A Clandestine Affair Page 12

  “This isn’t your life, Raoul, but it is mine. You can go anytime. I have to stay.”

  But it wasn’t that easy. He had no idea where his feelings for Jaci were going, but he knew he couldn’t walk away.

  “If I can’t persuade you to give this up and go back to the mainland, then I’m moving into the pool house apartment above yours.”

  She moved her right hand so that it fitted over his. “You don’t have to do this, Raoul.”

  “I know. I want to.” The words escaped around a knot in his throat.

  “Thanks.”

  She leaned in closer and touched her lips to his.

  He hadn’t initiated the kiss, but once it started, he was helpless to fight it.

  He didn’t try to think about why anymore. He just pulled her into his arms and let his breath and desire tangle with hers until he was so weak with wanting he could barely stand. Every part of him was on fire when she finally pushed him away.

  “I think we should go back,” she said.

  He struggled to catch his breath. “Yeah.”

  Reluctantly, he released her. Going back was the smart thing to do. His mind agreed. His body protested painfully.

  And he wondered how he’d ever make it sleeping just above her through the long, dark night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jaci found the haunting aura of Cape Diablo spookier than ever when they returned to the island. She dropped to the side of her own soft and slightly lumpy mattress and impulsively ran her tongue across her lips, hungry for even a lingering trace of the taste of Raoul.

  The last thing she’d expected to find on Cape Diablo was a man who’d get to her the way he did. This would be the very worst time in her life to begin a relationship. She was just starting her career. Raoul was getting over—or not getting over—the loss of his fiancée.

  Jaci walked to her desk and picked up the copy of the police report filed the morning after the Santiago family had disappeared. Nothing like immersing herself in a good police report to forget everything else.

  It didn’t work this time, but she kept reading, determined to find some clue she’d overlooked the first two dozen times she’d read it. She studied the passages she’d highlighted.

  The villa itself showed no signs of struggle. The bed in the master bedroom was mussed, but only on one side. One of the twin beds in the girls’ room also looked as if it had been slept in. The mattress on the other bed was bare. The sheets, blanket and pillow had been stripped.

  One of the girls’ beds slept in. The other stripped. Had they huddled together in one narrow bed when they’d come home from the celebration or had the beds been left that way from the morning before?

  Pilar, the younger had been eight, probably too old to wet the bed, though some children did still have accidents at that age. She could have spilled something, maybe a glass of milk or fruit juice.

  But if it was blood that had caused the bedcovers to be stripped, it would mean the girls were stolen from their beds that night, and not taken hostage when they’d stepped from the yacht, as a lot of people had hypothesized.

  But if the family was already in the villa when the killers struck, why was the blood in the boathouse?

  Jaci walked to the French doors just in time to catch a glimpse of Alma hurrying through the arched opening that led to the beach. She was wearing a long, flowing skirt and a white peasant blouse, and looked much younger than she did in the tattered dress she wore to roam the island at night.

  Jaci watched until she disappeared from sight, a plan already taking shape in her mind. Carlos had asked Raoul to come to the dock, where he and Enrique were taking apart his ailing motor. Alma was somewhere on the beach. This was just the opportunity Jaci had been waiting for. Raoul wouldn’t like it, but it was what she had to do.

  She ducked out the door and ran across the rough brick courtyard, not stopping until she reached the heavy wooden door at the front of the house. She wrapped her hand around the doorknob and twisted. It didn’t budge.

  Jaci took a step back and looked up at the moss and vine covered walls and the wrought-iron railing that bordered the second-floor loggia. One of the doors leading to the balcony stood open, taunting her.

  This would be easy with a ladder. There was none in sight and no time to go looking for one. Her gaze fastened on the old, tangled bougainvillea vines that climbed up the faded stucco walls. They weren’t strong enough to support her whole weight, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t use them.

  Kicking off her sandals, she stuck a toe into the first louvered slot of an aging green shutter. One foot and then another. It really wasn’t all that difficult as long as she used the vines to stabilize herself. She didn’t look down until she’d managed to hoist herself over the railing.

  Once there, she wasted no time in scooting through the open door and into a dark, moldy hall. She trembled and shrank against the cold wall. The feeling of evil that seemed to shroud the island was a hundred times stronger inside the villa, almost as if it were a living, breathing substance.

  Raoul had been right. She shouldn’t have come alone. But she had, and now she had to suck it up. She started walking, and her movements did as much as her mental pep talk to help her get past the groundless fear.

  The bedroom that Pilar and Reyna had shared was on the second floor, with a large window overlooking the beach. That bit of information hadn’t been included in the police report, but had been mentioned in one of the articles written later about the Santiago family.

  Another article had included a map of the house by someone who’d claimed to be a friend of Medina’s. Jaci didn’t have the map with her, but she had a mental picture of the second floor filed away in her mind.

  She stopped at the stairwell to the third floor to get her bearings. A circle of light shone down from the upper story and Jaci picked up the faint strains of a waltz from the radio or perhaps a CD that Alma left playing. She imagined the grey-haired woman up there dancing with her imaginary lover night after night, the same way she danced on the beach.

