Half Moon Bay

by Meryl Sawyer

  It had been his life.

  Had been. Past tense. His whole life had taken a drastic turn. His career was a thing of the past.

  He walked down the ramp to the dock where the Sunset Key launches were moored, hoping Trevor had received his message and had left a boat for him. The way his luck was going, Trevor hadn’t checked his answering machine.

  He smiled to himself when he spotted Trevor’s launch with its distinctive navy and white striped bimini to protect riders from the sun. Matt knew where Trevor kept the key hidden and found it. He was ready to cast off the mooring line, when the last note from the soulful saxophone drifted over the water.

  The blues always affected him in a melancholy way, arousing strong sensations of loneliness and depression. Tonight even more so. Man, oh, man. Seeing Shelly had disturbed him more than he’d first realized.

  He started the engine and motored away from the dock. Sunset Key was due west of Mallory Dock, about a five-minute ride by boat. The exclusive island didn’t allow cars, but it had brick paths for bicycles and golf carts. Accustomed to the go-go pace of Manhattan, Matt had always found Sunset Key a little too secluded.

  Now his mind-set had changed. He was ready to kick back and take it easy for a while. Trevor’s home on Sunset Key was the perfect place to do it. Trevor had purchased three lots at the southern tip of the key and had built a magnificent conch-style mansion with several guest suites.

  A trust from a wealthy aunt and insightful investments in the stock market had made Trevor Adams a very wealthy and somewhat eccentric man. He loved an entourage. At any given moment, he had three or four people temporarily living with him.

  The visitors were usually a bit “challenged.” Key West attracted artists and musicians as well as misfits. Trevor must have felt like a misfit for most of his life, and he identified with them.

  “This is it,” Matt muttered to himself as he pulled up to Trevor’s dock. “Half Moon Bay.”

  A new sign had been hung since his last visit. The locals called this end of the key Half Moon Bay because of the crescent of white sand shaded by towering palms that was now Trevor’s private beach.

  Trevor never locked his home, and Matt was sure his friend had left him a note on the entry table, the message center of the house. The note would tell him which suite to use, but something drew him toward the water.

  He dropped his bag on the grass and pulled off his loafers. Barefoot, wearing shorts and a polo shirt, he headed across the sand to the sea. Like a never-ending phalanx of soldiers, the waves marched up to the shore, one after another.

  Matt stood in the warm, ankle-deep water and gazed out at the indigo sea. Ribbons of moonlight glistened on the water. Half Moon Bay, with its flowering trees and stately palms and nesting ospreys, usually gave him a lift. Not tonight.

  “Forget Shelly,” he told himself. Yet in his mind’s eye he kept seeing her helplessly trapped in a hospital bed, unable to move or speak.

  “Don’t be such a bastard,” he cursed himself out loud. “No human being deserves to be in a coma—near death. All alone.”

  Chapter 2

  “Unfuckingbelievable! What a view.”

  Dexxter Foxx stood at the plate glass window of his Seattle office and looked out at the city’s lights. The neon sign just visible from where he stood blared: FOXX ENTERPRISES. His company, symbolized by the awesome view and the sign, filled him with a sense of accomplishment and pride.

  The view from the top.

  Dexxter was only too well aware that he had not started at the apex of the financial food chain. He had been born Dexter Foxe in a backwater burg in eastern Washington. By the time he’d entered community college, he was sick of saying, “Dexter Foxe. That’s fox with an E.”

  He’d been doodling in the math class he was flunking when he’d added a second x to Fox. Right then and there he’d decided to become a double X. Dexter with two Xs and Fox with two Xs.

  “Distinctive,” he’d said to himself. “Classy.”

  About that time he also realized he was never going to make money honestly. He was destined to earn his money the old-fashioned way. Crime paid.

  Welcome to the real world, he’d decided, the world of Dexxter Foxx.

  So far it had worked. With the technology explosion, there were too many computer-related companies around to be sure just what everyone was doing. People believed he was a successful software manufacturer.

  Everyone except Amy Conroy.

