The Secret Thief Read online

  The Secret Thief

  NINA LANE

  © 2018 Nina Lane. All rights reserved.

  Google Play Edition

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 9780999541012

  Nina Lane’s The Secret Thief is a sexy contemporary romantic suspense. Sign up for Nina’s newsletter to receive a free book, as well as exclusive offers and sneak peeks:

  www.ninalane.com/newsletter

  Behind his beautiful eyes

  Lay a thousand secrets and lies.

  But my own secrets are all laid bare

  The twisted reality of a disgraceful affair.

  I once deciphered the mysteries hidden in art

  Then mistakes and desire tore me apart.

  Now I’m shipwrecked at the end of the earth

  Desperate again to prove my worth.

  The lighthouse keeper is a stranger to me

  Yet one night with him sets me free.

  We find ourselves united by the stars above

  Both of us needing the salvation of love.

  Until our secrets and shame continue to build

  And what was flourishing will soon be killed.

  For my family

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Nina Lane

  Fairy tales are more than true:

  not because they tell us that dragons exist,

  but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.

  —Neil Gaiman

  (based on a sentiment by G.K. Chesterton)

  PROLOGUE

  The jagged, rocky coastline spills into the ocean as if it’s breaking apart. Trees stud the cliffs sweeping downward to the water’s edge, the striated patterns of the slate bedrock crafted through centuries of pounding waves and rough weather. Gray-black clouds bruise the sky, throwing shadows over the sea.

  I hike through the wet grass, navigating around rocks. My breath comes in fast puffs of white. I’ve only been in Maine for seven days, having arrived near the end of September, but already I feel winter approaching.

  After crossing a sedge-covered path, I stop at the base of a sharply graded hill. A crumbling stone wall climbs up the hill and across the edge of the cliff. Just beyond it, the Castille Lighthouse sits overlooking the ocean like an eagle in an aerie.

  The conical tower, dating to 1843, is made of white stone and topped with an octagonal iron lantern. I can easily imagine the light appearing on a dark horizon, a harbinger to weary sailors of firm ground; hot, comforting food, and tranquil sleep.

  A two-story keeper’s cottage hugs the side of the tower, making the structure resemble an oddly shaped teapot. A modern addition is attached to the western side of the cottage, probably an expansion of the living quarters.

  I’ve heard a man lives in the lighthouse, a caretaker of the grounds and the nautical history display. Likely a grizzled old fisherman who’s lived in Castille his whole life and enjoys chatting about his youthful days lobstering on the open seas.

  A cold morning wind rustles across the valley, plastering my thin suede trench coat to my body. Shivering, I hitch my satchel strap higher on my shoulder and push my hands into my pockets. The coat and my heeled leather boots have served me well during cool Southern California days, but soon enough I’ll have to exchange them for a fleece-lined parka and insulated snow boots.

  I trudge up the hill, my head bent. My boots slip on the damp, mossy rocks and grass. The sharp wind loosens my ponytail and lashes strands of damp red hair around my face.

  Finally I reach the crest, which flattens into a grassy plateau stretching toward the cliff’s edge. My heart hammers. Clearly I’ve underestimated both my utter lack of fitness and the steep grade of the hill.

  As I catch my breath, I peer at the lighthouse close-up. The surrounding grounds are tidy and well-kept, with a half-moon flagstone terrace and flower boxes. A smaller building housing a nautical history exhibit is set a distance from the lighthouse.

  The stone wall borders the cliff like a rim on a dinner plate. The rough-hewn granite rocks, stacked like firewood and weathered from the sea, have been there since the lighthouse was built.

  According to the locksmith who’d installed deadbolts in the doors of my inherited old house, no one knows how the stone wall came to be the keeper of secrets.

  But it is. For decades, the notches between the stones have held countless scraps of paper—everything from index cards to thick pieces of vellum to old receipts—on which visitors have scrawled secrets.

  Some might be innocuous enough: I stole a piece of my kid’s Halloween candy. I only dated him because I liked his dog. I don’t recycle. Others are likely more sinister in tone: I want to leave my husband. I’m in love with my best friend’s wife. I lost my scholarship and can’t tell my parents.

  Everyone leaves secrets in the wall, the locksmith had told me. Townspeople, tourists, visitors from neighboring towns.

  Now, as a new resident of Castille, I suppose I should carry out the ritual myself.

  But what secret to leave? I’m not sure I have any left. All of my secrets have been exposed and thrown around with malicious gossip.

  I had an affair with a married man.

  I destroyed my career.

  I’m scared my life is ruined.

  I don’t recognize myself anymore.

  I sit on a wooden bench and pull my organizer and a pen from my satchel.

