“Oh, but I do. That handshake makes you mine.”
“We’ll see.”
“Let’s start our business relationship on a more cooperative note, shall we?”
“Does that mean you’re going to dispense with the threats?”
“Dispense with… such talk. But you know there are always consequences in business. Good and bad.”
“And you know that goes both ways.”
“As long as we understand each other.”
“Like we were blood brothers.” Dane gave him his shark-killer smile, all teeth and challenging eyes. The man returned the smile, but his eyes were dead.
Maybe Dane ought to feel trepidation. Maybe he would if he were out on his own in some foreign jungle like he usually was. But he was right in his own back yard. The notion of his home turf gave him comfort, but it also ratcheted up the stakes to all or nothing. There was no escaping. No going home.
Ned looked around at Dane’s backyard view of the harbor and then back at Dane.
“Let me buy you a drink. Somewhere out in the open on neutral territory where we can cement our understanding of your role in the competition.”
“Sure.” He figured he needed to kill time until two anyway. May as well bond with the enemy. It was deep-cover strategy number two. Right after number one, which was never ever come out of character. “I’ll follow you this time.”
Dane turned the key in his ignition as he watched Ned trot back down the street to his car with a slight limp added to his awkward waddling gait.
Dane still wasn’t sure what character he was supposed to be playing, since he needed to be whoever they wanted him to be. Luckily spontaneity on the job was one of his favorite things. As long as he ignored the razor-sharp edge of danger that came with it. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the danger. The stakes were getting higher all the time on this so-called vacation that was supposed to be restoring him. He wondered why the hell he hadn’t told Peter John Douglas to go to hell. And it wasn’t just because the man was governor, and not even the fact that the man had saved his neck more than once. That had been mutual. It had not even been to prevent Chauncey Miller from endangering his newlywed ass.
No. It was more. It was dark. Somewhere Dane didn’t want to look for fear of seeing the self-destructive streak his mother had always worried about growing wider. No one else saw it but her. Hell, no one else he associated with would recognize it because they’d all had the same streak clouding their visions. Even Elena. Especially Elena.
He felt his jaw clench and snapped his attention back to Ned and the assignment. He pulled into the road and caught up to Ned’s Ford Taurus as they drove back to the main drag to a small divey bar that was home to the regulars on the island. Luckily he wasn’t one of the Lucky Parrott’s regulars. It had always been his policy not to do his drinking too close to home, unless of course he was actually at home. He should have walked to the joint. He was looking forward to the drink.
Ned lumbered past the patio bar and went inside where it was a dark contrast to the sunshine and heat of the day, and the stale air replaced the scent of ocean and suntan oil. Dane’s nose twitched, but he followed Ned through to a corner table where they could both sit facing the door. The disgust he felt for the man ballooned. He knew what was coming.
A skinny waitress barely out of knee socks and a training bra approached them but didn’t say a word.
“Gin. Straight,” Ned told her.
“Jack Daniels. Straight,” Dane mimicked. He knew the “when in Rome” game. He’d been playing it all his professional life. But the sad depressing wave twisted his gut with anger. This was his vacation place, his haven. All his resentment about this mission erupted in a vile dislike for the man sitting across from him. The waitress left with a hint of terror in her quick stride. He hoped she wouldn’t be too afraid to return quickly with their drinks.
“One drink and I’m out of here, so say your piece.”
Ned looked at him, squinting.
“I don’t know if you’re stupid or ballsy or a cop.”
“Your problem. You want to finish explaining your proposition or don’t you?”
Ned took out a pack of cigarettes, tipped one out, flicked his lighter on and lit it up. There was no smoking in this place—in any place around here—and hadn’t been for some time. Dane figured Ned knew that so he didn’t bother reminding him. Their waitress glanced at them nervously as she walked back, chewing her lip off probably worried about the cigarette, but she chose to ignore it and put their drinks on the table, still without a word. Ned threw a twenty-dollar bill down. She picked it up and walked away even faster than before and disappeared through a door.
There were a couple of old guys at the bar, but the place wasn’t exactly hopping inside. Dane would have thought that strange, but he already figured out that Ned staked his claim here. And not for the benefit of the establishment’s business.
After Ned took an unseemly gulp of his gin, he spoke up. Dane figured he should take a bracer of whiskey himself while he listened.
“You’ll be judging for us. We’ll tell you how it goes. You go along, you get a nice payday. All there is to it.”
“That’s your idea of a proposition? How much and who is this we business? You and who else?” Dane was in no mood to be a fellow thug.
“You take it or you leave the island and don’t come back for a while—as long as we’re here.”
“Who is we?” Dane took another swig from his tumbler of whiskey. It tasted stale—like medicine. But then, he could use some medicine. He thought of Shana. Shit.
“Jean Luc. Others you don’t need to know.”
“Is that right? Big operation is it?”
“Big enough to handle the likes of you.”
“Thought you said you didn’t know who I was? How do you know I ain’t that man Jim you don’t mess around with?”
Ned smiled then chuckled and, near as Dane could tell, he looked genuinely amused.
