He nodded and drove back toward the busy commercial section of Ybor City. After parking in the giant parking lot of the Havanabia Restaurant, they walked toward the entrance in silence. Her mind reeled with worry and she barely noticed the colorful Spanish tiles that decorated the arched facade of the restaurant.
Within minutes, a hostess in a black uniform seated them at a cloth-covered table and handed them menus.
Fran studied the offerings, knowing she had to eat, but as usual had no appetite.
A waitress wearing a similar uniform appeared, removed two place settings, and took their drink orders. Dale ordered a mojito, which he claimed was the beverage to imbibe in a Cuban restaurant, and she did the same.
While Dale read his menu, she studied the Latin influences in the dining room, the ever-present tiles, arches and lovely stained glass. Water gently cascaded over the graceful figure of a stone mermaid in a central fountain. Intrigued by the pattern of the stained glass, she withdrew her sketch pad and attempted a quick drawing.
She stared at the result, hating what she’d created, and closed the pad. She looked up at Dale and found him studying her. She stuffed the pad in her purse. He had been quiet since leaving the ramshackle house. Too quiet.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
He smiled, but it was not the smile of a happy man.
“What are you thinking, Dale?” she asked.
He leaned forward. “That it doesn’t seem possible.”
She leaned toward him. “What doesn’t?”
He trailed a gentle finger down her cheek. “That you’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”
Her breath caught at his soft words. She met his gaze and couldn’t look away.
“Fran, I want you to know—”
The server returned with their drinks and two loaves of warm Cuban bread.
Dale sat back, and she did as well, sorry that whatever he had wanted to tell her got lost. After they ordered, she took a sip of the mojito, startled by the combination of mint, lime and rum, expecting something sweeter.
“This is delicious,” she murmured.
Dale smiled at her, but remained quiet, his gaze focused on the other side of the room.
“What’s this?” She indicated a long stick emerging from the tall mojito glass.
“Sugar cane,” he said.
After a few more sips of the mojito, Fran relaxed. She knew why. The rum was affecting her, but she did not care. She had been tense all day. She took another sip. No, it had been much longer than that. Since her reunion with Dale? Since Bella had disappeared? Maybe she had not been herself since she had discovered she was pregnant.
Or maybe she did not know who she was anymore.
And now here she was with Dale again in this lovely restaurant and he was saying nice things about her. She frowned. But he was not drinking. He’d taken but one sip of the rum and nothing more.
“You do not like the mojito?” she asked.
“Yes, but I’m driving. I’ll let you drink what I don’t.”
“Sounds like you are trying to get your date intoxicated.”
He smiled such a slow, sexy mile, a pull blossomed and tugged at her core. If only, if only.
“Maybe, I am,” he said, but she was disappointed when his attention shifted across the room again. She took another sip of her drink.
“Tell me about your life in Rome,” he said, his focus on her again.
“What do you want to know?”
He shrugged. “Anything. Everything. Where do you live?”
She told him about the apartment she shared with Bella, of her housekeeper, Dora, of her studio and its perfect light on the second floor, of the long hours she worked there while Bella was in school and after she had gone to bed. She told him of the commission of the statute for the piazza in Milan that waited for her completion in Italy.
“I have missed several deadlines, and my patrons are not happy. I need to contact them.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“I was once obsessed by that work,” she said, embarrassed by the memory. “It was all I could think about.” But if her strange vision of the Searching Man who floated above the earth no longer consumed her, who was she now?
“Sounds like all you do is work. You’re divorced. Don’t you date?”
“You mean go out with men?”
He raised his brows. “Do you date women?”
She giggled at the suggestion and clamped a hand on her mouth. Definitely too much mojito. Dale grinned at her. He had such a nice smile.
“No, I do not date.” She raised her glass as if in a toast. “After all, I am a working mother who has no time.”
“I thought your parents were wealthy.”
Mention of her parents disturbed her rare good mood. “I have taken nothing from my parents since the day I married Paolo.”
He lost his smile. “Does the ex help support you?”
“Not since I left him. We are friends, nothing more.”
Looking doubtful, Dale finally took another swallow of his mojito.
“Are you jealous of Paolo?” she asked. Where did I get the nerve to ask such a question? Has to be the rum.
“You have no idea how jealous I am of that bastard. He took my woman and he raised my child.”
* * *
AT THE STUNNED look on Fran’s face, Dale shook his head. Why had he said that? But surely she realized he resented the hell out of this Paolo character. How could he not?
“Sorry,” he said, taking another sip of the rum. “I’m certain he’s a sterling fellow.”
With her usual spot-on timing, the server delivered their meals. Fran had ordered some famous salad the restaurant had been tossing at the table since 1905, but he’d asked for what he considered the classic Cuban dish, roast pork, which came with a side of black beans.
