by Lee Taylor
His cold hand shocked her. She'd expected him to breathe fire. But then, dragons were lizards.
"They don't mean anything by it, you know. Just content to sit in the same old clique. What's the point of Happy Hour if you don't get to know new people? Can I get you more wine, er--?"
"Jessie, Jessie Halliwell," she said, shaking his hand too vigorously, relieved to be released when his skin remained cold. "Apartment 102. Just moved in."
He pointed skyward. "1602," he said. "Penthouse."
Her heart did a peculiar flip. As he walked off to the temporary bar, she realized that a flock of people had appeared near her, as if by magic.
Moths to the flame.
They were all smiles, introducing themselves.
"Did I hear you say 102?" one woman asked. "That's Nancy Syddall's old place. Gone into a nursing home, poor dear. Welcome. I'm Freda Bruges. Nice to have young people for a change."
Jessie liked the sound of that.
"I see you've met Phil," another gushed. "We're so lucky to have him as a neighbor. Very influential, you know."
Ah! Those Glazebrooks. The old and well respected family belonged to Victoria's elite. Jessie had taught enough local history to know his ancestors had come to British Columbia in the 1850's with Sir James Douglas.
Glazebrook returned with two glasses of red wine, handing one to her. His admirers fawned over him, tittering at his every witty repartee. Jessie sipped her wine. Definitely not Private Stock. She watched him play to his audience. He was rich, personable, popular, well regarded. Why did she feel uncomfortable with him?
"And what do you do, Jessie?"
All eyes turned expectantly to her after Glazebrook's question. She noticed the gleam in his eye. It was as if he knew. "I--I'm a writer," she stammered.
She couldn't have stunned them more if she'd said she was a neurosurgeon.
"What do you write?"
She looked from one expectant face to the next. "Romance," she murmured.
"I love a good romance," Freda gushed. "Maybe I've read your work. What have you written?"
"Er, I've just published one book so far, on Amazon. Paperbacks coming soon."
"Maybe I have it on my Kindle," the woman persisted. "What's the title?"
Jessie hesitated. She'd have to tell them. It would seem odd if she refused. "His Willing Slave," she rasped.
A deathly hush fell on the gathering.
"Oh, that kind of romance," Freda said sarcastically, looking down her nose.
Jessie glanced at Phil Glazebrook. Her blood ran cold at the pure lust in his green eyes.
"I'd be interested in reading that," he purred.
CHAPTER SIX
Gary looked up from his iPad. "Jeez, Michael, did you know that every fifteen seconds a male baby boomer somewhere turns fifty-five?"
Michael took a swig of his Balboa beer, and stared out at the sparkling waters of the Pacific breaking on an unspoiled Panamanian beach that stretched as far as the eye could see. His brother hadn't stopped talking since they'd left Victoria. "No, Gary, I didn't know that," he answered lethargically, avoiding thoughts of his upcoming fifteen seconds in that spotlight. He closed his eyes, listening to the sea breeze rustling through the palm trees, feeling its warmth on his face.
Apparently unaware of his older brother's lack of interest, Gary scrolled through the article on his iPad. "Yeah, plus, according to this, six thousand men turn fifty every day. Six thousand of us, Michael. Imagine."
"That's a lot of birthday candles," Michael responded dryly, watching a bikini-clad teenager bend over to pick up a beach ball. "Might as well have no top on at all," he muttered.
Gary followed his gaze. "Huh? Oh wow. How about those beauties?"
Michael shrugged, bothered by a momentary déjà vu. "Does nothing for me, I'm sorry to say."
He seemed to be making a habit of saying that.
Gary droned on. "This trend will continue for at least seventeen years, and men will live well into their eighties and nineties."
Michael raked his fingers through his hair. "Shit, you're depressing me. Who the hell wants to live into their nineties, hooked up to a million machines, having your catheter bag emptied twice a day?"
He immediately regretted his outburst. Their dad had died in exactly those circumstances, and Gary's face showed he was remembering it.
