Tightrope (Burning Cove #3)(6)

Amalie went quickly up the staircase. All things considered, it had been a very odd evening. She did not want to admit it, but Hazel might be right. Perhaps the disaster at the Palace tonight would hurt future business.

When she reached the landing, she turned and went down the hall. She and Hazel had made certain to give Pickwell the best suite in the villa.

Make that the second-best suite.

Strictly speaking, number six wasn’t the most luxurious room in the mansion. That title belonged to the suite that had been used by Madam Zolanda, and after one quick look, Amalie and Hazel had decided not to rent it out to guests. The psychic’s belongings—her colorful wardrobe, her personal effects, jewelry, costumes, and shoes—were still there.

The previous owner of the villa had instructed the real estate agent to sell the property with all of its contents. When Amalie had taken possession of the mansion, she had become the new owner of everything in Zolanda’s suite. There were no truly valuable baubles inside, but there were several nice pieces of jewelry, and some of the scarves and gowns were made of expensive materials. The plan was to discreetly sell a pair of earrings or a bracelet or perhaps a turban or a gown if and when the inn’s financial situation grew truly desperate.

She was in the process of sliding the key into the lock of number six when she heard the muffled rumble of a powerful engine turning into the drive. She listened closely. An expensive car, she decided. Not the police, then.

She let herself into the darkened room and hurried across the carpet to the French doors that opened onto the small balcony.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the doors and went out onto the balcony. Careful not to look straight down into the dense shadows of the gardens, she gripped the wrought iron railing and focused on the long sweep of the drive.

The twin beams of brilliant headlights slashed the night, moving swiftly toward the entrance of the villa.

A wave of apprehension came over her. She was very sure that whoever was behind the wheel of the speedster was not bringing good news.

She hurried back inside, paused to close the balcony doors, and went down the hall. The doorbell chimed just as she reached the top of the staircase. She saw Hazel rush toward the front door.

“I wonder who that can be?” Hazel said. “Sounds like an expensive car. Maybe it’s someone who just arrived from L.A. and wants a room because the Burning Cove Hotel is full. Perhaps we aren’t doomed, after all.”

“Hazel, wait . . .” Amalie said.

But she was too late. Hazel was already opening the big front door.

“Welcome to the Hidden Beach Inn,” she sang out. “You’re in luck. I believe we might have one room left . . . Oh.”

From where she stood at the top of the staircase, Amalie could see the man who stood on the front steps. The shock of recognition made her go cold. Luther Pell’s mysterious associate, the stranger who wore a gun under his evening jacket, loomed in the doorway.

“Thank you,” he said. “Sorry for disturbing you at this hour. My name is Matthias Jones. May I come in?”

His voice, dark and intriguing, sent little frissons of electricity across the back of Amalie’s neck. She had never responded to a man’s voice in quite that way. It probably ought to worry her.

“Well, you’re here,” Hazel said, no longer the gracious innkeeper. “You might as well come in.”

“Thank you,” Matthias said.

He moved into the front hall and inclined his head toward Hazel, gravely polite. The niceties out of the way, he immediately switched his attention to Amalie. He watched her descend the staircase with an expression that somehow combined cool interest with even colder determination. Her intuition warned her that he was trying to decide if she was going to be a problem for him.

She could have told him that the answer was yes.

Fair enough, she thought. She had already concluded that he was going to be trouble for her.

Matthias Jones was lean and broad-shouldered with the sort of strong, fierce features that would never qualify as handsome. The bold nose, grim jaw, and smoldering amber eyes could more accurately be described as predatory. He was not unusually tall yet he somehow dominated the room.

He wore the same evening clothes he’d had on earlier that evening—the same crisply pleated trousers, the same white shirt, the same black bow tie. He was also wearing the same evening jacket that had been expertly tailored to conceal a shoulder holster. That meant he probably still wore the gun.

She was very sure that he was not going to leave until he was ready to do so. Matthias Jones was both an immovable object and an irresistible force.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Jones?” she asked, going for the cool, calm, always-in-command attitude of a professional innkeeper.

“I understand that Dr. Norman Pickwell was a guest here,” Matthias said. “I want to take a look around his room.”

Hazel’s brief moment of hope had given way to deep suspicion. “Are you a cop?”

Circus people and law enforcement had a long history of a fraught relationship, to say the least. When the circus was in town, it was all too easy for the police to blame the highly transient crews of roustabouts and performers for any crimes that occurred while they were around. Got your pocket picked while you were watching the high wire act? Did a few tools go missing off your back porch? Blame the circus people.

“No,” Matthias said. “I’m not a cop. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”