by Rick Pullen
“Yeah. I’m looking into some real estate deal.”
Congressman? Cayman? Real estate deal? Could it be? She thought about it. Could he already be working on her story? If so, what an incredible streak of luck. She wouldn’t have to choose between a relationship with this wonderful man and her first order of business—leaking him Bayard’s story. The last thing she wanted was for Beck to question her motives. Okay, so she originally approached him about a story. She looked at him sitting there in his boxers. She never counted on this happening.
“That sounds like a tough assignment.” She hesitated, determined not to raise his suspicions. “All of that sand and sun. Don’t you think you should take along an assistant? I could keep you warm.”
“It’s plenty warm down there already.”
“I could cool you off.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“I could carry your briefcase.”
“I leave tomorrow.”
“I could be ready.”
“You’re serious?”
“I could be.”
“What about your husband? Your job?”
“As I said before, we have an understanding. Besides, he’s at the Republican convention. And as far as my job goes, I’m in a holding pattern. Every Republican’s already out of town or leaving today. I can easily take some time off.”
“You really are serious.”
“Just because you’ve seen my naked butt doesn’t mean I’m not a serious person.”
19
Eight couples, all dressed in tropical print pastels, stood in line ahead of Geneva and Beck at the Coral Sunset Hotel, awaiting check-in. Some fidgeted while others hovered over the front desk, forever hopeful that would somehow speed up the process. Geneva eyed a small, deeply tanned woman behind the counter who apologized to anyone within earshot about the delay. She was alone, she said, because her colleague had taken ill an hour earlier.
The woman hammered at her computer terminal and glared at the ancient matrix printer, waiting impatiently for it to spit out room information one line at a time. She pounded staples to paper as if she were squashing tropical bugs.
Island fever caught on island time, thought Geneva. A beautiful sunny day—who wouldn’t want to go home early with a slight case of sun and salt breeze?
Geneva’s eyes wandered around the grand lobby with its bright hues and indoor palm trees. Large exotic fish swam lazily in a pond, which featured a splashing fountain at one end. Encircling the lobby were a coffee shop, restaurant, clothing store, and gift shop. A flawed attempt to keep tourist dollars from leaving the building, she thought. The attraction was outside on Cayman’s snowy-white Seven Mile Beach.
It had been a while since she had experienced island time, and Geneva still felt remnants of the sharp edges of Washington under her skin. The first blast of humidity as she and Beck stepped off the plane at the tiny Grand Cayman airport hit her like a viral infection, invading her lungs and triggering the first symptoms of island fever.
Her stride slowed, suddenly less deliberate. Her shoulders slumped slightly. Perspiration made her blouse cling to her body. She pulled the hair off her neck and tied it in a ponytail. As they left the airport to pick up the rental car, Beck had paused and asked if she was feeling okay.
“Never better.” She belonged here in a beautiful island setting far from Washington’s frenetic political battles that accomplished nothing more than determining who gained the temporary upper hand.
The second leg of their flight from Charlotte had been smooth. Geneva had upgraded them to first class using her frequent flyer miles, and Beck seemed to appreciate being able to stretch out on the longer portion of the trip. They enjoyed complimentary Bloody Marys, watched a movie on Beck’s laptop, and then read and slept.
“Reservation for Rikki,” Beck said when they finally reached the lone clerk behind the registration desk.
“Do you have a penthouse available?” Geneva asked.
“Yes, miss, we do,” the clerk said.
“How much more?”
“Only one hundred dollars at this time of year.”
Hurricane season, Geneva thought. Might as well take advantage of it. “We’ll take it,” she said, not seeking Beck’s approval. He grinned and shrugged.
She handed the clerk her American Express card and turned to Beck. “My treat.”
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Kemper,” said the clerk, handing them room keys after the printer dawdled in near-record island time.
Geneva and Beck glanced at each other. Beck raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Geneva rolled her eyes.
