Cole considered calling Bailey but decided he might have better luck just showing up in person to make his request. He showered, shaved, and combed his damp hair. Slipping into his favorite pair of board shorts, he pulled a black T-shirt over his head and slid his feet into a pair of flip-flops. Seventy-two degrees in Yancey was paradise.
He parked in an open slot on the far end of Main Street and made his way to the Trading Post. Passing Thelma’s flower shop, he fought the strange and sudden urge to buy Bailey a bouquet. This wasn’t a date. He was going to her for help on a murder investigation. Besides, whatever they’d shared had died long ago, hadn’t it?
He caught sight of her through the front window of Agnes’s shop, perched on a stool, file folders surrounding her in a myriad of piles. Her hair pulled haphazardly up in a clip exposed her graceful neck, and a handful of untamable tendrils cascaded across her shoulders. She was dressed simply—a baby blue T-shirt and a pair of gray sweats.
He smiled. She looked comfortable. A complete one-eighty from the other day—tailored suit, hair wound in a twist, sadness clouding her beautiful eyes. Casual looked good on her. Natural.
She stood, walking with file in hand, her gaze fixed on whatever lay inside. She nibbled her thumbnail as she paced, clearly concentrating.
She pivoted and froze, her eyes locking on Cole.
His heart thudding, he waved, feeling like an idiot for gawking.
An emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge swept over her face, knocking the wind from him as it had that fateful night.
That night was ancient history. Everything about them was. She’d never have that kind of sway over him again, the power to devastate, to bring him to his knees. He’d never give it to her.
The door cracked open, and he lifted his chin. “Hey.”
She looked past him at the street, gazing from one side to the other.
“How are you?”
Her harried gaze settled back on him. “Busy.”
“Yeah.” He glanced behind her to the papers strewn everywhere. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”
“I’m trying to get everything in order.”
“Before you open shop?” He knew better.
“Before I sell.”
“No desire to stay in Yancey?” He didn’t blame her.
“None.” She crossed her arms, positioning herself in the doorway more as a blockade than someone who wanted to continue a conversation. “Was there something you needed?”
He rested his hand on the doorjamb. “Actually, there is.”
Surprise fluttered across her face.
“Can I come in?”
She pulled the door to her. “Like I said, I’m really busy. . . .”
He wedged his hand in the crack. “This won’t take long. It’s important.”
She exhaled, and after a moment stepped aside. “All right, but just for a minute.”
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in the Post. He walked by it nearly every day, waved to Miss Agnes, but he hadn’t stepped foot in it since he and Bailey had been together.
The place hadn’t changed much, other than the piles of folders and papers, of course.
The same cinnamony scent hung in the air. The same floral paper lined the shelves, though it’d yellowed with age.
With each step the old wooden floor creaked beneath him, though it creaked a little louder than when he’d been sixteen. A multitude of memories flooded over him. The first time he’d walked Bailey home. Their first kiss beneath the eaves of the doorway.
“You said you needed something.” She set the folder she’d been carrying on the desk and rested her hands on her hips.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, forcing himself to forget how sweet her lips had tasted. “I wanted to know if you could help identify this.” He pulled the image from the envelope and handed it to her.
She glanced at it and her brows furrowed. “What’s this all about?”
He explained the situation. How they needed her help. They, not him.
“Why come to me?”
He shrugged. “I figured living with Agnes, helping out around the shop, you’d probably know a lot more about this stuff than the rest of us. That’s why I’m here.” And the only reason he was.
“I have a doctorate in Russian Studies, teach at a university.”
“Really?” Agnes had mentioned she was doing well but had never gone into detail. Though he hardly gave Agnes the chance, always changing the subject when Bailey’s name came up. After a while, Agnes took the hint, and it’d been some years since he’d heard her name spoken at all. “Well, it looks like I came to the right place.”
Bailey swept her gaze back to the photo. Ignore the scent of coconut and sea air swirling about him. She focused on the picture in her hand, still not registering the image. How could she when Cole stood so near . . . his toned body radiating heat, his sandy blond hair dipping seductively across his brow, teasing the end of his long black lashes whenever he blinked those gorgeous seafoam green eyes.
