Florida Knight

by Blair Bancroft

  “Michael . . . go fix yourself a drink. I’ll be out in a minute. Okay?” Her voice was almost steady, not as breathy or wobbly as the one she heard in her head.

  “Sure, Kate. I’ll be waiting.” Michael’s voice, too, was back to normal.

  The moment was gone. Disaster averted. Later, she would go over it word for word, examining every nuance, every unspoken emotion, imaginary or implied. She’d had an opportunity to be a woman again. And she’d blown it.

  Chapter 13

  Michael filled a glass with ice, poured scotch with a heavy hand. Leaning his forehead against the refrigerator, he placed the cold glass hard against his temple. He’d thought the weekend was bad. This was worse. At his age blood wasn’t supposed to rage with such fever. It was damned embarrassing. He had to cool it before Kate came out. Otherwise, she’d take one look and chase him off with a broom.

  The thought of spoiling what was happening between them was almost as terrifying as his lust. Michael’s colder, analytical self was shamed. He was supposed to be finding the person who hurt Mark, and here he was with his head and body awhirl with emotions so strong he didn’t care to identify them.

  The bathroom door opened. Michael shot across the room to the sofa, burying himself in one corner, praying that the sewing basket sitting on the coffee table would be adequate camouflage. There was nothing he could do about the red flush he could feel staining his neck.

  Kate didn’t appear. Michael took a deep breath. She’d gone to her bedroom, was getting dressed. Damn! He’d pictured her all soft and pink, glowing warm, shining damp in nothing but a shortie robe. But mostly he’d picture her soft. Kate Knight without the edge. A Kate who might be willing to turn a solo into a duet.

  What the hell was he doing? He was thirty-six years old and mooning over a woman like a wet-behind-the-ears teenager. Kate Knight was a solo act. She didn’t want him or anyone else. So what? He was a big tough cop. He could take it.

  A soft rustling in the hallway. Michael looked up. He’d expected Kate to don her twenty-first century armor. Slacks or jeans, an oversize T-shirt. What he didn’t expect was a caftan, a swirling confection in blues and greens which made her look like the gulf bathed in Florida sunlight. Azure depths beckoned, enticed, projected a siren song demanding that he jump straight in, lose himself . . .

  “Oh, good,” the Lorelei said, “you found the scotch.”

  “Uh, yeah . . . thanks.” Michael swallowed hard. Didn’t the crazy girl realize what mixed signals she was sending?

  “I thought you were working nights,” Kate said over her shoulder as she set about making a drink for herself.

  “Graveyard. I don’t go on ’til midnight.” Kate lowered herself, carefully, into the lavender chair. “You’re still hurting.” It wasn’t a question.

  “A bit,” she admitted with a shrug. “Another week and I’ll be fine. Funny,” she added, “we’re never as tough as we think we are.”

  Michael almost groaned out loud. He slid a section of the morning paper over his lap.

  “Michael? . . .”

  “Kate? . . .” Their words tripped together.

  They looked at each other, grinned. Suddenly, they were friends again. Tension still hung in the air, but the world had come back. And with it, sanity. It was time for business. “You first,” Michael said.

  “I know we need to talk about your case, but something else has come up. As long as you have some time?”

  “Sure.”

  Kate plunged into Bubba’s most recent problem. “If you could help us think of something he could do or suggest someone who might know . . . ?”

  The only good thing about Bubba’s sad story, Michael thought, was that it had been enough to deflate his pesky anatomy to normal. Though he’d had trouble keeping a straight face as he pictured Bubba lifting the snotty high school kid up onto the ledge at the top of the grocery shelves.

  “I’ll do my best,” Michael assured Kate. “There’re a couple of troopers I know who volunteer at the Dorning Development Center. Maybe they can recommend a counselor. And I’ll put some thought into it myself. I like Bubba. There’s got to be something . . .” Michael’s voice trailed away. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kate, I wish I could do more.”

  “Just sharing helps,” she murmured, staring blankly at her drink before raising it to her lips. Idly, her other hand tickled the underside of Ace’s chin, the gray and white cat having sneaked into Kate’s lap while she was talking.

  Damn cat looked pretty smug, Michael grumbled. Then again, he’d probably look that way too if Cat was rubbing him under the chin.

  Sharing helps. He couldn’t believe she’d said it. For Kate Knight, a major concession.

  She trusted him. At least, in this one thing she trusted him.

  “How about supper?” Kate asked, back to her brisk self. “I can fill you in on the next LALOC event, and there’s a Renaissance Fair in Largo this weekend. We can talk while we eat.”

  “You’ll notice I carefully timed my arrival for the supper hour.”

  Kate kept her eyes on her drink. She was willing to bet he’d also timed his absence of several days to soften her up. Damn him! And it had worked. She’d been ridiculously glad to hear his voice echoing through the mobile home’s aluminum frame door.

  “Got a great tent. Nice and roomy, with privacy flaps on the bedroom screens.”

  Kate paused, the refrigerator door hanging open, her hand gripping a head of romaine. Just when she thought things were back to normal, he’d managed to shock her. She’d come close to dropping the beginnings of her salad on the floor. Damn the man! He was lethal. Kate took care to keep her back to him while she put water on for pasta, unfroze a sauce she’d made the week before, and added carrots, cucumbers, green onions, and fresh herbs to the salad. As her lack of response dragged on, Michael shrugged and reached for the remote, flicking on the evening news. The scene was so totally domestic, it should have made her nauseous.

