The Secret Thief Page 11

“Flynn.” Jeremy’s expression darkens. “He’s been living there for way too long. Awhile back, I told my mother we should open up the tower and cottage for tourists… even asking a donation for entry would give us more income to help with the upkeep. But she refuses to kick him out. We can’t evict him because he’s technically employed by the Forestry Department. At least until their lease is up at the end of the year.”

  A bitter tone underscores his voice.

  “Do you know him?” I ask.

  “Not really. He’s weird, likes being the mysterious guy on the cliff. Probably has a string of chicks up there.” He winces a little. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be crude. Flynn just gets my back up.”

  I reach for my water glass, trying to ignore the knot tightening in my stomach. I haven’t seen any evidence of “chicks” up at the lighthouse, but I’ve only been working there for two weeks. And for all I know, a woman might be the reason Flynn doesn’t want me going into other parts of the cottage or tower. Maybe he does have a sex dungeon somewhere in the—

  Eve. Don’t get carried away.

  Though I want to ask Jeremy more about his apparently antagonistic feelings toward Flynn, I don’t want to arouse his suspicions. Even if I don’t explicitly say anything about my cataloging job, showing an excessive interest in the lighthouse keeper could create gossip.

  And God knows the last thing I need is more freaking gossip.

  After dinner, Jeremy walks me to my car. I open the driver’s side door and turn to face him.

  He’s standing close, just a few inches away, but his proximity doesn’t spark any fear. It doesn’t make me all hot and tingly either—which is my reaction to just the thought of Flynn, let alone his nearness—but that’s also a relief. Turns out I can still enjoy being on a date with a nice, handsome man without enduring a roller-coaster of emotions.

  Another broken piece back in place.

  Jeremy shifts closer, reaching behind me to rest his hand on the open car door. Unmistakable desire glitters in his blue eyes.

  He’s going to kiss me. I know it the instant before it happens.

  My last kiss is burned indelibly into my mind—David’s hands on either side of my face, the musky smell of his aftershave filling my nose, his mouth pushing mine open. His erection pressed hard against my thigh because we’d woken too late for the morning sex he preferred. His whispered I’ll see you tonight, his lips lingering against mine.

  Three hours and twenty minutes later, the public discovery of our illicit affair burned across campus like a wildfire.

  Jeremy is still looking at me, waiting for a signal, an invitation. My heart hammers. All I can do is not move, not push him away. He leans forward and kisses me. I return the kiss.

  What had I expected? To be flooded with desire?

  No. It’s an entirely pleasant kiss—warm and gentle. I like the shape of his mouth, his restraint, even the rangy strength of his body, but the moment is devoid of heat, sizzling attraction, the melting sensation like syrup flowing through my veins…

  “Ah, you feel good.” He lifts his head, his eyes darkening, and puts his hand against my cheek. “And you kiss like a dream.”

  He lowers his head again. Without thinking, I put my hand on his chest and give him a slight push. He stops. Consternation floods his expression.

  “I’m sorry, I…” He steps back, his hands going up. “I thought you were okay with it.”

  “I am. I mean, I…” I take a breath, trying to calm the racing of my heart. “I’m just a little gun-shy these days. Please don’t take it personally. I really enjoyed our date, but I need to take things pretty slow.”

  He expels a sigh of relief. “I can do that. As long as you’re not already kicking me to the curb.”

  “No. As long as you’re not worried about being out with a woman who practically wears a scarlet A.”

  “Actually I kind of like that you have a past.” Amusement gleams in his eyes. “I’m used to dating women who make it a point never to do anything wrong. Which is fine if you’re a politician, but not a real person.”

  “I have the scars to prove I’m real.” I fish my keys out of my purse and turn to the car. “Thanks again for the dinner, Jeremy.”

  “You’re welcome, Eve.” He walks around the car to the sidewalk. “I hope to see you again.”

  I hope so too.

  It’s a natural response, one I want to say. But the words stick in my throat.

