Mariah Stewart Read online

  Swept Away

  Mariah Stewart

  CONTENTS

  Chap­ter 1

  Chap­ter 2

  Chap­ter 3

  Chap­ter 4

  Chap­ter 5

  Chap­ter 6

  Chap­ter 7

  Chap­ter 8

  Chap­ter 9

  Chap­ter 10

  For the girls of sum­mer-Cathy, Ma­le­na, Ca­rolyn, Eile­en, Lin­da, Bon­nie,

  Ann (did I miss an­yo­ne?)- who still ha­unt the du­nes on Pom­pa­no Be­ach.

  Fo­re­ver yo­ung.

  Chapter 1

  A sub­t­le bre­eze whis­pe­red thro­ugh the stand of bam­boo that ed­ged the par­king lot, set­ting the long le­afy fin­gers to stir softly aga­inst the si­de of the dark blue van that was par­ked dis­c­re­tely in the far­t­hest cor­ner. The last tra­ces of dusk's pa­le gold and pur­p­le sky we­re vi­sib­le thro­ugh the win­d­s­hi­eld, and it wo­uld be but mi­nu­tes mo­re un­til the sun wo­uld be com­p­le­tely swal­lo­wed by the far ho­ri­zon. The man in­si­de the van chec­ked his watch aga­in and sig­hed. Eig­ht-thirty. He le­aned over to check his ca­me­ra, set ste­adily upon the tri­pod. His cli­ent had wan­ted both still pho­tos and vi­deo. Jeremy Nob­le, of Nob­le and Daw­son In­ves­ti­ga­ti­ons, wo­uld gi­ve the go­od se­na­tor what he pa­id for.

  A small, ol­der mo­del fo­re­ign car slo­wed at the cor­ner, then ma­de an easy right in­to the lot and dro­ve stra­ight to the first row be­fo­re stop­ping. The car sat at id­le for a long mi­nu­te or so be­fo­re the en­gi­ne was tur­ned off and a do­or ope­ned. A dark-ha­ired yo­ung man got out and lo­oked up and down the rows of cars. Ap­pa­rently not fin­ding what he was lo­oking for, he pa­ti­ently le­aned back aga­inst his car, his hands in his poc­kets.

  With the aid of small but po­wer­ful bi­no­cu­lars, Jeremy fo­cu­sed on the li­cen­se pla­te. Sa­tis­fi­ed that this was one of the two par­ti­es for whom he was be­ing pa­id to watch, he to­ok a few cur­sory shots with the Ni­kon of the yo­ung man le­aning aga­inst the car. He then tur­ned his at­ten­ti­on to the vi­deo ca­me­ra, fo­cu­sing the lens on the small black car with the Ge­or­ge­town Uni­ver­sity stic­ker on the back win­dow.

  Thro­ugh the eye of the vi­deo ca­me­ra, the in­ves­ti­ga­tor co­uld see that the man was even yo­un­ger than he'd ini­ti­al­ly sup­po­sed, may­be twen­ty-two or twen­ty-th­ree. He was han­d­so­me, dark-ha­ired, with go­od cle­an fe­atu­res. The se­na­tor's da­ug­h­ter had cho­sen a fi­ne-lo­oking man to lo­se her he­art to. It was a sha­me that her fat­her was in­tent on ma­king su­re that the re­la­ti­on­s­hip ne­ver went any fur­t­her.

  "I ap­pre­ci­ate that you've ag­re­ed to me­et me on such short no­ti­ce, Mr. Nob­le." The se­na­tor had of­fe­red a hand as he us­he­red Jeremy in­to the pri­va­te study of the pa­la­ti­al Ge­or­ge­town ho­me ear­li­er that day. "One of my col­le­agu­es has highly re­com­men­ded yo­ur ser­vi­ces."