BECK TIPPED THE BELLMAN and shooed him out the door of their room before he could point out all the amenities. Geneva immediately stepped through the side French doors onto the expansive rooftop terrace that must have been forty feet long. A masonry wall along the far side and rear of the terrace blocked crosswinds and provided plenty of privacy. Very good, she thought. Atop a glass table stood a tall vase of brilliantly colored tropical flowers that indulged her senses with a confectionary aroma, like blending the sweetness of chocolate with salt—the combination magnifying the scent of the ocean breeze.
The afternoon sun was intense, with only a few wisps of clouds in the sky. In the distance, the sky and the pale green water merged into a seamless horizon. Even from six stories up, she could see the sandy bottom of the Caribbean where swimmers splashed near couples walking languidly, hand in hand, along the beach. The gentle waves of the sea softly pulsed like a metronome, slowing life’s rhythm.
GENEVA QUIETLY SLIPPED BACK inside while Beck stepped to the railing and leaned over to take in the scene. The slight breeze filled his nostrils with its tender sting. He closed his eyes and felt the sun’s hot rays braise his face.
A moment later, he heard the French doors open and turned to see Geneva with her hair pulled up under a wide-brimmed straw hat and wearing sunglasses—and nothing else. She carried a towel, the novel she had begun after leaving Charlotte, and a tube of sunscreen. “I always need to find my private oasis,” she said. “It’s like your balcony at home. Private, comfortable—”
“But home doesn’t have this view,” Beck said, sweeping his arm out to the water below. Then he turned back to her, lowered his voice, and sighed. “Or this view.”
Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, but Geneva’s smile said it all.
“Could you put lotion on my back?” She laid her towel on the large daybed, which was shielded from the sun by an oversize umbrella.
He didn’t say a word but walked over and sat beside her. She lay on her stomach. He started with the back of her neck and arms, then her back. He took a long time rubbing it in on her backside.
“Don’t you think you’ve got that covered, dear?”
“I don’t want you to sunburn here. This is precious real estate.”
He moved down inside her upper thighs. Her body quivered from his touch. Her skin was soft, smooth, and unblemished. Her tan was light, but there. And no tan lines. He continued down her calves. They were firm. He finished with her feet and manicured toes. He took his time.
“That feels nice,” Geneva said. “It sure does,” said Beck.
She turned over. “I think I can handle the rest. Come join me.” She rubbed lotion on her skin and then lay back and closed her eyes. He stripped and stretched out next to her under the umbrella. He placed his hand on her thigh and did not move. So this was what her nudist thing is all about, he thought. I could get used to this.
BECK WAS STUDYING an island map and reading his notes when Geneva awoke. At about five o’clock, they showered and ventured out to the beach. Though the sun dropped into the sky, the temperature was going nowhere.
This was the first time Beck had seen Geneva in a swimsuit. He admired the top of her black bikini, held up with thin spaghetti straps and sporting white piping that drew attention to her ample cleavage. She wore a thin, white, cotton cover-up that didn’t cover up much at all. He wor
e his yellow trunks and a blue Hawaiian shirt his sister had given him for Christmas.
They swam for a while. The clear water magnified the sandy bottom, making it appear shallower than it was. Beck could see his feet through the pale water. Geneva swam up to him, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him. He tasted the salt on her lips. Even with wet hair, she was still beautiful. She remained a mystery to him, but he figured it would just take time to fully understand her. He found her unusually honest and totally open. It was like her attitude toward nudity. She had nothing to hide.
“Now,” she said, “can you feel why I don’t like to swim with clothes on?”
He hadn’t ever thought about it. But yes, his suit felt clammy. A few minutes later, when they stepped out of the water, he noticed right away. His suit clung to him. He was starting to understand.
STILL IN THEIR DAMP SUITS, they stopped at a nearby beach bar for dinner and gazed at the simmering orange sun sink into the green ocean.
