“I appreciate it.”

Gorgeous eyes, CiCi thought. A quiet green with the intensity behind them adding a little magic.

“So what brings you to our island, Reed?”

“Some R and R.”

“A good place for just that, especially in the quiet season.”

“I’ve been here a few times in the summer. With my family as a kid, with some pals when I got old enough to drive. But I haven’t been in, jeez, I guess about ten years.”

“It hasn’t changed very much.”

“No, and that’s nice.” Slowly, carefully, he angled around to look back. “I remember your house, and thinking how cool it would be to live there, all those windows—see the water all the time, be able to walk right down to this little beach.”

“It is cool. The only place for me, as it turns out. Where’s yours?”

“Still looking. Actually got shot looking in the wrong place.” He smiled, quick and easy. “That’ll teach me. There was another house here I remembered, and it’s still there. I walked over from the village to see if it was. Two story, with a widow’s walk. What you’d call rambling, like yours. I guess I like rambling. Not as much glass, but enough. Sealed cedar shakes that have weathered. Big double porches on the front. Decks on the back. It’s sort of straddling some woods and the water. A little sand beach—not as much as here—then the rocks.”

“That’s Barbara Ellen Dorchet’s place. Just this side of the village, and tucked back some. A riot of lupines in the yard in the summer. Was there a red pickup out front?”

“Yeah, and a Mercedes G-Wagen.”

“That’s her son’s. He’s here to help her do some sprucing up before she puts it on the market.”

“On the … Seriously?”

CiCi, a little bit psychic, smiled and sipped her latte. “Not such good timing for her, as there won’t be many looking for a place like that on the island late fall or winter when she’s ready to list it. But she lost her husband last year, and doesn’t have it in her to stay. She’s moving south. Her boy moved to Atlanta about twelve years ago for work. She’s got three grandchildren there, so there’s where she wants to be.”

“She’s going to sell the house.” He let out a half laugh. “I’ve been looking for the right house for years now, and I realized after I got here, saw your place, and the other, they’re why nothing I looked at rang the bell.”

“Looking in the wrong place.” She added, “You should make her an offer. I can find out her ballpark easy enough.”

“I wasn’t figuring on…” He trailed off, sipped some of the really excellent latte. “This is downright weird.”

“I’m a fan of the downright weird. Well, come on, Detective Delicious. I’m going to cook you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to—” He broke off to study her, the fabulous hair, the amazing eyes. “Do you invite strange men for breakfast often?”

“Only ones who interest me. Normally, you’d be doing the cooking, but since I didn’t spend the night rocking your world, I’ll make the cranberry pancakes.”

That got a laugh and a grin out of him, earned him more points. “I’d be stupid to turn down a beautiful woman and cranberry pancakes at the same time. I’m not stupid.”

“I could tell.”

“Let me help you down.”

He climbed down, favoring his right side, wincing just a little before he reached his left hand up for hers.

“Still hurting?”

“I get twinges, and I’m still working on range of motion and building back up. Doing physical therapy—exercises—and I’m ferrying back and forth twice a week for the real torture sessions.”

“You need to do some yoga. I’m a big believer, and of holistics. But we’ll start with pancakes. How do you feel about Bloody Marys?”

“Don’t spare the Tabasco.”

“Oh, my man.” She took his left hand, swung arms with him. “To borrow a phrase, ‘This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’”

The inside of the house turned out to be as fascinating as the exterior. The color, the light. Jesus, the views.

“It looks like you.”

“My, my, aren’t you clever.”

“No, I mean it.” He wandered, looking everywhere. “It’s bold and beautiful and creative. And…” He stopped beside the bust, stared in wonder at Emergence. “Wow. This is … Wow.”

“My granddaughter Simone’s work. It is wow.”

“You can feel the triumph, the joy of it. Is that the right word?”

“It’s an excellent word. She was in the mall that night, too. My Simone.”

“I know.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue, the face. “Simone Knox.”

“Have you met her?”

“Huh? What? Sorry. No. I just, I kept track. Even before I became a cop. I needed to keep track of the people, when I could, the people who were there.”

“She was there, too.” CiCi touched a gentle hand to the bust before she went into the kitchen to mix the drinks. “That’s the face of the friend Simone lost that night, as Simone imagines her. So yes, triumph.”

“She was the first nine-one-one caller, your granddaughter.”

“You do keep up.”

“The cop who took out Hobart—the first on scene? She became my partner when I made detective. She’s part of the reason I became a cop.”

“Isn’t the world a fascinating place, Reed? How it intersects, crosses, separates, pulls back? That boy destroyed that sweet girl, and she was a sweet girl. He destroyed all her potential. Simone brought her back, triumphantly, with her talent and the love she had for our Tish. This police officer responds because fate put her right there, and stops that sick boy from taking even more lives than he had, and helped Simone through the start of the awful aftermath.”

She stepped over, gave him a Bloody Mary. “That same police officer connects with you, and you become a police officer. I’m a little bit psychic,” she said, “and I sense you’re a very good police officer. Then that sick boy’s sick sister kills, and tries to kill you. And here you are, in my house that you admired as a boy. I believe you were meant to be.”

She touched her glass to his. “I’m a decent enough cook, but my pancakes are exceptional. So prepare to be astonished.”

“I have been since you sat down on the rocks with me.”

“I definitely like you. That’s now an absolute, irreversible fact. Sit down while I mix up the batter, and tell me all about your sex life.”

“It’s flat at the moment.”

“That’ll change. Exercise, good diet, yoga, meditation, a reasonable imbibing of adult beverages. Some time on the island, and absolutely time with me. You’ll get your mojo back.”

“Today’s a hell of a start.”

She smiled. “You rented Whistler’s Bungalow.”

The Bloody Mary had the kick of an angry mule—just the way he liked it. “You don’t miss much.”

“Or anything at all. It’s not a bad location, but this is better. After breakfast you need to go back, pack up. You can stay here.”

“I…”

“Don’t worry. I won’t Mrs. Robinson you. It’s tempting, but you need to ease back into that area, not start off with the crescendo.

“There’s a guest suite over my studio,” she continued. “I only let particular people stay there. You’ll have the view, beach access, and my amazing company. Do you cook?”

He couldn’t stop staring at her. She had a tattoo on her wrist like a bracelet, a purple crystal shaped like a spear around her neck.

“Not really … at all.”

“Oh well, you have other qualities. You’d be doing me a favor, too.”

“How’s that?”

“Simone lives here, works here most of the time. Since she has, I’ve gotten used to having someone else stir the air around here. Someone simpatico and interesting. You fit. Simone just left the other day for Boston, then New York. Do a lonely woman a favor. I promise not to seduce you.”

“I might want you to.”

“That’s sweet.” She sent him a blazing smile as she mixed batter. “But believe me, Delicious, you couldn’t handle it.”

*

She was a force of nature, Reed decided. How else did a woman he’d just met feed him cranberry pancakes (awesome) and convince him to move into her guest room?

A force of nature, obviously, as he’d never believed in love at first sight. And now he was a victim of it.

He unpacked. It didn’t take long, as he hadn’t brought a hell of a lot with him. Still half-dazzled, he looked around the room she’d offered him as cheerfully as someone else might have offered him directions to the local bar.

Like the rest of the house, like all of her, it burst with color and style. No safe neutrals for CiCi Lennon, he thought. She went deep, rich purple on the walls, then covered them with art. Not the beachy scenes you might expect, he noted, but stylized nudes or mostly nude, male and female.