The air in her room was as hot and sticky as a tar-paper roof. Gina couldn’t breathe, let alone sleep. She kicked the sheets off her clammy skin and stood in front of the little fan, letting it billow the folds of her cotton nightgown. She glanced over at the clock on the nightstand. It was only midnight, but she had to be in the makeup room at seven in the morning. How was she ever going to get some sleep in this toaster oven of a bedroom?
Lisa’s bed, of course, was empty. Should she worry about her sister, out this late on an island in the middle of nowhere with a man she hardly knew? Hah! Zeke was the one she should worry about. Lisa Foxton could hold her own, anywhere, anytime.
She heard hushed voices drifting in from the window. Shamelessly, she stepped over and peeked out.
Moonlight spilled over the grassy area in front of the inn. Lisa and Zeke stood there, her head resting on his shoulder. Gina smiled despite herself. It was so sweet, the way he wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzled her neck.
She felt sad. Sad for herself, that all the sweetness had gone so quickly from her own romance, replaced by bitterness and resentment.
She should quit spying, should go to bed and get some sleep. If her personal life was in ruins, at least she could now concentrate, exclusively, on getting what she wanted professionally.
And she would do that, she promised herself, but right now, the only breeze entering the room was coming from this window. A moment later, when she peeked out again, the lovers had disappeared.
She saw a slight movement at the edge of the small clearing that served as the lawn, and held her breath as a doe stepped daintily into the pool of light near the porch. Slowly, two small fawns joined their mother. They nibbled at the grass, and the moonlight shone on their dappled brown and white backs.
A moment later, the doe raised her head, startled by something. And as quickly as she’d come, she was gone, bounding into the darkness, the fawns springing away right behind her.
As Gina watched, a man emerged from the darkness of the porch. He was holding a huge flashlight in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. A white dog with brown freckles and a distinctive feathered tail dutifully followed in his wake. The bill of his cap shaded the man’s face, but Gina knew the dog and its owner.
Tate Moody. He glanced around, then limped painfully to the golf cart he’d parked earlier in the evening.
The dog stood motionless on the same spot where the deer had stood earlier, his muzzle quivering, his tail up, in a perfect point.
“Moonpie,” Tate called. “Come! Come on, boy!”
The dog turned, looked at his master, then longingly into the darkness where the deer had vanished. But he padded over to the cart and jumped up into the passenger seat. Within seconds the two were zipping off, down the path, into that same darkness.
She heard footsteps outside the hallway. Lisa. She scampered back to bed, forcing herself to play possum as her baby sister crept inside and began hurriedly undressing.