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Colm’s smile widened to deepen his famous dimples. Gretchen let a smile grow in return. Then again, she wasn’t sure if she had any control over her lips at all. The man was gorgeous.
“I’m your man, Goldie, love.” He lifted a hand and made a slicing action across his neck. “Cut. That was perfect, Gretchen. The viewers are going to love you.”
“Cut?” she replied, stunned and confused at the same time. She felt her smile droop. The room darkened as Nate removed the camera from his shoulder and took the light with him toward the stairs. “Wait! This whole thing was filmed?” Her confession blared in her mind. The admission she had withheld from her family and friends would now be viewed by the whole country, the whole world, perhaps. But most definitely the island.
“Oh, no! You can’t air what I said. Please!” She rushed out to follow Colm and Nate. They gave no response. “Please, listen to me. People around here won’t understand.”
“Terms, Miss Bauer,” Nate reminded her. At the time she’d had no idea the show would be insensitive to her wishes. She should send them away. Risk a lawsuit if need be. Obviously, Billy had been right and she couldn’t make a good decision to save her life. Calling the show could be the worst decision she’d ever made.
No. Dating him was.
And Billy would want her to second-guess any decision she made so that she would ultimately fail at this endeavor. Then she would fall right back into her old life, which included all of the ways he pulled her strings.
At the top of the stairs Nate looked back at Colm. “I’m heading to the bluffs for some stills for fillers while the light’s good. Be back in an hour or so.”
“Sounds good. I’m going to look around here for a while.” All traces of the Irishman’s accent were gone again as the two men carried on with business—as though her future mattered not at all.
“Mr. McCrae!” Gretchen yelled from the bottom of the stairs. He stopped on the top tread and looked over his shoulder. Even in the shadows she could see his perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in question over the sleepy-eyed stare the camera and his fans loved so much. But Gretchen saw the real, ugly side of Colm McCrae, and as of this moment, he had lost a fan.
“You should know I’m nobody’s puppet,” she stated loud and clear. “Don’t try that again. And I want this whole scene erased.”
“Or what? You think you can rehab this place alone?”
She huffed at this egomaniac—even though her own mother had asked the same unsupportive question numerous times. “Not alone, Mr. McCrae. On my own,” she shot back with all the vigor pent up from everyone’s betrayal. “I will restore this place on my own. There’s a difference.”
He stood silently, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He gave a quick nod and started to walk away. Before he disappeared around the corner, he stopped. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Gretchen stared up at the empty doorway. See what he can do? Wasn’t he the host of the show? Didn’t he have clout? It didn’t make sense, unless...
Gretchen inhaled sharply.
It would seem she wasn’t the only one who had a puppet master. Colm McCrae had to perform for one, too?
* * *
The metal tape measure zipped back into its case after Colm took a few quick measurements of the gaping hole in the foyer floor. He tossed it back into his bucket of tools, figuring he could repair the damage today before his crew and trailers arrived. He also figured Troy would be happy not to have it cut into the strict rehab schedule.
A schedule that didn’t include stopping someone with murderous intent, but now just might.
Colm felt the edge of the rough-cut hole. His fingers came away with chewed sawdust. Whoever cut this had used the wrong size blade. Not that it mattered; Gretchen still fell through. It did the trick.
Her ashen face appeared in his mind.
Almost did the trick, if they were looking for death as the outcome. Would there be another attempt?
She’d told him someone had hurt her once. Once was one too many times in Colm’s book, but also unrealistic. Most lowlifes came back for more. They thrived on the power they held over someone. Had her lowlife returned to strike again? She apparently didn’t want anyone to know.
Textbook response.
Colm felt a deep irritation that had lived in him since he was a wee one. After his da’s death, his mother had remarried a real bowsie of a man. Gil Griffin used his hands for things other than carpentry. Emily Griffin hid her bruises well.
What kind of bruises are you sportin’, Gretchen?
The ceiling overhead creaked, stealing Colm’s attention. Someone was upstairs. He’d just left Gretchen downstairs, and Nate had headed out the back door to walk the path to the cliff’s edge for photos.
Colm pushed up from the floor and approached the first stair. He scanned the second-floor balcony for the visitor. Or perhaps it was the hole-cutter still at the scene of the crime, here to witness the outcome of his or her handiwork.
Colm clenched his fists before remembering his promise to God: no more fighting. The Dublin street fighter Colm McCrae was no more. God’s saving grace made him a new creation, one who didn’t use his fists to settle things. That was his stepfather’s way. It didn’t have to be his.
But that didn’t mean he was going to invite the intruder for coffee. Or approach him or her unarmed.
Colm reached for the hammer in his tool belt. The tool’s head was smooth from virtually no use, even though he’d carried it with him for the past two years as the show’s host. It didn’t matter that the belt was just for show; the tools attached were very real and would do well to strike fear and persuade minds. Colm balanced the weight of the hammer in his hand, testing its potential for use.
With no railing on the open side of the staircase, Colm stuck closer to the wall, each foot lightly placed and centered. Surprisingly the stairs remained quiet and held his weight well. Overall the house seemed sturdy. When he was down in the basement he’d noticed three-by-ten construction. Everything used to be so well built. Gretchen would have a fine home and establishment when the renovation was complete. That was, if she avoided the person who wanted to harm her.
Colm searched the top-floor hall as he approached the final step. The railing was intact here as it encased the hall. A sweep of his palm met smooth, strong mahogany. Beautifully carved spindles caught his eye for a split second, but they would have to wait for his adoration. The person behind one of the eight doors off the hall came first.
Colm stilled with a wall to his back. He listened for any sounds. All seemed quiet. Maybe he’d imagined the creaking floor before.
He heard a door close at his left.
No. Definitely not imagined.
Colm walked head-on to the back-left side door. He didn’t wait to be surprised but barreled in at full force, hands and hammer raised.
A person with a mass of golden curls stopped him cold, hammer frozen in midstrike.
Gretchen shrank back as her arms flew to her face. Her mouth opened and Colm knew she was about to scream. He quickly lowered the hammer and closed in. “I’m so sorry,” he assured her. “So, so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He slowly replaced the hammer in its loop and raised his hands surrender-style. “See, I don’t want to harm you.”
Her face had drained of all color. She’d yet to scream, and that was when he noticed air was going in her mouth, but not coming out.
An asthma attack? But she wasn’t wheezing. This was more like hyperventilating. But