take her fishing.”

“I don’t trust her.”

“You don’t trust anyone who comes to Diablo except Enrique.”

“They shouldn’t be here. Andres would never have let strangers roam his island.”

“Things are different now, and Cochburn is within his legal rights to take in tenants.” Andres’s will had stated that if anything happened to him, Alma Garcia and Carlos could live on the island rent free for the rest of their lives.

It was a generous provision, the trust set up with a close attorney friend who’d let the señora and Carlos live on the island without the bother of tourists. But he had retired, and his son who took over the business had no allegiance to Andres.

Renting to tourists had been his idea, but when it failed to bring in the dollars he’d hoped for, he’d let the villa and the island fall even further into ruin.

“Are you on Cochburn’s side now?” Alma demanded.

“I’m not on anyone’s side. I just don’t see the point of worrying over every tenant who comes to the island.”

“How can you say that after the disasters we’ve had? Undercover cops. Women on the run. Investigative reporters.”

“Jaci appears to be harmless.”

“She was out on the beach last night after midnight, Carlos. I saw her.”

“It was a nice night.”

“I want her off the island. Either you take care of it or I will.”

He grasped the señora’s left hand, then tilted her chin with his other thumb so that she had to look into his eyes. “I’ll handle Jaci if she needs handling. You must leave this to me. Do you understand?”

“Then get rid of her. Get rid of Raoul, too.”

“Soon enough. For now, you should take it easy and stay out of the sun.”

“Andres doesn’t want strangers on his island.”

Carlos shoved his hands into his pockets and backed from the room. His promise to take care of things was empty. The thing that needed the most care was the señora, and he had no idea how to reach a woman who’d kept breathing but stopped living thirty years ago.

JACI STARED OUT THE WINDOW into the growing darkness. She’d dined on crabmeat omelet and toast at seven, and she was still feeling stuffed. She’d work another hour or two, then take a long walk in the moonlight before turning in.