What is wrong with you? Cole McKenna is nothing but trouble. The fact her heart wouldn’t stop hammering proved it.
“Any idea?” he asked, his voice as silky as she bet his skin still was.
“Hmm?”
He cocked a smile and her knees buckled.
Get a grip, girl. “It’s . . .” She cleared her throat. “It’s Russian.”
He stepped closer, his elbow a mere inch from hers.
She stiffened.
“Anything else jump out at you?”
My heart at the moment. She stepped back, trying to keep her attention focused on the image. The round face of a young child—or cherubim, perhaps. Downy soft hair rimmed his graceful face. “It’s an icon. Most likely sixteenth century based on stylization, but I’d need to see it to be certain.”
“Therein lies the problem. We were hoping you could tell us where to look.”
“Icons like this were brought to Alaska by missionaries for the churches they built here.”
“So we should be looking at the old Russian Orthodox churches?”
“Yes, but I don’t think you’ll find it. Not anywhere in Alaska, at least.”
He arched a brow. “Why’s that?”
“Agnes dragged me to every Russian Orthodox church and museum in the state at one time or another. Believe me, if that icon was in Alaska, I’d have seen it.”
“So you’re saying we’re at another dead end?”
“Not necessarily. There is someone I could check with.”
“Great. Who?”
“My aunt Elma.”
“Your family certainly loves Russian history.”
“She’s not really my aunt. She is . . . was . . . Agnes’s best friend. Elma loves Russian history as much as Agnes did. If that icon is in Alaska, she’ll know about it.”
“Could you call her?”
“I can’t. She doesn’t have a phone.”
“No phone. Where does she live?”
“Isux. Out in the Aleutian chain. I suppose I could take a day and visit her.” It’d get her out of Yancey and would be her last chance to see Elma. Once she left Alaska, she was never coming back. “Okay, I’ll see if I can get a flight.”
“We could have Kayden take us. She . . . no, maybe not. She’s flying up to Anchorage tomorrow—some kind of pilot certification training. . . . But we could fly with her to Anchorage and catch the morning commuter flight to Dutch Harbor from there.”
She swallowed. “We?”
“I want to go with you.”
Bad idea. Terrible. Borderline catastrophic. “Uh-uh.”
“The sheriff entrusted me with this photograph. It’s evidence and not allowed out of my sight.”
An entire day with Cole McKenna. “I don’t know.” She shook her head, scrambling for any excuse. “It could be difficult finding a boat ride from Dutch Harbor to Isux. They aren’t always easy to secure, especially during peak king-crab season.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”
“Why did I have a feeling you were going to say that?”
He was awfully quick with solutions—first the flight and now the boat ride. She narrowed her eyes. If this was some attempt to get her into bed . . . no. He wouldn’t dally with her then; why would he now?
His lips broke into an alarming smile at her stare, and warning bells clanged to life.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve got a lot of work to do. I can’t afford a day off.” What she couldn’t afford was a day spent alone with Cole.
“I understand, but right now this photo is all we’ve got to go on. It could mean the difference between bringing a killer to justice and never solving the case.”
Great. Her shoulders slackened. How could she say no to that?
A young woman’s life had been taken, and all Cole was asking for was one day out of hers. “All right, but I want it understood this is strictly business.”
“Okay.” His brow furrowed.
“I just don’t want anyone thinking . . .”
His eyes narrowed. “Thinking what?”
“Never mind.” She grabbed a stack of files from the desk. “I’ll go, but only to help the victims.”
He held up his hands. “I’m not viewing it as anything else.”
Of course he wasn’t. This was Cole. He didn’t dally with girls like her. She hefted the files on top of the cabinet, hoping the exertion would cover the flush of her embarrassment. “When do you want to go?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
She pulled out a drawer and stuffed the first file into place. “Fine.”
“I’ll pick you up around quarter to six.”
“No. I’ll meet you. Just tell me where.”
“We keep the floatplane on our property. You remember where the place is?”
She nodded, unwilling to face him, unwilling to admit how many times she’d thought of him and their summer spent on his family’s land—swimming in the ocean, running along the miles of private beach. He’d taught her so many things, and she’d rejected them all.