The Secret Thief Read online

  It wouldn’t be against the rules, exactly. It’s not like he put a “no masturbation while at work” clause in the stupid contract.

  I give a little snort of laughter and type in a book’s publication date. I mutter a curse and correct it. Despite my efforts, I’m making stupid mistakes today, typos and transposing letters and numbers.

  Because Flynn Alverton kissed me. No, he claimed me in a deep possessive kiss that shook the ground beneath my feet. Why couldn’t I have reacted that way to Jeremy’s kiss? Why am I completely uninspired to fantasize about him, while images of Flynn fucking me appear in my mind with unbidden spontaneity?

  I push away from the desk and try to work off my physical frustration by opening boxes and shelving books. After my rocky start in Castille, I’ve been happy with the way things are going—the job, learning my newfound fix-it skills, rediscovering myself, experiencing a pleasant date, bonding with a dog named Ghost.

  Now hot-but-strange Flynn has thrown a wrench into my growing self-assurance. And instead of nursing my righteous anger over his dictate about Jeremy, I’m obsessing about my reaction to his kiss.

  Stop it.

  Over on the desk, my phone buzzes with a call. I swipe the screen to reveal an unfamiliar number bearing a Los Angeles area code. Though I’ve lost touch with almost everyone I used to know in LA, maybe a former friend is now calling to reconnect.

  I answer the call. “Hello?”

  “Eve.”

  Ice floods my veins. I can’t speak. His voice is a nightmare of old memories—clipped and harsh, husky with lust, infused with a tenderness that turned out to be a lie. Everything was a lie.

  “What…” I pull a breath into my tight lungs. “What do you want?”

  “You did a good thing by moving as far away as you could get,” David says. “But if you think you can still do some damage, you’re wrong.”

  “What are you talking about?” I fumble to sit in my desk chair, my legs weakening.

  “You keeping your mouth shut,” he snaps.

  Fear, jagged and sharp, sinks into my skin. I know all too well how powerful this man is. He defeated me, stripped away all my defenses. I’d tried telling people the truth, but no one had believed me over him.

  Why would I do anything now except keep my mouth shut?

  “I’m…” My breath hitches, panic rising. “I haven’t said anything to anyone.”

  “You’d better not,” he says. “No one believed you then. They sure as hell won’t now. But if you come forward again and tell people I slandered you and lied, I will destroy you worse than I already have. Got it?”

  I can’t push any words past my constricted throat. How did he get my number?

  “You were nothing more than a passable fuck,” he continues. “Unless you want more pictures of your tits and cunt made public, you stay in your little mousehole and keep quiet. If I hear anything out of you, you’re done.”

  The call ends. I drop the phone. Every part of me is shaking.

  He’s supposed to be out of my life for good. I paid a catastrophic price for getting involved with him. Why would he suddenly think I’m going to say anything now, of all times? Especially right when I’m finally seeing some light again?

  “What’s wrong?”

  I jerk my head up in surprise at the sound of Flynn’s voice—deep and edged with contained wariness, a polar opposite to David’s caustic tone. He’s standing in front of the desk, his eyebrows pulled together and his dark gaze on me.

  I get quickly to my feet, trying to suppress my shivering. “I… nothing. I was just about to get back to work.”

  I hurry around the desk and busy myself opening another box.

  “Eve.”

  Oh, how he says my name, like he’s wrapping his voice around it, like he’s wrapping his arms around me. I fight back tears and pull two fairy tale criticism books from the box.

  “Just an unexpected call. Everything’s fine.”

  He steps closer. His delicious scent, the presence of his strong body, make me want to crack wide open and confess everything. To give him my secrets so I won’t have to bear their weight alone.

  But I can’t.

  Pain stabs my heart. Not until now—right after our kiss—do I realize how horrified I am by the thought of Flynn knowing all the sordid details about me and David. What if he goes on to the internet and reads the news reports? He’ll look at me differently then. Everyone does. I couldn’t bear it if his hot glances change to disgust.

