you. A chill danced along his spine.
“Your father needs to see you,” Hugh Warlow told him.
“I saw my father twenty minutes ago.”
“That man is not your father.” Ice dripped from the man’s tone. A faint smile pulled at his lips, but didn’t touch his chilly blue eyes.
“He is, actually. The man you’re talking about gave up his parental rights.” The first nine years of his life, he and his mother had lived like fugitives: new cities, new names. Then he turned ten and everything changed. His father gave up any claim he might have had on Declan, and they finally settled in one place. “My mother had something on him, didn’t she?”
Warlow’s smile broadened, making him appear smug. “Your father isn’t well. He needs to see you before he dies. Even as we speak, it could be too late.”
“I know, you said so when you called.” The phone calls had started a few weeks after his mother’s funeral, and Declan would be lying if he said a part of him hadn’t been curious. His father had always been something of an enigma to him, a boogeyman he’d been too terrified to discuss with his mother or anyone else—as if just speaking about the man might summon him like a demon and send them on the run again. Whatever the man wanted now, however, he could go to hell. Declan was thirty-two, a legal adult for quite some time. His father could have contacted him anytime over the past twenty-two years, but hadn’t. That he’d waited until Declan’s mother had died was likely no coincidence. What had she known that had kept him away?
He didn’t care. He had enough on his plate with the family that mattered to him and no interest in inviting more drama into his life. He’d politely declined the invitation to go to Wales, then ignored the phone calls altogether. Still, he’d never have guessed the man would turn up at his door.
They’ll devour you.
“Your father needs you.” Warlow slipped his hand into his pocket and stepped closer.
Declan’s heart rate kicked up a notch. Apprehension wound around him like an invisible snake. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m not going to Wales.”
“Then what bloody good are you?” the man growled, smile vanishing, his features turning menacing. He took another step closer and started to draw his hand from his pocket.
He has something. A gun. A knife. Declan backed away into the door.
Fast footfalls splashing on the pavement drew the attention of both men. A woman jogged toward them, gripping an umbrella with one hand, her security card in the other. She smiled brightly, moving under the overhang with them and closing her umbrella.
“It’s terrible out here, isn’t she?” she said cheerily. She had short black hair and a pretty smile. Declan had seen her before. She lived on the second floor.
“Are you going in?” she asked him. Maybe she’d noticed he was still holding his own card, or maybe because he was blocking the door.
“Yeah,” he said, and glanced at Warlow. The fierce menace had left his face. He’d backed away so the woman could get by, a benign smile lifting his mouth.
What the hell had just happened? He didn’t know and he didn’t plan to wait around to find out. He grabbed up his computer bag, swiped his card and held the door for the woman, then followed her in pulling the door closed behind him.
When he looked back, Warlow had gone.
Chapter One
Wind swept cold off the sea and icy spray stung Carly’s face and hands like tiny needles. Despite the brilliant October sun glittering off deep blue waves, the dark water looked fathomless, empty. She drew her jacket tighter around her middle and stifled the shiver creeping up her back, focusing her attention on the man standing at the end of the rock jetty.
She smirked. Bathed in late afternoon sun, his shoulders hunched against the wet wind and his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, he could have stepped off the pages of some Victorian romance novel. The tortured hero, brooding and lost, returning to his cursed past.
He must have known something of the terrible legacy he’d stumbled into by now—if he didn’t before coming to Cragera Bay. Maybe he’d seen the shadows, heard the voices, smelled the dead. Maybe that’s why he’d changed his mind and agreed to speak to her.
She pushed back hair that had come loose from her ponytail and whipped wildly in the relentless wind, then started down the jetty. Waves slapped at the sides of the pier, spray soaking the hem of her trousers. Her heeled boots on the uneven stone turned her gait clumsy. Twice she nearly went over on her ankle and toppled forward.
Maybe the man hadn’t changed his mind at all. Maybe his plan was to let her fall over the side and be washed out to sea.
He couldn’t have guessed she’d wear such inappropriate footwear, but when she’d chosen her clothes this morning, she hadn’t considered traipsing across a deserted beach or over a stone jetty. She’d dressed to appear professional, capable and serious. Someone Declan Meyers could trust.
“Mr. Meyers,” she called over the surf splashing against the rocks. He stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. Dark eyes narrowed and glinted like black glass. Again the image of the brooding hero—Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester rolled into one. Windswept black hair framed the sharp angles and smooth planes of his face. High, carved cheekbones, pointed chin and lips pressed into a flat line.
“I’m Dr. Carly Evans. We spoke on the phone,” she said, coming to stand beside him.
She held out her hand, which he glanced at briefly before meeting her gaze—keeping his own hands jammed in his coat pockets. “Let’s go in.”
He shifted around her and started down the jetty, leaving Carly gaping at his back. Bloody prat.
She drew in a deep breath, swallowed down a few choice epitaphs and followed the man. He wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. Certainty trickled over her like a soft spring rain.
The hell he wasn’t. She hadn’t come all this way for nothing, hadn’t come this close to seeing The Devil’s Eye only to be turned away now.
Meyers reached the end of the jetty, descended the short set of stone steps and would have continued across the beach without bothering to look back.
“Mr. Meyers,” she called out, determined that he stop and wait for her.
He faced her, a single black brow arching.
“I appreciate you agreeing to see me. I understand your hesitance given recent events. You’re no doubt suspicious, but I can assure you, I’ve known your sister Brynn’s fiancé for years.”
He snorted. “I’ve never met my sister Brynn, so an association with her fiancé means about as much to me as if you told me you’ve known that guy for years.” He nodded to an old man trudging through the sand in heavy rubber boots, fishing rod slung over his shoulder.
“I understand, but—” Her heel caught between the uneven stones, ankle turning out. She tumbled forward, arms pinwheeling as the jagged steps rose up to meet her.
Big hands clasped her shoulders, stopping her from hitting the ground face-first. She lifted her gaze and met Meyers’s nearly black eyes. His mouth twisted in a smirk, and heat crept into her face. This wasn’t how she’d wanted their first meeting to go, her falling into his arms like some klutzy damsel in distress.
She drew a deep breath, and eased back from his grasp. Sharp pain zinged up her leg from her throbbing ankle, but she bit her lip to hold back the whimper and forced a smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Meyers. I wasn’t looking where I was walking.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, frowning.
She wasn’t. Her ankle ached miserably. Already her boot