  What is a secret, really? Something meant to be kept unknown from others. But how many people need to know before it’s no longer a secret? Is it only a secret if we keep it entirely to ourselves, not divulging it to anyone or anything? Not even a pile of old rocks?

  I open the planner to the note pages in the back and scribble the only secret I can think of, then tear the sheet of paper out. Feeling a bit silly, I walk to the edge of the cliff. I fold the paper into a tiny square and kneel to shove it deep between two boulders in the wall.

  I straighten and stand. I don’t feel much different, not as if I’m suddenly unburdened or lighter. But maybe as my secret disintegrates into the old stones, it will have less hold on me. Maybe it will even change.

  As I turn back toward the path, I glance up at the lighthouse tower. Behind the smo
ky glass surrounding the tower on all sides, the indistinct figure of a man stands.

  Though his image is blurred, his stance is wide and secure, his arms appearing crossed over his chest. He’s still as a rock. I can’t see his face, but I have a strange, sudden sense that he’s watching me.

  My heart thumps. A shiver races down my spine. I grab my satchel from the bench and hurry away, almost running down the path in my haste to escape.

  Fiamma.

  She opens like a canvas sail in his mind. A bird spreading wings of red and gold. Razor-sharp feathers, golden talons. Fierce, untrusting, wild.

  Fucking perfect.

  She’s not from here. She’s wearing a thin trench coat and stylish leather boots that are no match for the coastal Maine weather. Her profile is sharp—straight nose, firm jaw, long, slender throat. The wind whips her shoulder-length hair around her face. It’s dark red, the color of rust, copper, the powdered dust of burnt sienna.

  Fiamma.

  She’s the first spark in years. The one who will set his world on fire.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Once upon a time, I learned that beauty and happiness exist alongside blood and death. I learned that good often fails, people will shape-shift into a lie, and desire can be predatory and dangerous. I learned there is often a happy ending… but not always and not for everyone.

  My uncle was the wizard who honed these truths for me on the sharp edges of fairy tales. Seated in his worn leather chair, his deep-set eyes squinting behind his glasses, he brought unreal worlds to life and populated them with ogres, talking horses, and water sprites who live in enchanted forests and atop glass mountains.

  In such lands, rose gardens are spiked with thorns, curses fly like arrows, and the forbidden becomes unbearably tempting. Mothers are dead or absent, stepmothers are evil, and girls run away to escape the twisted lust of their fathers or the unwanted advances of would-be suitors. And because the veil between everyday life and the realm of magic is thin enough to be transparent, these runaway girls transform into cats, bears, and donkeys, enveloping themselves in animal skins to hide.

  For months, I’ve wished that, like Preziosa, Allerleirauh, Maria, Catskin, running away will somehow transform me into someone, or something, else entirely.

  Unfortunately, thirty-three years of life have also taught me I can’t rely on spells or curses to right the wrongs I’ve done and that have been done to me.

  I also don’t live in a fairytale. My father died when I was four, my mother is the wicked queen, I’ve never met an animal that talked, and the last rose garden I tried to cultivate had gotten infested with aphids.

  But oh, how I miss Uncle Max’s tales of wonder with a ferocity that still takes my breath away. He succumbed to cancer a year ago, a battle valiantly fought and lost. The only comfort I’ve found in his death is that he’s not here to witness my spectacular downfall from an esteemed UCLA art history professor into a vilified whore exiled from her job and home.

  I’ve landed—or rather, shipwrecked—here, in this small town on the Maine coast where the only things of value I have are the old house my uncle left for me and a nest egg that won’t last long.

  I slip my keys into my purse and walk toward the turn-of-the-century Seagull Inn, which also houses the most acclaimed restaurant in town. A covered porch sprawls around the perimeter of the Georgian mansion, and towers jut up at various angles.

  As I enter the restaurant, my body closes in on itself like an oyster, tightening and snapping shut. All day, my brain has refused to focus on anything except a strategy for defense. Excuses, explanations, and apologies roll and pitch in my head, none of them anchoring.

  The stark fact is: I have no strategy for defense, not about this. I never have.

  “Eve Perrin,” I tell the host at the front counter. “I have a six o’clock reservation for two.”

  “Sure. Please follow me.”

  Picking up two menus, he leads me through the dining room to a table by the window. Floral paintings adorn the papered walls, flowers bloom from vases, and mismatched china plates decorate the calico-draped tables. Well-dressed couples and families enjoy their meals and conversation.

  After declining the host’s offer of a drink, I go to the restroom to freshen up. I’ve armored myself in a white tailored blouse and gray tweed suit—the skin of a conservative, well-behaved daughter—with a pencil skirt that falls to my knees in a smooth line. My suede pumps match my coat, and I’ve pulled my shoulder-length reddish hair into a tight chignon that intensifies my cheekbones and the lines of my face. If nothing else, I look like a plainer version of my mother, which means she’ll be forced to acknowledge I’m still her daughter.

