Before the Storm Read online

  There had been other lessons after that, usually involving a dog-eared bible and a leather belt.

  Few of them had taken.

  Pensively, Samantha gripped the steering wheel of her used Toyota Camry. She’d made so many mistakes, lived up to Mamaw Jean’s worst predictions.

  You got her looks, Trina. The boys will be sniffin’ around soon enough. And just like her, you ain’t got the sense or the morals to keep your legs together.

  Boy crazy. Jezebel. Hot-tailed piece of trash.

  When Trina turned seventeen, she’d run away from Mamaw Jean’s abuse and religious fanaticism…and ended up in Memphis. Over a decade older than she was, handsome and with money to spare, Devin Leary had provided her with sanctuary from the streets. Foolishly believing herself in love, she’d done everything Devin asked her to do and then later, the things he’d forced her to. At first, she hadn’t fully realized the fear his seedy connections should have induced. And by the time she recognized the danger she was in, it was too late. Devin already considered her his property.

  Four years of her life had been lost to him. Time that had quickly morphed into hell. Samantha criticized herself for ruminating over a past she couldn’t change. She was twenty-seven now, no longer a scared runaway teen. She shook her head in reflection.

  Instead, she was something far worse.

  Something that could get her prison time at best, or if Devin’s brother ever caught up to her…

  The thought tore at her insides.

  One thing was for certain. The smartest thing, the best thing, she could do was to put a stop to whatever attraction seemed to be blooming between her and Mark St. Clair. Hopefully, she had done that tonight. He and his little daughter deserved so much better.

  Samantha had told herself that her offer to do a baking party for Emily was based purely on business, a chance to moonlight and gain some extra, needed cash. But she admitted now that Mark had affected her in some way—something she hadn’t expected or been prepared for. The temptation to spend time with him on the beach had been too great. And the truth was, she’d thought her ability to feel anything for a man had been snuffed out years ago. Whatever her original reasoning had been, she’d been wrong to go to the St. Clair tonight. Letting her guard down, letting herself be attracted to anyone and risking them finding out the truth about her…inviting in trouble…it just couldn’t happen. She’d been able to keep her dark secret all these years precisely because she had kept to herself.

  Samantha continued on the isolated, two-lane peninsula road that separated the elegant St. Clair resort from Rarity Cove proper. Her car beams illuminated the silhouettes of ancient live oaks on either side of the thoroughfare, their branches spread out in ghostly Medusa-like patterns. Overhead, an obsidian darkness had set in that not even the occasional streetlight could penetrate. Headlights appeared in her rearview mirror. Someone else was apparently leaving the resort, as well. She watched intermittently as the car moved closer, going faster than the posted forty miles per hour speed limit. Samantha accelerated a little, too. It was even closer now—directly behind her—but it still made no attempt to pass. All she could tell was that it was a large, older-model sedan, possibly a Crown Victoria. The only people who drove such cars were retirees…

  And plainclothes police.

  An arrow of worry darted through her. She’d had some wine at the St. Clair. What if she was pulled over? It didn’t matter, she told herself. She had the proper ID and wasn’t drunk. But another, less rational thought invaded her head. If it was the police trailing her…

  What if she had somehow finally been found?

  Get a grip. That isn’t possible. That’s what rehashing your past will do to you.

  She half-expected to see the strobe-like flash of blue lights behind her, but it never appeared. Instead, the car backed off a bit but remained in her wake. Finally reaching the main road, Samantha put on her blinker and made a careful, right-hand turn toward town. The sedan followed—not too unusual, she conceded. But she noticed that it failed again to pass her, even when the lanes expanded and she deliberately slowed to a crawl. When the car followed her through several more turns in a residential section of small duplexes and two-story stucco apartment buildings just off the beach, she felt certain it was tailing her.

