Windswept, page 1
part #1 of Emily Harrington Series
Table of Contents
Cover
Titles by Patricia Ryan published by Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Titles by Patricia Ryan published by Severn House
WINDSWEPT
WINDSWEPT
Patricia Ryan
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which is was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicably copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2014 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 by Patricia Ryan.
The right of Patricia Ryan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Ryan, Patricia, 1946-
Windswept.
1. Vacations–Caribbean Area–Fiction. 2. Murder–
Fiction. 3. Romantic suspense novels.
I. Title
813.6-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8357-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-504-9 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-510-9 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
To my sons – John, Hugh and James
For their support and constant good humor
And to John – thank you for being who you are
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To those who have shared the journey and given advice along the way, Anne Keary, Eileen Twomey, Kathleen Behrens, Una Glennon and Robin Metcalf, many thanks. To all those at Severn House, especially Sara Porter, my editor, thanks for taking the chance. To my agent and friend, Meg Ruley, for her insight and encouragement, her able assistant, Rebecca Scherer, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency, this never would have happened without you.
PROLOGUE
Emily had only gone a few steps when she began to regret her choice. She’d been so preoccupied trying to get to the beach barbecue. In spite of her unease, she had to chuckle at the thought of the usually sedate guests ‘getting down to boogie’ to the reggae beat of a steel band. It was about as uninhibited as things got at Island Bluffs. Somehow the ‘hot … hot … hot’ vibe seemed beyond this crowd.
She should have let Annie send someone down from the main house. It was surprising how dark it was, the high clouds occasionally blocking the moon. She couldn’t even remember which way the path turned – was it right first, then left, or … And the steps, three sets or two? It was hopeless. There was no choice but to take the ocean path which hugged the steep cliff. There were a few lights there; hopefully they would be enough to guide her.
She had taken this path during the day, loving the sound of the pounding surf and the spray of saltwater which accompanied the mild sea breezes. But at night it seemed considerably less pleasant. Emily, quickening her pace on her revised route, was soon startled by a distant, muffled voice calling out.
‘Help me. Please, someone help me.’
Shaken, she ran on, peering into the darkness on the side of the path and fearing what she would find, but she could see no one. Was she imagining things? It was darker now, the moon totally shrouded by the clouds. The path was becoming narrower as it wound its way up the bluff.
‘Oh, God, someone please help me,’ moaned the faint voice. At first, the sound seemed to come from somewhere among the gullies. But no, it was up there, from the deep crevices that lined the cliff face near the top. Or was it just bouncing off the wall of rock?
‘I’m coming! Hold on, I’m almost there,’ Emily cried, forging ahead in spite of her confusion, trying to climb faster. She cursed the flimsy sandals which were no protection from the jagged rocks. At every step she had to reach out to the rock face to steady herself. There was no avoiding the scrapes and bruises. She wanted to turn back but she was drawn on by the desperation in the voice.
When she reached the top of the bluff, however, there was no one there. Emily looked around. Down below, she could see the flaming torches from the beach barbecue. Shadows shifted as people mingled. She could hear faint traces of laughter. But there were no human sounds up here, just the roar of the waves. She was frightened now. She turned to look back at the dark, lonely path, hoping desperately that someone else might have chosen this route. Of course, no one had; her isolation was complete. Too late, she realized something was terribly wrong as she felt the sharp blow to the back of her head.
For a moment everything went black, and then she felt her body being dragged along the rocky ground. Oh, God, the cliff edge – someone was dragging her toward the cliff edge. She tried desperately to think but her head roiled with confused, broken images.
That voice … someone was talking. ‘Sorry, Emily, but I can’t take the chance that you’ll remember.’ Remember … remember … Oh, God, remember.
‘I’m afraid you played a dangerous game.’ A game … a dangerous game …
‘Why couldn’t you have just stayed out of it? It was none of your business. You hardly even knew him. I didn’t want this to happen, but it’s too late now. Everyone will think your fall was tragic, but the darkness, the slippery rocks and those shoes …’
Rough stones battered her back and head … the sound of the surf was closer now. She had to do something. Scream – she had to scream. It was her only chance.
Emily struggled against panic. She waited for the momentary silence, that brief interlude between the roars of the rhythmic waves. Steady, she thought. Concentrate on the timing. Soon. The next one. Now. But just as she opened her mouth, the stillness of the night was shattered by the opening salvos of the steel band …
ONE
Emily wakened slowly, snug under the weighty comforter, her body still warm and soft with sleep. Her mind resisted the pull of dawn. Thank God for Saturdays, she mused, as she reached out to gently wrap her arm around Michael.
