Vision of Darkness by Tonya Burrows Page B

looked him in the eye. She pointed at the hole. “No.” His tail wagged. She held his gaze, pointed again, and said firmly, “No.”
    Triton’s shoulders hunched, his ears flattened, and his tail tucked between his legs. Satisfied he wouldn’t stray near the hole, Pru rubbed his head and grimaced at the dark pit. With all the accidents that plagued the lighthouse’s reconstruction, maybe it was a good idea to have it filled in as soon as possible. She really didn’t want to see anyone else get hurt. It was bad enough that in the past month alone, five of John Jr.’s workers had left the site in an ambulance, two with life-threatening injuries. Thank God neither man died and both were on their way to making a full recovery. Pru didn’t think she’d be able to handle more death on her conscience.
    Thunder bellowed, closer, louder, and the wind splattered raindrops on Pru’s face. Shivering, she got to her feet and looked around for Wade. He stood rooted in the same spot, in the same position.
    Poor Wade. Sometimes his brain needed a jumpstart to remember what he was doing. She started toward him just as he shook off the trance. He threw down the coil of rope and sprinted across the yard, over to the wooden stairs that carved a path down the side of the cliff to the beach.
    “Wade!” She tried to catch him, but his legs were longer and for all his bulk, he was fast. Heart thudding, she scanned the beach, searching for whatever he’d seen that made him take off like that. In the distance, where the cliff gentled into a rolling slope, sat a tent, already battered by the wind, and a sputtering fire.
    A campsite.
    And Wade headed for the unsuspecting campers like a bulldozer.

 
    CHAPTER 6
     
    Should have found a cozy bed and breakfast, you dumb jackass.
    Alex sighed, pillowed his hands behind his head, and watched the wind abuse the rain flap on his tent. He could be relaxing with a warm cup of coffee in front of a fire, a book on his lap. A good thriller à la John Sandford or Lawrence Block. He hadn’t read for pleasure in so long, it’d feel good to lose himself in someone else’s problems for a while.
    Or, better yet, a woman on his lap. A particular blue-eyed waitress would definitely make him forget all his problems.
    Thunder cracked overhead. He pressed his palms to his eyes.
    He could still go find a B&B, but the idea of breaking down camp now in the wind and rain didn’t hold much appeal. And staying in town equaled a bigger headache than camping. People were too damn nosy. He’d rather deal with a no-holds thunderstorm than a bunch of hopeless gossips.
    Of course, if he left town, he wouldn’t have to worry about gossips. No reason for him to stay here, freezing his ass off alone in a tent in the middle of Bum Fuck Egypt, Maine, when he had a perfectly good condo back in Boston. Pru obviously didn’t want him here, and yet he was hanging around like a frickin’ stalker.
    Hah. Look up the word masochist in the dictionary, and there’d be a picture of Alex Brennan’s ugly mug.
    He could call Nick and unload some of the shit weighing on his chest, but Nick would probably say he was punishing himself for perceived misdoings and yadda, yadda, yadda. Alex could hear the psychoanalysis now. He’d tell Nick to shut the fuck up. It’d be as satisfying as any therapy session.
    Alex smiled, reached for his phone, and froze.
    A shadow loomed outside his tent.
    He realized it too late. The door burst inward, the zipper releasing with a snap. A hand gripped his ankle like a manacle and yanked him out into the storm. For a long, stunned moment, he lay on his back, rain pelting his face as he blinked up at the hulk of a man backlit by flashes of lightning.
    Then self-preservation kicked in. He rolled, twisting his ankle free, and sprung to his feet. Hulk roared and launched at him. He dove to the right and Hulk flattened his tent.
    “Jesus!” Alex swung around, ready to fight, his heart pounding in a hole in