  Amy had discovered his scam and knew Foxx Enterprises was nothing more than a front. She’d idolized Dexxter. He’d been convinced she loved him and would do anything for him. But the second Amy’s mother had died, the snitch had stunned him by squealing to the Feds.

  “Ungrateful bitch,” Dexxter muttered to his reflection in the dark glass. “She did it because she was crazy about me, but I never paid any attention to her. Did she seriously expect me to take her out? Who would want to be seen with someone around who looked like her?”

  Amy was attractive—pretty, actually—if you saw her in profile from the left side. But the gross birthmark on the right side of her face gave him the willies. It didn’t detract from Amy’s brains though. She had a mind like a microchip.

  Too damn smart for her own good.

  Behind him, the door to his office opened, and he saw Irene’s reflection in the glass. She had finally decided to answer her pager in person. “Where have you been?”

  “Around.”

  He turned toward her. Irene’s flushed face and her tousled jet-black hair told him where “around” was. The dilated pupils that made her dark eyes appear ebony confirmed his suspicions. She’d been in the sack with one of her young, buff studs.

  “You left without giving me today’s report on Amy.”

  Irene sidled up to him and stood a little too close. He eased back, knowing one encouraging move or word, and they would be more than business associates. He had known Irene since third grade. Though liposuction and diet pills had improved her figure a little, to Dexxter she was still the fat little girl who tagged along wherever he went.

  He’d needed Irene’s money to start Foxx Enterprises, but he had no intention of becoming involved with her. Business was business. Let Irene screw all the studmuffins she wanted.

  “Amy vanished into thin air,” Irene informed him. “Zane’s the best in the business, but since he blew up that crappy little house where witness protection had Amy hidden, she hasn’t been seen.”

  “With a face like hers, Amy can’t hide. Zane just isn’t looking in the right places.”

  Leaning close, Irene brandished the gunboat boobs she had, compliments of silicone implants. “Where would you suggest Zane look?”

  He walked over to his desk to put some distance between them. At times Irene irritated him so much that he wanted to throw her across his huge mahogany desk, rip her clothes off, and blister her ass.

  Or something.

  “Check all the plastic surgeons in the Sacramento area, where she disappeared. I’ll bet you money, the FBI arranged to have that miserable birthmark removed. After we had the federal marshal killed, Amy went ahead with the surgery. That’s why we can’t find her.”

  Irene sauntered up to him. She was nothing but a whore, he assured himself. Still, he was bound to her like a Siamese twin. If she went to jail, he went to jail.

  “Zane’s sources say the FBI doesn’t know where Amy is. They’re looking for her too.” Again she stood too close, giving him more than a glimpse of her tits.

  “Somehow she had the scar removed. That’s the only reason we can’t locate her.”

  “Dexx, did it ever occur to you that if you’d volunteered to give Amy the money to have laser surgery to remove that hideous birthmark, we wouldn’t be in this mess?”

  He ignored the shadowy hollow between her breasts and met her gaze with a shrug, unwilling to concede he had deliberately not offered to help Amy even though she adored him. He liked controlling her, enjoying it more th
an he ever admitted to anyone.

  Amy had needed money desperately. Her mother had suffered with Parkinson’s and Amy had to have a job. Everything she’d earned went to helping her mother. Without the livid birthmark, Amy would have been as beautiful as she was brilliant.

  Only someone with shit for brains would have risked losing her.

  Life had dealt Amy a crappy hand. No family except for a sick mother, and a birthmark that revolted people. Still, she possessed a streak of pride and a will too tough to admit defeat. And the guts to cross him.

  “There is one thing,” Irene said as she ran the tip of her finger up his jacket from the cuff to the collar.

  He moved away. “What?”

  “When Zane rigged the explosion that killed the federal marshal, he assumed Amy would be inside the house, but she wasn’t.”

  “That’s old news.”

  “So where was Miss Big Mouth when Zane detonated the bomb?” Irene didn’t wait for him to guess. “She was stealing her neighbor’s dog.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “According to the drunk who lives next door, Amy was nuts. Several times she’d accused him of abusing his dog. He heard the explosion and came to the window. He saw Amy taking off with his dog.”

