One True Secret

“And it might not. It’s been diddling around out there for a week. People are tired of worrying about it.” Eli gave him a measuring glance. “I didn’t take you for a worrier.”

“I’m from Toronto,” Merriman protested. “We don’t have hurricanes. Well, there was one, but it was before I was born. Look, if we have to evacuate, and planes are grounded, this is the only way out? One dinky road?”

“Relax. It’s hurricane season. There are always watches and warnings.”

Eli had played waiting games with hurricanes before. They could change course swiftly, and the storm Merriman was fretting about might never touch Florida.

But right now, the photographer was eyeing the sky with suspicion. It was blue, but gray clouds were sweeping in from the south. The wind made the palm trees bend northward, fronds streaming.

“Don’t worry about the damn weather,” Eli said out of the side of his mouth. “We’re nearly there. Another five minutes, we’ll be at Mandevilla.”

“Maybe they have a storm cellar there. Maybe they’ll share it.”

“Most people don’t have cellars on the Keys.”

Eli turned down a graveled road. Scrub pines and lingam vitae trees grew in a wild tangle on both sides of the road, blocking any view beyond them.

They came to a high iron gate. On either side of it stretched a wall of limestone, six feet tall. Its top was jagged with gray coral that had been cemented into place. Eli stopped beside a limestone kiosk with a speaker. Next to it was a mailbox with no name on it.

They were close enough to the ocean to smell the salt, and under the rush of the wind, Eli heard the murmur of the waves, low and even. Merriman looked about warily. “All of a sudden we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah.” Eli recognized the trees growing along the wall. They were poisonwoods, the Keys’ equivalent of poison ivy. Along with the sharp coral, they were there to discourage outsiders from climbing the wall.

Merriman said, “I get the feeling that they really don’t want visitors.”

“There’s a couple of million bucks worth of art behind those walls,” Eli murmured, gazing at them. “You can bet this place has some high security.”

He pushed the button beside the speaker, which crackled into life. “Yes?” A woman’s voice, low and rich, came through the static. “Who is it?”

“Eli Garner and Merriman from Mondragon Magazine. We have a ten o’clock appointment to speak with Miss Roth. Miss Emerson Roth.”

More static. Again the woman’s voice. “All right. Come to the front entrance.” The speaker went dead.

Half a minute passed, then the gate creaked open. The road grew narrower and bumpier, and then, as they rounded a curve, they clattered over a rickety metal bridge that crossed a gully. It was shaded by a grove of tall trees that stood like sentries.

At last they saw the house, almost completely screened by a row of royal poincianas and oleanders. The lawn had a scruffy look. It needed mowing, and its green came as much from weeds as grass.

Eli drove past the trees with their red and white flowers, and for the first time, saw the house clearly. He’d seen it dozens of times in photos, of course, but the photos were old.

The place, no mansion, was smaller than he’d imagined. Although not decaying, it had an air of having seen better days. Still, it was made of blocks of granite, and looked as solid as a vault.

It was the setting, not the dwelling that drew the eye and held it. The house stood on a slight rise, facing a magnificent view of the Gulf. For two hundred yards, the lawn extended, ragged and dappled with wildflowers. Then the lawn gave way to a stretch of clean, dun-colored sand.

The waves pounding the beach were more gray than blue today, but in the distance was a scattering of small islands so green that they seemed jewellike. Out in the cove, Eli saw a dolphin jump and smiled in spite of himself.

Merriman whistled. “What’s that they always say about real estate? Location, location, location.”

Eli didn’t answer. He stared out over ragged grass and flowers, past the beach to where the sea met the sky in a hazy blue-gray line.

“If you’re going to be a hermit, this is a great place to do it,” Merriman said. “A little piece of paradise is right.”

But paradise is showing signs of wear, Eli thought, his gaze drifting back to the house.

The paint on its wooden trim was peeling from the salt air, and a large crack zigzagged up the cement walk that led to the front stairs. The roof of the porch sagged slightly. The flame-of-the-woods shrubs flanking the porch on both sides sprawled untrimmed, an uncontrolled mass of fiery blossoms.

“Scenery’s one of the hardest things in the world to shoot,” Merriman grumbled almost to himself, his eyes still on the waves. He looked as if he was already calculating how he’d have to do it.

Eli put his sunglasses back on. “Come on. You can figure it out later. Let’s get the introductions over with.”

He got out of the convertible, and so did Merriman, who followed him up the walk with obvious reluctance. He wanted to play with his viewfinder so much that his face was pained as he stared at the vista.

Eli noticed hairline cracks in the floor of the porch and that the old-fashioned doorbell seemed tarnished by years of sea salt. The white paint of the front door was peeling, like the trim.

He pressed the bell. He heard it chime, echoing within the house. He glanced about the house and saw no sign of anyone. Surely there had to be a groundskeeper or yardman, with this much land.

No one answered. She knows we’re here, Eli thought with cold irritation. All right, baby, play your games. He rang again, leaning on the bell a little harder, just to annoy her.

They waited a full minute, Merriman still gazing at the sea and lost in silent concentration. Eli was about to hit the bell a third time, giving it all he had, when the door swung open.

There she stood. Emerson Roth.

Eli went blind to everything else. His ears buzzed, his forehead turned numb and a rush of excitement surged through his veins.

She was tall and— Great God, he was a writer, and he couldn’t think of a word for her. Yes, he could. Ravishing. She ravished him. She overwhelmed and bewitched him—for an eon that lasted fully a second. He yanked himself back to sanity.

Everything about her face was good, the rounded cheekbones, the straight nose and the intriguing mouth with its hint of a smile. Her hair fell in a dark, lush cascade. But it was her eyes that struck him. Depthless, exotic, they reminded him that her grandmother, too, was an exotic woman.

Emerson wore a long plain gown of something crinkly and silky. It was a vivid turquoise blue with full sleeves that came almost to her fingertips. The garment covered her from collarbone to ankle. It only hinted at the curve of her breasts, but the hint was excellent.

“Hello,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly human.

“You must be the people from Mondragon.”

She thrust out her hand with an air of stoic resignation. “I’m Emerson Roth.”

He took her hand and was relieved that it didn’t shoot sparks and lightning bolts through his system. It was a medium-size hand, firm and strong.

“Eli Garner,” he said gruffly. “And this is the photographer, Merriman.”

He actually had to elbow Merriman, who’d kept staring at the ocean. “Oh,” Merriman said. “Pleased to meet you.” He shook her hand and went back to taking imaginary pictures of the sea.

“I won’t ask you to come in,” she said. “Not today. We’ll sit by the pool. Follow me.”

She passed him and descended the stairs. He smelled the fleeting scent of sandalwood. The wind lifted and tumbled her long mane of hair, fluttered her sleeves.

As she’d passed, he’d noticed a small dark spot on her gown, over the left breast. It was hard to pull his gaze away. Didn’t she know the spot was there? Or did she think so little of her visitors that she didn’t care?

CHAPTER TWO