  The urge to take the stairs to the third floor was strong, but she needed to see the girls’ room even more. She rushed past three doors, all closed. Finally she reached the last room on the western side of the house, the one said to be the bedroom shared by Reyna and Pilar.

  “Please don’t be locked,” she whispered as she turned the knob. And then her breath caught in her throat as the door creaked open and Jaci stepped back thirty years in time.

  The room looked as if Pilar and Reyna had just gone downstairs for dinner and would be returning any second. The beds were turned down, the pillows fluffed, old-fashioned embroidered nightgowns ready and waiting for them to slip into. One pink. One blue. Jaci’s heart constricted at the thought of the two little girls who’d never gotten to grow up.

  The air in the room seemed musty and cold in spite of the sun that poured through the windows, painting squares of light across the beds and worn carpet.

  Jaci surveyed everything, her gaze settling on an exquisite santo that dominated the small table separating the two beds. She picked up the statue of St. Thomas, amazed at its weight as she admired the skill of the artist and the small bits of jade, quartz and turquoise embedded in the heavy metal.

  Her finger slid across the sharp edge of one of the stones as she returned the statue to its place of honor. A drop of blood formed on the tiny cut. Jaci blotted the blood on the inside of her shorts pocket and crossed the room to examine two child-size desks separated by a heavy, wooden bookcase.

  Reading texts and math books were stacked neatly on the back corners of the desks, and there were pens and a pad of paper on each.

  Two brightly painted music boxes shared the top shelf of the bookcase with an assortment of framed photographs.

  Jaci picked up a picture of Andres Santiago and his two daughters. He, like the rest of the family, was easy enough to recognize, since she’d seen countless photos of them in the numerous articles she�
�d collected. Andres was as handsome and dashing in this one as he was in all the others.

  She picked up another picture, this one in a heavy silver frame. Andres was standing with his arm around his new wife, who smiled up at him, either totally in love or faking it well. Pillar and Reyna were in front of them, clasping hands and looking like frothy angels in frilly white party dresses.

  The white stucco gleamed in the sunlight and the shutters in such disrepair now were freshly painted and straight then, showcasing the crimson cascade of bougainvillea in full bloom.

  But were looks deceiving? Had Andres sensed some innate evil in the villa even then, and simply taken his family and left in the middle of the night?

  And here she went again, imagining the villa with powers it couldn’t possibly possess. Jaci shook her head. But the isolation could have gotten to Medina, and she might have insisted he give up his life of crime and flee to someplace they could live a normal life. After all, she’d been only seventeen when Andres had saved her from the rebels who’d overthrown her father, and brought her to Cape Diablo as his wife.

  That had to be culture shock for her—going from being the beautiful and pampered daughter of a dictator to living on an isolated island with three children to care for.

  Jaci scanned the other photographs, stopping to admire Andres’s yacht. It was as impressive as the villa in its own way, but sleek and modern for its time, while the villa was timeless. A piece of bronzed scrollwork spelled out the name of the boat: Conquiste.

  The only surprise was that there were no pictures of the girls’ brother, who’d drowned. Maybe Andres and Medina had decided it was better for the girls’ emotional state not to have constant reminders of the tragic drowning.

  But then tragedy struck them, anyway. Maybe right here in this very room.

  The beds were made now. That night they hadn’t been. Had Pilar been killed in one of those very beds?

  Jaci shuddered as an image burst into her mind. The bed was no longer empty and sunlight no longer poured through the window. The room was dark except for moonlight painted shadows on the walls and across the twisted sheets.

  And there was Pilar, lying in a pool of blood, her doll cradled against her small, heaving chest. The young girl opened her eyes and stared blankly at the ceiling but her pale lips were moving. “Run, Jaci! Run or the wicked witch will kill you, too!”

  A scream burned at the back of Jaci’s throat, but wouldn’t come out. She stumbled, then caught the bedpost for support. Her fingers slipped as if sliding though warm, sticky blood.

  Perspiration wetted her underarms and crawled into the cleavage beneath her cotton shirt. She tugged at the damp fabric as vertigo hit with a vengeance, setting the room in motion.

  Jaci didn’t hear the warning of approaching footsteps until it was too late.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The villa is off-limits.”

  The gruff voice attacked the mental fog and Jaci blinked repeatedly, trying to clear her blurred vision and separate reality from the surreal.

  Carlos was standing over her, his muscles flexed, his face twisted in anger. Fear and adrenaline flooded her bloodstream as she saw the santo raised in his right hand, as if it were a hammer ready to strike.

  She scooted away from him, searching frantically for something she could use to defend herself. There was nothing within reach.

  Slowly, he lowered the statue to his side, but his intimidating stance and burning glare didn’t let up. “What are you doing here?”

  She pushed herself to a standing position, head high, shoulders straight, struggling not let him see how shaken she was. “I just wanted to look around. The door wasn’t locked.”

  “And you’re a prying forensic scientist, so you think the rules were made for other people?”

  “I didn’t bother anything,” she said, “and it’s not as if the entire villa is a private residence. Mr. Cochburn said part of the second floor was rented out before the roof was damaged in a recent storm.”

