Children of the Sea 03 - Sea Lord

this time of day.”
    What restaurant?
    “Then we will go there,” Conn said.
    He watched politeness war with reluctance on her face. He admired both her manners and her caution.
    But of course, he could not allow her to refuse.
    “Or we could wait at your home,” Conn added.
    Her eyes widened. Something flashed in those soft green depths, like a fish darting below the surface of the water, before she dropped her gaze.
    He stared, frustrated, at the top of her head.
    “This way,” she said.
    The road zigzagged to the harbor, bumping around hills between snug, square houses and trees burning red and gold. Lucy followed the pavement like a spool of black ribbon unrolling to the sea, uncomfortably conscious of every step, every breath of the man beside her.
    She wasn’t afraid of him, exactly. Growing up on the island, you learned to take care of yourself and your neighbors. Her brother Caleb, the island police chief, was rarely called for anything more serious than teenagers lifting beers from Wiley’s Market or fishermen settling a dispute with their fists.
    Until this past summer, when some madness had infected World’s End beyond the usual
    “germs”—vacationers, in island-speak. A woman from Away had been murdered on the beach by a Page 11
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    lawyer living on the point. A homeless vet had attacked Regina Barone in her own restaurant. And just two months ago, an unknown intruder had broken into the clinic, nearly killing Regina and the island doctor.
    Lucy swallowed the flat taste of fear in her mouth. Not that the guy striding next to her looked like a killer. But you never knew, did you? Bruce Whittaker, the lawyer convicted of the beach murder, hadn’t looked like the kind of man who tortured women in his living room either.
    She was relieved when the road unfurled into town. The afternoon sun danced on the waters of the harbor, painting the peaked roofs with yellow light. Shadows stretched under cars and between buildings, gathering under the eaves like cobwebs. The storefront windows were papered with flyers advertising a shellfish commission meeting, a bake sale in support of the community center, free kittens.
    The faded red awning of Antonia’s Ristorante extended over the sidewalk, casting a warm glow over the tables inside. Empty tables. Empty chairs. A typical Wednesday in the off-season, between the lunch and dinner rush.
    “This is it,” Lucy announced.
    Her companion glanced from the hand-lettered chalkboard in the doorway to the cat napping in the restaurant window. “Dylan is here?”
    Lucy pushed the door—he didn’t try to open it for her, she noticed—making the bell jangle. “Usually.
    He—”
    “Hi, Lu.” Regina straightened from the refrigerated case behind the counter, her dark hair tied under a jaunty red bandana and a wide, white apron wrapped over her baby bump. Her Italian heritage showed in the tiny gold cross at her neck and her big, dark, expressive eyes. Her gaze wandered over Lucy’s shoulder; brightened with interest. “Friend of yours?”
    “I just met him.”
    “Oh?” The interest sharpened. “Nice. As long as you’re here, you can take his order. Maggie’s off the clock.”
    Lucy cleared her throat. “I don’t think—”
    “Maggie?” repeated that deep, cool voice.
    “Maggie Hunter.” Regina shot him a smile. “I’m Regina Barone.”
    He inclined his head, acknowledging the introduction. “Conn ap Llyr.”
    Regina stilled. Her eyes narrowed. “Nice suit.”
    He regarded her the way he’d looked at the cat, as if she were a species of creature barely worthy of notice. “Nice place.”
    Regina crossed her arms over her middle. “We like it.”
    Lucy’s stomach knotted. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what. But you didn’t grow up in an alcoholic household without learning to pay attention to eyes and hands and tones of voice.
    The door behind them opened. Lucy jumped.
    But it was only her brother Caleb, still in his police uniform, coming to pick up Maggie after her shift.
    Relief relaxed Lucy’s shoulders. Strong, patient Cal, steady as an oak tree despite the limp he’d acquired in Iraq. His hair was darker than hers, his eyes the same gray-green.
    His smile faded as he picked up the tension in the room. “What’s going on?” he asked evenly.
    “This guy”—Regina jerked her head without taking her eyes off the stranger—“is Conn ap