  Jeremy had not con­fir­med the iden­tity of his ot­her cli­ent-he wo­uld ne­ver ac­k­now­led­ge for whom he did or did not work-but they both knew the se­na­tor's fri­end-a con­g­res­sman-was in­vol­ved in a hor­ren­do­us cus­tody bat­tle with an ex-wi­fe who, along with her cur­rent boy­f­ri­end, had kid­nap­ped the con­g­res­sman's only child and had at­tem­p­ted to ta­ke the boy out of the co­untry. Only qu­ick thin­king and qu­ic­ker ac­ti­on on the part of both Jeremy and his par­t­ner had pre­ven­ted the child from di­sap­pe­aring from his fat­her's li­fe. Thanks to Nob­le and Daw­son, the boy was now back with his fat­her whe­re, it was ho­ped, he wo­uld re­ma­in.

  "We ha­ve a bit of a do­mes­tic mat­ter that my wi­fe and I fe­el ne­eds to be at­ten­ded to im­me­di­ately," the se­na­tor con­fi­ded, of­fe­ring Jeremy a cha­ir as he him­self sat in a dark gre­en le­at­her win­g­back. "For the past se­ve­ral ye­ars, our da­ug­h­ter has be­en in­vol­ved with a yo­ung man whom we fe­el is to­tal­ly un­su­itab­le. You see, we ha­ve long held the ho­pe that she wo­uld marry in­to the dip­lo­ma­tic cir­c­le. Why, the son of the am­bas­sa­dor from Gre­ece is he­ad over he­els for her. Go­od boy, go­od fa­mily."

  The se­na­tor's ci­gar pun­c­tu­ated the air.

  "Now, she tells me that she's not se­e­ing this ot­her boy an­y­mo­re-he's a te­ac­her. Can you ima­gi­ne a child of mi­ne li­ving on a te­ac­her's sa­lary? Her mot­her and I cer­ta­inly can­not. An­y­way, she tells us that that re­la­ti­on­s­hip is over. Her mot­her's bu­ying her story, but I'm not. I ha­ve it on go­od aut­ho­rity that she's be­en sec­retly me­eting him"-the se­na­tor han­ded Jeremy a pi­ece of pa­per-"at this ad­dress. The boy's li­cen­se pla­te num­ber is the­re, too, and the num­ber of my cell pho­ne. I want pho­tog­raphs. I want vi­de­os. I want her to see that she can­not lie to me, that the­re's no pla­ce she can sne­ak off to whe­re I can­not find her."

  Jeremy to­ok the slip of pa­per, glan­ced at it be­fo­re tuc­king it in­to his poc­ket.

  "I want you to call me when the boy ar­ri­ves. And I want to know when my da­ug­h­ter gets the­re."

  "Why don't you just wa­it for her yo­ur­self?"

  "I'm ex­pec­ted to at­tend a re­cep­ti­on at the Bri­tish Em­bas­sy. Be­si­des, a man li­ke me-a Uni­ted Sta­tes se­na­tor!-can't very well be lur­king abo­ut in va­cant lots ho­ping to catch his twen­ty-one-ye­ar-old da­ug­h­ter in a lie. You'll call me at the num­ber on the card. I'll ta­ke it from the­re."

  The se­na­tor sto­od to an­no­un­ce that the me­eting was over.

  "We lo­ve our da­ug­h­ter very much, Mr. Nob­le. We only want what's best for her. We strongly be­li­eve that what's best for her is not to marry a te­ac­her and spend her li­fe in the bac­k­wo­ods of Ken­tucky. That's not the fu­tu­re we had en­vi­si­oned for her. She's our only child. I'm su­re you un­der­s­tand."

  An une­asy fe­eling had crept over Jeremy then and had sta­yed with him for the rest of the day. He al­ways ha­ted jobs that in­vol­ved the ma­ni­pu­la­ti­on of so­me­one el­se's li­fe. But the se­na­tor was pro­mi­nent and po­wer­ful, and co­uld be a go­od ally in the su­bur­ban Was­hin­g­ton mar­ket­p­la­ce, whe­re sur­ve­il­lan­ce and in­t­ri­gue ser­vi­ces we­re fre­qu­ently so­ught and han­d­so­mely pa­id for.