  I hold up my hand. A tremor ripples through me. “You said I couldn’t ask you any questions. Fine. You can’t ask me any either.”

  He tightens his mouth, flexing his hands at his sides. “Something upset you. I want to know what it is.”

  I steel my spine, hating the thought of David encroaching on my work here, polluting the strange and fragile friendship I’m developing with Flynn.

  “Well, you can’t, all right?” I force an abrupt note into my voice. “It’s my business, like whatever you do in the tower is your business. Now is there something else you wanted or can I get back to work?”

  “Tell me, dammit.”

  “No.” I whirl around to face him, sick to death of being told what to do. I’m tired of having every single element of my life wrenched out of my control. I’m tired of being threatened, of being afraid and alone. “You’re not allowed to regret our kiss and then try and be there for me. You don’t get involved, remember? Ever.”

  “I will get fucking involved if someone is scaring you.” He stalks to the windows, his body leashed with tension. “What happened?”

  “Go away, Flynn.” I stride back to the desk. “There’s nothing you can do anyway.”

  Nothing anyone can do.

  Silence fills the space behind me, broken only by what sounds like his teeth grinding together.

  “I don’t…” He pauses and pulls in a breath. “I don’t regret our kiss. I regret not being able to stay away from you.”

  My heart thumps. Much as I’ve secretly longed for him, the menacing call has slammed me with the knowledge that my past will never die. What if it somehow ends up hurting Flynn?

  “Go away,” I repeat dully.

  “I’m not dropping this, Eve,” he says through a clenched jaw. “No fucking way.”

  The door slams shut.

  I press my hands to my eyes. Shame floods me alongside the fear I thought I’d finally conquered. A thirty-second call from David has revived it all—the sinking dread, the black fog suffocating my lungs, the icy cold terror of what else he could do.

  Does he really have more explicit pictures of me?

  Does he know where I am?

  Though I’d had my phone number changed, it’s easy enough to find that kind of information these days. It also wouldn’t be a challenge for anyone to find out I’ve moved to Castille, but I’ve been counting on the fact that no one, least of all David, cares where I am now.

  My only small consolation is that I’m no threat to him. I fully intend to stay in my “mousehole” and keep quiet. Yes, I want to jumpstart my career again, but David and his colleagues could give a shit about art history. Our paths will never cross again.

  So what was that call about? It must have something to do with the two students now accusing him of sexual harassment, but I don’t know any details of that situation. I don’t want to know.

  Or maybe someone said something to him about me. Maybe his wife received a call or a message. During the public blowout, she’d apparently been subjected to pranks by people pretending to be me.

  I pick up my phone and call Graham. “Have you heard anything else about what’s going on with David?”

  “Only what I sent you.” Concern laces his voice. “Why?”

  “He called me.”

  “Oh, Eve.” He sighs heavily. “I’m sorry. What did he say?”

  “He told me to keep quiet, though it’s not like I haven’t told people everything already. I wanted to tell you since yo
u’re the only person who knows where I am.”

  “I haven’t told anyone.”

  “I didn’t think you had,” I assure him quickly. “I just don’t want you to take any more heat because of me.”

  “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else, but try not to worry.”

  “I’ll be fine. Give my love to Mary.”

  I end the call and sit back at the desk. Trying to put David’s call behind me, I input book data into the computer database.

  Threats aside, David has zero evidence I’ve tried to contact him or do anything else in the past year. All I’ve done is run away and hide.

  Though I’m at work, I spend a bit of time trying to regain my balance by editing my Maria Wood Red Riding Hood paper. Even objectively, I know it’s an excellent, sharp critical analysis, including both scholarly perceptiveness and a personal tone of both anger and empathy.

  After all, no one knows better than me what it feels like to be the girl confronting a terrifying wolf.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  After work, I change clothes and hit the trail, running past the white stone markers I’ve hidden in plants off the trail. My legs ache and my heart is about to burst out of my chest, but the three-mile boulder is getting closer all the time. One day soon I’ll reach it without stopping.

