Here, he was Trevor Caine, a successful ghostwriter working on a project, and carving out time to—hopefully—finish his own too-long-neglected novel.
He’d gone for the casual scruffy look, as it seemed to reflect the beach setting and his current persona. He’d darkened his hair to a chestnut brown, added some sun-kissed highlights and a goatee. A spray tan completed the beachy look, along with a collection of shorts, T-shirts, distressed jeans.
He topped it off with a Mets fielder’s cap he’d battered a bit so it looked well-worn, and a pair of Ray-Bans.
He decided he not only looked the part but looked damn good.
While he did, occasionally, stroll on the beach, he spent most of his time at his laptop. Instead of writing, he continued his research, refined the outline of his plan.
His target, Quinn Loper, had her own beach house—with some very nice equity therein—owned and operated a cleaning company that serviced the rentals, contracted through the booking agency.
She no longer did any of the dirty work, and for a sliding scale of fees, offered wipe downs, deep cleanings, window washing, and so on to other locals.
Quinn had an MBA and a solid business. She also had well-off paternal grandparents who’d relocated from New York to Myrtle Beach when they’d retired, for the weather and the golf.
Her mother had died in an accident when Quinn was six—so sad! Boo-hoo!—and her widowed father moved her and her eight-year-old sister to South Carolina to be close to family.
Her father remarried seven years later and now lived in Atlanta. Her sister recently married another woman—he didn’t get that, but live and let. They bought an old plantation-style house in Charleston, rehabbed it—and ran a B and B.
An enterprising family!
He considered Quinn a prime choice. She’d been on his list for a couple of years, and since Fat Ass in New Orleans—big disappointment!—he’d gone deeper into his research.
Single—and not gay like big sister—twenty-eight and athletic enough to run on the beach most mornings. She also had a membership to a local gym. She worked out of her home, saving the cost of office space, and ran a crew of sixteen, full-or part-time.
She supplied the equipment and supplies under the company name of Beachy Clean.
Too cutesy for his taste, but it worked. She had just over seventy-five thousand in equity built into her four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bath, two-level home—with front and back decks and a hot tub. She drove a Mercedes convertible and owned a Dodge pickup truck.
Her business account remained healthy, and her personal accounts—well, that MBA and those rich grandparents paid off handsomely.
He calculated he’d net between two hundred and two hundred fifty thousand before he killed her and drove off in the Mercedes.
The truck was loaded, newer, but the convertible was sweet.
With his research done and his cover firmly in place, he only had to engineer a meet-cute.
He headed to the beach just after sunrise. When she ran, that was her time. He ran two miles that day and the next without seeing her. He had to remind himself to be patient, remind himself he established a pattern for any other early risers who walked the beach or drank coffee on their oceanfront decks.
The guy in the Mets cap who jogs in the morning.
The third day she beat him there, so he fell into place behind her.
Long legs, tight body—the way he liked them. She had a long ponytail through the back opening of her ball cap. Other than the length of the hair, she reminded him of Morgan.
Maybe she had more curves—but they reminded him of his mother, so it all worked.
Prime catch.
After a solid mile, she turned. He’d paced himself so they’d run toward each other just long enough. He flashed a smile, tapped his cap, tapped a finger in the air at hers.
“Go team!”
“Having a good year,” she responded, only slightly breathless, and kept going.
“Hot bats.” He ran on, then turned, paced her again, keeping about six feet between them.
When she slowed to a walk, he gave her a half wave as he ran by. She’d walk another quarter mile or thereabouts. He’d watched her routine through binoculars. She’d cool down with the walk, stretch a little, then walk up the path between the oceanfronts and back to her own house.
He stopped at that point, bent over to brace his hands on his knees, panted some until she walked closer.
With a half smile, he straightened. “It’s a pretty run, but I’m not used to running on wet sand.”
“You did fine.”
“You did better. From New York?”