  Well, the job wo­uld be over so­on eno­ugh.

  Jeremy wat­c­hed the lit­tle BMW con­ver­tib­le zip in­to the par­king lot and cru­ise for a pla­ce to park The exu­be­rant dri­ver hop­ped out and all but dan­ced ac­ross the ma­ca­dam to her wa­iting lo­ver. She spun in­to his arms, set­tled mo­men­ta­rily for a long, de­ep kiss, then dan­ced back to­ward the BMW, pul­ling the dark-ha­ired yo­ung man with her. Jeremy le­aned in­to the vi­deo cam and bro­ught them in­to sharp fo­cus.

  The se­na­tor's da­ug­h­ter was not a na­tu­ral be­a­uty-her fe­atu­res we­re just slightly too small, her eyes just slightly too far apart-but cle­arly, her yo­ung man was to­tal­ly cap­ti­va­ted. Ado­ra­ti­on was writ­ten all over his fa­ce.

  Jeremy wat­c­hed as they wal­ked to the back of her car, wat­c­hed as the yo­ung man tur­ned her to him and to­uc­hed her fa­ce gently, wat­c­hed as the yo­ung wo­man lo­oked up at him with eyes fil­led with lo­ve and lif­ted a hand to smo­oth his ha­ir back ten­derly, as if to re­as­su­re. He sa­id so­met­hing to her that ca­used her fa­ce to crin­k­le with soft la­ug­h­ter, her eyes glo­wing and ali­ve with pro­mi­se and trust-fil­led with a hot, sud­den shot of envy, Jeremy tri­ed to re­mem­ber when a wo­man had last lo­oked at him with such lo­ving eyes.

&nbs
p; It had be­en, he con­ce­ded, a very, very long ti­me.

  So­met­hing in Jeremy's gut wren­c­hed as he re­cal­led that his in­s­t­ruc­ti­ons in­c­lu­ded cal­ling the se­na­tor as so­on as the yo­ung man had ar­ri­ved. One hand re­ac­hed for the cell pho­ne, the ot­her in­to his shirt poc­ket for the scrap of fol­ded pa­per con­ta­ining the num­ber. He lo­oked back at the co­up­le in the par­king lot, so fil­led with each ot­her, so una­wa­re that the­ir hap­pi­ness was one bri­ef pho­ne call from co­ming to an end.

  The yo­ung wo­man re­ac­hed in­to the trunk and pul­led out a dark gre­en gym bag, which she swung over her sho­ul­der. Slam­ming the trunk, she tur­ned aga­in, and in the light of the ne­arby lam­p­post, Jeremy co­uld see her dre­ams, ag­low with pro­mi­se, ref­lec­ted in her fa­ce.

  They're run­ning away, Jeremy re­ali­zed as she loc­ked the car and to­ok the yo­ung man's hand.

  The small, slim pho­ne lay he­avy in his own.

  He sud­denly re­cal­led anot­her early sum­mer night when the fa­ce of anot­her yo­ung wo­man had be­en ca­ught in lam­p­light, just so. He'd be­en a juni­or at Prin­ce­ton that ye­ar, and had had the world by the ta­il. He and his da­te for that we­ekend had strol­led off cam­pus to Nas­sau Stre­et, down Wit­her­s­po­on to a cof­fee shop that was open la­te and ser­ved gre­at san­d­wic­hes. On the­ir way back to cam­pus, they had stop­ped be­ne­ath a stre­et lamp and kis­sed. From be­hind them had co­me a sigh, and, star­t­led, they had bro­ken apart. An el­derly man, dap­perly dres­sed and le­aning on a ca­ne, apo­lo­gi­zed for ha­ving frig­h­te­ned them.