  I keep jogging toward the second curve in the trail. My chest seizes. I come to a slow, gasping stop. Just catching my breath is painful.

  Still… progress.

  Satisfied, I turn and start back toward the hill to the cliff’s plateau. The waves crash and spray over the rocks. A gleam of pale blue shows on the gray horizon.

  A man wearing a hooded red sweatshirt jogs up the adjoining path from the direction of the woodlands.

  Apprehension pinches my nerves. I’ve never felt unsafe out here, usually because there are other people walking or jogging, but today a quick glance around tells me the trail and hill are deserted. Fisting my hands, I edge to the side of the path. Hopefully he’ll turn in the direction of the lighthouse.

  No. He turns left and heads directly toward me.

  More than likely he’s just a harmless runner, but I lost any courage for taking chances a long time ago. Unfortunately, there’s nowhere else I can go out here. I steel my spine and start to run again. I tell myself to avoid eye contact, to run past him as fast as I can.

  He’s getting closer. Is he slowing down?

  Closer…

  My sneakers slam against the dirt. My lungs tighten painfully. Keep running, keep…

  He passes me in a rush of salty air, his gasps of exertion the only sound.

  I keep going, glancing behind me once. He’s heading toward the boulder, his footfalls rhythmic and steady.

  Blowing out a relieved breath, I run toward the hill, ignoring the pain in my muscles and chest until I’m certain he’s no longer in sight. Then I slow and struggle to catch my breath again.

  Goddammit. I’m letting David’s call get to me. I need to be careful, yes, but I lived in fear long enough during the investigation. And though my move to Castille had a rocky start, my job, routine, and research are giving me a new sense of security.

  Not that that’s affecting my common sense as, thanks to Flynn’s advance on my paycheck, I’ve already made an appointment to have an alarm system installed at Ramshackle Manor.

  “Miss Perrin.”

  I startle, half-expecting to see the hooded jogger. William King is climbing the hill from the direction of the woodlands, wearing a brown sawtooth parka with binoculars dangling around his neck. I manage to smile at him, though my guard is still up.

  “Out for a hike?” I ask casually.

  “Bird watching.” He indicates the binoculars with a derisive roll of his eyes. “I know, what a geriatric hobby, right? But I’ve been bird watching since I was a kid, so I figure why stop now?” He peers toward the cliff. “I could never get Jeremy interested in it, though. He preferred shooting birds with his BB gun instead of studying them. Look, there’s a black guillemot. Have a look.”

  He takes off the binoculars and hands them to me. I look through the lenses at a glossy black bird with white patches on its wings.

  “Pretty.” I return the binoculars and step back.

  “You come out here often?” He squints at another couple of birds pecking at the shoreline grasses.

  “Sometimes.” A wave crashes against the rocks, sending a damp chill through the air. Goosebumps prickle my arms. “Just for a run.”

  “Find anything new about that artist you were looking for?” He lifts the binoculars to his eyes. “I think that’s a red-throated loon.”

  “I’m still looking.” I take another step away, disliking my lingering wariness.

  “Jeremy tells me you’re an art historian.” William lowers the binoculars and looks at me again. “Impressive. Allegra and I have been fortunate to see major museums all over the world. Everyone raves about the Louvre, but frankly I prefer the Prado. Hard to beat all those Picassos. Do you have a favorite museum?”

  “Not really, but I like the Met.” I point my thumb toward the lighthouse. “I’m going to head home. It was nice seeing you again. Good luck with the birding.”

  He nods, tilting his head back to peer at a V of birds cresting over the sky. I hurry back up the hill toward the lighthouse. The tower windows are dark.

  Disappointment flickers in me. I almost wish I could knock on the door, see if Flynn wants to have dinner or to… sit at the kitchen table without talking. Just being around him right now would be soothing.

  Strange how I know nothing about him, and yet of all the people I’ve met, he’s the one with whom I’m becoming the most comfortable.