Looking at his brother's paunch, Michael was tempted to remind Gary that he needed to lose weight. This holier-than-thou attitude was getting to be another habit he'd have to watch. He was becoming a regular health guru. Nobody appreciated that any more than they liked a reformed smoker telling them cigarettes were bad for their health. But he couldn't resist. "You need to change your diet, and exercise more."
Gary shrugged, taking another swig of beer. He soon became engrossed again in his iPad.
Michael closed his eyes, thankful his brother had at least stopped talking about his client protégé, his precious bestselling author.
"Thirty-six million. That's million with a capital M, brother."
"What?" Michael's mind had been miles away, out in the roaring surf.
"Thirty-six million men will live longer than their fathers and grandfathers."
"Well, that means you and I will live to be a hundred," Michael laughed, poking his brother in the gut with his empty beer bottle. "At least, I will."
Gary struggled out of his beach chair, yanking Michael's bottle out of his hand and picking up his own empty. "Shit, Michael, that's cold. Another brew, or as they say here, otra cerveza?"
Michael shook his head. "No thanks. Think I'll cool off with a dip in the surf."
Gary shrugged, flipped the cover to shut off his iPad and sauntered to the open air bar to chat up the barmaid in his terrible Spanish.
Michael removed his sunglasses, shucked off his Crocs, and strode across the burning hot sand. After a few long strides, he reached the stretch still wet from the outgoing tide where a million little red crabs scurried out of his way, disappearing into holes in the sand.
Michael had fallen in love with this beach, awed at first glimpse of it when they'd arrived two days before. He could walk out in shallow water for a long way, lost in his thoughts. There was no rip tide, no sharp stones, no sudden drop off. Just the salty tang of sea air and relatively few people.
Yet the roaring waves were enormous. Sometimes he thought an oncoming breaker would sweep him away as he dove into it, but after the wave had rolled on, he was in waist-deep water. Gary had been right for once. This off-the-beaten-track beach in Panama was exactly what he needed right now. If a breaker pulled his shorts down to his knees--who cared?
He planned to retrieve his flugelhorn from the hotel room later and play it as the sun set. There were so few people at this intimate hotel, no one had objected the previous evening--guests were busy taking photos of the sunset. He'd felt a twinge of envy seeing couples locked in each other's embrace, swaying to his music, enjoying the incredible pinks and reds as the sun slid below the horizon. It might be nice to have a special someone to share this paradise.
Shit! Where had that thought come from? One of his problems with Linda was that he'd been too anxious to replace his first wife after her death. He didn't want to make the same mistake by rushing into another permanent relationship. Better to play the field.
Hell, he was a boomer. In the seventies, his life had revolved around sex. The nineteen seventies, that is. How exactly did one play the field in these days of Facebook and Twitter? Could he use Google to find a Sub? The idea of meeting someone online made his head spin. Not for him.
He was in Panama. Surely he could find a willing partner here? He'd already been introduced to a few Panamanian women his age, or younger. They looked--how to put it nicely--old. And if he came across as too much of a Dominant--
What was the Spanish word for Sir?
The hotel had the only decent bar for miles. He'd already met a few retired white guys shacked up in Panama with nubile young thi
ngs from Central and South America. One seventy-five year old Canadian ex-pat boasted he'd lived with his twenty-one year old Nicaraguan girlfriend for five years. Michael couldn't see himself with a sixteen year old. The sex might be great, but what would they talk about?
Maybe full blown Doms didn't need conversation.
Feeling refreshed after his dip, tasting salt on his lips, he strode back to his chair, waving his arms to scatter the crabs as he hot footed it over the last scorching ten feet.
His Blackberry showed he'd missed a call. He dried off with the complimentary towel, picked up the device, scrolled to the SMS icon and pressed the Select button.
He scanned the message. "Yes, er--Mr. Atherton, this is the Victoria Regional District Humane Society. Er--we've had a complaint--about your dogs--causing a disturbance. Please get back to me at--"
"Shit, shit, shit," he exploded, combing the dripping wet hair off his face with his free hand, the blue towel bunched around his neck.
He looked over to the open air bar where his brother perched on a barstool. "Gary," he yelled, beckoning.