“So what is your agenda for tomorrow?” Geneva asked. “I’m looking into Senator David Bayard. Know him?” Geneva had stabbed her fork into a chunk of grouper and paused midlift. It was true. Beck was working on her story. “Know him?” Beck repeated. “Uh, I’ve met him. Can’t say I know him.”
“There are some real estate transactions—trying to find out if he has ties to a company called Lamurr Technologies.”
She paused, her grouper still hung in limbo between her mouth and her plate. Finally, she took a bite. She felt her body tense. Would he be pissed the moment he learned of her connection? He was going to find out sooner or later. That mind of his would put it all together. So how should she handle this?
“Excuse me. I need to visit the ladies’ room.” As soon as she entered the restroom, she found a stall and locked the door behind her. She sat, thinking, filled with dread. This man meant more to her than she had bargained for. Getting her life together and escaping Washington was her top priority. Now this relationship and her own plans were headed for a major collision.
Obviously, she’s not the only one in Washington with suspicions about Bayard. But who would have given Beck the story? What did he know? He certainly didn’t know about her connection. Or did he? Could he be playing her all of this time? Maybe he was just pretending to be this wonderful, kind man only because he wanted more than just sex. She immediately realized the irony. Imagine, a man wanting more than sex. But if true, she might end up on the front page with Senator Bayard. She wouldn’t put it past a newspaper reporter. They’re mostly scum, just like politicians.
But that didn’t feel like Beck. She’d witnessed the kindness in his eyes. Yet they were eyes filled with the same ugly ambition of so many others in Washington. She would need to keep her guard up around him. No, she wouldn’t mention anything to him right now. Maybe she was wrong to be so suspicious. She hoped so. But until she knew the truth, she would keep silent.
Finally she returned to the table and sat in silence. She poked at her grouper. It was cold.
“Hello?” Beck stretched the word out like a piece of saltwater taffy.
“Sorry.”
“Something bothering you?”
“I’m a bit distracted.” What to say? Concentrate, she told herself. “I think I might have gotten sand in my suit where it doesn’t belong.” Lame. Did he buy it?
“I guess skinny-dipping is healthier for you.”
She smiled but said nothing.
“So where was I? Oh yeah. Tomorrow I want to check out a piece of property the senator owns on the water and then follow up with a check on land records at the government building.”
“Sounds like a blast.”
“Hmm. I detect a hint of sarcasm in your voice. Wait and see. You have no idea how lucky you are to see a real investigative reporter in action—to see the naked underbelly of an exciting profession. It’s really sexy stuff.”
“Can’t wait,” she said, her mouth now full of fish. “I bet you can’t.”
“I could lie on the patio while you run around the island. I’m reading a good novel.”
“And miss all the fun? Not a chance. You promised to assist, remember? I want my money’s worth.”
I think I just got mine, Geneva thought. “Well, there are other ways I could assist you.”
“Just hang onto that thought, lady.” Their eyes met. His wicked grin said it all.
In celebration of their surroundings, Beck ordered two drinks with little umbrellas.
“Oh, come on,” Geneva said, fingering hers. “I thought these went out with the Dark Ages.” Here he goes again with his cornball ways, she thought. I’m a sucker for this guy.
“Humor me.”
After downing their island concoctions, they weaved back to their hotel, arm in arm. It had been a long day of travel and sun. Tomorrow would be all work. They were naked and in bed before ten o’clock. Beck fell silent, spooning with Geneva, his arm wrapped around her body, his hand on her belly.
Geneva lay awake. Who was this man? He was nothing like she had originally imagined. And now he was conducting her investigation. She liked him. Too much so, she thought. And sooner or later, he would learn the truth about her corporate ties to the Bayard story. She didn’t want to think about that—about the possibility that her own ambition directly conflicted with his. She had to figure out how to make this all work.
His hand moved to cup her breast. She placed her hand over his and held it tightly to her chest. She didn’t want to let him go.