  On impulse, she drove past her own apartment, heading toward the downtown square, which she hoped would still be populated despite the evening hour. She could see the sedan in her rearview mirror as she passed under the stoplight a full second after it turned red in front of McSwain’s drugstore. A car horn on the intersecting street let out an angry blare. But her mission was accomplished—whoever was following her had been caught waiting for the light to change.

  If it were a cop, he would have certainly come after her for running the light.

  Relax. You’ve just spooked yourself tonight.

  Samantha turned onto the picturesque square. But she was so busy looking for some sign of the Crown Victoria in her rearview that she didn’t glimpse the vehicle in the next lane over making an improper lane change until it was nearly too late. She swerved to avoid a collision, causing the Camry’s front-right tire to bump the curb. Samantha felt the tire wobble and go flat. Her stomach sank. She had no choice but to roll to a stop.

  The car in front of her continued on, oblivious to the damage it had caused. Another vehicle passed. Apprehension tingled along her skin as the Crown Vic made the turn onto the square. Suddenly, they were the only two cars on the sleepy downtown street.

  The vehicle pulled directly up alongside her, idling. But no one made a move to roll down the window or get out. Her heart jumping inside her chest, Samantha turned her head and looked. But the sedan’s windows were tinted dark. She couldn’t see the driver or any other passenger, for that matter. The Crown Vic sat there for another ten seconds, the deep bass of its stereo speakers vibrating the Camry. Then, strangely, it gunned the engine and drove away. Samantha watched in disbelief as its red taillights disappeared down the street. What had just happened?

  She let go of the breath she’d been holding. But a knock on the window startled her and made her cry out.

  Luther Banda peered at her. “Samantha? You all right in there?”

  With shaking fingers, she lowered the glass. “Luther! What’re you doing here?”

  “Oh, just out walkin’ around. I’ve been down at the Shamrock havin’ a cold beer. My air conditioner’s broke at home.” A heavy crease appeared in his forehead. “Looks like you got yourself a flat. If you’ve got a spare in the trunk, I’ll change it for you.”

  “Luther…did you see the car that stopped next to me?”

  “Yeah. That a friend of yours?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t see who was inside. I think they might’ve been following me.”

  “Probably just some horny teenagers with nothing better to do, tryin’ to get themselves a look at a pretty young woman. Had their music turned up like a bunch of fools.” Despite his assurance, however, he frowned and glanced down the road in the direction the car had gone.

  Samantha emerged from the Camry and handed him the key fob. But before he could move to the back of the car and open the trunk, another vehicle turned the corner onto the street. This time it was an actual police cruiser. It came up and halted beside them. There were two officers inside.

  “Everything all right, miss?” the middle-aged one on the passenger side asked as his window came down. He peered at Luther. “This man giving you trouble?”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “Mr. Banda is my employee, actually. I own the new café in Sea Breeze Centre. He’s helping me change a flat.”

  The officer pressed his lips together, appearing unimpressed with the information. His eyes remained on Luther.

  “Finish what you’re doing and then get on home, Luther,” he advised sternly. “Not to the bar or wherever the hell else you go.”

  The cruiser started off again. Incensed, Samantha stared
after it. “I can’t believe that. They can’t tell you where to be—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sam.” Luther gave a weary sigh of resignation. He opened the trunk and began rummaging for her jack and spare tire. “I’m an ex-con. Comes with the territory.”

  Luther had revealed the information when she’d interviewed him for the position at Café Bella. To his credit, he had been up-front about his past. He’d hung out with a rough crowd as a young man and gotten involved in a car-theft ring in metro Charleston. While serving time in prison, he had also killed another inmate, something he’d received an extra sentence for, although he’d sworn he had been acting in self-defense.

  Samantha shook her head. “You’ve proven yourself. You’ve stayed out of trouble for a long time.”

  Hauling the spare around to the front of the car, Luther knelt on the ground and fitted the jack into place behind the wheel well. “Don’t matter. Folks around here stick to their beliefs, and I made my bed with ’em years ago.”