  “It’s not public now.” Carlos stepped closer, the statue still gripped tightly in his hand. “Get the hell out. If I see you inside the villa again…” He let the threat go unfinished.

  Her mind wouldn’t let her do the same. He’d do what? Kill her to keep some murderous secret silent?

  “What happened to the girls who once slept in this room, Carlos?”

  He stiffened and his face turned bloodred. “I said get out.”

  She stepped out of his reach, nearer to the door, where she could escape if it came to that. She was certain she could outrun him. “Were Pilar and Reyna murdered that night? Were they killed in this very room?”

  The veins in his neck and forehead popped out as if they were about to explode, while the muscles in his face stretched so tightly they appeared frozen. Only his eyes were alive, deep and dark—and tortured.

  He knew. Whatever had happened to Pilar and Reyna, Carlos knew. Jaci was sure of it.

  “Get out, Miss Matlock. Pack your things and be off the island by nightfall. I don’t care if you have to swim, just don’t be here when the moon comes up. If you are…”

  “If she is, what?”

  Jaci jumped at the sound of the voice, and she and Carlos both spun toward the door. Raoul was standing there glaring at his great-uncle.

  “If she is, you’ll do what?”

  Carlos sputtered a couple of Spanish curse words beneath his breath, then slammed the santo down on the edge of the bedside table with such force that the old wooden tabletop splintered.

  “I want her off the island,” the older man said. He turned back to Jaci. “Get your things and Raoul can take you to the mainland.”

  “That’s her decision,” his nephew stated.

  “So now you’re on her side?”

  Raoul stepped into the room and put a hand on his great-uncle’s shoulder. “I don’t see any call to choose sides. Jaci’s a paying guest on Cape Diablo. She has a right to be here.”

  Carlos backed away from him. “So that’s how it is? Blood means nothing to you.”

  “Don’t make this into more than it is.” Raoul spoke softly, clearly trying to diffuse the volatile situation. “Jaci may have strayed out-of-bounds, but there’s no harm done. I’m sure the villa will survive her visit. It’s survived far worse and has seen his share of tenants.”

  “The rules have changed.” Carlos grunted and pointed a knotty, gnarled finger at Jaci. “She’s only here to make trouble.”

  “The trouble at Cape Diablo started long before she arrived. I’m walking her back to her apartment, and then you and I are going to have a long talk.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve said my piece. I want her gone from here by nightfall.”

  Carlos turned and stomped away, only to stop at the door and double over, grabbing his stomach as if someone had punched him below the belt.

  Raoul rushed to him. “You need to be in a hospital?”

  Carlos didn’t answer, but just shrugged him off and limped away. Jaci could tell from the receding footsteps that he wasn’t moving too swiftly.

  Raoul shook his head, looking as if he’d reached the saturation level for frustration and aggravation, but she could see the concern in his eyes when he met her gaze.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I saw Alma leave, and I took the opportunity to have a look around inside the villa.”

  “I thought we agreed to do that together.”

  “We talked about it. I never promised anything,” Jaci reminded him.

  “And Carlos stumbled across you when he came back to the villa to check on Alma,” Raoul said. “You must have caught him by surprise.”

  “It was more than surprise. I thought for a minute he was going to smash my skull the way he did that table.”

  “He was just trying to frighten you. He wouldn’t have actually hit you.”

  Raoul might believe that. She didn’t, and she was the one who’d been the recipien
t of Carlos’s rage. “How did you get in? The door was locked.”

  “Carlos left it open. Are you okay?”

  “Not really, but then I wasn’t even before Carlos showed up on the scene.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Look around you.”

  Raoul did, then let out a low, disbelieving whistle. “It’s as if Pilar and Reyna just stepped out.”

  “Exactly. Alma has kept things just the way they were thirty years ago. How weird is that?”

  “Probably no weirder than living out here in this decaying villa for three decades.”

  “I think it’s a sign of more.”

  “Like what?”

  Jaci took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I think the Santiago girls were killed in this room and that Alma had something to do with the murders and…” She hesitated.

  Raoul’s eyebrows arched. “And what?”

  “Carlos knows what happened.” There was a good chance he might have been in on the murders as well, but she wouldn’t throw that at Raoul just yet.

  “Are you basing all that on the appearance of this room?”

  “It’s a proven fact that when a person is involved in a violent crime, either as a victim or a culprit, they sometimes find it impossible to move past the event. That’s what Alma has done. She’s kept time standing still, at least in her mind.”

  Raoul narrowed his eyes. “Why do I think there’s more?”

  Because there was. The images Jaci had visualized in this room had been so vivid, she would have sworn that Pilar had talked to her from the grave. But if Jaci admitted that to Raoul, he’d think she was as mentally unstable as they both thought Alma was.

  “If there’s more, it’s the villa itself,” she said, hating that a tremble crept into her voice. “It’s only too bad these old stucco walls can’t talk.”

  Raoul crossed the room and took her in his arms. She let him hold her, while her nerves went into meltdown.

  He kissed the top of her head and ran his hands over her shoulders. “You’ve had a rough day. You need a glass of wine, a hot bath and some normalcy.”