by Meryl Sawyer
“This is everyone’s favorite act,” Bubbles told him. “No one can figure out how he gets cats to jump through flaming hoops.”
To his right on the other side of Bubbles stood Kyle. He was leaning down, whispering something to Shelly. She responded with a tentative smile.
“Shelly seems a little shy at times,” Trevor said, his voice pitched too low for Bubbles to overhear.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Matt replied, again troubled by how close his friend was to this woman. “Remember, she threatened Emily.”
“Words spoken in the heat of the moment,” Trevor said.
Matt cursed under his breath. Shelly had Trevor around her little finger. “Shelly swore she’d kill Emily. My sister was in tears. She honestly believed Shelly would hurt her.”
“After that, Shelly left, didn’t she? You never saw her again until the accident.”
“True, but it took a restraining order to get rid of her.”
The crowd watched as the hoops were set afire. Waving a magician’s wand, the green-haired man chanted in what was supposed to be a foreign language, but sounded more like jibberish. He tapped one cat’s stool with the wand and the saucer-eyed animal soared through the hoop and landed on the empty stool on the other side.
The crowd roared its approval and clapped frantically. The man continued to chant and tap, sending the rest of the alley cats off their stools and through the rings of fire.
“Amazin’!” Bubbles clapped her hands, totally delighted.
Shelly’s reaction was quite different. Her eyes were narrow slits and a frown etched her brow. The same expression marred Trevor’s face.
“Do you suppose those cats are drugged?” he asked Trevor.
“I have no idea. I’ve heard about this, but I haven’t been to the dock show for some time.”
Matt wasn’t surprised. The sunset celebration at Mallory Dock was for tourists, not locals. Since the cruise ships had made Key West a port of call, the dock was as crowded as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. No doubt, Trevor was here because he wanted Shelly to see the famous event.
Now the cats were all flying through the air at once, gliding through the burning hoops with amazing agility. Their glassy, wide eyes reflected the fire, but they didn’t seem afraid.
“Every animal has an instinctive fear of fire,” Matt told Trevor.
Trevor nodded. “Let’s go. I can’t watch this.”
“We’re outta here,” Bubbles informed Kyle and Shelly.
Matt and Trevor led the way, plowing through the fascinated crowd. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Shelly and Kyle were following. The big jerk had his arm around her shoulders as though he owned her.
They reached the far end of the dock, where the crowd was thinner, the air fresher. They walked down the street toward Mel Fisher’s Maritime Museum. The noise from Duval Street filled the balmy night air. Reggae, jazz, the blues, rock—you name it.
The night scene in Key West. Matt remembered someone calling it a consensus hallucination. They weren’t far from wrong. After sunset Duval Street belonged to the tourists who’d come to party. And there were plenty of clubs—gay and straight—to do it in.
“There’s Dr. Burroughs.” Shelly’s excited voice came from behind him.
“He’s joining us for dinner,” Trevor said.
A good-looking man with close-cut brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses was leaning against the fence in front of the Audubon House. Matt had met the doctor briefly last night. He seemed like a nice guy.
“Where are we goin’ to dinner?” Bubbles asked.
“Margaritaville,” Trevor said as they joined Clive Burroughs in front of the charming home that had once belonged to the famous bird-watcher.
“You’re kidding,” Kyle said, echoing Matt’s own reaction. He gave the big lug credit. Locals usually had the good sense to get off Duval after sunset. There were a few good restaurants, but they were jammed with tourists.
Trevor smiled at Shelly. “I promised Shelly a cheeseburger in paradise.”
Shelly looked at Kyle, then at Clive, then at Trevor, and finally at Bubbles. What was he, Matt wondered. The human equivalent of a tarantula?
“We could have a cheeseburger at Jimmy Buffett’s another time,” she said.
“Babe, if that’s what you want to do”—Kyle changed his tune—“I’m game.”
Just what Matt thought. What a guy! He’d say anything to lure a woman into bed.
“No, really. I don’t mind eating at Margaritaville another time.”