  “That’s crazy. I don’t remember her even mentioning she liked dogs.”

  Irene cocked one ebony brow in the same infuriating way she always did, saying, “Did you ever discuss pets?”

  “Never.” He silently admitted that he hadn’t known Amy nearly as well as he’d thought. She idolized him, hanging on every word, but he’d been careful not to encourage her.

  He never dated business associates. Like the sword of Damocles, the threat of sexual harassment hung over every executive’s head. He had the smarts to use professionals. Pros gave you what you wanted—without question. Without the threat of lawsuits.

  “So Amy snatched a dog. Big fucking deal,” he said rather than admit he should have paid more attention to Amy. If he’d strung her along, Amy wouldn’t have gone to the FBI.

  Irene clicked her long maroon nails on his desk. “Plain and simple, Amy Conroy deserves to die.”

  Amy floated, suspended in no-man’s-land between heaven and hell. Everything around her was devoid of light, of sound, so unbelievably bleak. And cold.

  She tried to concentrate, but her mind was almost blank, unable to hold a thought for more than a second. She was vaguely aware of … something. But what was it? For a second, she struggled with it, then gave up.

  Character determines fate.

  A thin, reedlike voice whispered those words. She tried to focus on what it might mean, but it was too dark and she was so chilled her teeth would chatter. If she could move her jaw.

  “You might not make it,” an inner voice warned. Her hold on life kept slipping, moving beyond her grasp with each breath. It wouldn’t take much to slip over the edge into total nothingness.

  And leave this world forever.

  Again something caught her attention. What was it? Sound. No sounds. A glimmer of hope warmed her frigid body. She wasn’t alone in this black void. Thank God, someone was with her

  “How seriously is she injured?” Matt asked the doctor as they stood beside Shelly’s bed.

  “She has a broken leg and arm. Her shoulder was badly dislocated.” The chubby doctor with a stethoscope slung around his neck spoke in the detached tone Matt recalled from his youth when his mother had been terminally ill.

  “Evidently, she put out her hand to break her fall. Big mistake. It was crushed. I doubt she’ll ever write with that hand.”

  “What about head injuries?”

  “All the tests show normal brain activity even though she’s still unconscious. Her jaw was broken in two places, so we wired it shut. The right side of her face was sheared off. She will need reconstructive surgery. Luckily, her right eye wasn’t damaged.”

  Matt ventured a glance at Shelly’s lifeless form. He’d been at her bedside for hours, but she hadn’t once moved. Finally, the doctor made his morning rounds, and Matt was able to inquire about her condition.

  “Shelly’s going to make it, isn’t she?” he wanted to know.

  The doctor shrugged. “She’s been unconscious almost thirty-six hours. The mind is a strange thing. Sometimes it just gives up. Have you tried talking to her, encouraging her?”

  The man had no idea what he was asking. Shelly had made his life hell, then threatened to kill his sister. He was here only because he knew Shelly had no one else.

  “That often works. You’re her …?”

  “Just an acquaintance,” he snapped, then tempered his voice as he noticed the doctor’s shocked expression. “Shelly’s family was killed in the ValuJet crash. I’m the only one around here who knows her, and I don’t know her very well.”

  “Try encouraging her. You’re all she has right now,” the doctor said as he walked away.

  Matt watched the man examine the other ICU patient, another unconscious woman. Whatever was wrong with her didn’t require the massive array of bandages cocooning Shelly.

  Matt stretched, attempting to work out a kink in his neck. He was so damn tired that the ICU kept blurring, his eyes closing, begging for sleep. He should go back to Trevor’s, get out of his raunchy clothes, and take a shower. Then he could hit the fancy sheets Trevor used on his beds and get some rest.

  He glanced at Shelly, telling himself he would come back later. She looked so forlorn. Totally alone.

  “Aw, hell, why me?” He dropped into the chair beside her bed. “Why me?”

