The Cliff House Page 9

  “Hello? Anybody there?”

  She jumped and squealed at the male voice calling over Cruz’s mellow tones.

  “Who’s there?” She looked around frantically for some kind of weapon. The only thing she could find in a rush was a paint scraper and a heavy paperweight. She had pepper spray somewhere but couldn’t remember where she’d put it after she bought it.

  She swiveled around, weapons at the ready, to find Gabe Ellison, her ex-brother-in-law’s savior and guest, opening the door. He looked muddy and bedraggled and was holding a furry gray bundle in his arms.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I called out a few times and nobody answered.”

  She dropped the paperweight and the scraper, feeling stupid. “So instead of taking that as a sign, you decided to barge in anyway. Maybe that should have told you something, that I wasn’t in the mood for company, Mr. Ellison.”

  “Please. Gabe. Is this your place? I didn’t realize you lived so close to Cruz.”

  Under her initial surprise, another deeper panic began to flicker. She had to get him out of here.

  “I helped him find Casa Del Mar when it went on the market,” she said. She didn’t add that Cruz had been rootless, unsettled, for several years after the divorce. She had been worried about him, especially because of the usual riffraff that hung out with him. As his financial adviser, she had suggested real estate was always a good idea, and having a permanent place to stay when he came to visit Mari could only make visitations easier on both of them.

  In retrospect, she wasn’t sure that had been the best decision. She knew he drove Bea crazy with his unannounced visits. And right now she was questioning anything that brought Gabe Ellison into her particular orbit.

  Gabe looked around at this part of her converted storage building and she wondered what he saw. At least most of Marguerite’s things were safely tucked away out of sight in the workroom.

  The smell of paint and sealer permeated everything in the building, though. Nothing she could do about that.

  As she feared, he picked up on the signs. “You’re an artist,” he exclaimed.

  She’d heard people refer to their blood running cold but had never really understood the saying until right this moment. She felt as if an iced slushy drink was suddenly seeping through her veins.

  “I’m an accountant. I do taxes and financial planning,” she corrected, hoping her voice didn’t tremble.

  “And you’re an artist. I can see the paint under your nails.”

  She looked down and saw at once that he was right. Damn him for being so observant and damn her for not washing her hands as carefully as usual.

  “Residual, only. I was cleaning up some old paint cans in the back of the shed here. I’m afraid I spilled some.”

  He gazed around at the space and she knew immediately when he picked up on the large boxes, ready for delivery and adorned with the distinctive floral label.

  He walked over to them and stared. “Marguerite. These have a return address for Marguerite. The very same Marguerite we were discussing the other day.”

  He shifted his stare to her. “You... Are you Marguerite?”

  The ice spread out to her fingertips. She forced a laugh. “Me? Marguerite? If my sister heard you say that, she would bust a gut laughing. I’m the most unartistic person in the world. Ask Cruz. Ask Bea. Ask anyone.”

  “Then why do you have a stack of boxes with Marguerite’s label on them?”

  Why, oh why hadn’t she locked the outside door? She always did. It was her protection from the world.

  Of all the people who might have stumbled onto an open door of her workshop, why did it have to be him?

  Gabe Ellison.

  After that encounter at Cruz’s she had googled him. Now she knew exactly who he was, why his name had seemed so very familiar.

  Gabriel Ellison was no ordinary backstage lingerer who had somehow been in the right place at the right time to save Cruz’s life. He was an award-winning documentary filmmaker. According to the information she had found, he had started young, filming the exploits of his own adventuring father as Chet Ellison climbed mountains, surfed remote waves, trekked through deep jungles.

  After his father’s death, Gabriel had become renowned in his own right and had been nominated twice for an Academy Award.

  And he was here, asking questions about Marguerite.

  She had a contingency plan, the one she had practiced for this very possibility.

  She sighed. “I really wish you had knocked, Mr. Ellison.”

  “Gabe. And I didn’t. Cat’s out of the bag now, Marguerite.”

  She forced a laugh. “You guessed part of the truth. I am connected to Marguerite, in a way. I represent her. It’s a very closely guarded secret but I’m her agent with the outside world. I handle deliveries for her, receipts, contact with galleries. She prefers to remain anonymous but somebody has to handle the business side of things. We have a...complicated arrangement. In order to maintain the secrecy she needs for her creative muse, she needs someone to connect with the outside. In exchange, I take twenty percent of her considerable profits. It’s a win-win for everyone.”

  By his narrowed gaze, she couldn’t tell whether he believed her or not.

  “Her business manager.”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “So is she someone in this area?”

  “I can’t tell you that. In fact, it would be better if we stopped talking about this altogether. You would only hound me and hound me until I divulged more than either Marguerite or I feel comfortable telling you. I help her keep her secrets. That’s all you need to know. Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Ellison?”

  As if on cue, the little furball in his arms began to stir. He lifted his head and looked around and Daisy discovered Gabe was holding an adorable dog, gray with big ears, a flattish face and blue eyes.