“Shelly, I have a suggestion,” Clive said. “Tomorrow, I’m off. Trevor and I will meet you for cheeseburgers in paradise. Margaritaville is less crowded then.”
“Great, I’d like that.” Obviously, Shelly was flustered at being the center of a very minor controversy.
“Let’s take rickies over to Louie’s Backyard,” suggested the doctor. “It’s fun and the food’s good.”
“Come on, yaw’l. Let’s go for it.”
Bubbles led the charge around the corner to where the rickshaws were lined up, waiting for customers. Buff guys in muscle shirts and biking shorts made their living pedaling the two-wheeled carts around the Old Town’s crowded streets.
Clive, the take-charge type, negotiated like a rug merchant in a bazaar for a special rate for three rickies to take them out to Louie’s and wait while they dined. Matt stepped directly in front of Shelly.
“You’re riding with me. There’s something private we need to discuss.”
Matt put both hands around Shelly’s bare waist and lifted her into the rickie. To the driver he said in a tone too low to carry, “I’ll give you an extra twenty to take the scenic route to Louie’s Backyard.”
Chapter 13
Matt hopped into the rickie next to Shelly and made certain to take up more than his fair share of the small bench seat just to see how she would react. He didn’t know quite what to make of her. He suspected the way she kept ignoring him was some sort of act.
She was clutching her cane, staring straight ahead with all the enthusiasm of someone facing a firing squad. The driver began pedaling and the rickie bumped over the cobblestones, then turned up Duval. The vehicle swayed as the driver swung to one side to avoid hitting a trio of drunks who’d stumbled out of Sloppy Joe’s Bar and into the street.
Could he help it if his bare knee brushed against Shelly’s leg? Still staring ahead, she didn’t seem to notice. He seized the opportunity to take a close look at her. Her slim legs did wonders for the shorts she was wearing even though one leg was in a cast from the knee down.
The cropped T-shirt was kick-ass. Silicone or not, he couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to put his hands around her waist, then slowly move upward until her breasts were cradled in the palms of his hands.
The narrow road was a slug fest, typical after sunset, but the rickie driver maneuvered the rickshaw between the taxis and cars, quickly passing them. From the open-air bars and clubs lining the street came raucous laughter and music. The driver, pumping the pedals for all he was worth, turned off noisy Duval onto Eaton Street.
Shelly had yet to spare him a single glance. She gazed off in a detached way he found damned irritating. He tried to sound casual and act as if her attitude didn’t frost his cookies.
“Most of the historic houses around here are conch houses. It sounds like c-o-n-k but it’s spelled c-o-n-c-h. The building to your right is one of Key West’s most famous landmarks, The Donkey Milk House. Notice, it’s a tropical Greek Revival different from the others—”
“I know. Trevor gave me the historical tour.”
He resisted the urge to spin her around in the seat and force her to look at him. This wasn’t the way Shelly usually behaved. Back in Manhattan, nothing he said or did could discourage her. She pursued him, following him everywhere he went.
She had deluded herself into believing he loved her even though they’d had only one date. At that point Matt had gone ballistic a
nd let her know that he wasn’t putting up with her bullshit. Being mean hadn’t fazed Shelly. She’d continued to dog him relentlessly. No matter how brutal his words, she’d kept coming back for more.
Now she was playing another game. Hard to get. If she wanted to play games, he was in the mood. Why not pretend to be nice?
“Shelly, about last night … I don’t know what got into me. I acted like a real jerk.”
“You won’t get any argument from me.”
A little surprised, he waited a moment for her to say something more, but she just looked at the CLOTHING OPTIONAL sign posted in front of the Déjà Vu Bed and Breakfast. No clothes, tangled sheets. An image flashed across his mind: Shelly on top of the sheets, hair fanned across his pillow, wearing nothing but a smile.
“Shelly, look at me.”
“I can’t.” She set her chin like an Arkansas mule ready to let the big one rip. “Doctor’s orders.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
“Dr. Holt thinks looking at you or talking to you will make me obsessed with you again. I’ll die before that happens.”
