Eyes Only by Fern Michaels Page A

She closed her eyes and relished the adrenaline rush seeping through her. Damn if she wasn’t excited. Very excited.
    Ninety minutes later, Isabelle pulled onto the gravel driveway of a small cottage. She opened the car door and stepped out onto the driveway. It was hard to see details through the rain, but it looked enticing. A smattering of spring flowers were already blooming; others, just poking through the soft, loamy earth. The shade trees were starting to bud, and a few were already in full leaf. She peered through the rain to see that the cottage looked to be in good repair. It looked quaint, with its Dutch doors and heavy black hardware in the back, probably the kitchen area. She particularly liked the diamond-paned windows. From where she was standing, she could see that the porch was tiny, just barely big enough to hold two caned rocking chairs.
    She ambled along a well-manicured walkway of colored flagstones bordered by bright yellow daffodils to a pristine white front door. She gave the knocker a resounding bang and stood back. When there was no response, she banged it again, then a third time. Finally, the door opened to reveal a tall, muscular man with a deep frown on his face.
    Before Isabelle could utter a word, he said, “Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want or need. I didn’t invite you here, so please turn around and leave.”
    â€œWill you please listen to me, Mr. Albright? Please. Then if you don’t like what I’m telling you, I’ll walk away, but at least listen. I’m an American, like you. In fact, I’m returning to the States tomorrow morning. A friend asked me to check on you. It’s rather complicated, and you really need to speak to the people who asked me to find you. It’s about . . . Gretchen Spyder.”
    The man’s face lit up like a football field at night. “Gretchen! Why didn’t you say so? Come in, come in.”
    â€œI thought I just did. Tell you about Gretchen, that is.”
    â€œRight, right. Please come into the parlor and sit. Tea, coffee?”
    â€œThank you, no. I hate tea, and I’m coffeed out.”
    Isabelle looked around. It was a pretty little place, with chintz-covered furniture, a wood-burning fireplace. The tables looked like they were handmade and sturdy. There was no clutter. A man’s place. But definitely homey. And yet it felt empty to Isabelle. It smelled good, though, like he had cooked something earlier or something was baking.
    â€œTell me about Gretchen,” Albright said with a catch in his voice.
    â€œI can’t tell you anything. But I can call the person who asked me to find you, and she can answer all your questions.”
    Albright rubbed his hands through his thick hair, his eyes alight with something Isabelle couldn’t define. Love maybe.
    Isabelle punched in the numbers for Maggie, and when Maggie came on the phone, Isabelle grinned at the exuberant greeting. “Whoa! Listen, I’m sitting in Mr. Albright’s living room, as we speak. He has questions that I can’t answer. I’m going to turn him over to you.” Isabelle handed the phone to Albright, who walked away toward his kitchen. She could hear him talking, but not distinctly. She walked over to the window to stare out at the rain. It hadn’t let up at all.
    Isabelle felt twitchy, nervous. Maybe she should have eaten something. What was Maggie telling Albright? She knew enough background now to worry that things were going to escalate fast. If she had found this guy, someone else could find him just as easily, if all that Maggie had said was spot-on. She clenched her fists and unclenched them.
    Isabelle felt his presence before he spoke. She whirled around and was stunned at the tortured look on the young man’s face. He returned her cell phone to her. She waited.
    Albright rubbed his hands across his face, then through his hair. “I don’t know what to say. I feel like