  Still, she didn’t like it. Samantha believed in second chances. She crossed her arms against her chest and looked around the town square as he worked, noticing the strands of small white lights decorating the trees and the tiered fountain that dripped water onto a bed of swamp lilies.

  “Noticed you didn’t say nothin’ to the cops about that car you thought was following you.” Luther’s big, tattooed muscles bulged as he pumped the jack and began raising the car enough to remove the damaged tire.

  “No,” she said quietly. She hadn’t wanted to involve the police. “It was probably nothing.”

  He grunted. “I doubt whoever was in that car meant you any harm, but you should still be careful, Sam. Even ’round here. This might not be New York City, but take it from someone who knows—trouble can be found most anyplace.”

  Samantha thought again of the mysterious Crown Victoria. Feeling foolish, she shoved down her faint paranoia that she had been found.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Mark stared out his bedroom window at the darkened ocean. He had tossed and turned for most of the night, unable to stop thinking about Samantha Marsh. Until now, he had firmly believed he could never be drawn to another woman, that doing so would be some kind of betrayal to Shelley.

  Then what had he done? He’d gone and invited Samantha for a walk on the beach. He had actually touched her. Openly admitted that he was attracted to her, and that he’d been trying to ask her out. Humiliated, frustrated with himself, he raked a hand through his hair. He’d never done anything so impulsive.

  We can be friends. I’d like to be friends, but it can’t be anything more…

  The rejection had stung. Immersed in his thoughts and feeling guilty for his actions, he watched as pearlescent moonlight illuminated the peak of a cresting wave. It wouldn’t be light for another solid hour. Restless, clad in pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, Mark crept down the hallway toward the kitchen. On the way, he checked in on his sleeping daughter in her bedroom.

  Emily lay on her side. Her tousled blond hair was spread out on the pillow, and her cupid’s-bow lips were slightly parted with her even breathing. She clutched a ballerina doll Olivia had given her for her birthday. Despite his current mood, Mark smiled ruefully, recalling that he’d once told Shelley that it looked like a fairy princess had thrown up in their daughter’s room. It was entirely pink and awash with ruffles, from the bed to the window treatments. Emily loved it.

  Returning to the hall and passing through the large living area, Mark looked around his home. It was casually appointed with whitewashed furniture, paneled pine and beadboard walls, and vintage checked and floral patterns on the curtains and upholstery. Everything in the sunny, cozy bungalow bore Shelley’s stamp. She’s in every corner of this house, he thought, throat tight.

  Two years younger than he was, Shelley had been his high school sweetheart. Except for a temporary but volatile breakup after Mark had left for college, they’d been inseparable. Meant to be together forever. But sometimes fate had other plans.

  He felt another pang of self-recrimination. The love of his life and mother of his child was dead, and he’d spent the night thinking about another woman. Maybe Mercer was right; the loneliness was getting to him.

  Fully giving up on sleep, Mark went into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker. As he measured grounds, his cell phone on the countertop shrilled. He answered it quickly so it wouldn’t wake Emily.

  “Mark?” a male voice asked, sounding tinny through the phone’s receiver. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “Carter.” Mark sighed and rubbed his forehead. “No, actually. I’m up already.”

  “I figured. Just like Dad—early bird gets the worm, right? Hey, I’m calling from one of those in-flight phones.”

  He frowned. “You’re on your way here now? I thought you weren’t coming until Monday.”

  “I wrapped filming on the soap early. I thought, why not come on home? I took a late flight with a layover in Raleigh. My plane lands at the Charleston airport in about an hour. Want to come get me?”

  “I can send the hotel limo service.”

  “I want you to pick me up, Mark. I thought maybe we could have breakfast together, just you and me. Someplace besides the St. Clair. What do you say?”

