Land's End. Marta Perry
their minds. “I have my car, so I’ll follow you.”
The manager sprang to open the lobby door for them, probably with a sigh of relief. She’d blame him, but she knew the power Trent wielded here. He was the one who deserved her anger, not people who depended on him for their livelihoods.
Adriana fell into step with Sarah. “Don’t worry about our relationship with Trent.” Her voice was cool and light, almost amused. “Your staying with us won’t make it any worse.”
That seemed fairly ambiguous. What was Adriana thinking? “It’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all.” That definitely was amusement in her tone. “Your presence might make life more…interesting.”
Interesting.
She weighed Adriana’s words later as she followed their car down the black, winding road. Streetlights were nonexistent on the island, and street signs rare. You either knew where you were going at night, or you got lost, just as she felt lost in the tangle of ambiguities and hidden meanings in nearly everything that had been said tonight.
What was Adriana up to? She hadn’t invited Sarah to stay based on her ideas of Southern hospitality. Still, staying with them should open some doors to her. Whatever Adriana’s motives, she had to be grateful for that.
He ought to feel pleased. The problem presented by Sarah Wainwright had been taken care of.
Trent leaned back in his leather desk chair, looking over the computer to the wide windows. A silvery moon rode low on the ocean, sending a path of light toward the shore.
He didn’t feel anything of the kind. He couldn’t rejoice that Sarah was ending an exhausting day by driving off the island to the nearest motel. She’d have to go all the way to the interstate to find one that wasn’t inexplicably full.
No, he wasn’t pleased, but he was satisfied. He’d done what he had to do. Some would say he’d been ruthless, but that was because he did what other people only thought about. Sarah Wainwright would not open up the busy lines of gossip again.
In the long run, he’d done her a favor. She’d have found more grief if she’d stayed here.
Faint music filtered through the study door he’d left ajar. Derek must be playing the piano in the living room, since Melissa had already gone up to her room. He wasn’t sure whether to be glad or not that Derek was at his suite of rooms here instead of at his waterfront apartment in Savannah.
Trent’s first instinct, after Lynette’s death, had been to have that grand piano of hers chopped into firewood. He hadn’t, of course. Melissa had her mother’s talent, and it wouldn’t be fair to deprive her of that solace.
Besides, he hadn’t wanted to do anything that might detract from the explanation he’d given for Lynette’s and Miles’s presence at the cottage together. He’d asked them to check out the cottage for possible expansion. That was what he’d told the police, the press, anyone else who dared ask. The police were satisfied that it was an unfortunate accident with the gas heater and only too glad to have a rational explanation for their presence. End of story.
Maybe people didn’t really believe that story, but they pretended they did. No one would dare suggest anything else in his hearing, or in Melissa’s. Or would they? He’d like to believe he’d protected his child from the speculation, but he’d never be sure.
He tilted his head back against cool leather, letting the music soothe his frazzled nerves. He’d done what he had to, all along the line. And if he spent sleepless nights raging at God over this betrayal—well, that was no one’s business but his.
Sarah thought there was another answer, but she was wrong. He’d accepted that, and she’d be better off if she did, too. Her face formed in his mind—the clear green eyes that weighed and assessed everything, the determined set to her mouth, that stubborn chin. Sarah wouldn’t give up easily.
That conviction ruffled his thoughts. He’d gotten her off the island. Word would get around that it wasn’t wise to talk with her, even if she came back. She hadn’t been here long enough to make many friends who’d help her—only the people she’d recruited to help at the fledgling clinic.
Derek had been as close to her as anyone. Maybe Trent had best close that gap.
He shoved back the chair and went down the flight of stairs from the loft to the living room. His half brother played with his eyes shut, lost in the music. With his features relaxed, he had a strong resemblance to their mother—the same curly brown hair and full lips. Music had been a bond between him and Lynette, one Trent had never shared.
“Derek.” He leaned against the piano. It was a piece of furniture, nothing else. He could stand here without remembering the hours Lynette had spent playing it.
Derek played a final chord and then glanced at him, eyes curious. “What’s up?”
“Did you hear that Sarah Wainwright was on the island?”
Derek whistled softly. “No. Why would she come back?”
“She has some crazy idea that Miles and Lynette couldn’t have been involved.” He hated the words. They tasted of betrayal. “She wanted my help to prove it.”
Derek played a random chord or two. “You told her no.”
“Of course I told her no.” Irritation edged his voice. He shouldn’t have to explain that to Derek. “What did you think? That I’d welcome her and jump right into an investigation?”
“Guess not, when you put it that way. Still, you’ve got to feel sorry for the woman. She must be hurting.”
“Poking into the past isn’t going to heal that hurt.” He ought to know. “I’m doing her a favor by shutting her down before she starts.”
“She probably doesn’t see it that way.”
“Maybe not, but she doesn’t have a choice.”
“From what I remember about Sarah, I’d say she isn’t one to take no for an answer. Where is she staying?”
“Gone.” He clipped the word. “She was at the inn.”
Derek filled in the rest. “You sent her packing.”
“Yes.” She’d be gone by now. He ignored the faint trace of regret at the thought.
“Well, I guess that’s taken care of, then.” Derek lifted his brows, his brown eyes questioning. “Isn’t it?”
“You knew her as well as anyone. She might contact you.”
“And you want me to do what?”
“That should be obvious.” He suppressed a flicker of irritation. “Close her down.”
“Kind of rude, don’t you think?” Derek’s long-fingered hands moved on the keys, picking out something harsh and dissonant.
“You can pretty it up any way you want.” His voice was equally harsh. “Just don’t tell her anything to encourage her.”
“You’re the boss.”
He frowned at Derek’s flippant tone. But Derek, no matter how he felt, would cooperate.
A step sounded on the tile floor, and he turned to see Farrell, the driver-cum-body-guard, standing just inside the door, his heavy face impassive.
“Well?” He’d left the man at the inn to confirm that Sarah went on her way.
“Thought you’d want to know.”
“Know what?” The only thing he wanted to hear was that Sarah had left the island.
“Doc Wainwright. She left the inn, but she didn’t head for the mainland. She moved into the guesthouse at the Lees’.”
Derek played something ominous and