  "I'm so sorry," he'd sa­id softly to Jeremy, "but you're so yo­ung, and she's so be­a­uti­ful. Hold fast to nights li­ke this, son… they pass so qu­ickly. Hold fast to it all…"

  The old man had step­ped clo­ser and kis­sed Jeremy's da­te, right at the cor­ner of her pretty yo­ung mo­uth, then step­ped away, nod­ded to them both, and di­sap­pe­ared back in­to the night.

  It had be­en ye­ars sin­ce he'd tho­ught of it-or the yo­ung wo­man, who­se na­me and fa­ce had be­en lost to ti­me-but the words ca­me back to Jeremy now.

  " Hold fast to it all…"

  Jeremy wat­c­hed the yo­ung lo­vers walk ac­ross the par­king lot, and he put the pho­ne down. He pul­led the film from the Ni­kon, ex­po­sing it, then pac­ked up the vi­deo cam.

  "Go­od luck, kids," he sa­id qu­i­etly as the small fo­re­ign car sped from the par­king lot and di­sap­pe­ared in­to the night.

  He to­ok the long way back to his tow­n­ho­use. He pul­led up slowly in front of his ga­ra­ge, par­ked the car, and con­tem­p­la­ted what he'd do­ne. Jeremy had ne­ver scut­tled an in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on be­fo­re, ne­ver gi­ven less than his best on any job, re­gar­d­less of the dif­fi­culty. And this cli­ent wo­uld be a par­ti­cu­larly un­hap­py man. Well, it was too la­te to chan­ge his mind now. He'd ma­de his de­ci­si­on back in the par­king lot, and now he'd ha­ve to play it out. The se­na­tor wo­uld ha­ve an easy eno­ugh ti­me fin­ding so­me­one el­se to wreck his da­ug­h­ter's li­fe. But at le­ast it wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en Jeremy's call that had ta­ken the spar­k­le from tho­se yo­ung eyes.

  Jeremy glan­ced at his watch, then pic­ked up his cell pho­ne and di­aled the num­ber he'd be­en gi­ven.

  "Se­na­tor. Jeremy Nob­le. I'm af­ra­id I've had a to­uch of bad luck… my car bro­ke down on 95 out­si­de of Col­le­ge Park. I'm af­ra­id I won't be ab­le to ke­ep that ap­po­in­t­ment af­ter all…"

  Jeremy un­loc­ked the front do­or, chuc­k­ling as he pic­tu­red the dis­tin­gu­is­hed sta­tes­man whis­pe­ring angry cur­ses in­to the tiny cell pho­ne whi­le in the midst of an im­por­tant gat­he­ring in the oh-so-very-ele­gant Bri­tish Em­bas­sy.

  Whis­t­ling, Jeremy pun­c­hed the mes­sa­ge but­ton on the an­s­we­ring mac­hi­ne as he went in­to ti­ne kit­c­hen and tur­ned on the light. Half lis­te­ning to the mes­sa­ges, he ope­ned the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor do­or and hun­ted for so­met­hing that hadn't ex­pi­red or grown so­me li­fe form of its own. Un­suc­ces­sful, he chec­ked the fre­ezer. Not­hing the­re eit­her. He po­ked aro­und in a cup­bo­ard un­til he fo­und a can of so­up. That wo­uld ha­ve to do.

  The mes­sa­ges we­re still run­ning, but so far he'd he­ard not­hing im­por­tant eno­ugh to in­ter­fe­re with his qu­est for fo­od.

  It oc­cur­red to him then that he hadn't had a me­al at ho­me or a day off in over fi­ve we­eks. Whi­le the­re was de­fi­ni­tely so­met­hing to be sa­id for ste­ady work, to­night's lit­tle epi­so­de had re­min­ded him that the­re we­re ot­her, mo­re im­por­tant things in li­fe. He dum­ped the con­ge­aled so­up in­to a pan, then ad­ded a lit­tle wa­ter. It lo­oked dis­gus­ting.