  I shake off my uneasy feelings and head home, glad to see Ghost waiting for me on the porch. After feeding him, I take a shower and go to the library to finish revising my Maria Wood paper before sending a copy to Graham.

  Despite my lack of concrete information, the analysis and speculation about the Red Riding Hood drawing flies from my fingertips. It’s been so long since I’ve written anything scholarly that it’s as if a dam has broken open in my brain.

  I describe and analyze the drawing, compare it to the works of other fairy tale artists, discuss the social and historical context. The writing brings me back to the reason I love my field of study—because art is such a fascinating lens through which to examine history, societies, culture.

  And in the case of Maria Wood, to bring to light an exceptional and shocking artist who used her creativity to subvert the constraints imposed upon women. To exact revenge against those who had hurt her and likely others.

  Whoever Maria Wood was, she’s my new hero.

  My nerves are jittery and tense when I arrive at the lighthouse on Tuesday morning. The boundaries between me and Flynn are loosening, but our last encounter ended in anger and a slammed door. Instigated by both David’s call and a hot kiss.

  For the first time, Flynn isn’t in the workroom to greet me. Dread pools in my stomach. I push open the unlocked door and set my satchel on the desk. Right next to the computer, there’s a large, red stainless steel thermos, so shiny and brand-new that light reflects off the surface.

  Before I can process the meaning of it, the cottage door opens. Flynn enters, dressed in a clean but wrinkled T-shirt and worn jeans, his hair damp.

  My body reacts instantly to the sight of him—pulse racing, heat filling my chest. It’s even more intense now that I remember the possessive crush of his mouth, the glide of his sloped muscles under my palm…

  “Good morning.” He stops in front of the desk and clears his throat. A warm, soapy scent drifts from him. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem.”

  Our gazes touch. He was in the shower. A drop of water slips from his hair down the side of his neck. I want to lick it away.

  Desire flashes in my blood. A damp patch colors part of his T-shirt, as if he didn’t dry himself off completely before dressing. As if he were in
a hurry.

  And…

  Oh my. His gray eyes are dark with satiation, his muscles more relaxed than I’ve ever seen them. I recognize the look of self-administered carnal satisfaction all too well. Bringing myself to orgasm is how I get myself to sleep every night.

  Did he just masturbate in the shower? And was he thinking about me while he did?

  My pussy clenches. Even if I’m letting my imagination get the better of me, the idea of it is enough to spiral me with lust. I can see it too—a vivid picture as explicitly detailed as my own nocturnal fantasies.

  Flynn standing in the shower, water cascading over his naked body, rivulets following the slopes and lines of his chest. Strong, powerful legs planted apart, hair plastered to his forehead, muscles tense with urgency. His cock sticking straight out, thick and so long he could bury it deep inside me and reach places I don’t even know exist.

  I see him grasping the veined shaft, stroking from base to tip while working his hips back and forth. Heavy testicles pulled tight underneath. Fucking his own fist. His own fantasy flashing behind his closed eyelids—me lying naked in front of him, my breasts topped with stiff nipples, my trembling legs spread wide apart.

  His hand cupping my pussy, stimulating my sensitive clit with his thumb while he positions his cock at my opening. Sliding inside me, slow and firm, letting my body adjust to take him. Our breath rasping through the air, our eyes locking with unspoken messages.

  Mine: Yes, oh please, fill me… His: So tight, so good…

  Then our words dissolve into groans and sighs as he sinks fully into me and starts to fuck. Plunging deep… so deep… my inner flesh clenching around his shaft, my hot pleas filling his ears, my body bouncing under the increasing force of his thrusts.

  He envisions it all, everything stripped raw as the hot shower pours onto him and he strokes his pulsing shaft. And I see him—his body working back and forth with mounting urgency, the swollen head of his cock appearing and disappearing within the vise of his fist, his muscles straining and tensing before… oh, fuck, an orgasm explodes through him, come spraying against the shower wall, a deep, heavy groan rumbling from his chest.