Gary waved, shrugged an adios to the waitress and strolled over, another Balboa in hand. "What's up?"
"Linda's damn dogs, that's what's up. She promised she'd pick them up the day I left, but they're evidently still in my yard, terrorising the neighborhood."
Gary had just taken a swig of his beer, and almost choked with laughter. "They're Chihuahuas for Christ sake."
Michael rubbed his wet hair with the towel. "You'd be surprised. They look cute, but they can be vicious. Trust Charlene to be away. What's the number of that author friend of yours you keep mentioning--the one who loves dogs?"
Gary took off his ball cap and scratched his head. "Jessie?"
"Okay. Call her and ask her to go over to my place and let the dogs into the house, feed them maybe?"
Gary chewed his bottom lip. "Call Charlene. She might not like it, but she'll go."
"Can't. She and Harry are in Seattle."
"Jeez. I don't know, Michael. Jessie's not a dog lover, per se. The hero of her book is a dog lover. Did you not read the draft I emailed you?"
Had Gary lost his mind? "Men don't read romance novels, bro."
Gary shook his head. "I beg to differ, and it's not a schmaltzy romance. Anyway, she's not a friend, more a client. And we're here another week. How'll she get into the house? Do you even have dog food?"
Michael exhaled with exasperation. "I thought you said--never mind."
Moving into the shade of their thatched beach rancho, Michael scrolled through the contacts in his Blackberry. "There's no one else. If they get taken to the pound, I'll never hear the end of it from Linda."
Gary brushed sand from his beach chair and sat down. "Aren't they her dogs? How come she can't go get them?"
"She was supposed to take them to a sitter before she left for Athens. Obviously she didn't. Just her little way of sticking it to me."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Jessie hated dogs. She wasn't sure where her affinity with cats came from, certainly not her parents.
Her thoughts went back to the call she'd received from Gary asking her to go feed two dogs for his brother. She could tell he wasn't happy about it. Who was this lame-brained brother of his? What kind of person would go off on holiday and leave two dogs alone? Not to mention it was at least a thirty minute drive away, in an unfamiliar area of the city.
Her first reaction had been to refuse, but Gary had played a huge part in the incredible success of her debut novel. She wanted his goodwill to help make the second book a blockbuster.
But this would take time away from her writing. She had to flesh out the characters for Her Wise Protector.
She tore off the Post-It where she'd scrawled the directions Gary had emailed, as well as the code for the entry keypad.
Better add dog food to the shopping list.
~~~
Gary's directions were crap. For the umpteenth time, Jessie made a mental note to buy a GPS. She fumed, realizing she'd taken yet another wrong turn.
After stopping to ask for help twice, she finally pulled into the driveway of an attractive bungalow in one of Victoria's nicer neighborhoods. As soon as she got out of the car, clutching a bag of dog food, she heard frenzied barking coming from the fenced backyard.
A neighbor appeared out of nowhere, eyeing the dog food. "Finally. Those dogs are starving. They've driven us all mad. Not like Michael to be so thoughtless. We didn't want to call the pound, but we've had too many sleepless nights. Maybe he thought you were taking care of them?"
Jessie gritted her teeth and opened her mouth to reply, but it seemed more important to stop the insistent yapping of the dogs. The indignant woman probably wouldn't believe it wasn't her responsibility. She was here as a favor--a big favor. The neighbor had her pegged as an unreliable dog sitter. It was irritating.
She smiled weakly, fishing in the pocket of her cardigan for the Post It with the code for the keypad lock. Carefully she punched in the numbers, relieved to hear the deadbolt grind to the unlocked position. She smiled back at the neighbor standing with her arms folded, grasped the doorknob and opened the door.
The first thing she saw was an alarm pad--red light blinking in sequence with a loud beeping noise. The bag of dog food slid to the hardwood floor with a crunch. Adrenaline spiked as she stared at the numbered keys. She'd no clue what the code was. The alarm would sound any second. Was it hooked up to 911? Would she be arrested for breaking in?
She looked at the Post It crumpled in her tight fist. Code--
Frantically, she punched in the same code that had let her into the house. What were the chances? It was all she had.