  Instead I give him a wave before starting the car. I glance in the rearview mirror, seeing him watch me drive away.

  I should date a man like him. After David, I didn’t want to look at another man again, but if I’m going to be whole again, I need to restore the social piece of my life. Not to mention, Jeremy could divert my attention from the lighthouse keeper.

  Jeremy is solid, grounded, honest. Everything about Flynn is a mystery and a fantasy. I’d gotten caught up in a fantasy with David, whose “mystery” had been a vicious lie, and I’d paid the price.

  Never again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  On Sunday afternoon I go for a jog over the trails cutting through the woodlands beside my house. Despite the electrician’s horror-movie warnings about “being careful,” the atmosphere is cold but delightful—chattering birds, sunlight dripping through the pine trees, squirrels rustling in the underbrush. Snow White would love it here.

  I cross a few narrow roads, nodding greetings at several passing walkers and joggers before circling back to Ramshackle Manor. Ghost is hovering at the side of the house, his yellow eyes wary.

  “Hey, boy.” I unlock the back door, leaving it open as I enter.

  When I’m home, I’ve been opening the door when I see him outside in the hopes that he’ll come in. In order to coax him into the car so I can take him to the vet for a check-up, I need to earn more of his trust. I continue to call the humane society and review the city website for reports about a lost dog matching his description, but none appear.

  I mix leftover chicken soup with his kibble and place it on the floor. He takes a few tentative steps into the kitchen. We study each other. He trots to the bowl. After gobbling the food, he nudges his head against my hand.

  “Yeah.” I scratch him behind the ears. “I’m starting to like you too.”

  He runs out the open door and disappears into the woods. Maybe he’s a wizard who shapeshifts in the forest. A magical helper.

  I grab a bottle of water and go into the living room. The books Uncle Max left me are still piled in stacks on the floor. I leaf through one of the volumes, pausing on an illustration of Sleeping Beauty.

  A black-and-white etching of the sleeping princess fills the page, her voluptuous body clad in a near-transparent gown, her face pale and lifeless. Beside her, the prince approaches, his eyes dark and his expression edged with lust.

  My heart thumps. In the original tale from which Sleeping Beauty is derived, the princess is not roused awake by a kiss from the prince. No.

  He takes one look at the sleeping princess, carries her to a bed, and rapes her as she lies in her comatose state. Then he leaves her. Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm later sanitized the story in favor of the famous kiss.

  Has anyone ever illustrated the original story? Where have I seen the prince—

  I grab my phone to call Graham. A woman replies, “Graham Baker’s phone.”

  “Mary?” Warmth rises in me. In addition to Graham, Mary has always stood by her belief that I did nothing wrong. “It’s Eve Perrin.”

  “Oh, hello, Eve. I didn’t recognize your number.” She gives a little laugh. “Not that I monitor Graham’s phone.”

  “I’m glad you picked up. How have you been?”

  We chat for a few minutes about her upcoming retirement plans and a few new tea varieties she’s discovered. She turns the phone over to Graham.

  “I figured it out!” I tell him. “Where I’ve seen the Maria Wood illustrations before. She did an entire book of them. Maybe even more.
”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, definitely. I saw one in Uncle Max’s collection years ago. Before I went to college. I remember thinking they were so weird and disturbing, but I wasn’t an art history major then, so I didn’t look at them academically. Then I must have forgotten about them… until now. I can’t believe I didn’t remember. If I can find it, I’ll have a ton of material for my paper. Maybe several papers. Maybe a book.”

  He chuckles. “I love hearing you so excited about this. Do you remember the title?”

  “No, but it must have been a volume of fairy tales. I just hope it’s still in his collection.”

  “Well, you’ll have to find his collection first.”

  Shit.

  My exultation pops like a needle-pricked balloon. I can’t tell Graham that I have full access to Max’s collection. I can’t tell him much of anything.

  “Yes.” I swallow a knot of guilt. “Of course.”

  “Did you ever ask Max about it?”

