Page 61 of Deep Tide

She looked at Owen and clenched her teeth, trying to tamp down her temper because she knew he meant well. He was just being the overprotective older brother—the role usually reserved for Joel.

She took a deep breath. “Look, I appreciate your concern about... everything. But I can handle it.”

He just stared at her.

“Is there anything else you want to interrogate me about?” She checked her watch. “Because we’re slammed, and I’ve got things to do.”

He watched her for a long moment. “I mean it about Moran. You need to be careful.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t blow me off, Leyla.”

She handed him the pastry bag and smiled sweetly. “When have I ever blown you off?”

•••

Sean pounded along the sand, skimming his gaze over the houses on stilts. A four-story Victorian came into view. It was covered in scaffolding as a team of workers painted it pistachio green. Not Sean’s color, but hey. To each rich idiot his own.

He kept on jogging, past the Victorian, past a yellow Tuscan villa, past a Nantucket-style bungalow with gray shingles and crisp white trim. Then came a modern gray stucco with lots of glass and right angles. Sean ran another fifty yards and then slowed to a walk and turned around. Stretching his arms over his head, he studied the gray stucco box. The water-facing side was almost all windows, which took full advantage of the house’s beachfront lot. The reflective glass had been specially selected to block out not only heat but the prying gazes of curious beachcombers.

Not to mention the telephoto lenses of an FBI surveillance crew. Luc Gagnon was a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid.

Sean surveyed the top level, where a palm tree peeked up over a tall wall—presumably the location of the swimming pool Leyla had mentioned. The house’s four stories encompassed a whopping twelve thousand square feet of living space, most of it on levels two through four. Aside from stilts, the first level consisted of what appeared to be storage closets and a six-car garage.

And what was behind those six garage doors? Sean didn’t know, but he intended to find out. On his last few trips to the island, Gagnon had flown into the private airport and been delivered to his house by limousine. He’d only emerged twice during those trips—both times in a red Tesla Roadster—to drive to the marina where he kept his boat.

Nearing the house, Sean looked out at the water, searching for the catamaran the surveillance team had been using to keep an eye on the house. No sign of it. Maybe they’d called it a day. The wind was up and so was the surf, so conditions were less than ideal.

Sean’s phone buzzed, and the sight of Leyla’s number sent a shot of lust straight to his groin. His pulse sped up. Unbelievable. He’d barely known her a week and she had him feeling like a desperate teenager.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” She paused. “What’s that noise?”

“Seagulls.” He glanced up at the circling birds. Some kids down the beach were tossing potato chips at them. “I’m finishing a run. What’s up?”

“I’m returning your call.”

The formality in her tone didn’t bode well for what he wanted to ask her.

He cleared his throat. “I was calling to see if you’d like to have dinner tonight at the Nautilus.”

Silence.

“Leyla?”

“That place is really nice.”

“I hear they have a new head chef. I thought maybe you’d want to stop in, check out the competition.”

She laughed. “We don’t exactly play to the same audience.”

He smiled, happy to have made her laugh.

“Yeah, well, I’m guessing you’re competitive anyway. Or at least curious.”

“Well. You’re right on both,” she said. “And I appreciate the invitation, but I can’t make it tonight. I’m going to be here late working on a cake order.”

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