“I get it—from the song. Don’t pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger.” He paused. His grin widened. “What if I’m the Jim you don’t mess around with?”
Clearly the man thought he had Dane there, thought he was clever. Dane sighed in true boredom. But as far as Ned knew, it was a sigh of defeat.
“Okay. You got me. I’ll go along. So who’s the winner? The men’s division must be Roger, but you can’t tell me you’re putting up his girl Tamara as the female surfer to win?”
Ned shook his head and gave him a look of commiseration, now feeling all confident about their bond in thuggery and skullduggery.
“I know. She’s messed up. Messed up our plans. No, not her.”
“Then who? Oh, don’t tell me—not—” Dane played it out. Ned watched and waited like Dane was a puppy in training. “Not that—what’s her name—the missing heiress, Susan Whittier?”
Ned said nothing.
“I hear she’s a surfer. Shana knows her. So you recruited her?”
“You ask too many questions for a guy out on a limb.”
Dane said nothing back. He congratulated himself for maintaining his look of innocence when the man had to be wondering how the hell he came up with his guess about Whittier. Dane knew deep in his gut that Susan Whittier was supposed to be their ringer and she changed her mind about going along. Then disappeared.
“Too many questions? That says to me I’m right on the money and you had something to do with the missing heiress being missing.”
“I don’t know no Susan Whittier and I don’t know nothing about no missing heiress. What the hell are you talking about, Blaise? You trying to cause trouble?” Ned was a terrible actor. He delivered his lines in a stiff staccato voice that made a first grader in a class play sound more convincing.
“Take it easy, Ned. Who you got in mind then to play the female ringer? I’m gonna need to know sooner or later.”
“Later. You’ll find out when I’m good and ready to tell you.”
; “You’ve got no one.”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
Dane stood.
“Thanks for the drink.” He turned and walked.
“I’ll be in touch,” Ned called out after him.
Dane pushed the door open and breathed in the salty air as if he’d been holding his breath for days. He needed to talk to Shana. And not because his hormones were talking. The plan was now to make sure she was in as their ringer and that meant she’d need to deal with more than good old Frenchie.
Chapter 15
Dane headed to the more challenging surf of Gay Head Beach, fully expecting to find that Jean Luc had propositioned Shana to play the ringer and win the competition for them by any and all means possible—mostly by fixed judging. He wondered what Jean would offer her for an incentive to go along. He didn’t picture Jean Luc as someone to make threats. He strolled along the walk, posing as a beachcomber in a straw hat, nibbling on his apple, wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt and Birkenstock loafers with his banana surfing shorts. Only one distinguished-looking woman with straight gray hair and an outfit that reminded him of a hospital worker done up in pale pink linen took any notice and flashed him a peace sign. She was the one he did this for. He worked at getting rid of the Neds of the world so that middle-aged women could smile and give him the peace sign.
And for Shana. He needed to protect her from Ned above all else. Not because Shana was a helpless heiress like Susan had been—was still, with the grace of the angels. But because Shana was the chink in the armor of their plan—purposely made to be their vulnerable point—the woman with the bull’s-eye tattooed on her gorgeous butt.
Hopefully he had some angel grace left. He hoped to hell he hadn’t used it up on his last assignment. Because it felt like maybe he had. The beach and the glistening water with slightly higher waves spread out before him as he turned the corner to walk the last fifty yards to the beach where he’d been scheduled to meet her. His heart stuttered when he swept the area and didn’t see her. Automatically his eyes darted over the horizon of the ocean and methodically searched until he spotted a surfboard and a blond head glinting in the sunlight. She’d better be wearing sun block. He pulled a tube from his pocket and rubbed it on before removing his shirt and hat. He walked to where he’d left his board with a caretaker, slipped him a twenty and hefted it on his shoulder as he jogged down to the water. All the time he kept his eyes on Shana and paddled out to where she waited, looking out toward the sea.
“Ho there.”
She turned and grinned. “I’m encouraged by the higher waves this afternoon.”
“Don’t be. Probably a storm. Won’t last.”
She frowned at him.
They both looked out as a wave approached, third ripple out. It swelled high and came in at a slight angle, perfect for a glide along the beach.
“This is the one. Race you back.”
She laughed and he could feel the energy come off her as her muscles coiled in anticipation. She hurried to set herself up perfectly to time the intersection of her board with the smooth underbelly of the arcing water. He hurried after and laughed at himself—on the inside—for feeling like he did when he’d first caught on, like surfing was new again.
Concentrating on the wave and falling in behind her as she stood to give them both space, he stood, caught a high point and skimmed down, speeding through and racing fast toward the shore as the white froth caught up with him. He jumped off the board and landed in the shin-deep water without toppling and looked back to see her spectacular ride end in an even more spectacular somersault of a fall further down the beach and in slightly deeper water.
It took a full twenty seconds for him to realize he was grinning as she ran dripping toward him with her board caught to her side and the water splashing around her ankles along the shallows. His heart pounded wildly and he breathed heavily, mostly from the exertion. She grinned back at him so he didn’t care if he was showing his pleasure.
Maybe they could escape to Oahu and do this every day together.