He picked up his fork and took a taste of the meat. Damn, but it was tender, and the flavor amazing, and he was starved. Lunch at Taco Jack seemed like a long time ago.
After a few bites, he became aware that not only was Fran not eating, she was staring at him.
He lowered his fork. “What’s wrong?”
“I am sorry,” she said, her voice so soft he could barely hear it.
He knew she was still obsessing about his comment regarding her ex.
“You know what?” he said. “We need to stop apologizing to each other for what happened in the past, Fran.”
“Apparently we have much to apologize for,” she murmured.
“Maybe so, but we need to move on. Let’s stop tearing each other up over mistakes made over ten years ago. We’ve got enough conflict in our lives looking for our daughter.”
“Can you do that?”
“I can try.” He raised his glass toward her. “To detente.”
She clinked her glass against his.
“Now eat,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir, Officer Baldwin.” She picked up her fork and speared a chunk of ham from the bed of lettuce.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Between bites of his own delicious meal, he kept an eye on Fran. The rum had done its job and had tamped down her anxiety. She actually consumed most of her salad.
Looking down at her plate, she smiled. It was a small smile, a slight movement of her mouth, but still a smile. And it surprised him. What was she thinking?
“There’s a bar in our motel,” she said.
“If you ask nicely, I’m sure our server will bring you another mojito when you’re done with that one.”
“I saw a sign that they have karaoke tonight.”
“Do you like karaoke?”
“Not me, no. But I’d love to hear you sing again.”
He held up both hands. “No way, Fran.”
The smile grew. “But you have such
a beautiful voice.”
Dale smothered a curse and wondered if he’d be singing karaoke tonight, something he hadn’t done in years. But if his singing could make Fran smile—he shook his head, his attention returning to the square-jawed male with longish dark hair sitting alone at a small table on the opposite side of the dining room.
The man had entered five minutes after he and Fran were seated. Dale had noticed because the new guest had insisted on a particular table. One that had a perfect view of theirs.
The dude had been watching them the entire time. He wasn’t obvious about it, but was definitely surveilling their table.
Yeah, Fran was a stunning woman, but the man’s level of interest didn’t appear to have anything to do with her beauty. His cop’s instincts sounded a warning bell that should have alarmed every patron of this fancy restaurant.
He didn’t want to frighten Fran, but neither his gut nor his brain trusted this stranger.
Dale studied the man. Could this be a perp he’d once arrested? No. He’d never seen the man before.
Their server returned to their table to gather their empty plates and enquired if they wanted dessert.
“Just the check,” Dale said.
“No coffee?”
“No.”
Fran’s brows shot up at his curt reply.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did you want coffee?”
“No,” she said. “But I’d like to use the ladies’ room.”
Dale stood as she left the table, keeping an eye on the stranger. The dude followed Fran’s movement. He didn’t leave his table, but he might not be alone.
The hostess had walked them through two separate dining rooms before arriving at theirs. Did the watcher have a colleague somewhere else in the restaurant?
Still standing, Dale met the stranger’s gaze across the crowded dining room. The dude broke the connection and looked away.
Dale threw his napkin on the table and followed Fran to the ladies’ room, never losing sight of her.
He waited outside until she emerged, clutching her giant purse, clearly startled to see him lurking outside the door.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Go back to the table, look around as if you forgot something and see if you recognize the man across from where we ate. He’s the only guest sitting alone.”
To her credit, she didn’t ask questions. He waited at the entrance to their dining room and watched as she went through the charade of looking for something on the table.
She shrugged dramatically and returned to his position. They moved to the restaurant entrance where he requested the check. By the time he’d paid it, the stranger still hadn’t moved from his seat.
Once outside, he asked, “Have you ever seen him before?”
“Never,” she said. “Why?”
“You’re certain.”
“I don’t recall ever meeting him. What did he do?”
“Stared at you all during dinner.”
Her eyes went wide.
“Come on.”
He hurried her to his SUV in a parking lot jammed with other vehicles. No way to know which one belonged to their watcher. Dale helped Fran inside, climbed behind the wheel and locked the doors.
He peeled out of the parking lot and made a couple of quick turns to determine if they had a tail.
Fran grabbed the handhold over the passenger door to keep from being flung toward him.
“You’re scaring me, Dale,” she said.
“Sorry.”
When he was certain no one had followed them from the restaurant, he drove back to the motel, his eye on the rearview every few blocks. Was he being paranoid? Reading something into a man’s attention to Fran that wasn’t there?
No, he didn’t think so. Although the dude had tried to hide it, he’d had an interest in their table that went beyond casual appreciation.
The motel parking lot had filled up, so he had to park a good distance from their unit. He shut down the engine and hurried around to help Fran.
When they got inside the room, he made certain the doors were locked and the curtains tightly drawn. He turned to Fran, found her staring at him and remembered she’d wanted to go to the motel bar.
