Florida Knight

by Blair Bancroft

  Oh hell! Kate Knight didn’t cry, she never cried. But moisture blinded her eyes as she patted Mona’s shoulder while the new assistant manager of the Golden Beach Groves sales center dropped tears onto Kate’s sagging sofa. It wasn’t just the thought she might have to give up LALOC events that had caused the kind-hearted Mona to dissolve in tears. Mona was much too strong for that. Kate frequently questioned whether she could have stood up to the blows which Mona Ellis had endured.

  Mona was a saint, Kate decided, not for the first time. It was she herself who was lacking. She who would have to face up to re-opening a crack into the outside world, to putting a damper on her cynicism, to allowing dreams—however small—back into her life.

  Go slow, slow, slow! Her turgid backwater of life was calm and cozy. A familiar friend. If she ventured out, where would it lead? Perhaps not just into the mainstream, but into a roaring, racing series of whitewater cataracts that would tumble her into a whirlpool. Followed by oblivion.

  Yet that’s what was going to happen, no matter how hard she fought against it. She could dig in her heels, resist, struggle, say no as often and futilely as she liked. Michael Turco wasn’t going to let her rest on the safety of the bank.

  Chapter 4

  The moment Barbara Falk entered the office the next morning, she turned eager eyes on her assistant. “Well,” she demanded, “how did it go?”

  “Fine,” Kate mumbled, staring at her computer as if the machine couldn’t boot up without someone watching its tumbling scrawl of system and virus checks.

  “Kate?” Attorney Falk peered at her paralegal’s rigid profile. “Are you going to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  Barbara waited a beat, dropped her briefcase on Kate’s desk. Placing both hands on the highly polished wood, she leaned down until she was almost eye level with her stubborn, close-mouthed employee. “What did you think of him?” she asked, each word crisp with precise enunciation.

  “He’s . . . dynamic.”

  Ah, that was better, Barbara thought. Slightly more hopeful. “I insisted on talking with him before I turned him loose on you,” she offered. “On the phone he was everything that was polite, but of course he would be. But when I saw him, he took my breath away. There’s something about him . . . like a tiger deigning to take time out to make nice before going back to the hunt. I suspect he can be rather . . . overwhelming.”

  “He was.”

  Since Kate still wasn’t looking at her, Barbara allowed herself a wince. Although she hadn’t seen Michael Turco since he was a child, she knew his family well. She’d made sure he wasn’t married before she agreed to allow him to approach Kate. Her paralegal led too narrow a life. Barbara was more than happy to do her civic duty while indulging in the role of matchmaker on the side. Yet there wasn’t an ounce of anything but thinly veiled disgust in her assistant’s tone. “Kate, if you really want out . . .”

  “No.”

  Barbara tapped her fingers on her brown leather briefcase, hoping Kate would elaborate. Nothing but silence. “You’re both strong, dynamic, intelligent. I thought the two of you would be able to work together,” she said at last. “He’s a good cop, you know. Just single-minded about finding the person who hurt his brother. If you give him a chance . . .”

  “I am giving him a chance.”

  “You’re giving him a chance with LALOC,” Barbara pointed out. “I don’t think you’re giving him a chance as a person.”

  Kate’s fingers froze on the keyboard; her head snapped around. “I didn’t know that was part of the deal,” she challenged.

  Barbara picked up her briefcase, shook her head. “It’s not,” she conceded, “but I admit I had hopes.”

  Kate was tempted to tell her boss what she could do with those hopes but, fortunately, thought better of it. It wasn’t the first time her kind-hearted employer had tried to play matchmaker; it probably wouldn’t be the last. It was one of the hazards of her job. This latest effort would be no more successful than all the others.

  “I want to help,” Kate admitted. “I only knew Mark Turco well enough to smile and say hi, but he was extremely likeable.” A far cry from his brother whose only interest in women was intimidation.“I was appalled when he was hurt. So I’m fine with this, Barbara, don’t worry about it.” Abruptly, Kate turned back to her computer.