  Much as she might wish otherwise.

  I return to my table, sitting down just as a prickle of awareness skates over my spine.

  My mother enters the room. Her blonde hair is swept into a flawless French twist, and her slim figure is encased in a powder-blue linen sheath and matching cashmere sweater. Cosmetics enhance her porcelain skin and features. She looks like a fashion model, a wealthy wife, a philanthropist.

  She is none of those things. She’s a neurosurgeon, one of the top in her field of neuro-oncology and the head of the Stanford Neurology Department. She has a mile-long list of publications, awards, academic appointments, and fellowships, and she’s earned every one of them through both brilliance and intensively hard work.

  As she approaches, my chest fills with a tangle of emotions—love, pride, envy, desperation, anger. I rise, and our right hands extend simultaneously. She turns her face so I can brush my lips across her smooth cheek.

  “I don’t have a great deal of time.” She sets her Prada bag on an empty chair and takes her seat. “I have a consultation at Boston Medical Center tomorrow morning, and I need to review the patient’s files.”

  I suppress the urge to remind her she’d been the one to suggest we have dinner. Three months ago—the last time we’d communicated—she’d told me she would be in Boston for a few days en route to Berlin, and she would come to Castille to meet me.

  Even if it had been a request rather than an order, I’m in no position to refuse. She knows that, too. She knows everything.

  “God.” She glances around, her mouth twisting with distaste. “It’s like a Victorian duchess threw up in here.”

  One of the women at the next table glances at us. I give her a weak smile of apology.

  “It’s supposed to be the best restaurant in town,” I tell my mother.

  “That’s not saying much, is it?” She instructs a nearby server to bring her a glass of pinot grigio, then slips her sweater from her shoulders.

  “I’ve taken a position on the board of directors of the Association of Neurosurgery.” She opens her menu. “So I’m giving the keynote speech at the congress.”

  I deflect the pointed undercurrent of her announcement—the one reminding me she’s the brightest star in her field at the exact moment I’ve flamed out in mine.

  “That’s great,” I say mildly. “Congratulations.”

  She lifts a shoulder and levels her green gaze on me. “So you’re settled in Max’s house? Have you found a job yet?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “You’d better get started.” She places a pair of Tom Ford reading glasses on her nose and skims the menu. “You can’t exactly live on your savings.”

  As if that’s news to me.

  Though I’ve been frugal with my finances over the years, my nest egg has been depleted by legal fees and fines. I’d never intended to tap into my investments, but I’d had no choice. I’d used some of the money Max had left me to pay for my cross-country move, and what’s left won’t last long. I need a job, or I’ll soon be broke.

  Juliette studies me over the tops of her glasses. “How long do you intend to stay in this town?”

  “I don’t know. At least I have a place to live, thanks to Max.”

  At least I’ll be close to him in spirit there.
r />   I don’t bother telling my mother that. She’d always found Max, and his interests, rather ridiculous. Her quixotic, absent-minded uncle who lived in a world of gingerbread houses and enchanted forests where he couldn’t be bothered with the practical things in life.

  That was one reason why, after Max’s death, Juliette had auctioned off the vast collection of fairy tale books, paintings, illustrations, and manuscripts he’d spent almost his entire life compiling.

  As usual, I’d been unable to stop her. Now the collection is gone, sold through Sotheby’s to the highest private bidder. Just one more thing I’ve lost.

  Silence falls between me and my mother until the server stops beside our table. After we place our orders, Juliette takes a sip of wine.

  “Awful.” She makes a face and pushes the glass away. “I suppose a ridiculous little town like this is a perfect place for you to hide.”

  My chest tightens. I dislike the idea that I’ve been reduced to hiding, but it’s the painful truth. I’ve run away, and now I’m hiding in the hopes people will finally leave me alone. That he will leave me alone.

  “Have you spoken to Graham recently?” Juliette asks.

  “Yes. He said he’d let me know if he hears of any art history job openings.”

  “I still don’t know why he bothered coming to your defense. I hope you appreciate him sticking his neck out for you.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “If you’d been one of my students, I’d have dropped you faster than you can blink.”

  “You did anyway, didn’t you?” I’m unable to keep the caustic note from my voice.

  Juliette studies me, her lips thinning in the way I recognize all too well. I’ve seen it enough times over the years. One would think I’d be immune to my mother’s disapproval by now, but the opposite has happened.

  As I worked my way through undergrad and graduate school, I’d become more and more vulnerable to her barbs and judgment. After receiving my PhD in the History of Art from Yale, I’d scored a coveted assistant professorship at UCLA. That, I’d believed at the time, was certain to impress even Juliette Perrin, renowned and seminal neurosurgeon.