He leaned forward again, a barely restrained energy simmering like electricity around him, and I realized it was utterly contagious. It was crackling over my skin.
“Could you perhaps bring your projects? Maybe you could work on some of your art while I go to my meetings? Then we could meet up for dinners?”
“Martin, I—”
“I know. It’s crazy.” He raked his hand through his thick hair, and the candlelight glimmered on his exorbitantly priced Rolex Daytona—I’d googled that design. I knew how much it cost. The cuff links, too. I’d searched for the little stamp in the gold on the inside. I wasn’t sure why I’d done that. Perhaps it was because I wanted—needed—to know that he had wealth of his own. It made me feel he wasn’t after mine.
“The trip would be on me, El. Everything taken care of. Gertrude will make all the reservations and compile our itineraries. Some of the nicest hotels and pensions, because honestly, I like to travel comfortably.”
I swallowed. I thought of sunshine and crystal clear lagoons. And being with this man. And sex. Lots of sex.
Your choice. Your story. Pick your narrative.
How wrong could it go?
THE WATCHER
Outside, across the road from the Deep Cove restaurant beneath a leafless tree with gnarled fingers, the Watcher sat in a dark car, watching the lighted windows of the quaint restaurant. The interior of the car was cold, but an engine idling too long in order to keep the car warm would draw too much attention. Martin Cresswell-Smith could be seen inside one of the lighted windows. A candle flickered between him and Ellie Tyler. It was a romantic and golden vignette framed by winter darkness. Martin reached across the table and cupped Ellie Tyler’s face. The waiter returned to their table with the check.
The Watcher reached for the camera on the passenger seat, removed gloves, focused the lens, aimed, clicked.
A few moments later a yellow cab drew up outside the restaurant entrance.
The couple exited, bundled in their coats against the cold. Martin placed his hand at Ellie’s back and leaned close to whisper something in her ear. Ellie laughed, throwing her head back and exposing a pale column of throat, her long hair shimmering like a dark waterfall under the outside lights. The Watcher clicked the camera. And again.
The couple got into the waiting cab.
The taxi pulled off.
The Watcher started the car and pulled into the street behind the cab, tires crackling on dead leaves and frosted paving. Crystals and ice glistened in the headlights.
The taxi crossed the Lions Gate Bridge, entered the city, and turned into an expensive residential part of town. It stopped outside a new apartment block owned by the Hartley Group.
The Watcher parked in the shadows across the street and watched as the couple exited the taxi, Martin Cresswell-Smith’s hand once more at the small of his date’s back. Proprietary. The Watcher reached for the camera.
Click, click, click.
The couple entered the apartment complex doors and disappeared from sight.
The Watcher counted up floors. Waited.
Several minutes later lights clicked on in a unit on the twelfth floor. The couple came into view, kissing, shucking coats, pulling at shirts. The watcher zoomed in with the telephoto lens, clicked. And again. Click. The couple disappeared from view. Lights dimmed. The Watcher waited. Cold crept into the vehicle.
The apartment lights went out.
Game on.
The Watcher reached forward and started the car.
THEN
ELLIE
Almost two years ago, March. Cook Islands.
The wind blew hot against my face as I gripped my handlebars and sped after Martin’s scooter through a plantation in the Cook Islands, clinging to every last drop of our travels before we had to fly back to the cold, wet Pacific Northwest and my old life.
It had been glorious. Skiing in Austria and visits to the spa while Martin met with businesspeople. A side trip to Croatia. A week in a villa in Marbella on Spain’s Costa del Sol while Martin took meetings on his friend’s yacht and I sketched with windows open to the sea breeze. Two weeks in Nice, where we enjoyed the famous bouillabaisse at the restaurant Martin had told me about over dinner in Deep Cove. There had been shopping and visits to art galleries and museums. And Martin had bought me some exquisitely beautiful Venetian beads. He hadn’t allowed me to pay for a thing, and I loved him for it. I was ready to be with a man again, especially one who treated me like a princess. One who was not after my trust fund. I’d paid dearly in losing Chloe. I’d worked hard to pull myself back up. It was time for me to be in a good place. I had a right to be happy, didn’t I? Didn’t everyone?
We navigated a series of bends on our rented scooters and came upon a lagoon with a sugar-white beach. Not another soul in sight. We parked the bikes and laid out our mats along with the small picnic provided by our resort.
Heat radiated off the sand as we ate and drank wine.
When Martin kissed me, a powerful swell of emotion ballooned up inside my chest and pushed into my throat, shaping words in my mouth.
I love you.
They almost slipped out of my lips, but like secret, pleasureful things, I held them back, cautious. I was generally cautious, and this thought suddenly reminded me of my father.
“Ellie is passive . . . It’s the quiet ones people forget to worry about. Snakes in the grass.”
Martin moved hair back off my face and looked down into my eyes. I believed I saw in his gaze those same words. I love you. My heart squeezed with happiness. On some level I knew it was a drug—endorphins. The neurological chemical cocktail of fresh love. Addictive. I wanted more.
Martin stood and dropped his shorts. “Coming for a swim?”
I hesitated. Suddenly the music in my mind turned discordant, like wrong piano notes. Fear, cold and black, snaked through me.
He saw it in my face. “Ellie?”
“I
