Unforgettable. Molly Rice
I need a reason? Aren’t people free to wander the country anywhere and anytime they please?”
“You just don’t strike me as a wanderer.”
She felt defiance growing in her chest and in the stiffening of her spine. “You are very much a sheriff, however, and if I haven’t broken some obscure law peculiar to Hunter’s Bay, I’d like to get back to my room for a nap.”
The sheriff’s chuckle was a mixture of amusement and menace. “You seem very much on the defensive for someone who’s wandering around and just happened to stumble over our little hamlet.”
“I don’t remember saying that I came here by accident.”
His eyes darkened, piercing her.
“So do you mind telling me just what brings you to Hunter’s Bay, Ms.... Stacy.”
Maybe she was blowing any chance of enlisting his help but Stacy just couldn’t resist. “What else, Sheriff? I’m an artist. I came here for the scenery.”
She didn’t realize she was baldly staring at him until he leaned forward and almost whispered, “And are you enjoying what you see, Stacy?”
She blinked. He was close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath on her face. His eyes were focused on her mouth, as though he wanted to see her answer. Read my lips, she thought, smiling inwardly at the clichéd expression, so appropriate in this case.
She thought if she ever had a chance to draw him, she’d want to do it in pastels, capturing in the soft chalk, the gold tones in his hair, the blue eyes that seemed to gray with each change of mood, the jut of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. She’d use her fingertips to soften and highlight, to mold the chalk to define each bone in his finely shaped chin and cheekbones, the landscape of his rugged face.
“Would you like to model for me?” she murmured.
He sat back, as if surprised at her request.
“With or without clothing?” he asked with a wry grin.
“With or without,” she said, feeling the breath catch in her throat. She had a feeling Derek Chancelor could be dangerous, both as a sheriff and as a man.
He drank beer and frankly returned her gaze. “I tell you what, Stacy Millman, you tell me, here and now, the real reason you’ve come to Hunter’s Bay, and I’ll take off my clothes for you right out there in the village square.”
Chapter Three
Morning was shrouded in gray, a heavy fog coming off the river to diminish visibility and turn buildings and trees to phantom shapes. Not a day for painting and certainly not for driving. Stacy’s restlessness drove her out of the inn on foot, hoping the damp, fresh air would clear the cobwebs of a dream-haunted sleep.
Not to mention the exchange with Derek Chancelor in the bar. God, but the man was attractive. And wouldn’t I just love to see him stripping in the town square. Talk about your incentive to win a point!
It would be very easy to forget he was the sheriff and concentrate on his earthy maleness. She didn’t meet many men like him in New York, that was certain. The men she knew, were career-absorbed or, the other extreme, looking for a free ride. They didn’t seem to know how to handle the recent liberation of women. Did the city itself bring out the worst in men or had she just been unlucky in her associations?
She realized that as much as she loved New York it had a brutal quality that might rub off on people who weren’t strong enough to resist it. She supposed that a small town like this one might be a good place to find serenity, at least during the day when she was awake.
But walking the eerily silent streets, unable to see more than a few feet in front of her, she began to feel an unease that resonated the same quality as her dreams. She seemed to be the only person out in the fog and yet she had a strange sensation of being observed. She found herself frequently looking over her shoulder, listening for ghostly footsteps. She’d walked only a few blocks but she felt disoriented, not sure in which direction she’d left the inn, nor which way to turn to find her way back.
The promise of a leisurely stroll forgotten, Stacy picked up her pace, desperate to find her way out of the fog, out of the isolation and the silence that seemed as heavy as the fog itself.
A lighted street lamp loomed up suddenly, and though its rays were only able to penetrate a limited stretch of mist, Stacy cried out in relief. She had obviously come to the beginning of the small business section. There would be people, lights, noise.
But the first store that appeared out of the gloom was dark and deserted; a sign in the window read Open June 1. The same was true of the next two shops she passed and she felt a heightening of her discomfort.
“It’s a damned ghost town,” she muttered, peering through a storefront window at the dark shapes within.
“Twilight zone,” she cried aloud in frustration when the next shop turned out to be vacant, a For Rent sign on the door.
She realized she’d come to the end of the block as her foot slipped off a curb. She started across the street, the fog enveloping her like a curtain. She wanted to run but her limited vision made her move warily, afraid of falling, of bumping into something. Or someone.
She stopped and wiped dampness from her face with the sleeve of her denim jacket. Being lost in the fog, alone in what appeared to be a deserted town, she mustn’t let her imagination become grist for the mill of fear.
She began to walk again and then stopped, her heart suddenly lurching in her chest. Were those footsteps she heard echoing behind her own? She turned around but could see nothing.
“Hello?” Her voice wavered and she called out again, louder, more authoritatively.
There was no answer. She took a few steps forward. “Is someone there?” Her question met with silence.
Without more thought she turned and began to run, heedless of any danger that might lie in front of her, only conscious of that which might be at her heels.
She stumbled on a curb but righted herself and kept running, positive she could hear footsteps pounding the pavement behind her.
The brightly lit drugstore was like an oasis in the desert. With a last burst of fright-induced adrenaline, Stacy threw herself at the front door and flung it open.
* * *
DEREK RAISED HIS GAZE from his newspaper as the door of the drugstore flew open and Stacy Millman rushed in, looking as if the hounds of hell were pursuing her. Her complexion was ashen, her green eyes darkened to near-black, and strands of her red hair, pulled loose from a ponytail, fell in wet tendrils down her cheeks.
Derek started to rise, to go to her to see if she needed help, but almost immediately she ran forward and sank onto the first stool at the soda fountain, brushing her hair back with one shaky hand, reaching with the other into her jacket pocket for tissues.
Still unaware of his presence, she wiped her face, blew her nose and looked over her shoulder at the front door. As if she were expecting someone to come in after her, he thought.
The damp strands of hair that drifted down her neck and across her cheek were already beginning to dry into curls, softening her profile, giving her an old-fashioned look that was contradicted by her denim jeans outfit and scruffy sneakers.
Contradictions seemed to be her specialty, he mused, thinking of the way she’d arrived in town, the reaction of the Hunters, her answers to his questions. Was she the lost waif she’d seemed in the hospital or the feisty independent big-city gal she’d portrayed in the bar? Was she truly here as an artist, planning to capitalize on the beauty of the Minnesota countryside, or did she have a hidden agenda as the Hunters feared? And did that agenda have something to do with MacroData?
If so, that would make her a threat to the entire county and to his determination