He erased the flashing thought from his mind and managed to keep his smile from turning to panic.
“Let’s go again, you maniac. Maybe you’re not so old as Jean Luc thinks. Were you a pro?”
He raised one brow to provoke her and shook his head. “No. I grew up in California. We had money for a while. Until it was just me and my mother. Then we moved back east.” What the hell was he doing telling her anything real? Her face lost the grin and she started to look serious. He was an idiot.
“Let’s go again and see who’s the maniac,” he said.
She laughed and followed him as he walked back out and threw his board down in front of him. He hopped on with a one-legged push, then paddled like mad.
Exhausted, she dragged her board from the surf up onto the wet sand and lay on it, throwing one hand over her eyes to block the sun. Breathing in the smell of the surf, fish, salt and lotion, her nostrils flared when she caught the scent of Dane. Then his shadow blanketed her and she took her arm away from her eyes to look at him.
The instant wash of hormones drove through her, lighting up her nerve endings and melting every lick of sensible thought or brain activity not related to wanting Dane Blaise. The waves attacked her gut like she’d swallowed the ocean and it rippled through her in sweet torrents of excitement and yearning. She clenched her fist to stop herself from arching up or reaching up to him. She stared. Nothing could make her drag her eyes away from the mesmerizing look he gave her now.
He was nothing special, she told herself. He was old. Relatively speaking, by ten years at least. But tell her hammering heart that as his molten gaze trapped hers. His eyes were magnetic, his body was strong, toned, not bulky but not slim like Jean Luc. He had a fabulous head of wavy unkempt blond hair with maybe a touch of whitish gray at his temples. Smooth skin on his chest if she didn’t count the scars. But she needed to count the scars because every one of them creased his soul even more than his skin. She could feel it. He was toughened and wizened at the pinnacle of expertise and she was, she had to admit it, still green and looking forward to the fights.
What any of her thoughts had to do with her reality at that moment she couldn’t say and she pushed herself up, stifling the urge to throw sand at him to make him stop.
He laughed a low chuckle as if he’d read her mind. Then he reached a hand down to pull her to a stand and they both felt the sand in her hand. They both knew what it was for.
“Did Jean Luc recruit you to be their ringer?”
“No.”
He looked surprised. She hadn’t expected to ever surprise him.
“What happened?” He tugged her hand and drew her along the beach toward a truck-sized boulder.
“I’m not sure. I could have sworn he was leading up to it and then his big proposition turned out to be an invitation to the after party.”
“Big deal.”
“It is. The after party is in Rio.” She expected he’d be surprised this time and he only snorted. He was right. Big deal.
“I doubt he’s hiding Susan Whittier in Rio so that’s not going to do us any good. And…” He stopped and relaxed with one arm propping him against the boulder away from everyone in their own little beach world.
“And what?”
“Never mind.”
“Are we in this together or what?”
“Don’t worry. I got your back.”
“I don’t want you to have my back; I want you to keep me in the loop. I want you to tell me everything that’s going on and strategize with me. I want you to treat me like a partner in this mission. But apparently I’m expecting too much. Even though that’s exactly what our boss is expecting.” She leaned with her back against the stone cold of the boulder.
“You done venting?” He smiled at her and stepped closer.
She took a deep breath. She’d worked herself into a lather and felt hot and bothered. Not a good thing when she was anywhere near Dane Blaise.
>
“It’s more dangerous than we thought. Connected with some bigger fish than we thought.” He told her about his encounter with Ned and she regulated her breathing, concentrating on his words hard enough to not flinch when he told her he shot the cement at Ned’s feet. Her heartbeat picked up.
She kept her face placid and when he finished his rapid-fire story, told in that matter-of-fact way, managing in his understated way to make it all the more larger than life, she asked, “So are they bringing in the big guns?”
“Not yet. Not until they’re ready to give Susan up for dead. But we need to turn Jean Luc if we plan to get anywhere because Miller and Lynch struck out at the house.”
“Should I ask him point-blank to set me up as the ringer? Tell him I know all about it because you told me?”
“If we try to turn Jean Luc it’s going to be a team project. You’re not doing it alone.”
“But he … trusts me.”
“You mean he likes you.”
“That too.”
“He’ll trust us both the same as soon as he finds out we’re law enforcement.”
“Are you?”
He laughed.
“I mean it. What are you? What outfit do you work for?”
“Call me a special consultant for the state police. Does it matter?”
“I’d rather know you were one of us. Officially. Not sure I like the notion of working with a freelancer.”
“You mean a mercenary, don’t you? That what you think I am? You think I sold out?”
She looked away and turned around. He caught her shoulder and hauled her back around to face him, tugging her tightly against his chest.
“Answer me.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“You mean besides the fact that you’re living like a beachcomber?”
He stared at her still. She squirmed against the heat of his body. Wrong move. That made him hold her tighter as he snaked one hand up her back to her neck. His callused thumbs scraped against the tender skin and she felt every follicle of hair on her body pop to life with goose bumps and excitement.
The Beachcombers: Prequel - Beachcomber Investigations Series Page 11