‘Damn,’ she muttered, throwing the covers back and jumping out of bed. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’ This was the second time in a week that her phone alarm hadn’t gone off. Today was Wednesday, a bitter, cold February Wednesday, not Saturday. Michael was in London, not New York, and that incessant buzzing was the intercom.
‘Yes, Eddie?’ she called, pressing the button.
‘Oh, Ms Harrington, I was getting worried. The car is here to pick you up and you weren’t answering the buzzer.’
‘I’m so sorry, Eddie. I overslept. Could you explain to the driver? Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes.’
‘No problem. And Hector hasn’t left yet. I’ll send him up and he can help you with the bags.’
‘You’re a lifesaver, Eddie. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
Like many New Yorkers, Emily and Michael were highly dependent on an assortment of urban caretakers. Their compact two bedroom co-op in a pre-war, red-brick elevator building was the envy of all their friends. The neighborhood was one of those unique to New York – a couple of square blocks of low-rises on dead-end streets adjacent to some major landmark (in this case the United Nations) that actually managed to feel like a community.
They knew the names of their doormen and their doormen’s children. Their laundry and cleaning were picked up and delivered. The local pharmacy was open twenty-four hours and no medication was dispensed until Howard was sure that you understood the doctor’s instructions and potential side effects. The hardware store, which had somehow managed to survive on the same spot for the last sixty years, acted as a referral source for local handymen, everyone properly ‘vetted’ by Joe before the name was passed on.
As she waited for Hector’s knock, Emily ran around the apartment, throwing some last-minute things in her suitcase, pouring a glass of water on her two straggly plants and checking she’d packed her passport and ticket. Her eye strayed to the brochure on her night table – white sand, blue water and bright, bold sun. She sighed contentedly as she threw it into her carry-on. No time for those pants I wa
s going to press, she thought, as she struggled into a pair of jeans lying on a chair. No matter, these and a shirt would do.
A last-minute call to Jack, her assistant at the New York State public advocacy program she ran, and she’d be on her way. But Jack didn’t pick up. Emily realized he must be in a subway tunnel so she left a detailed message. ‘Jack, it’s Emily. I’m heading out but I wanted to tell you that I left a folder on my desk for the city council meeting on Friday. That day-care center is scheduled to close next week so we don’t have much time. There are three letters of support in there that you have to get into the record. They’ll try to stop you but be persistent. There are also the names and phone numbers of the seven people we have lined up to speak at the meeting. Check in with them before Friday and make sure they’re ready. It won’t be easy to get in touch with me but I wrote the resort’s main number on the folder just in case. I’ll try to check in with you, but remember – give ’em hell.’
Although thirty-one, Emily’s youthful face often left her mistaken for someone much younger. She was tall and slim, with soft red hair and bright blue eyes that were quick to laugh and smile. But her easygoing exterior belied what was a tenacious, sometimes stubborn spirit. Born Emily Claire Harrington, her early years were lived on bustling New York City streets where she spent summer days pursuing her two greatest loves, stoopball and stickball. A freckle-faced tomboy with a fierce desire to win that was never diminished by losing, she would join any game and accept any challenge. Climb down the fire escape from the seventh floor? No problem. Squeeze through the cemetery fence at dusk to check out an open grave? Easy. Jump on the rear bumper of a moving bus? Well, maybe next time.
When she was twelve her family moved to a Hudson Valley suburb, where Emily spent her teenage years like a perennial out of season, her brains and her beauty hidden under a baseball cap. She was happiest on the soccer field and the basketball court, or fishing on nearby Carson’s Lake with her father, whose passion for history resulted in her reeling in more knowledge than fish. And although suburban life had some charm, Emily never lost her love for the city.
Bzzz.
That would be Hector. She hoped she had everything, but as she opened the apartment door she realized that would’ve been a long shot even if she had gotten up on time.
‘Sorry, Hector, but I have all these bags – Michael’s and mine. How’s the weather outside? No more snow, I hope.’
‘No, not last night. It’s just cold – really cold out there. I held the elevator, so I’ll take these two and come back,’ Hector said, picking up the two largest suitcases.
‘That’s OK, I’ve got the rest. Oh, Hector, I forgot to ask, how did Miguel make out on the exam?’ Miguel was Hector’s oldest son, a high-school sophomore struggling with English composition. Emily had found a free tutoring program on the west side that Miguel had been going to for about a month.
‘Good – well, better. The teacher, she said he did better and she says the tutoring is helping. But you know the English is hard for him.’
‘Hey, I remember a time when the English was hard for me.’ Emily laughed. ‘He’s a good kid; he works hard. He’ll get there.’
As they rode down in the elevator, Emily made a mental note to call the tutor when she got back. Maybe one session a week wasn’t enough; she’d push for two.