  Hesitating, Mark looked at the digital clock on the microwave face. “All right. I just need to arrange for someone to be here for Emily.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  The phone went dead. Carter hadn’t been home in more than two years. Not since Shelley’s funeral, although Olivia and Mercer had taken Emily to New York for a visit several months earlier. Mark hadn’t gone on the trip, instead remaining behind to oversee the hotel. He went back to making coffee. He needed all the caffeine he could get to prepare himself for his brother.

  “I told them I wanted a fifteen percent pay increase and ten weeks off a year.” Carter took a bite of his lowcountry seafood omelet and chewed before speaking again. “The time off’s standard in David Paul Mancier’s contract, and it would give me time to explore other options. I’m ready to move on to something else.”

  Mark and Carter sat on the outdoor deck of Mila’s Pancake House, which overlooked the Rarity Cove community beach. Instead of having breakfast in Charleston, Carter had insisted on driving back to town and dining at what Mark considered a way too public spot for his relatively famous brother. Carter’s hair, normally a light brown like Mark’s, was subtly streaked with highlights that set off his high cheekbones and chiseled jawline. His eyes, however, were obscured by the dark tint of his Ray-Bans. Concerned about the hotel, Mark checked his watch, something that apparently didn’t miss Carter’s notice.

  “I’m trying to get your advice here. Are you even listening, Mark?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then what did I just say?”

  “I heard you,” Mark said. “But you need to remember this Mancier guy’s been on the show for two decades. You haven’t. And I thought soaps were having it tough these days.”

  “That’s not the case with Friends and Lovers. Our ratings are solid for daytime, and the network’s sticking by us, especially since that talk show tanked in the afternoon time slot.” Carter lowered his voice. “My agent’s hinted to the producer that I’m considering not renewing my contract. And, well, it’s kind of the truth—”

  Two women in shorts and bikini tops appeared at the table, interrupting them.

  “Are you Carter St. Clair?” one asked excitedly.

  Carter exchanged pleasantries and signed his name on their paper menus. Once they’d left, he took a sip of his coffee. “Sorry.”

  “Like any of that hero worship bothers you.”

  He grinned, his dimples deepening. “Jealous?”

  “Not especially. But I am curious as to why you wanted to have breakfast with me. Why not Mom? You know she’d love showing you off at the country club.”

  “I’ll be seeing her soon. Besides, I’ve had Mila’s on my mind fo
r the past week, not that bland geezer food the club serves.” Looking at Mark, he laid his fork on the rim of his plate and paused contemplatively. His features grew serious. “The truth is, I also wanted to see how you’re doing.”

  He didn’t have to say more. Shelley had always been a sore spot between them, but he also knew Carter had been deeply saddened by her death. Vaguely, Mark recalled him flying in and being here, offering his help. But so much of those days following the accident seemed lost to him, as if he’d been living inside a black mist.

  “I’ve talked to Mom,” Carter continued carefully. “She says you’re still not over…things. She worries about you.”

  “She doesn’t need to. I’m fine.”

  “Maybe what you need is a break from the hotel. Have you ever even thought about that? What if the best thing for you and Em is to pack up and move from here? Start over someplace that doesn’t hold all these memories. You always talked about living in Atlanta again. You liked going to school there.”

  “That was before Dad died,” Mark pointed out. “Someone needs to run the hotel. You have your career. Mom doesn’t have the interest or the business sense, and Mercer’s still young and trying to figure out what she wants to do with her life.”

  “Mark.” Carter removed his sunglasses, revealing piercing, midnight-blue eyes. “Have you even considered selling the St. Clair? The hospitality industry is tough these days, and it’s getting harder to turn a profit. Independents are struggling, and we could be looking at a decreasing valuation over the next several years.”

  The pitch sounded familiar. Putting down his coffee mug, Mark shook his head, the realization rising up in front of him like an interstate billboard. He now understood the real reason why Carter had wanted to have breakfast with him alone, away from the hotel and on neutral ground. “They called you, didn’t they? That big hotel chain that’s interested in the St. Clair.”

  “Don’t overreact like you always do. All I’m saying is that it’s an option—”