The red light blinked off. The beeping stopped. Only her wildly beating heart filled the silence. The neighbor lady poked her head round the door. "The dogs are in the backyard."
She looked Jessie up and down, then scanned the hallway, rolling her eyes. "Things just haven't been the same around here since Linda left."
With that she disappeared.
Who was Linda? Not that Jessie cared at this point.
She wiped her brow with the back of her hand, picked up the Science Diet bag, and went to find dog dishes.
When a search of the kitchen proved fruitless, she hesitantly opened several cupboards, looking for something to put dog food in. Whoever this guy was, he seemed to live a bare-bones existence. There were three plates, mugs, a couple of small cooking pots, a frying pan, beer and wine glasses--that was about it.
She glanced around, hesitant to pry into the rest of the house. The dogs yipped, yapped and growled. They'd sensed someone was in the house. She peeked into what was probably meant to be a cozy den. A large home gym that looked like a medieval torture device, a stationary bicycle, and a rack laden with weights almost filled it. The room even smelled like a gym.
"Huh! A jock! Might have known," she murmured derisively.
French doors led on to the patio and the backyard. Two dogs had their paws up on the glass, teeth bared, snarling menacingly. She snorted a giggle--Chihuahuas, for goodness sake. What kind of man had two Chihuahuas? Not exactly a manly dog.
She'd sooner walk on hot coals than venture into that yard without dog food. The dishes were just outside the door--licked clean.
She hurried back to the kitchen and grabbed the bag of dog food. She fumbled with the foolproof re-closable bag, finally ripping it open. Some spilled on the floor. "Shit!"
She poured food into the frying pan, holding her breath against the unpleasant odor. Then she ventured to the French doors, unlocking one quickly and yanking it open. This evidently surprised the dogs. They jumped back, ears perked. She leaned out to put the pan on the ground, grabbed the empty dishes, and retreated back into the den, slamming the door.
The dogs attacked the food, tails wagging. Jessie swallowed the lump in her throat, her heartbeat thudding in her ears.
She walked back to the kitchen in a daze, and slumped on to a kit
chen chair. "Cheap vinyl," she murmured. "This man has no taste."
When her breathing slowed, she washed out the dog dishes, filling one with cold water, the other with more food. She ventured back to the French doors, trying not to spill water. Every scrap of food had disappeared from the frying pan. The Chihuahuas waited expectantly, snarling when they caught sight of her, though they didn't look quite as vicious.
"Hello, puppies. Did Daddy leave you all alone? The uncaring jerk."
She put the water dish on the floor and opened the door a crack. Before she knew what was happening, the dogs had squirmed through the opening and rushed into the den, heading straight for the water dish. Who knew little dogs had such strength?
They drained the bowl dry in two minutes while she put the food dish outside. "Poor things. You were dying of thirst."
Two doggy heads swivelled to look at her, ears pricked up, sharp teeth bared--miniature hounds from hell. Fear constricted her throat. It was ridiculous. Combined they were no bigger than her purse, and she was afraid of them. If only she knew their names. She swallowed hard and bent to offer her hand for them to sniff, hoping they wouldn't tear off her fingers. They barrelled past her on their way to the food dish.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Michael stood on the beach, his flugelhorn under his arm, gazing in awe at the stunning reds and pinks of the sunset over the Pacific. The roiling surf turned to pools of liquid gold. He took a deep breath, curling his toes into the sand. He'd played the theme from Titanic many times. It was his favorite piece. But he'd never enjoyed it as much as on these tropical evenings, offering the sweet notes to the dying rays of the sun.
What was it about this place that held him? He'd come to Panama for a bit of R & R. Now he could almost see himself retiring here, jogging the endless beach every day. He'd convinced Gary they should make enquiries about real estate in the area.
He turned to make his way back to the hotel. Several couples, other guests, stood near enough to hear. It happened every night, though he never heard his audience approach. They nodded as he walked past, murmuring "Gracias" or "Thank you," or "Danke". A warm glow filled him. They'd enjoyed the music he loved.