Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01 by Dead Man's Island Page A

Just past the boathouse I came upon a lone figure, leaning on the railing, staring out at the sound. He didn’t turn at the sound of my footsteps.
    I came up beside him. He was certainly a spectacularly handsome young man despite the perpetual scowl on his face.
    “Where would you rather be, Haskell? Out on the water?”
    That caught his attention. Chase’s stepson turned toward me. No mid-century matinee idol had ever looked better. With his thick chestnut hair, deep-set eyes with long dark lashes, smooth olive skin, firm chin, and sensual lips, he surely cut a wide swath among the ladies.
    His look was half-surprised, half-skeptical. “How did you know?”
    “There’s something about a man who loves water.” I looked beyond him, out to the sound, remembering languid seas I’d shared with Richard. It’s easy to tell when a man loves the sea. There’s something about the lift of their heads when they look out on the water, something about the way they stand. “And,” I added more prosaically, “you have a tan that you’veacquired over a period of years and you’re wearing boaters.”
    He glanced down at his shoes. A faint smile tugged at those sensual lips.
    “You spend a lot of time on the water.”
    That brought back his scowl. “Except when I’m at the fucking office.” His dark eyes slid toward me. “Sorry,” he said stiffly.
    I felt a wrench of my heart at his youth. It has been a good many years since anyone apologized to me about language.
    “If you don’t like the office, why do you go?” I leaned against the railing, listening to the water sucking at the pilings beneath us.
    “Because he makes me.” His anger toward Chase crackled through his voice. “What business is it of his? It’s my money. It
should
be my money. Why did my mom put him in charge? Everything I do, he has to approve. He wouldn’t let me have a penny if I didn’t do things his way. And I’m running out of time.”
    Time. Haskell couldn’t be a day over twenty-five. If that. Old? Ah, the perspective of youth. I kept my amusement out of my reply. “Too old? Too old for what?”
    His dark eyes flashed. “To race.”
    I understood. “Powerboat?”
    The transformation of his face told it all. The sullenness and resentment were gone. His eyes glowed, like those of a big cat. He was fully alive, eager, excited.
    I looked at him intently now, with no amusement and with sharp interest. Speed is an addiction. Racingtakes exquisite timing and a certain kind of madness—and blindness to the consequences.
    “Chase won’t let you race?” Why should Chase care?
    Haskell turned back to stare out at the sound, his face once again heavy with anger. “He says weekend racing’s good enough. He won’t let me have the money to buy a superboat. If I had that kind of boat, I could go on the circuit.” Eyes brilliant with anger turned on me. “I could win the Gold Cup. I know I could.”
    I said nothing.
    “I could.” It was almost a shout. Then he turned and walked swiftly away.
    I looked after him. Watched him stride, handsome head down, hands jammed in his pockets, through the lush gardens and into the big house.
    I pushed away from the railing and began to walk back toward shore. I would have to talk to Chase about Haskell. There is nothing so dangerous as thwarting dreams.
    Faintly I heard the cheery
plink
of music wafting from the pool. It was nice to return to lighthearted-ness. And I had, from this vantage point on the pier, the spectacular view I’d sought of the house and its gardens. Lights glowed in almost every window. I reached the steps, hurried down to the oyster-shell path, and headed for the pool. The luminarias still shone brightly and the saccharine music played on, but the pool was deserted now-. Probably the swimmers had gone to bathe and change for dinner. The pale green water reflected the spill of lights. There were a dozen or so white-webbed deck chairs andlounges. Thick white towels were crumpled on