  Well, it was early days yet, Barbara consoled herself as she slid into the well-padded blue leather chair behind her desk. If Kate and the lieutenant struck sparks off each other—which evidently they had—it was quite possible the hostility could turn to a conflagration of a different kind.

  When Lieutenant Michael Turco’s carefully controlled baritone sounded in Kate’s ear two nights later, she came close to dropping the phone. She’d seldom gone an hour in the last forty-eight without his final words to her echoing through her mind like some solemn promise from hell. I’ll be in touch. His simple, even snappish, greeting—“Kate? Michael Turco here”—had her hands trembling, stomach heaving, not to mention other, more southerly, reactions she refused to acknowledge. She, Kate Knight—the girl with nerves of steel—was being spooked by a man who was miles away.

  “We need to talk,” Michael continued in a tone so impersonal he might have been a computerized phone solicitor. “How about The Troll House tomorrow night at seven. Dinner’s on me.”

  Kate groped behind her for a chair, sat down hard, dragging the wall phone cord with her. The words that came out of her mouth were purely defensive, her brain refusing to kick into gear. “You don’t have to buy me dinner.”

  “Yes, I do. I owe you. We have to make plans, get our act together. It might as well be over dinner.”

  He made it sound so easy, even sensible. But her body was screaming date even as her mind struggled to be rational. Yes, they needed to talk, but not necessarily at one of the best waterfront restaurants in Golden Beach. She’d known he was going to be trouble. Why should she be surprised?

  “Well?” Michael demanded as the pause in their conversation lengthened.

  Kate’s knuckles were almost as white as the phone. “Certainly, Lieutenant,” she purred. “I always enjoy good food. The Troll House, seven tomorrow.” Good. Not the slightest sign of a wobble to give her away.

  “Fine.” Click.

  Kate’s goodbye faded into the air as she realized he’d hung up. Strange man. Her long arms stretched toward the wall, returned her phone to its cradle. For several minutes she sat quite still, staring into space, before she jumped up and rushed down the hallway to her bedroom at the rear of the mobile home. What did she have that was casual enough, yet elegant enough, for the old restaurant that had clung for so many years to the bank of the Intracoastal Waterway? Casual enough, yet elegant enough, to bring Lieutenant Michael Turco to his knees.

  Perched on a stool at the restaurant’s tiny bar, Michael assured himself he just happened to be looking toward the entry of The Troll House when Kate Knight walked in. He wasn’t really keeping his eyes more on the door than on his drink. Okay, so he could tick off every patron who had entered in the past fifteen minutes. The pleasingly plump couple who were either tourists or snowbirds not yet flown home to Michigan or Iowa, four ladies of a certain age with hair ranging from salt and pepper to gray to shining white, a smartly dressed fortyish couple who looked as if they’d come from one of the waterfront mansions on the barrier island just across the Waterway. And two young women in their twenties who had plopped themselves down beside him at the bar and hadn’t hesitated to start up a conversation. Which was, Michael told himself, why he had turned his back and was watching the entry door so closely.

  He would have sworn he’d become old and jaded, that nothing could stir him past mild appreciation of what God gave females. That his interest in Kate Knight was solely the challenge of getting her help in the successful completion of his mission. But, suddenly, there she was . . . and she took his breath away. Even as he slid off the bar stool, Michael stared. To keep his mouth from s
agging open, he forced himself to concentrate on details, starting at shining black leather shoes, moving up over a long expanse of pleated black slacks that looked suspiciously like silk, a long black tunic heavily embroidered with some kind of oriental designs—dragons, cherry trees, stuff like that. And above . . .

  Above that she was wearing makeup, perfectly applied makeup that turned her eyes into green fire, and—oh hell!—her hair was down, falling in waves of silver blond silk that tumbled in a startling riot of curls around her face, partially obscuring a red dragon embroidered over the modest but firm breasts Michael had tried so hard to ignore that day in Barbara Falk’s office.

  Dammit, the woman was playing him. Even as his hardened heart stirred, as did an equally delicate part of his anatomy, he knew it was all an act. Kate Knight had come armed to the teeth, determined to win this round.