  “Oh. Who’s this?”

  He made a rueful face. “I was hoping you could tell me that. I found him out on the cliffside near the bend, about two hundred yards up the road. I was hoping he belongs to this house or maybe one of your neighbors.”

  Daisy did a quick mental inventory of those who lived close to her. Several houses were vacant, used only by wealthy vacationers from the Bay Area who wanted a house on the coast. A few others were empty, for sale. She didn’t know anyone who had a little French bulldog.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t exactly gone door to door in the neighborhood taking a dog census, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen this guy before. I can ask around, though.”

  “Any chance you have an old bowl you wouldn’t mind him drinking out of? I gave him my water bottle but I’m sure he’s still thirsty. I get the feeling he was stranded on the cliffside at least overnight.”

  Cliffside. She keyed in on that word. If the dog hadn’t been able to climb up on his own, how difficult must it have been for Gabe to climb down and rescue him, especially with his own injuries?

  She huffed out a breath. Great. It wasn’t enough that he saved her ex-brother-in-law’s life. Now he had to go and do something completely admirable like rescue a cute stranded dog.

  How on earth was she supposed to resist that?

  Easy, she reminded herself. She only had to remember that he was entirely too perceptive and, with a little digging, could ruin everything.

  She shifted her attention to the dog, who did look thirsty and bedraggled. He cocked his head, big ears out, completely stealing her heart.

  “Oh, you poor little thing. Did you have a rough night, hmm? I’m so sorry.”

  She almost cooed but caught herself just in time, especially with Gabe watching her.

  She did not want the man inside Pear Tree Cottage—her personal sanctuary—but having him here in the workshop was infinitely more dangerous, especially if he tri
ed harder to suss out Marguerite’s secrets.

  “I don’t have bowls here,” she said. “We’ll have to go over to the house.”

  She did, but they were old paint bowls that she wouldn’t want anybody trying to use for drinking water.

  “That’s fine. Lead the way.”

  He held the dog as he followed after her, waiting while she firmly locked the door this time.

  His steps were slow, measured, reminding her he had suffered a major abdominal injury just days earlier.

  “Are you supposed to be out of bed?” she asked as they walked the short distance on the pressed gravel pathway between the workshop and her house.

  He was silent for a moment, his breathing unnaturally even. “I am cleared to go walking,” he said tersely.

  “But not maneuvering your way down a cliff,” she guessed.

  “That might have been a mistake,” he admitted.

  In the glow from her outdoor lights, she could see his features were tight.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he answered with a smile that didn’t convince her. She had the feeling he was the exact opposite of fine though she was equally confident he would never admit it.

  Her house was locked and it took a minute of fumbling with the keys for her to open the door. She sighed. She remembered to lock her house but not the storage building. Naturally. If she had taken care of that little detail, they wouldn’t be having this conversation. She would be safe inside, dancing in secret to soft, sexy Latin music.

  “This is nice,” he said as she led him up the back porch steps into the house. “You must have one hell of a view in daylight.”

  “There aren’t very many houses along this stretch of road that don’t have a stellar view. In the springtime we get the gray whale migration and you can sit here for hours with the telescope or binoculars and look for spouts.”

  Not that she had time to sit anywhere for hours, but she loved the idea that she could.

  She did love watching storms roll in and the waves pound the cliffs far below. It soothed her spirit on days she was tired of crunching numbers and trying to meet unrealistic expectations of her clients, who wanted her to give them astronomical return on their investments with zero risk.

  “There’s a powder room right there, off the mudroom, if you would like to clean up. I can get this little guy some water.”

  She couldn’t very well pour a bowl of water to the dog on the porch then send the two of them on their way. Giving him the chance to clean up was the polite thing to do and he had saved the life of someone she cared about.

  Cruz had his problems and weaknesses and she wasn’t sure she could ever forgive him for breaking her sister’s heart, but he would always be her niece’s father. She cared about him and would have grieved if he had been killed by that jealous fan.

  “Thanks,” Gabe said. “I appreciate that. I have a feeling I’ve busted through a couple of stitches in the midst of my daring rescue.”

  Though he said the words as a joke, she suspected it was true. She knew how steep those cliffs were. She wanted to think she would find the courage to rescue a stranded dog but she wasn’t entirely certain of it.

  He held out the dog for her and she took a step forward. Only now did she realize there was no way to take the creature from him without touching Gabe Ellison. Butterflies started salsa dancing in her stomach.

  As she stepped closer, heat radiated from him. He smelled delicious, a unique combination of sea and sun, fresh dirt and coast brush and man. She fought the urge to stand there and inhale.

  She would not do something stupid like let herself be attracted to the man. It was impossible. He was entirely too dangerous. Like the heat of his skin, he radiated raw masculinity. Exactly the kind of man she always tried to avoid.

  She quickly scooped up the dog and backed away. He was about ten pounds, heftier than the kind of purse pooch some of the country-club set favored, and she wanted to kiss that grumpy little face all over.

