Undercurrent Read Free Page B

attention. Heat burned her cheeks. Tammy or not, she headed out the bathroom door.
    Her steps sounded hollow in the deserted lobby. The Visitor Centre information desk sat empty. She slipped behind it and pulled open the top drawer. Paper clips, tape, stapler. Stapler? Maybe if she—
    “ I beg your pardon! May I help you?”
    Her heart jumped. She turned to a scowling receptionist who might’ve been Mother Superior in a former life. Easing the drawer shut behind her, she tried to appease the woman with a smile. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snoop. I was wondering if, perhaps, you have a safety pin I could purchase?”
    “ Certainly not.” The woman’s frown emphasized her pointed chin, especially when she lifted it to look down her ski-jump nose.
    This gal had missed her calling. Somewhere a convent must be in desperate need. Cassie edged between her and the desk, half expecting her to produce a large ruler and rap her on the knuckles. “Well, thanks anyway.”
    Cassie could feel the woman’s glare all the way to the door. Stepping out into the heat of the sun was a relief.
    Her sandals crunched against the gravel walkway, making little puffs of beige dust. Two of her students played photographer in the arbored courtyard, but no sign of Tammy. Tension loosened its grip on her stomach, and she lifted her face to soak in some rays as she followed the length of the stone building. Near the end of the west side, Celtic music wafted out from a small gift shop, and a hand-painted ‘Open’ sign hung in the window.
    Cassie stepped inside the doorway, trading sunshine for dim interior lighting, and paused to adjust for the difference. Surprisingly, the walls weren’t crammed with shelves of souvenirs or racks of postcards—not even Farne Islands T-shirts. Only a cheap imitation-gilded mirror hung on one wall, and toward the back of the tiny room stood a glass display case. Nothing too unusual, really, except for the shopkeeper behind it.
    The man was tall, crazy tall, and big but not fat. He took up space in a way that an emperor or king could only hope to. Strength rippled beneath the fabric of his shirt as he planted his palms on the glass and leaned forward. His dark eyes locked onto hers, and a sudden urge to run away almost turned her around.
    “ Come.” His deep voice frightened and intrigued simultaneously.
    Cassie swallowed. What was up with the lump in her throat? Why feel nervous with a two-bit salesman hawking tourist trinkets?
    The man cocked his head and studied her. “Do not fear.”
    Exactly. Why should she? This was stupid. Cassie threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Do you, uh…you don’t happen to have any safety pins, do you?”
    “ Pins? Yes. Safe?” A broad grin lightened his dark features, and he stepped back from the case. “No. You come and look, eh?”
    Her mind moved faster than her feet. Definitely not a British accent, rather eastern European. More Baltic—Romanian perhaps. No. The metre and emphasis he used carried a rhythm she couldn’t identify.
    “ You see? You like?” He ran his hand along the top of the case, and any interest she’d had in his accent disappeared.
    She leaned closer to better view an amazing collection of medieval brooches. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear to their authenticity. Fine silver and gold Celtic knots rested on a bed of scarlet velvet, some with embedded sapphires. Any one of these masterpieces would look so much better at the top of her blouse than a trashy safety pin.
    “ I’ll take one.” The words flew out before she thought—and what exactly was she thinking? She couldn’t afford one of these.
    “ This one”—he slid open the glass door to his side and pulled out a black silk bag from the very bottom—“is for you.”
    He dumped the contents into his hand then stretched out his palm.
    The other pins still glimmered, but this one…not silver or gold, but breathtaking. Carved from a single piece of wood, a lacy pattern