Desire on Deadline

by Lucy Lakestone

  “You’re lucky it’s just a water snake,” Roz said after he cursed the near-collision.

  “Lucky?” He sounded skeptical.

  “Could’ve been a cottonmouth. They both bite, but a cottonmouth’ll kill you. Watch your toes.”

  “Great,” he said, and she chuckled. She hated to admit it, but a small part of her was actually enjoying this miserable outing.

  After another hour of slogging back and forth and crossing their own path, they finally found an area that looked different. The landscape here had fewer mangroves and more palmettos, gracefully adorned with sharp-edged fronds. Roz and Alden found a narrow, dry path carved by some other explorer, slightly overgrown but better than wading in the chilly water. The landscape transitioned to a tropical hammock, with gumbo limbo, palmettos, buccaneer and cabbage palms and other scrubby plants Roz couldn’t identify.

  And then, finally, they spotted an unlikely swath of emerald green through the trees ahead of them.

  “What is that, a golf course?” Alden asked, sounding tired.

  Roz trotted ahead, grateful for her sneakers, and paused at the tree line.

  “Batter up,” she said.

  Alden appeared next to her. They both stepped out onto the grass, into the open, and Roz paused to relish the feel of the unimpeded sun soaking into her tired, cold, damp body. In the distance was the new minor league baseball stadium, set among a pleasing landscape of manicured lawn and islands of palms and flowering plants.

  “So this is where our sports reporter spends all his time,” Alden said. “And they haven’t even started playing yet.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a lot of stuff going on. Not that that’s my beat,” she added.

  “What is your beat?”

  “Everything except sports. And editing. Shit, I have to get to the office and wrap up this week’s edition.”

  “One thing at a time,” Alden said. “Don’t you need to get to your car first?”

  “What about you?” she asked as they set off across the lawn toward the road.

  “I biked to the marina. If we can get there, I can bike home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Roz said. “I’ll give you and your bike a ride.”

  “I’d like you to give me a ride.”

  She shot a look at him, and he was grinning.

  “I thought you were too tired to be incorrigible,” she said.

  “Do you really mind? God, this grass feels good on my feet.”

  Roz looked down and gasped. “Oh, my God, Alden.” His feet were covered in scratches and cuts from their sojourn through the swamp.

  “I’ll be OK. Next time I’m wearing flippers.”

  “There better not be a next time,” she said.

  “You may get your wish, since you no longer have a boat.”

  “I hope it doesn’t run into anything important or kill someone.”

  “It’ll probably run out of gas first,” Alden said. “The next question is, how are we going to report this?”

  “You mean in the paper? I’m inclined not to report anything until we figure out what it was. But, I mean, I can’t control what you print.”

  “I’m actually wondering if we should report our little encounter to the cops, but then it becomes public record. Either way, I don’t want to look like an ass in my own paper or anyone else’s,” Alden said. “I need to know a lot more before we run a headline that says ‘Reporter shot at by unknown goons while riding on rival reporter’s boat.’”

  “I thought you said you wanted me to give you a ride?” Roz teased, unable to help herself.

  “That’s different.” Alden was grinning again. He put a warm hand on her shoulder as they neared a cluster of structures, some still under construction, and smelled —

  “Goats!” Roz said. “Oh, aren’t they adorable!”

  “But do they have a car?” Alden asked wryly.

  A handful of cute little goats wandered in a large, round pen in front of a Tuscan-style farmhouse surrounded by outbuildings. Nearby was a shop in the final stages of construction. A couple of guys on ladders were painting, while the echoing sound of hammering emitted from inside the building.

  Roz read the sign and nodded. “Of course. It’s the Barefoot Bay Bucks’ mascots. I hadn’t had a chance to come out here yet. Looks nice, doesn’t it?”

  They paused at the fence and watched the animals for a moment. One came up and sniffed Roz’s hand, looking for a treat. She petted its nose, forgetting for a moment what a mess they were in — if “mess” was the right term for a scrape with death. It was nice to be here, alive, in the moment, petting a sweet creature, with Alden rubbing her shoulder . . .

  He dropped his hand as one of the painters noticed them and ambled over to where they were standing. The paint-spattered young man, with a deep tan and sandy hair, looked them over suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

  “We had a boating accident,” Alden said smoothly. “We had to walk quite a way. Could someone call us a cab or an Uber or something? Neither of us have phones.”

  And at least I left mine with my wallet in my car, Roz thought. She wondered about Alden’s. She’d already lost her camera and other sundries, but her keys were still in her pocket. It could be worse.

  “You guys look like you’ve had quite a morning,” the painter said. “I’m about to go grab lunch for the guys. I can take you somewhere, as long as it’s on the island.”

  “That would be wonderful. I’m Roz, and this is Alden.”

  “Rick,” said the painter, flashing a winning smile, reaching out to shake their hands. “Give me five minutes.”

  “Thank God,” Roz whispered as the painter went off to touch base with his buddies.

  Alden rubbed her back again. She couldn’t help leaning into his hand, broad and strong. She was starting to like him touching her, and any contact between them was not a good idea. She had a paper to save. She needed her independence. She needed her own scoops. And she didn’t need . . .