  “I don’t think so. If I did, I don’t remember what he said. I mean, I loved the storybooks back then, but I didn’t have a critical eye for the drawings. The version of Sleeping Beauty was so awful, though, and I know Maria Wood was the one who illustrated it. Whoever she was, she subverted the fairy tales with this violent, disturbing imagery.”

  “It sounds like it could be extraordinary, if you can locate it.”

  “I’ll try. In the meantime, I’m almost done with my Red Riding Hood rough draft.”

  “Send it to me when you’re finished.”

  I thank him and end the call, suppressing the urge to hurry back to the lighthouse to begin my search. I’m sure Flynn wouldn’t appreciate me showing up outside of work hours.

  On Monday morning, I arrive at the workroom fifteen minutes before eight. Though I expect to wait for him, he opens the door right when I walk up.

  “Oh, sorry.” I pause. “I know I’m early. I can wait out here, if you want me to.”

  He frowns. “Why would I want that?”

  “Because you seem very schedule-oriented.”

  “Come in, Eve.” With a hint of impatience, he steps aside to let me in. “Any questions?”

  “Not about the cataloging, no.” I set my satchel on the desk. “But would you mind if I look for a particular book? While I’m doing my work, of course.”

  “What book?”

  “I remembered Uncle Max had once owned a fairy tale collection illustrated by Maria Wood. At least I think it was illustrated by her. If I can find it, I’ll have a much bigger scope of material to write about.”

  “Go ahead.” He turns away. “And if you find any Hansel and Gretel stories, I need those too.”

  “Oh, I unpacked a few of those the other day.” I hurry to the shelves to retrieve a few books. “Here’s one that places the origins of the story during the medieval famine of the fourteenth century when it wasn’t unheard of for parents to abandon their children. This book has the original Grimm Brothers version from 1812, and this one has incredible black-and-white illustrations by…”

  Flynn has stopped right behind me to look over my shoulder. He’s close. So close that his body heat warms my skin. So close that my arm is almost brushing against his side, and I can practically feel his breath stirring the tendrils of hair at my temple.

  “By…?” His voice rumbles through his broad chest.

  “By… um…” The artist’s name has vanished from my now-blank mind. I flip to the front cover. “John Batten. He was a… a British illustrator and printmaker, part of the Art Nouveau movement.”

  Flynn makes a noise low in his throat, something between a hmm of interest and a murmur of appreciation. His breath escapes on an exhale.

  Oh my God. Is he smelling me again?

  I’m seized with the sudden urge to turn and breathe him in, to bury my face right up against his strong neck, press my lips to the hollow of his throat where his pulse beats…

  “Thanks.” He takes the books and steps away from me. “Appreciate the help.”

  A rush of colder air fills the void where he was standing. I return to my desk, attempting to gather my composure and wondering if that little interaction really happened or if it was again a product of my vivid imagination. My imagination has been working overtime lately.

  “I’ll leave you to work.” Flynn starts toward the door.

  “Hold on a sec.” I unbuckle my satchel. “I brought you something.”

  I dig around and produce a fat little clay pig that fits into the palm of my hand. Two dimples appear on the pig’s cheeks, and he’s laughing at some unknown joke, his eyes scrunched up and ears perky.

  Flynn eyes the pig dubiously. “What’s that?”

  “It’s called a tea pet.” I extend it toward him.

  He takes it, his fingertips brushing my palm. The light touch ripples my entire arm with sensation. He examines the pig closely.

  “Tea pets were started in China back during one dynasty or another,” I explain. “Basically a long time ago. They bring good luck and good fortune, and they protect your tea collection. You just have to make sure you feed them regularly.”

  “Feed them?”

  I smile at his confused expression. “Just pour a little tea over it, preferably the same type. I use Darjeeling for the pig.”

  Flynn shakes his head, as if he’s still not following the conversation.

  “It’s for you,” I clarify. “I’ve had it for a couple of years now, which is why it smells like Darjeeling. Tea pets absorb the color and scent of the tea.”

