Page 8 of A Newport Christmess

“What the ...?” a man’s whispered voice traveled through the large space.

I scrunched down further and quieted my shallow breathing.

If only I’d had the sense to grab my phone. Or knew where it was. Had I left it on the coffee table? Or maybe the—

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. His footsteps paused, and I resisted every pulling fiber inside of me to peek around the couch’s edge to size up my captor. How many of those true-crime victims had made that novice mistake? I would not give my hiding place away. I would not become a statistic.

“Hello?” the deep voice boomed, and something heavy dropped that made me flinch. A bag of tools to dispose of the body—my body? “Is someone here?”

I swallowed, unwilling to fall prey to the tactic of an inviting tone. It was always the nice, unsuspecting person who was the perpetrator. Well ... not always ... or really even often, though that didn’t mean it wasn’t the case here. I’d recently heard of a man that rented out his home, only to fall upon his victims at night. The police had caught him, hadn’t they?

I was growing dizzy from shallow breaths and fear.

The man started walking again. His steps were slow and calculated. Dangerous. Was he coming toward me? I couldn’t tell with how the sound reverberated off the walls. This was not how I wanted to die. I mean, I didn’t really have a preferred way of dying, besides living to old age and passing in my sleep, but if it had to be from something else, this certainly wouldn’t be my choice. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the remote in my shaking hand. The remote. Perhaps I could throw it at him. Or maybe somewhere else as a distraction so I could make a run for it. It was an abysmal plan, but I didn’t have a better option.

The sound of the wooden stairs creaking ignited a flicker of hope, preventing me from chucking the remote across the room. Was the man going upstairs? Another stair creaked, then another, and another. He must have been searching for me. Knowing I had limited time, I glanced around the side of the couch to be sure I was alone, then I quietly maneuvered my way out from behind it. The stairs leading up were across the room from the ones leading to the first-floor entrance—to outside—and I kept my eyes on them as I tiptoed toward salvation. Thank heavens I was wearing socks and was basically elf-sized.

Another creak halted me mid-step. Had the sound come from above or the staircase where I was headed? The doorway downstairs faced the kitchen, so I couldn’t be certain from where I stood. A shiver of fear shot through me. What if I had been mistaken? What if the man was waiting on these stairs for me, knowing I would try to escape? I’d have to make a drop from the balcony. Backing away with silent steps, I tightened my fists at my sides, hoping to stave off the trembling that had consumed my whole body.

A voice barked from somewhere behind me, and like a deer in flight, I took off, away from it, toward the kitchen. Glimpsing the iron skillet I’d used to make my dinner, I grabbed it and spun to face my pursuer. Except, there was no pursuer. Confused, my gaze landed on Bing Crosby’s character moving across the screen and then shifted to the remote in my hand. Instantly, I realized my grave error and dropped it on the counter. As hurried footsteps made their way from one of the stairways, I tried to keep my tunneling vision from blackening. Ashlee had always teased that my spirit animal was a fainting goat, and with the way my legs tightened beneath me, I wondered if she was onto something. But now was not the time to keel over. I needed to fight.

Skillet extended, I glanced back and forth between the door that led to the first floor and the wooden banister that led up, waiting for the man to appear from one of them. When a large form barreled down the third-floor stairs, I shifted my body toward him. “Don’t come any closer!”

His wide eyes landed on me, and to my utter amazement, I found an exceptionally handsome face staring at me. He wore a heavy winter coat, and a gray beanie covered all but a few ends of his dark hair. A well-manicured beard somehow made his prominent jawline stronger. More deadly.

“Who are you?” he asked, putting his hands up like I held a gun and not kitchenware. “And why are you in my house?”

“Your house?” My resolve wavered some, and I lowered the skillet a touch. But what if he was lying? What if that was some kind of ploy to get me to let my guard down? There was no unwritten rule that an attractive man couldn’t also be a psychopathic murderer. In fact, the trait would probably serve him well. I lifted the iron skillet higher. “Prove it.”

“Are you some sort of squatter?” His gaze dropped to the island between us, overflowing with gingerbread pieces. “That bakes in other people’s kitchens?”

My head drew back at the strange comment. “No. But I’m not telling you who I am until you prove to me you own the place ... and that you aren’t some serial killer who lures young, unsuspecting women into your rental properties.”

“This is not a rental property. I only rent out the first floor.”

I quirked a brow. “Then where have you been the last week?”

“In LA—for work.”

It had to have been more than a coincidence that he claimed to have been in Southern California. He was definitely a stalker of sorts, attempting to get me to comply with commonalities. “Then why are you here?” I asked, keeping my skillet aimed at him.

“How is it I’m the one doing the explaining when you’re the one in my house?”

“You haven’t proven it’s your house yet ... or that you aren’t a killer.”

“A killer?” he spluttered, shaking his head in impressively well-acted disbelief. “I have the key.”

I shrugged. “So do I.”

He tossed his head back. “This is ridiculous. How did you get a key ... unless ...” His gaze moved slowly across the haphazard stacks of gingerbread, then returned to mine. The crease in his brow deepened, though his arms remained up. “Are you the woman my sister hired to make the centerpieces for her wedding?”

My throat went dry. “What’s your sister’s name?”

His teeth clenched. “Nikki Aker.”

The heat that had been pulsing through my body congregated in my cheeks. “You’re Nikki’s brother?”

He shook his head, and his nostrils flared.