  Not­hing at all li­ke that cre­am of she-crab so­up he'd had at the Bis­hop's Inn on the Mar­y­land co­ast back in June. Pa­le as mo­on­light, with chunks of crab and de­li-ca­te tra­ces of herbs. Jeremy's mo­uth wa­te­red just to think of it.

  And not fust the so­up, his ti­red mind po­ked at him play­ful­ly, the chef was pretty mo­ut­h­wa­te­ring, too…

  Ah, yes, Jody.

  Jeremy set the pan of so­up on the bur­ner and tur­ned the fla­me on low.

  Jody Bec­kett. Jody with the light brown ha­ir and the long, lanky body and the wi­zard's to­uch in the kit­c­hen.

  He sat on one of the hard kit­c­hen cha­irs, pul­led anot­her out from un­der the tab­le and prop­ped his legs up on it, thin­king back to the days he had spent at the Bis­hop's Inn in the be­gin­ning of June. He'd be­en wor­king on a big ca­se that in­vol­ved La­ura Bis­hop, the ow­ner of the inn, and when it had con­c­lu­ded, she'd in­vi­ted him to stay on for a few days as a gu­est, a lit­tle bo­nus for his part in brin­ging the mat­ter to a suc­ces­sful con­c­lu­si­on. Be­ca­use of his work sche­du­le, he'd be­en ab­le to spend only two days and nights the­re, but every mi­nu­te had be­en a tre­asu­re. Sun, sand, fis­hing, gre­at con­ver­sa­ti­on with the inn's ot­her li­vely gu­ests, in­c­re­dib­le fo­od.

  And Jody.

  If he clo­sed his eyes, he co­uld see her. Cle­ar skin, eyes the co­lor of pa­le am­ber, a pert no­se that wrin­k­led when she la­ug­hed, a swe­et mo­uth that cur­ved up on one si­de. Gre­at legs, too. Long and sha­pely…

  It wasn't, he ac­k­now­led­ged, the first ti­me he'd se­en that fa­ce-or tho­se legs-in his mind's eye. Mo­re than on­ce over the past few we­eks, so­met­hing of Jody had se­emed to be flo­ating aro­und in­si­de his he­ad, li­ke a snip­pet of a song he'd yet to le­arn all the words to.

  Hold fast to it all…

  Per­haps it was ti­me to ta­ke La­ura up on her of­fer to spend a we­ek at the inn.

  Jeremy pul­led his bri­ef­ca­se ac­ross the tab­le and ope­ned it, se­ar­c­hing for his ap­po­in­t­ment bo­ok. Things lo­oked pretty tight, he gri­ma­ced, trying to fi­gu­re out which jobs he co­uld switch aro­und or pos­t­po­ne, and which he co­uld pass off to his par­t­ner.

  If he wor­ked li­ke a de­mon this we­ek, he might be ab­le to ma­ke it by the last we­ek of July.

  If his par­t­ner pit­c­hed in, he co­uld ma­ke it in less.

  He re­ac­hed for the pho­ne, won­de­ring just what pay­ment his par­t­ner, T. J. Daw­son, wo­uld ex­t­ract in re­turn. Wha­te­ver it was, it wo­uld be worth it for a we­ek at the Bis­hop's Inn. Long eno­ugh, he ra­ti­ona­li­zed. The­re was so­met­hing abo­ut Jody that had be­en cir­c­ling aro­und in the back of his mind li­ke a lazy hawk on a sum­mer mor­ning. May­be it was ti­me to find out if it was mo­re than just her co­oking that was ke­eping her the­re.

  Jody Bec­kett le­aned aga­inst the whi­te por­ce­la­in sink that was sha­ped li­ke a big scal­lop shell, ho­ping to bring her fa­ce as clo­se as hu­manly pos­sib­le to the
mir­ror that hung be­hind it. Nar­ro­wing her eyes, she stu­di­ed the skin aro­und them, se­ar­c­hing for so­me out­ward sign that in one short day-just twen­ty-fo­ur mo­re ho­urs-she wo­uld turn thirty.