“Listen,” he said, “I don’t think karaoke is such a good idea tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to leave you alone in the audience while I’m on the mike, and I definitely don’t want you up on a stage.”
“Because a man admired me during dinner?”
He ran a hand through his hair. How could he explain his gut feeling to her? He couldn’t. A cop’s instinct was honed by years on the job. That instinct often made no sense but was usually right on. And he really hadn’t liked the way that dude looked. Something about him was off. What had it been? Maybe his clothing.
She placed her hands on her hips. “You cannot possibly be jealous of attention from a total stranger that I have never laid eyes on before.”
Dale glared at her. Was he jealous? Was that it? The green-eyed monster interfering with his good sense?
“Maybe he was admiring you,” Fran suggested, stepping closer to him. “You’re a good-looking man.”
He raised his brows at her as she placed her hands on his shoulders.
“Maybe you were his type, not me.” She slid her palms down his arms, applying gentle pressure, as if testing his muscles.
Dale grinned at her despite his worry, enjoying this small moment of playfulness. “Yeah, that must be it.”
She entwined her fingers with his and peered up at him, her mouth dangerously close to his.
“Did anyone follow us from the restaurant?” she whispered, her eyes locked to his.
Something shifted in Dale as he stared down at her. This woman had been his first love, the first woman he had made love to, and then she’d been wrenched away from him. He’d been shattered by that loss, but no longer cared why it had happened.
The only thing that mattered was his Frannie stood right in front of him. She wanted him and he wanted her. They were going to make sweet love again.
“No one followed us,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She lifted a hand and touched his cheek. “Then we are safe.”
Something crashed into the window behind them with a loud bang.
Fran screamed.
“Get down,” he ordered.
She covered her head and knelt beside the bed.
A shadow flickered along the edge of the blackout curtain. Someone tall ran past their window.
He withdrew his Glock from his ankle holster. In a crouch, he moved toward the door.
Were kids playing games? His gut told him no. That sound was too loud for a kid to have made.
“Stay down,” he barked. He jerked open the door. No one in sight.
Holding his weapon in a defensive posture, his back against the open door, he placed one foot outside and scanned the area. All clear.
He looked at their window.
Someone had smashed it with something big or heavy. Spidery cracks extended away from the collision point. Fortunately, the glass was tempered and hadn’t shattered.
Good thing or they’d have been sliced up by flying fragments.
Dale lowered his weapon. Whoever had attacked them was long gone.
No question this had been deliberate. But was it random?
Or had he and Fran been targeted? But how could that be? No one knew where they were except Javi. Had he missed a tail on the way back to the motel? No effing way.
He glanced at his SUV across the crowded parking lot. A sheet of white paper fluttered beneath a windshield wiper.
An advertisement from a local restaurant?
Or a message?
He
poked his head back in the room. Fran remained on the floor. She looked terrified.
“You can get up, but stay inside. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just to the car.”
He jogged to the vehicle and jerked the paper from the windshield.
Someone had written GO HOME in block letters.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SITTING IN THE FBI Tampa headquarters, exhausted from lack of sleep yet wired from too much coffee, Fran listened as Dale explained the events of the previous evening to an incredulous Special Agent Button. A young, good-looking African American, Button sat behind a massive desk, his intense gaze darting between her and Dale.
“I’m glad you guys weren’t injured,” Button said.
“The Hillsborough Sheriff’s Department came out and made a report,” Dale told him. “But there won’t be an investigation. The responding officers labeled it random vandalism.”
“You disagree?” Button asked.
“I found this on my windshield.” Dale placed the GO HOME message, sealed in what he called an evidence bag he’d retrieved from the SUV, on Button’s desk.
Button reached for the bag. “Did you show this note to the deputies?”
“They weren’t interested.”
Button shook his head. “I’ll run it through the lab.”
“I’d like you to sweep my vehicle for a bug,” Dale said.
“We can do that, but don’t you think it’s more likely you were followed from Miami?”
“No way,” Dale insisted. “I would have picked up a tail. You also need to know we ate at the Havanabia Restaurant last night, and I’m certain we were closely monitored by another patron.”
Button nodded as he studied the message, but then lifted his head and riveted his eyes on Dale.
“The Havanabia is in Ybor City. While there, did you happen to visit the address provided by Agent Rivas?”
Dale raised both hands. “I didn’t breach, but yeah, we drove by. Somebody could have picked us up then. The distance was short enough and the roads busy enough that I might not have noticed a tail.”
“Going to the location was a bad idea,” Button muttered.
“Not necessarily,” Dale said. “Now we know we’ve got somebody rattled enough to try to break a motel window. Maybe there’s a bigger operation at stake here than we think. Somebody tried to scare us off.”
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