  “It’ll be OK,” Alden murmured into her hair, almost kissing it, and her every rational thought took flight.

  ≈≈≈

  Twenty-five minutes later, painter Rick had dropped Roz and Alden off at Pleasure Pointe Harbor. It was after 11, according to Alden’s adventure watch, and there was more activity than earlier, with fishermen and pleasure boaters coming and going. Still, it was a lot quieter than the main marina on the other side of the island, and maybe that was a good thing, he thought.

  “You go on. I can bike home,” Alden said to Roz. “But we should probably talk at some point about what happened this morning. The gunfire, I mean.”

  Was it his imagination, or did she blush? “I told you I’d give you a ride,” she said. “Otherwise the pedals are going to rip up your poor feet even more.”

  “I’m not sure my bike will fit in your car.”

  “Oh, sure it will,” she said, leading him to the hybrid. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and pressed the button on her fob. Nothing happened. She pressed again. “What the —?”

  “Salt water is a bitch,” said Alden. “It’s a miracle you still have keys at all.”

  Roz rolled her eyes and pressed a button on the side of the fob, releasing a small key. That got them in, and with some wrangling of seats, they got his bicycle in, too.

  They sat in the front, and Roz pushed the ignition button. Nothing happened. She rubbed her temples.

  “Headache?” Alden asked.

  “Trying to remember how to push-button start with a dead fob.”

  “Here.” He plucked the fob from her hand and pressed it against the button until he heard a soft beep. “Now press it.”

  She looked at him, then pressed the button. The car started. “Are you the engine whisperer or something?”

  “I like to read about cars. It helps me relax. If I really want to relax, a good car manual helps put me to sleep.”

  “Exciting reading,” Roz said, putting the hybrid in gear and taking them
out of the lot and onto Center Street.

  Alden had so much trouble sleeping, even car manuals were too exciting sometimes, but she didn’t need to know that. “I also read novels, but I have to be careful, or they’ll keep me awake all night. I have trouble putting them down.”

  “Really?” she asked, heading north. “What do you read?”

  “Thrillers. So-called literary stuff. The occasional sci-fi. And I keep saying I’m going to write a novel someday.”

  “I once had an editor who told me every journalist has a novel in their bottom drawer,” Roz said.

  Alden smiled. “I wish. Mine’s not written yet. What do you like to read?”

  Her smile was bashful. “I read widely, but I’m afraid I bask in guilty pleasures.”

  His imagination went right to the guiltiest pleasures he could imagine. With her. “What guilty pleasures?”

  “So where do you live?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Oh, yeah.” Alden directed her to his street and the yellow, two-story stucco house, its front yard shaded by oak trees, with palms and bougainvillea adding color and motion. “I’m the second-floor apartment.”

  “Nice balcony,” Roz said, peering out the window as she parked. Plants lined the railing, the work of his landlady. “Uh, do you have your keys?”

  “I hide one under the frog in the plant by the door. In case you ever need it.” He shot her a flirtatious smile.

  They wrestled his bike from the back, and then it was time to part. Only Alden didn’t want to. He struggled for something to say after the intensity of the morning, remembering her leap overboard, the fear, the feel of her lips against his.

  She held his gaze for a moment and nodded, almost as if agreeing with his unspoken thoughts, then got into her car.

  “Remember to call me about the balloon lady,” he said before she could close the door. “But give me an hour or two to get a new phone.”

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. I’ll expense it.” He smiled. “And then we can look into our gunboat.”

  Roz eyed him for a few seconds. “Too many loose ends,” she said, brisk and businesslike again. “I’ll call you later.”

  Alden watched her drive off, then hauled his bicycle up the outdoor staircase to his place, thinking about one loose end that was all too likely to entangle him: Roz Melander.

  ≈≈≈

  Roz took a long, hot shower at home, wondering if she should be taking a cold one. She had a lot to think about — a story from hell, almost getting killed, and losing her family’s boat. And Alden.

  She touched her lips as the hot water streamed over her, washing off the salt and cleaning the abrasions their jungle adventure had left on her skin. He’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back, and it had been — amazing. But it would have to end there. It had to.

  She knew that saving the Gazette from ruin was more important than her own desires. But she still thought about him as the water sluiced over her. Slowly, she ran a soapy hand over her skin, her nipples, her triangle, and imagined how it would feel to have him touch her there. She remembered how every inch of his hard body had pressed against her, how tender and warm his lips had been on hers, and she ached for him, ached for everything she’d been missing in life.

  She cranked the temperature all the way to cold and, a minute later, got out of the shower, shivering. She dressed quickly, in jeans and a black knit shirt with three-quarter sleeves, good enough for casual Florida. She needed comfort, even as she needed to work fast.

  Roz rinsed her camera’s memory card and set it out to dry, hoping the gadget’s famed durability held up to a thorough soaking in salt water. While she nuked spaghetti left over from one of her rare nights of cooking, she thought about what had happened on the boat.

  The first question on her mind: Who had shot at them? The second, inextricably linked with the first: Why?