A blast of frigid air hit her as soon as the front door opened. ‘You must be goin’ away for a while,’ the driver commented as he helped with Emily’s bags.
‘No, just a week, really. Some of these bags are my fiancé’s. He’s stuck in London …’ she started explaining until she realized that the driver was already getting behind the wheel.
She and Michael had met in college, and although they’d fallen head over heels, the road to romance had not always run smooth. Emily was fiercely independent and committed to any number of serious causes, but her dedication was enlivened by a zany sense of humor and a generous touch of irreverence. Michael, on the other hand, was reserved, but he was also earnest and supportive, every future mother-in-law’s dream: conscientious, intelligent, and obviously going far.
For three years they had dated on and off. Rarely would Michael join Emily at a demonstration or on a picket line – more often, she would track him down in the library stacks, sometimes at midnight, smuggling in forbidden sodas and snacks. There they would sit for hours, with Emily telling funny stories, complete with outrageous imitations that were often brutally honest.
By senior year he was Phi Beta Kappa and she was student body president. For months at a time they would be inseparable, and then either his gravity or her flippancy would strain the relationship and they would break up. Life would temper these tendencies, but not before they graduated and, for a while, went their separate ways.
The driver pulled away from the curb, his back wheels spinning and squealing as he tried to get some traction. ‘Two, three, four bags … you gals are all alike. My wife, she says to me all the time, “Al, you just don’t …”’ the driver droned on as Emily watched out the window. As she tried to settle herself, she decided to give Michael a call. Let’s see, five hours ahead … that would make it almost noon in London. It was worth a try. But when she fished in her bag, she realized she had left her phone charging on the kitchen counter. ‘Driver …’ she uttered, thinking of going back for it. ‘Oh, never mind.’ What difference? she thought. There was little service where she was headed.
It was hard to imagine that she and Michael had been living together for almost two years now and, until recently, had been more than satisfied with their sometimes frenetic lives. Michael, tall, dark and dimpled, with rugged good looks, had followed in his father’s footsteps after college, heading for law school in Boston. The son of a Midwest lawyer, not rich but comfortable, he had a sense of security that enabled him to see life in a straight line. And although doted on by his mother and two older sisters, he was more satisfied than spoiled.
He had been on the fast track since his graduation from law school, where he was first in his class and on law review. Now, as a junior partner at a ‘white shoe’ New York law firm, he devoted most of his waking hours to the betterment of Michner, Dawkins, Harris & Smith. Whatever time the firm did not demand was given over to Emily, but there had been less and less of that lately. That was one of the reasons Emily was so looking forward to this vacation. It would give her and Michael a chance to slow down, to talk, maybe figure things out.
The sidewalks were still piled high with snow and the occasional patch of ice made driving difficult. Yesterday’s white blanket had already started to turn dirty, and sprays of blackened slush threatened walkers as cars and buses jockeyed for the lead in the race to the next red light. Car horns blared, drivers cursed and the dull crunch of a dented fender was an invitation to shouted threats and gridlocked streets. Emily had to admit that her driver was skilled, if a little more daring than one might have hoped. If pressed, she might even have corroborated the necessity of his driving on the sidewalk on East 51st Street. Still, she was relieved when they reached their destination in one piece.
The airport was packed, just as Emily had imagined it would be. Bitterly cold temperatures and the city’s sixth snowfall this winter had made the luxury of a Caribbean vacation almost a necessity. At this point, desperate New Yorkers were booking any flight available.
But Emily’s reservations had been made well in advance. This was no spur-of-the-moment vacation. She had spent months pouring over travel guides and brochures; well-worn copies of Caribbean Travel and Life had long ago replaced the stack of books on her night table. Eight days of pampering at a luxury resort, a different sort of vacation for her and Michael. It would be their last fling, really, before they started making important decisions about their future.
Both of them believed it was time for a change. Marriage had just been an assumption until a couple of months ago, but Michael’s promotion and a surprise engagement ring on New Year’s Eve meant that assumption was becoming reality. Michael felt it was time to legitimize their relationship. ‘I’m a partner now …’ was his introduction to more and more of their conversations. They were both anxious to start a family, but Emily was already overwhelmed with the inevitable changes to come. She had a million questions. What to do about her career? Where and how to raise children? What would Michael’s role and availability be in childrearing? And the more she thought about these things, the more she found herself thinking back to her own mother. The warmth and closeness of their relationship, her mother’s openness and enthusiasm – how Emily missed those things. Sometimes she would imagine conversations that would never be, but would still search for advice in remembered wisdom. So many questions, so many possibilities. Yet days could go by and she’d barely see Michael, and there were times when she felt all alone. Was that really what she wanted from her marriage?