  Since the mad rush of the prime months of the Winter Season was over, they were soon seated at a window table only scant feet from the Intracoastal Waterway, which at this point wasn’t much more than a shored-up canal less than a hundred feet wide. Kate, who had planned on treating Michael Turco as if he were a business rival at a hostile takeover, turned her eyes toward the water and was lost. In a setting like this, hostility was well nigh impossible.

  A large cruiser idled in the channel just outside the window. Ah-oo-gah! A shrill warning sounded from the drawbridge that towered over the restaurant. The gates came down, the bridge started to lift.

  “That’s how this place got its name,” Kate said, never taking her eyes off the scene outside.

  “Yeah, I know. The old troll under the bridge story,” Mike agreed. “I was born in Golden Beach.”

  Startled, Kate turned to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “so few people are natives. And somehow I assumed you lived in Manatee Bay, that this wasn’t your territory.”

  “The FHP patrol station is here,” Michael pointed out. “I have a condo in Twin Lakes Village.”

  Which explained the local connection to Bill Falk. The bridge siren sounded once again, signaling it was about to close. Relieved by an excuse to escape the conversation, Kate turned back to the Waterway. The large cruiser was already out of sight behind the bridge supports. A steady stream of cars now rumbled toward the beach on the west side of the bridge. Joining the crowd of sunset watchers, Kate thought. Cars, vans, SUVs and pickups lined up every evening to watch the sun plunge into the Gulf of Mexico, usually to a spectacular display of rainbow-hued colors.

  Dear God, when was the last time she’d watched a sunset?

  Kate’s gaze retreated to a row of pelicans lined up on the wooden bumpers that marked the narrow navigable channel under the center of the bridge. The area boasted three restaurants plus small boats that frequently fished under the shelter of the concrete span. The pelicans had long since learned that not all their food had to be plucked live from the water in traditional plunging dives. Between leftovers and offerings from soft-hearted fishermen, the birds lived well. So they sat on the bumper and waited.

  Reluctantly, Kate abandoned the view as their drinks arrived—Guinness for both of them. Must be the first thing they had in common, Kate thought as she sipped from an iced mug so cold it nearly stuck to her lower lip. Words were sticking to it too, she realized. If there was one thing LALOC emphasized, not to mention the public relations portion of her job as Barbara Falk’s maid-of-all-work, courtesy was all-important. She might not be on a date, but polite conversation was not only expected, it was mandatory.

  “Do you like living in Twin Lakes,” she inquired. Kate had been around long enough to know that although the condominium complex was in the medium price range, it had been so well laid out with lakes, trees, green grass, flowers, and swimming pools that it was one of the most sought-after locations in the area. Condos at Twin Lakes were usually snapped up as soon as they came on the market.

  “It’s peaceful,” Michael replied. “Hard to believe it’s right off a main road.” Then—even though he’d vowed to play it cool, strictly business—some evil genie made him add, “I’ll have to show it to you sometime.”

  Fortunately, the waitress arrived with their salads before Kate could do more than grimace. This was business, she reminded herself. If she could deal with LALOC fighter jocks, she could deal with Michael Turco. Face it, idiot, he was just passing an innocuous remark. He didn’t even smirk. You’re the one who’s making something of it. The lechery’s in your head, not his.

  Kate swallowed a mouthful of romaine, radicchio, and arugula coated in honey-mustard dressing. It wasn’t just sunsets she’d missed. When was the last time she’d been in a fine restaurant, eating superior food, with a panorama of water, boats and birds against the backdrop of a barrier-island beach? She should be grateful instead of going into her prickly pear routine. “The next Event is a week from tomorrow,” she tossed out as a peace offering.

  Michael glanced around the crowded restaurant. “Let’s eat first,” he suggested. “We can talk out on the dock when we’re done.” Since her baked stuffed shrimp had just arrived, Kate was more than willing to agree. At least she’d tried to meet him half-way. Truthfully, she still hadn’t decided if he was a lech or cold as her iced beer.