  Maybe they had interrupted a drug deal, but they’d barely spotted the other boat when the gunfire started. And didn’t a drug deal involve more than one boat? No other vessels had been in sight. And why the hell stage a deal there, right where the fishing boat had exploded, just as the sun was coming up? It made no sense.

  The third question, which she pondered over her pasta: Did the shooters have any idea who she and Alden were? She thought not. But they seemed willing to kill. Reporting the incident to the police right away — which would make her and Alden’s identity public record — seemed like a bad idea for now. If and when her boat was found, the truth might come out. She never liked lying, even by omission, but something told her caution was in order.

  At the least, she could get the latest on the Bellamy accident and recovery efforts. She tried Jimbo first.

  “Hi, Roz,” he said after the department patched her through to the deputy. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just wondering how the search was going.”

  “We’re going to release it later today, but we found — uh — evidence that there were no survivors,” he said with a level of discomfort she found amusing in a law enforcement officer.

  “Remains?”

  “That’s a good word for it.”

  Roz swallowed, trying not to picture it. “Have you found out anything about what happened to the boat?”

  “I think the Coast Guard is looking into it, but they’re pretty busy with other interdictions at the moment. My guess is it’s going to come down to some kind of hardware failure.”

  “Gas leak?” Roz asked, remembering Alden’s comments this morning.

  “Could be. Look, can you wait an hour before you publish about the victims? That’s when the release is coming out. It’ll look bad for me if too much leaks out in advance.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, thinking Alden would never agree. But this was a source she didn’t want to burn. “Thanks for giving me a head start.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you at Ms. Icey’s,” Jimbo teased.

  “Why don’t you give me your cell?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t take her question the wrong way. She wanted a direct line to her source, not a date. He cheerfully gave her the number, and they said their goodbyes.

  She had enough for a story, for sure — the confirmed death of Boyd Bellamy, not to mention his trusty fishing guide. Who, she reminded herself, should be checked out as well.

  She called Consummate Catch next and, to her pleasant surprise, was put through to the president.

  “Mr. Verret, it’s Roz Melander from the Mimosa Gazette. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for the loss of your fishing guide.”

  “How nice of you,” Verret said, his tone as dry as Death Valley. “And?”

  Roz plowed on. “I wondered if you had any more clues as to why the boat might have exploded?”

  “Consummate Catch is investigating the possibility of an accident caused by a fuel leak, and we are cooperating fully with the authorities. We truly regret the loss of life and want to reassure the public and our customers that our boats are rigorously maintained. Our entire fleet will be undergoing a thorough safety check.”

  “Is that what the press release says?” Roz asked.

  Verret’s tone shifted from robotic to snarky. “Which you would have known if you’d looked at our website.”

  “I prefer to go to the source, sir,” she said, but she scrambled on her laptop to pull up the release. It contained no names; actually, no reference to victims at all. Selective truth. Good marketing. “We’d like to write a nice obituary for your guide. Do you mind sharing his name?”

  Verret paused, and then he gave her the name, which she typed into her file. She also got out of him that the guide was single and a nice guy who knew some of the best fishing spots in the gulf.

  “So do a lot of people fish where the boat exploded?” she asked.

  “No,” Verret said. “That was a spot our guides knew about, but we didn’t advertise it.”

  “So none of your boats would have been out there, say,
early this morning?”

  Verret paused again. He paused a lot. She wondered what he was thinking. “Why would you ask?”

  Roz wasn’t ready to tell him she and Alden had been pursued by crazed gunmen. “Just — something I heard about a boat at the accident scene. Or boats.”

  “Our search resumed at 8 this morning. Perhaps that’s what you saw?”

  “No, that wasn’t — no, that’s not what I heard,” Roz said, recovering herself. Who was interviewing who here? “Thanks for your help, and again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I hope we can all put this behind us,” he said coolly. “Goodbye, Ms. Melander.”

  Verret was irritating, Roz thought, but at least she’d learned the name of the guide. A quick search turned up no criminal record on that poor young man, at least.

  She dialed the hot-air balloon company, which hooked her up with Zoe Bradbury.

  “Lacey mentioned the balloon ride?” Zoe replied to Roz’s query. “There’s not much more to tell you. We respect the privacy of our guests, but truth be told, I have no idea who Boyd wanted to bring with him.”

  “He had plans for a guest?”

  “Yes. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? One day you’re planning a romantic trip in a balloon, and then — you just disappear. My great-aunt would have said that’s why you treat today as a gift and tomorrow as a mystery.”

  “But you think it was romantic?”

  “That I can’t say for sure,” Zoe said, “but what’s more romantic than a balloon ride?”

  “And I suppose Lacey won’t share upcoming or canceled room reservations.”

  “I think we both know the answer to that.”

  “I understand. Listen, I think you’ve told me all I need to know, but there’s this other reporter who wants to talk to you — ”

  “That cutie at the Times? You want me to be unavailable?” Zoe laughed.

  So even the Happily Marrieds like Zoe had noticed Alden, Roz thought, and the notion was curiously annoying. “No, just, uh, giving you a heads-up that he might call.”

  “No problem. We have nothing to hide here! Especially since we seem to know less than you do.”