He laughed—or tried to anyway. If nothing else, her traumatic experience had sharpened her tongue. “Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s Dr. Holt?”
“A psychiatrist friend of Trevor’s,” she responded without looking his way. “I told Dr. Holt I was completely over you. I have no idea what I ever saw in you.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I’ll bet if you even looked at me for one second, you’d start panting and try to jump on my bones.”
Bull’s-eye! Shelly pivoted in her seat, her expression bordering on a death threat. He put his arm across the back of the rickie, accidentally touching her shoulder. Then he zapped her with his killer grin and waited for her to blink.
Her remarkable blue eyes regarded him as if he were an insect that must be squashed immediately.
He kept smiling. “I’m God’s gift to women, right?”
“Don’t you wish.” She sounded as if she meant it.
Damn, if she wasn’t startlingly beautiful. Last night had not been a trick of moonlight and his libido. He had to remind himself that she’d been artificially enhanced by a cosmetic surgeon, but her eyes were all her own, blue as the water in the Keys and framed by long, wispy lashes.
Right now those blue eyes were frigid and making a valiant attempt to turn him to stone. He had half a mind to kiss her until she was begging him for more. He could almost feel the generous shape of her mouth opening under his. Aw, hell—
Sick of smiling relentlessly like a TV evangelist, but unwilling to admit he’d lost the pissing contest, he yelled to the driver, “Take the shortcut through the cemetery.”
Of course, going through the cemetery was an even longer way to Louie’s, but he doubted Shelly realized this. “Now that you’ve got me out of your system, tell me what about me attracted you in the first place.”
Uncertainty flickered in her eyes as the rickie left the street and headed into the dark cemetery. “I thought you were a nice man, a good person who looked after those who couldn’t help themselves. I thought you were perfect.”
Something in her tone told him that he had profoundly disappointed her, which was ridiculous. She was the one with the psychological problem, not him.
“Perfect, huh?” he teased. “Maybe I should apply for sainthood.”
“Ahead of Mother Teresa? I don’t think so.”
Okay, she had a sense of humor that he hadn’t picked up on in New York. So what else was new? He’d been on the fast track—with blinders.
“All right, I’m not perfect, but close enough for government work.”
Her expression said: Hopeless case. “How do you live with yourself, Jensen?”
“No one else will have me.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She might have been on the verge of a smile. Pale moonlight filtered down through the cemetery’s tall trees from a hunter’s moon, glinting off her blond hair, but she’d turned her head slightly, making it hard to see her face in the shadowy darkness.
He reminded himself that the road to hell was no place for a woman, even one as screwed up as Shelly. Still, he couldn’t seem to stay away from her.
Why had he suggested going through the cemetery instead of taking another long route to Louie’s? The crypts were aboveground due to the high water table. It was an eerie place by day, and at night it was spooky enough to give anyone the willies.
He’d been buying time, trying to loosen Shelly up before breaking the news to her. It was too dark and too depressing to tell her anything until the driver pedaled the rickie out of the cemetery.
“Tell me, your holiness, why did you insist I ride with you?”
Matt choked back a laugh. Just when he thought he’d been called every damn name in the book, Shelly came up with something new.
“I wanted to warn you,” he said, stalling. They were almost out of the cemetery. Ahead he could see the spires of St. Mary, Star of the Seas, the Catholic church. “Don’t fall for Trevor—”
“Get real, Jensen. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Well, now that you mention it—”
“Trevor is gay. He and Clive are meant for each other. Trevor just doesn’t know it yet.”
He heard his own quick intake of breath. He’d pegged her as someone far less insightful. Not everyone realized Trevor was gay, and Matt certainly hadn’t picked up on anything going on between Trevor and the doctor. Now that Shelly had called his attention to it, he realized it was possible.