  The big three-oh.

  Gray ha­irs and sag­ging and wrin­k­les, oh my.

  She squ­in­ted a lit­tle mo­re, won­de­ring if that right the­re was the start of crow's fe­et. Crow's fo­ot, she cor­rec­ted her­self, sin­ce the­re ap­pe­ared to be only one. Tur­ning her fa­ce this way and that, she re­ali­zed that what she had first tho­ught to be a li­ne was me­rely sha­dow, the play of early mor­ning light from a ne­arby win­dow. Jody sig­hed de­eply. She just wasn't re­ady to be old when it had be­en ye­ars sin­ce she had felt re­al­ly yo­ung.

  Jody brus­hed back her ha­ir-sum­mer stre­aked and just a sha­de or two from be­ing mo­usy-and ca­ught it in a yel­low scrun­c­hie. A glan­ce at the clock as­su­red her that she ne­edn't hurry, sin­ce it wasn't li­kely that an­yo­ne el­se wo­uld be awa­ke just yet, but hurry she did. She li­ked the tran­qu­il lull that lay abo­ut the Bis­hop's Inn-her ho­me and pla­ce of em­p­loy­ment for the past three ye­ars-at the ear­li­est ho­urs of the day. Pul­ling on a pa­ir of fa­ded de­nim shorts and a tee-shirt the co­lor of cor­n­f­lo­wers, she slip­ped her fe­et in­to Adi­das san­dals and tuc­ked the key to her su­ite of ro­oms in­to a poc­ket. Clo­sing the do­or be­hind her, she eased down two flights of steps, the se­cond of which wi­de­ned in­to a swe­eping cur­ve to the lobby. On­ce dow­n­s­ta­irs, she pa­used and coc­ked her he­ad, lis­te­ning, but he­aring no tel­lta­le so­unds of run­ning wa­ter or do­ors clo­sing or fe­et mo­ving on thick car­pet.

  Go­od. She lo­ved ha­ving the inn to her­self, if only for a lit­tle whi­le.

  Once in the kit­c­hen, Jody star­ted the cof­fee-she'd use the big pot to­day, sin­ce they we­re bo­oked al­most to ca­pa­city-and tur­ned her tho­ughts to the bre­ak­fasts she wo­uld pre­pa­re. As the inn's chef and self-proc­la­imed kit­c­hen qu­e­en, she was res­pon­sib­le for wor­king with the ow­ner, La­ura Bis­hop, to plan me­nus and co­ok the me­als as well. Al­t­ho­ugh La­ura em­p­lo­yed ex­t­ra help in the sum­mers and on pe­ak we­ekends thro­ug­ho­ut the ye­ar, Jody pre­fer­red to do most of the work her­self. She to­ok gre­at pri­de in all of her work, but par­ti­cu­larly her ex­cep­ti­onal re­gi­onal co­oking, which ref­lec­ted Mar­y­land's his­tory and bo­unty. The­re we­re tho­se who swo­re her cre­am of she-crab so­up had be­en de­vi­sed thro­ugh ma­gic alo­ne, and ot­hers who ma­de trips to the inn se­ve­ral ti­mes thro­ug­ho­ut the se­ason in se­arch of her crab ca­kes and her be­ach plum cob­bler. Her Lady Bal­ti­mo­re ca­ke had be­co­me so­mew­hat of a le­gend. Over the past eig­h­te­en months, mo­re and mo­re happy co­up­les had co­me to Bis­hop's Co­ve to tie the knot the­re in the lo­vely gar­dens of the his­to­ric inn, drawn, many cla­imed, as much by Jody's ca­te­ring as by the be­a­uti­ful, ro­man­tic lo­ca­ti­on by the sea.