  She hadn’t had a dog in years. Her last one had been a mutt she had found hanging around the middle school when she was about fourteen. She had loved that dog wholeheartedly from the moment she took him home, but somehow he had gravitated toward Bea.

  Big surprise there. Everyone favored Bea, with good reason. Her younger sister was everything Daisy could never be—funny, exuberant, warm, beautiful.

  She sighed, pushing away the ugly voices.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Gabe said. “Thanks.”

  “I have first-aid supplies in the medicine cabinet, if you need them. Bandages, cleansing wipes, that kind of thing.”

  “Got it.”

  “If you really did break through your stitches, you’re going to need professional help to sew you up. Don’t ask me. I faint at the sight of blood.”

  She didn’t. In fact, she was usually the calm, levelheaded one in a crisis, but she wasn’t sure she trusted herself to get anywhere close to Gabe and his injuries.

  “Good to know,” he answered, then headed toward her guest bathroom.

  When she heard the door close, she lifted up the little dog and planted a quick kiss on the top of his head that smelled like sun and fear.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been through a rough time, buddy. That must have been so scary for you. You’re safe now. We’ll get you sorted and find your owners.”

  In response, the little bulldog wagged his stump of a tail and tried to lick her and she fell completely in love.

  “Let’s get you some water, bud.”

  She quickly pulled a bowl from the cabinet and filled it with cool water, setting the water and the dog on the ground. He lapped it eagerly until the bowl was empty, so she filled it again for him then went to the refrigerator to see if she had anything that might be dog suitable.

  She unearthed some chicken and a hard-boiled egg and gave him both, to tide him over.

  She was running a bath in the sink to wash off some of that mud when Gabe returned.

  “Looks like you have things under control here.”

  Pain lines branched out around his mouth and she had to fight the urge to take care of him, as well.

  “He just needed a little food and water. I figured a quick bath wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Good idea.”

  She sighed. “Sit down, Mr. Ellison. You look pale, like you’re going to fall over.”

  “Gabe,” he insisted, but to her relief, he pulled out one of her kitchen chairs and lowered himself into it. She didn’t know what she would do if he passed out.

  “Did you break through your stitches?”

  “Not the stitches on the outside, anyway,” he answered.

  She poured a glass of ice water for him, too, and he drank thirstily, making her feel guilty for not doing that earlier.

  “Thank you. Here’s a little word of advice. Never take a hunting knife to the liver, if you can help it.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she answered. “Can I get you anything? I have more chicken. I could make a sandwich or salad.”

  “The water is great. Thank you.”

  He sipped at it again and she had to fight not to stare at him as she tried to remember when she last had a man in the kitchen.

  “He’s a cute little guy, isn’t he?”

  Adorable. “Yes. How do you think he ended up on the cliffside?”

  “Good question. There was a little trail through the brush. I wonder if he just wandered down and then couldn’t figure out how to get back up.”

  “Lucky you found him.” She paused. “What’s your plan with him? Are you going to call a shelter or take him back to Cruz’s house while you look for his owners?”

  “I don’t really like either of those options. I’m a guest at Casa Del Mar and don’t think I can suddenly show up at Cruz’s mansion lugging a stra
y that might or might not be house-trained, especially not with those big Dobermans he has.”

  Cruz’s guard dogs were well trained, she knew, and would probably leave this little guy alone, but their presence might scare him.

  “I also don’t want to take him to a shelter. While they do good work, I think he would be better in a home. I’ve always felt that dogs, like children, deserve to be in a place where they can be loved.”

  Despite her best efforts to resist him, Daisy could feel warmth seeping through her at his words. Considering her own experience she didn’t like to think about, she would completely agree.

  Stella would love him for that sentiment, if she was here. It was the entire reason she had taken in foster children for years.

  “Do you know if there’s any kind of foster dog organization in town, somewhere he can stay until we can find his owner?”

  No, she told herself. Absolutely not. Forget it. You have too much going on. The last thing you need is the complication of a foster dog.

  The Frenchie toddled over to her and rubbed his head against her leg, more like a cat than a dog, and she was lost.

  “I guess he could stay here,” she said, ignoring the voice of reason.

  Gabe looked startled, as if he never would have expected her to offer. She felt vaguely insulted by his surprise.

  “Are you sure? That’s a big commitment.”

  The urge to blurt out that she had changed her mind, that she had spoken without thinking, was almost overwhelming. Even suggesting it was crazy. She had so much on her plate right now, between her day job, Open Hearts, the festival coming up in a few short weeks and everything else. The last thing she needed was the stress and obligation of caring for a dog.

  But she looked into that adorably ugly little face and knew she had made the right call.

  “It should only be for a day or two, right? I imagine his owners are looking for him. He’s got a collar, which means he has a home.”

  “From what I understand, French bulldogs are quite highly prized and don’t come cheaply.”

  “He might even have an ID chip. I can take him to the vet tomorrow to check,” she said.