The private detective Michael hired had found no trace of Andrea Prentiss. A search of her apartment revealed she had taken nothing with her, although she had sent an email, or someone had, saying she was resigning and regretting that she could not give the customary two weeks’ notice.
It was as if she had fallen off the face of the earth. Even more disturbingly, it was as if she hadn’t existed at all before she showed up as Michael’s assistant. It turned out Michael’s previous assistant wasn’t as careful on her way out at screening possible replacements as she might have been. A more alert perusal would have caught that all of Andrea Prentiss’ résumé and background had been fabricated. And Michael hadn’t known her father, as the old man had so casually tossed out that one day, although maybe Andrea herself had started that rumor.
But Andrea had been so perfect for the job that no one had ever questioned her credentials. She was perfect for every day of eight years until the one day—the day she had definitively blown him off, as a matter of fact—she walked away and didn’t come back. Even perfect on that day, as she had somehow managed to have the ideal replacement trained and ready to go right away. Miss Colleen Grady’s credentials were certainly examined with a fine-tooth comb before Michael would let her assume Miss Prentiss’ chair, though.
Damien Reynolds had been apoplectic at the emerging mystery of Miss Prentiss’ disappearance, sure there was some industrial plot or other at play. But eight years was very long for an evil plot to hatch and no harm seemed to have been done. Besides, despite the abrupt departure and fake résumé, both Michael and Vanny still trusted Andrea Prentiss. They even followed up on that old guy Tottingham’s offhand remark that she looked like some long-gone Greek heiress, which had turned out to be a dead end, as that woman had no living close relatives. Michael and Vanny had finally given up, blissfully in love with each other and planning their wedding. But whenever the subject came up, it was clear they were still worried about her.
Evan’s feelings were a little more complicated. He didn’t know how the hell he felt about Andrea’s disappearing act, but he sure as hell knew he’d been in a foul mood ever since.
He thought for the hundredth time that all he needed was to get laid. But somehow he couldn’t manage to do even that. He’d gone to New York a few times, but when it came right down to it there were no calls to high-class escort services or to friends-with-benefits from college. He hadn’t touched a woman since he’d touched Andrea Prentiss.
So of course he was a little cranky.
“Come on, boy,” he instructed the dog. “Let’s call it a night.” He trudged down the winding stairs in the base of the lighthouse, the click of eager paws behind him, until he got down to the main floor. The lighthouse had originally been attached to small living quarters for the lighthouse keeper, no more than a kitchen, a bedroom and a privy. Evan had taken his own brand of wrecking ball to the structure—a sledgehammer and a great deal of enthusiasm—and out of the dust and some satisfying sweat had emerged a sprawling ranch-style house with a large master bedroom, guest room, library, two full baths and a kitchen a gourmet chef would be proud to cook in. An experiment in different materials and natural insulations, the house had been a good prototype of what he had in mind for utilitarian environmental architecture. It was much bigger than he needed, of course, but compared to anyplace he’d ever lived before it was equivalent to a broom closet and he figured he should ease into anything smaller for now.
He stripped, looking distractedly out at the rain, so dark it was almost a purple black. The island itself had no streetlights, as that would be the height of non-utilitarian—it had no streets either. So when he walked at night, he brought an industrial-sized flashlight. But even he would be reluctant to venture out in something like this. The cliffs and paths, or lack thereof, were treacherous enough in the dark. No need to add gallons of driving rain to the effort.
Still he felt restless.
He wished it wasn’t raining so hard for another reason too. He preferred to sleep with a window or even the sliding-glass door open. But that wasn’t possible tonight unless he wanted to drown.
The dog’s ears perked up as Evan climbed into bed naked, flicking off the bedside lamp. He was just about to drift off when fierce barking snapped him to attention. Great time for this dog to remember he had a voice, using it to woof steadily out at the storm.
“Hey. Settle down.” He got out of bed and crouched down by the dog’s side, petting the silky gold hair until the barks died down to whimpers. “That’s better. You see a squirrel or something?”