Deadline by Sandra Brown Page A

Stef finished her chores indoors.
    At lunchtime, Stef brought the picnic hamper down to the beach, as she had the day before. After they’d eaten and were stretched out on the quilt, relaxing, Amelia experienced again that sensation of being watched.
    Shading her eyes against the glare, she’d scanned the eastern horizon. The same boat was still anchored offshore, but was too far away to pose any threat. She looked back toward her house, then at Bernie’s, and then at the row of houses that stretched down the beach in the direction of the village. Nothing had alerted her to danger.
    She’d then turned toward the house on the other side of hers, the last one in the row. It had been vacated by long-term renters the previous Sunday. But when she’d looked toward it…
    Speaking as calmly as possible, she’d told Stef she had something to do inside, and had left her and the boys beneath the beach umbrella. She returned to the house only long enough to retrieve the pepper spray from the drawer of her nightstand. Going out the back way, she walked to the neighboring house and let herself in through an unlocked sliding glass door. She had hoped to catch the window peeper, for lack of a better word, in the act. If he hadn’t been taking a bathroom break from his spying, she no doubt would have.
    When he’d emerged from the bathroom, it was all she could do to keep from gasping. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but not this. Not him . He didn’t look like a man who would require perversion to satisfy his sexual urges. Nor did he fit her image of a writer, which was someone with an absent-minded demeanor, delicate hands, and a pallor. Someone much softer around the middle. Much softer everywhere.
    She said, “The IDs could be fake.”
    “They’re not.”
    “I’ll Google you.”
    “Be my guest. You can use my laptop.”
    She’d noticed it and the printer on the table, certainly tools of his trade, but she ignored his gesture for her to help yourself. “How did you track me here?”
    “Two things I never reveal. One, a source who asks to remain anonymous. And two, how I tracked—Okay, okay,” he said quickly when she thrust the canister toward his face. “There’s a researcher at the magazine. Her name is Glenda. I ply her with candy and wine at Christmas. She comes through for me.”
    “My house was bought over twenty years ago.”
    “June 1985.”
    “Under a corporate entity—”
    “WareHouse, LLC. Want to know the purchase price?” Reading the dismay in her expression, he said, “Glenda could find a flea on a single hair on a woolly mammoth. During a sandstorm.”
    That last was tacked on with a crooked smile, which only annoyed her. “Did you rent this house?”
    “As opposed to what? Breaking in and squatting?”
    “Nothing would surprise me.”
    “Saint Nelda’s Island Rentals. I spoke to a nice lady. The house was vacant. I have a credit card.”
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Since court was adjourned for the holiday weekend.”
    “Only since Wednesday?”
    “I arrived after dark.”
    “Hmm.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. I thought you’d been here longer.”
    “Why?”
    “Doesn’t matter,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “However long it’s been, you went to a lot of trouble and expense for nothing. I don’t grant interviews. Ever.”
    “My trouble wasn’t for nothing.” He motioned toward her wrist. “You got your watch back.”
    She glanced down at it. “Do I have you to thank?”
    “I was watching you through the binoculars yesterday while you were building the sand castle. After you and the kids went indoors, I saw something glittering in the sand. I went down later to check it out and found your watch.”
    “Why didn’t you just knock on my door and return it like any normal person would do? Any person who wasn’t a sneaking, spying magazine writer.”
    “Because I wasn’t ready for you to know that I was here.”
    “When did you intend to make your