  Later, as they exited onto the narrow dock that ran along the side of the restaurant, an eighteen-footer pulled up. Obligingly, Michael grabbed a line, wrapping it expertly around a bollard. A family of five—gramma, grampa, daughter and two small children—got out. After disengaging the children from their life jackets and a hearty thanks to Michael, the family went inside The Troll House to eat.

  “That’s nice,” Kate murmured, looking after them. Michael answered her with a grunt. Kate felt like a fool. Lieutenant Michael Turco was about as sentimental as a robot. Not true. The man hadn’t agreed to wear a costume to LALOC Events because of his job. He was doing it for vengeance. Personal, family vengeance. She should never forget there was a lot of fire—probably volcanic—beneath that cool, sharply etched exterior.

  The sun had set, the pelicans gone to roost; traffic on the Waterway slowed to a trickle. Lights twinkled down from the bridge and from the spotlights above the parking lot at the beach. It was about as perfect a night as Kate had ever seen. If she got out more . . . if she didn’t spend her afternoons and evenings bent over a sewing machine . . .

  Michael guided her to an outside bench built along the side of the old building, then sat down beside her, so close their hips were touching. “So there’s an Event next weekend,” he declared, briskly opening the business portion of their evening while Kate’s head was still swimming with the nearness of him. “So what do I wear?”

  Kate snapped closed the chinks in her armor. She, too, could play this game. “Aren’t you and your brother about the same size? What can you borrow?”

  “Most of his stuff’s in the evidence lockup. Shirt, tights, some sort of silky thing that went over the top.”

  “Surcoat,” Kate supplied.

  “There’s an extra shirt and tights at home, but I’ll be damned if I’ll wear tights,” Michael growled. “There’s got to be something else,” he added on the distinct note of a plea.

  Kate grinned. “Okay, I’ll make you a pair of balloon pants, a lot of the men wear them. You’re not the only one with a men-in-tights phobia, you know. And I’ll run up a tunic too, add a little trim if I have time. You need casual for day and something fancier for Feast. But as a newcomer, you’re allowed a lot of leeway. You don’t have to be perfect the first time out. No one ever is.”

  “Balloon?” Michael challenged. “You mean those things that look like pumpkins with strips of cloth slit to show how God made you?”

  Kate chortled. “Heavens, no! You’re thinking of the Elizabethan era, Tudor times. That’s not what I meant at all. Though, believe me, those slits only show another layer of fabric underneath. Solid fabric,” she emphasized. Michael was still looking skeptical. “The pants I’m talking about have a drawstring waist; I alwa
ys sneak in some elastic so they don’t bind. They’re full in the leg and either tuck into your boots or go over them to fasten at the ankle. Again, I use elastic so they don’t come untied during fighting. There’s authentic, and then there’s practical,” Kate added decisively. No need to mention they were what was often called harem pants. “You do have boots?” she asked.

  “Trooper’s boots.”

  “They’ll do.”

  “So what else do I need to know?”

  How to say what had to be said? Kate wondered. The Michael Turco sitting in front of her just wasn’t going to cut it in LALOC. Obviously, he knew that; that’s why she was here. But what to say to effect the necessary changes?

  Best to begin slowly. “You have to have a name—”

  He cut her off. “Michael Gibbs. There’re almost as many Gibbs around here as Smith or Jones. I work for a company that puts up cellphone towers.”

  “Okay.” Kate nodded absently, finding her concentration diffused by the soft lap of water at her feet, stars overhead, the pervasive scent of the sea blown on a gentle cooling breeze. The hot spike of warmth where Michael Turco’s hip touched hers. “You prefer Michael, don’t you—instead of Mike?”

  “The FHP calls me Mike. My family calls me Michael. Never thought much about it, that’s just the way it is.”

  This is business. Just business. He’s a cop, not a man. “You need a LALOC name too,” Kate said. “Nothing fancy—that comes later. Newcomers just need some sort of handle that sounds as if it might be in period. Michael’s just . . . not quite right. It’s okay for a mundane name—your undercover persona,” Kate added hastily as the headlights of a passing car rumbling over the bridge clearly illuminated his scowl.