Who’s going to take care of Trevor, she’d asked last night. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought. Compassion and Shelly had never been linked in his mind until last night, when she’d picked up on the subtle undercurrent in his friend’s personality. A permanent state of loneliness.
“If I had a brother, I—I mean, if my brother, Shawn, were still alive. Well, I feel the same way about Trevor that I did about Shawn.”
An unmistakable pang of sympathy shafted through him. Shelly had lost her brother and her parents in the ValuJet crash. She was alone in the world. She might be trying to play the sympathy card, he warned himself. He had absolutely no idea what she was trying to pull.
“Trevor’s a wonderful person,” she added. “I told him I was over whatever obsessive tendencies I’d had, but he asked me to see Dr. Holt. It was the least I could do after all Trevor’s done for me.”
Matt knew an opening when he heard one. They were out of the cemetery now, the lights of the historic Tree Top Inn allowed him to see Shelly as he told her what he’d learned.
“Trevor asked me to talk to you about something,” he fibbed. Trevor had said Shelly needed to be warned; Matt had volunteered. “Simon Ambrose—”
“The creep from the hospital?” Something shifted in the depths of her eyes.
“Yes.” He fought the urge to put his arm around her to break the news. “The D.A. plea-bargained the case. The judge let him off yesterday with time served.”
A beat of silence. “Great. Another victory in the war on crime.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper now. She wasn’t like so many women he’d known in New York. They were forced to act strong or they wouldn’t be taken as seriously as men. Shelly’s personality seemed to be tempered by a vulnerability he’d never seen before now. She had an edge, but she wasn’t as tough as she pretended.
“Ambrose is still in Key West. He’s staying with friends in Bahama Village.” He didn’t add that he planned to find the little shit and do the court’s work for it.
“I was in the village just before sunset. I bought this T-shirt and shorts at Jo Mama’s Duds. I didn’t see him—and believe me, I would know him anywhere.”
“I don’t want you in the village,” he said without thinking.
“He won’t recognize me. I’ll be able to spot him though.” She didn’t sound as confident as she had. “Don’t worry about me.”
Trouble was, he found
himself doing the damnedest thing—worrying about Shelly Ralston. Maybe that’s exactly what she wanted him to do. This just might be a new ploy on Shelly’s part.
The rickie pulled up to Louie’s Backyard and stopped in front of the conch house built by one of Key West’s original sea captains. Matt jumped out and shoved money into the driver’s hand, quickly thanking him. He turned to help Shelly, but she was already out of the rickie and heading into the café.
The cropped T-shirt exposed an enticingly soft skin at her waist. Moving up behind her, he put his hand on the small of her back to guide her. After all, she needed a cane. She could use the help, couldn’t she?
“They’ll be out on the terrace,” he told her as they crossed the dining room. “Louie’s is famous for his backyard—the Atlantic Ocean.”
Shelly didn’t bother to respond. They passed a cluster of tables. All of the men were gawking at her, all of them seeing her naked, all of them—
“Matt, over here.” Bubbles waved madly at him. Her red hair bounced and the light glinted off the stud in her nose. “I saved you a seat next to me.”
Just his luck.
Kyle smiled at her and gestured to the chair next to him. She turned her back on Matt without a word and hobbled over to Kyle. Now, how was that for an attitude?
She collapsed into the chair Kyle had pulled out for her, amazed that she had actually managed to bluff Matt. The whole time, she’d been nervous he would realize she was not Rochelle Ralston. Talking to him, being near him, was dangerous.
And exciting.
Her pulse skittered alarmingly as she thought about how near he’d been in the rickie. She’d been disturbingly aware of the masculine contours of his body—its heat, its raw power. He possessed a virility that demanded attention.
What if Matt and Shelly still had been lovers at the time of the crash and Matt wanted to continue the relationship? Where men were concerned, she was out of her depth in a mud puddle. No way could she have handled him under those circumstances.
She’d kept her wits by acting like a bad girl. Calling him by his last name, then joking even though she’d been nervous had paid off—she thought. But she couldn’t be sure Matt wasn’t suspicious.