  “You’re giving this to me?” A crease appears between his eyebrows.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “As a thank you for giving me the chance to work with Max’s collection. And because we could all use a bit of good fortune. I can’t say it actually worked for me, but maybe it will for you.”

  Silence falls. He turns the pig over in his hand.

  Suddenly feeling rather silly, I sit at the computer. “It’s just a superstition, like stirring someone else’s tea. I don’t know, I thought you might like it.”

  “I do.” He closes his fist around the pig and clears his throat. “I mean, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope it works.”

  “So do I.”

  I open my organizer to my To Do list and pick up a gel pen. Flynn is still standing there. I glance at him, my heart skipping as our gazes meet. Never before have I met a person so capable of concealing his thoughts, of not letting anyone see past the steel-gray of his eyes.

  “Is there something else you need?” I ask.

  “No.” He gestures to my organizer. “Is that your plan?”

  “Yes, I just wrote up a best practices way of approaching the cataloging, with subject headings, hierarches, and bibliographic records.” I turn the organizer toward him so he can see what I’ve written. “I’ll use this as a framework for the paintings and lithographs. Those will have variances since they’re different media. I’ll create a separate index for the artwork, but you’ll also be able to search it in the main database.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s fine.” He takes a step back. “No questions?”

  “Not right now, but I’ll write them down as they come up.”

  He nods. “Good.”

  “Good.” I turn my organizer back to me.

  He hesitates, then turns and strides toward the door, closing it behind him with a sharp click. Only after he’s gone does it hit me that he might actually have been looking for an excuse to stay.

  Wouldn’t that be something?

  Right, Eve, and maybe he’ll ask you to the movies next. Stop daydreaming.

  Pushing him out of my mind, I organize my desk for the day’s work. As I unpack and catalog books, I keep an eye out for both the Maria Wood book and more Hansel and Gretel tales.

  At two, I head into the kitc
hen to make tea. Flynn shows up again right as I’m steeping the leaves. Without asking, I pour him a cup, adding cream and sugar the same way I take it. We sit at the table.

  “Hansel and Gretel isn’t your favorite fairy tale.” I stir my tea and hand him the spoon.

  He glances at me. “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t think your favorite tale is about parents who abandon their children. Or about a brother and sister.” I study him, trying to process the few things I know or sense about him. “I don’t think it’s The Little Mermaid or The Brave Tin Soldier either. A theme of dying for love doesn’t seem quite your thing.”

  A smile tugs at his mouth, but doesn’t reach his eyes. “You know what my thing is?”

  “No, but my job is to decipher the meaning and secrets of paintings, even if I don’t know much about them to start. So you’re kind of like my new thesis.”

  “I’m not interesting enough for a thesis.” He drains his tea and sets the cup down. “Find another topic.”

  “Is your favorite fairy tale Jack and the Beanstalk?” I ask. “The giant does have a keen sense of smell. I’ll bet he could smell apple-lavender body lotion from a mile away.”

  He blinks. A slight flush crests his cheekbones. He pushes to his feet.

  “Get back to work, Eve.”

  “Yes, sir.” I smile.

  Even through his scowl, amusement sparks.

  “Now.” He strides to the door and leaves.

  Though I’m enjoying the loosening of tension between us, I’m still aware of the contract. What if I push him too far with my questions and he stops joining me for tea? I finish my cup before returning to work.

  My concern eases when he appears in the kitchen again the next day.

  “Ceylon Kenilworth.” I set a cup in front of him.

  He swallows the tea and nods his approval like he always does. “What makes it Ceylon Kenilworth?”

  “Ceylon is a black tea grown in Sri Lanka, known for being especially aromatic and strong. I think it’s also used as a base for other teas like Earl Grey, but I like it as it is. Kenilworth is the estate where this tea was grown. Apparently the leaves are picked after the first monsoon, and then processed in cooler weather. That gives the tea its distinctive flavor.”