He held her gaze with the flinty, unforgiving gray of his. His eyes reminded her of the ocean on a perfectly still day before a ­storm—­it might appear calm, but turbulent currents dragged underneath. “You have a good imagination,” he said mildly.

Anahera narrowed her eyes. “Don’t try that tone of voice on me.” It came out cold, flat. “I was married to a man who grew up in the British ­public-­school system.” It had taken her time to get her head around ­that—­that what the English called public schools were actually exclusive private schools. “If you want to play the ­unemotional-­tone game, I can do it as well as you.” She demonstrated with her last sentence, saw his eyes wrinkle slightly at the corners in response.

He took his time answering. “Kyle Baker is of the opinion that you ran back to Golden Cove with your tail between your legs because you couldn’t hack life in the outside world.”

That, Anahera hadn’t been expecting. Eyebrows drawing together, she did what he’d done and took a drink before answering. “He was very respectful at the meeting this afternoon,” she said. “Even made a special effort to welcome me back to Golden Cove.” Anahera thought back, recalling his apparent discomfort with the situation, the way he’d shrugged and moved his feet.

“Kyle is a little psychopath.” This time the flatness of the words was hard, the edge of a blade. “It took me this long to see it and I’ve had experience with the personality type. He does a very good job of covering it up with charm, and with his perfect, shining golden boy act.”

Putting down her wine, Anahera leaned forward with her arms braced on the table her mother had found on the side of the road and polished back up by hand. “You sound sure.”

Chewing and swallowing a bite of bread he’d just torn off with his teeth, Will said, “He’s decided I’m not worth ­cultivating—­I think it gives him a perverse thrill to expose himself to me. He knows no one will believe me if I speak against him.”

Anahera had known Vincent her whole life, which meant she’d known Kyle peripherally since his birth. The rare times she’d ever thought about him, she’d just dismissed him as a spoiled brat, but she did remember Vincent telling her that Kyle was the perfect ­son—­Vincent’s parents had often held up their younger-­by-­ten-­years second child as an example to Vincent. But there were other things.

“Back when I was thirteen, ­fourteen—­so Kyle would’ve been only three or four at the ­time—­Vincent told me and Keira that his brother threw a huge tantrum if he didn’t also get lots of gifts on Vincent’s birthday.” At the time, they’d rolled their eyes and told Vincent his brother was just being a baby.

The only reason Anahera even remembered the conversation was because Keira had suddenly said, “I had a brother. He died when he was three, before I was born. His name was Keir.” Her black hair pushed back by the sea winds, she’d stared out at the water, this girl who even then had struck Anahera as a blank slate just floating through life. “Keir and Keira. My parents think I have his soul, that I came back from the dead.”

Her words had made Anahera’s skin pebble with goose bumps.

Will’s voice fractured the unsettling memory of the other woman’s confession. “Kyle’s gotten better at hiding his need to be the best, to be fawned over and adored and treated as better than anyone else, but it’s still there under the surface. Be extremely careful around ­him—­and if you ever end up alone with him, change that as fast as possible.”

Slate gray eyes locking with her own. “Anyone who lies as well as Kyle and with such a total lack of remorse could be smiling at you one second and shoving a butcher knife into your spine the next. And he’d never lose the smile.”

29

A chill creeping over her despite the fire in the hearth, Anahera pushed aside her ­half-­eaten bowl of pasta. “Do you think he hurt Miriama?”

Will tapped the fingers of one hand on the wood of the table. “According to Kyle, he has no reason to hurt Miriama. He thinks she’ll end up messing up her own life and humiliating herself by crawling back to Golden Cove.”

It was odd. Though Anahera had only met Will recently and had, technically, known Kyle far longer, she believed Will. There was something about the cop that said he didn’t play games, tell lies.

Of course, her instincts weren’t exactly the best.

She’d trusted Edward all those years, especially after they’d suffered a devastating loss and he’d been nothing but loving. She’d believed him when he’d said they’d make it through, that it didn’t matter as long as they had each other.

Such a good liar, her dead husband.

Anahera had never suspected he was having an affair, had always accepted his words as the truth when he said he had to stay late at the office or go out of town for work.

No, she couldn’t trust her instincts; she needed a second opinion on Will. On Kyle.

She’d talk to Josie, get her friend’s take on things. Though, if Kyle did wear a mask, perhaps it had taken an outsider to see beneath it. Anahera would watch him more closely, see if she could spot any cracks in his personality or actions.

“You don’t have to believe me about Kyle,” Will said, proving he was a damn good cop. “Just be careful. And try not to cross him if you ­can—­he’s the kind of man who’ll hold on to that insult, or perceived insult, and get his revenge when no one is looking.”

A cold feather of sensation along Anahera’s spine. “Noted.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

When she just looked at him, he said, “Why did you come back? Your fans are begging for a new album and your record company has said publicly that they’ll back you whenever you’re ready.”

“You did your homework.”

He didn’t back off at her terse response. “You were offered residencies at prestigious schools of music, asked to consider another tour, and yet you came back. Why, when you’d made it out? Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Anahera laughed, the sound as bitter as the tears she hadn’t shed for Edward. “I think we’re both old enough to know that sometimes, what we think we want isn’t what we want at all.” She’d run from Golden Cove full of dreams and fueled by anger. She’d come back to it a disillusioned woman who knew that some ghosts couldn’t be outrun and some nightmares followed you forever.

“I did my homework, too,” she said, turning the tables on this man who had a way of making her face things she didn’t want to face. “You’re pretty famous for a cop.”

“I never wanted to be famous.” Curt words, a flat tone.

Anahera knew she shouldn’t push it, that some darkness a man was permitted to have, permitted to keep secret, but he’d started this and she was in no mood to cut him any slack. “Most cops don’t have a big shiny medal pinned to their chest by the leader of the country. Most cops don’t face off against a violent drug addict holding five children as hostages and manage to take down the addict without loss of life. You’re a goddamn national hero. So what’re you doing in Golden Cove?”