20
The next morning, Beck appointed Geneva navigator. She took full command of the map they had grabbed at the rental car company. At the wheel of their white compact Ford, he negotiated the left-hand side of the road. They weaved through the narrow streets of George Town, leaving behind Seven Mile Beach and their hotel. Beck found driving on the left fairly intuitive with the rental car’s steering wheel on the right, but he still struggled with his first roundabout. But Geneva’s directions and vivid oral and hand signals (“This lane! There! No there! Left!”) ensured they would survive their first morning on the island.
They cruised a two-lane road heading east along the southern coast, edging the perimeter of the island. It curved inland at Bodden Town. From there, they made their way along Frank Sound on the southern side, slowly passing rocky cliffs along the shoreline and then sandy beaches. Waves broke over the coral reefs a few hundred yards offshore. The road turned west, and the lanes straightened out along the northern coast, heading toward Rum Point. Beck slowed the car.
“It should be up here on the right somewhere,” he said.
Bayard’s was a huge three-story pale-yellow stucco house that dwarfed the neighbors. Beck turned into the driveway of a smaller home next door.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Watch me.” He stepped out of the car.
Geneva followed, but she stayed back and leaned on the hood of the compact car. It was hot, but her flowing, yellow-flowered sundress pro
tected her legs and body from the heat of the metal. She placed her hands on her thighs to keep her dress from flying up in the slight breeze.
Beck turned to her and tilted his head, looking down at her strategically placed hands.
“I’m a closet nudist, not a flasher,” she said.
He pointed his index finger to the side of his head.
She shook her head dismissively.
“I can’t help staring. You’re just so beautiful.”
Her smirk turned into a genuine smile.
Wearing a blue baseball cap advertising Kalik Bahamian beer and yellow sunglasses that matched the shade of Geneva’s sundress, he stepped up to the front screen door and knocked. A short white-haired man with sun-damaged skin shuffled to the entrance.
“We seem to be lost and were hoping you could help us,” Beck said. “We’re looking for an address.” He gave the man the number.
“Why, that’s right next door,” the man said, pointing to the large house.<
br />
“Do you know if it’s for rent?”
“No. The owner told me it’s been leased.”
“Shoot. My wife and I wanted to rent it. Would you know the owner’s name? Maybe we could lease at a later date.”
“Nice guy named Bayard. Not easy to reach though. It’s the damnedest thing. Ain’t nobody ever around.”
“It’s empty?”
“Oh, they come down maybe every few months or so for a weekend, but why would anybody rent it and then not be there more often than that? Some people just got more money than they have a right to, I suppose. The only people I see over there on a regular basis are the gardener and the property manager. Both come by once a week or so.”
“Do you think it would be okay to look it over? My wife and I were really hoping to rent it. A friend told us about it.”
“Don’t bother me none. Ain’t gonna bother them none neither, I suppose. Nobody’s there.”
“We’re only going to be a couple of minutes. Mind if I leave my car in your drive?”
“No bother. Go right ahead.”
Beck thanked the man, and he and Geneva walked to the sea. A five-foot concrete retaining wall rose from the beach, giving the false impression of protection from Mother Nature’s wrath. They climbed seven stone steps to a palatial tiled terrace overlooking the ocean, easily forty feet deep and as wide as the house. The sun reflected off the large windows overlooking the terrace, acting like mirrors, making it impossible to see inside.
Geneva took off her straw hat and sunglasses and leaned against the glass to peer inside. She glimpsed expensive patio furniture stacked in the middle of the room and chair cushions piled on a couch. “I feel like a Peeping Tom,” she said.
The room was large and the interior furniture typical light-colored beach fare. Only the pictures on the walls gave the room personality. She spotted some photos of what appeared to be the senator along with family and friends, but they were too far away to make out any details.
They stepped around to the side of the house by the road and found a three-car garage adjacent to a large entry porch. Both faced a manicured lawn and U-shaped paved drive.