  He forced himself to take her hand, carefully avoiding the IV inserted into a vein. Her fingers were icy against his palm. He stared at her small hand, noticing Shelly had given up the shocking pink nail polish she usually wore.

  Her fingers were slender and delicate. Everything about her was dainty, he thought as he glanced at her body. It was covered only by a crisp white sheet. When they’d been in Manhattan, he hadn’t realized how petite she was, almost fragile.

  He warmed her hand with his, closing his fingers over hers until all he saw was the IV shunt. “Shelly, it’s Matthew Jensen. Can you hear me?”

  Her chest rose and fell, indicating she was breathing, but she gave no sign she recognized his name. Through the slits in the gauze he could see her long lashes. They never moved. “Come on, Shelly. You have to wake up.”

  Still holding her hand, he moved closer to her bandaged head. He began talking about life in New York, about the business. Shelly had worked on the fringe of journalism. Her last job had been with a tabloid that specialized in alien abductions and Elvis sightings.

  “Shelly, I know you’re not going to believe this. I can hardly believe it myself. I quit Exposé.”

  Matt had left two weeks ago, but saying the words made it seem depressingly final. He’d battled his way to the top of the heap, making a rag sheet called Exposé into the country’s leading newsmagazine.

  He couldn’t believe he’d walked away.

  Why did you do it? This isn’t like you. He thought Shelly was silently questioning him, which was impossible, of course. She was still deep in a coma, but he lied to her anyway. He didn’t want to verbalize his problems even to a woman who couldn’t hear him.

  “Life’s too short. I want to kick back for a while. I’m here to visit my roommate from college. You remember me mentioning Trevor Adams. I’m going to spend some time with him.”

  The sounds morphed together. Amy had no idea what was being said. Then a deep, steady voice registered in her confused brain. A man’s voice. It seemed close, near enough to reach out and touch, yet it was coming to her from another world.

  She didn’t understand anything he was saying.

  Still, the low, crooning sound comforted her. She liked the voice with its measured cadence and masculine undertone. She needed to know someone was with her. Wherever she was. She wasn’t trapped in this black abyss by herself.

  She dimly realized
she wasn’t as cold as she had been. Her body seemed to be warmer now. Surely that was a good sign, an indication the darkness would soon lift.

  The sound abruptly stopped, and a deep chill invaded her bones again. She tried to call out, to summon the voice back. But her brain refused to function. She was floating in darkness once more. Abandoned.

  Matt stood above Shelly’s inanimate form. For a second he thought her eyelashes had fluttered. Leaning down, he looked closely, almost expecting to hear her say “I’ll love you until you die.”

  That’s what she’d said the last time he’d seen her. It had sounded like a veiled threat, but he had ignored it. Now she was the one near death.

  He must have been mistaken. Her pale lashes were still closed. She couldn’t speak even if she wanted to; her jaw was wired shut.

  He’d been encouraging her for over two hours. Nothing. Not one sign she knew he was there. He was beat, too exhausted to go on.

  “Give it a break, Jensen,” he muttered to himself as he left the ICU.

  Chapter 3

  Weightless, Amy floated, drifting along in cryptlike darkness. She didn’t seem to be as cold as she’d been earlier. When was that? Minutes, hours, days? She didn’t have a clue, not much registering in her confused brain except that the world around her seemed unusually quiet.

  Something vital was missing. She wasn’t sure how long she remained suspended in a vast wasteland of nothingness before it dawned on her what was wrong. Where was the rich masculine voice that had soothed her earlier?

  Had she just imagined it, or had the voice really existed? Her brain was barely functioning, but she knew who she was, knew she was alone in the world. Who had been talking to her?

  “Come on. Open your eyes. You can do it.”

  The words sifted through her brain, mingling, jumbling, then finally forming one coherent thought. Him. The caring voice had returned and a warm glow flared inside her.

  Her fog-shrouded brain tried to calculate how much time had lapsed since he last had tried to entice her to rejoin the world of the living. Her attempt to judge time failed, but the mesmerizing voice continued to coax her out of the darkness.