  Unfortunately, it produced a fluttery version of the warm fuzzies instead.

  “So what’s this about a Renaissance Fair?” Michael asked as they sat down to eat.

  “It’s in Largo, every weekend for the next six weeks. Just a day trip, no camping. The next LALOC event isn’t until Easter, so if you want to go to Largo, we can do it this weekend or next.”

  “How about both?” Michael smiled at her over a forkful of rigatelle.

  Kate almost choked on a carrot. “Can you get away both weekends?” she murmured.

  “There are advantages to my new rank. Weekends are one of them.”

  Michael’s dark eyes dared her to back away, make excuses. Kate was caught in a whirlwind she didn’t want to escape, yet she feared it would drop her hard, shattering her life into a million irreconcilable pieces. She’d come through a lot of combat in her life, but Michael Turco was the toughest opponent of all. Because no matter what her head said, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to win.

  “Then we’re on for Saturday?” Michael inquired.

  Kate started to agree, then frowned. “Don’t you have to work Friday night?”

  “It’s far from the first time I’ve gone without sleep.”

  “Wouldn’t Sunday be better?”

  Not a point to argue over. Sometime during the past few days Michael’s resistance to mixing pleasure with business had given a last gasp and faded away. His investigation might be moving at a snail’s pace, but tonight he’d made more progress with Kate than he’d expected to accomplish in the next month. “Sunday it is,” he agreed.

  After helping Kate wash up, hovering just close enough to keep a flush in her cheeks, Michael took himself off to work.. His cheerfulness bordered on the smug. Fortunately, he didn’t grin from ear to ear until alone in the safety of his 4Runner.

  “What, no shuttle buses?” Michael quipped as the attendant waved them into a parking space in a broad field only a short walk from the entrance to the Fair.”

  “This fair is s
maller than the one in Manatee Bay,” Kate said, “but it goes on for six weekends, so it’s not as crowded.”

  After handing their tickets to one of the local firemen who helped run the event for charity, Kate and Michael passed through the gate into an alternate universe. Unlike the world of LALOC, most of the people around them were dressed in casual street clothes—shorts and T-shirts—while juggling programs, cameras, purchases, strollers, diaper bags, children, and wallets. All against the backdrop of a fourteenth century village set in the shaded beauty of a grove of ancient live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss.

  “It’s incredible,” Michael breathed as he stared at the authentic-looking wooden homes and businesses that were actually three-dimensional, not simple stage props. “It’s permanent, right?”

  “Well . . . there’s some controversy about that. The city keeps threatening to tear it down and build a park, but so far the Fair’s won out. Hopefully, nobody will actually have the nerve to tear down what really amounts to a major work of art. Not to mention a tremendous amount of effort. The Manatee Bay Fair may be bigger, but I have to admit this one’s got it beat on ambiance.”

  A young man, wearing a flowing Ren shirt, tights and tabard, strode past, carrying a drum shaped like a large tambourine. A blond girl of about five and her mother, each wearing long matching dresses and trailing ribbons from flower wreaths in their hair, scurried after the drummer. “He must be late for his gig,” Kate said, flashing a grin at Michael.

  A sophisticated Ivy League type strolled past in the wake of the drummer and his family. Turning to the equally middle-aged couple with him, he announced with what sounded to Kate like incredible condescension, “There’re all a bunch of carnies, you know.”

  Kate’s breath hissed as she sucked in air. Michael couldn’t blame her for being outraged. Many of the vendors were her friends. She herself was sometimes one of them. People who followed the Medieval and Ren Fair circuit were artists and craftspeople of remarkable talent. To be equated with carnival hucksters was insulting as well as inaccurate. No wonder Kate was furious, but no sense in starting a row when they wanted to keep a low profile.

  “So where do we start?” Michael asked, pointedly changing the subject.

  Kate’s lips closed into a thin line. She fixed her gaze on the hand still clamped around her arm. Michael let go.

  “My booth used to be right over there,” Kate said, nodding toward their right. “The house with the pointy gable and red trim.”

  “So why aren’t you there this year?”

  “Six weekends is a big commitment, particularly when some include Friday too. I do well at The Medieval Fair in Manatee Bay. I decided to pass on this one this year.”

  Michael leafed through his program. “The tournament’s not until one, so we’ve got plenty of time.”

  Kate frowned over her own program. “Come on! You can’t miss this one,” she declared, starting off across the center of the grove, winding her way through the fairgoers with practiced ease.

  “So what are we seeing?” Michael asked as he followed Kate onto a wooden bench in a small open theater already crowded with people.

  Kate turned laughing eyes on him. “Ssh-sh!” was all he got out of her.

  Drums throbbed with the hollow vibrations created solely by hands and fingers; a vertical flute wove sinuous notes through the warm morning air. “I see where our drummer was going,” Michael said, nodding toward the young man who had passed them earlier. Suddenly, in a soft jingle of coins, a swirl of diaphanous fabric, the small stage came alive with two women dancing. “You brought me sixty miles to see belly dancing,” Michael hissed in Kate’s ear.

  “It’s beautiful. Just watch!”

  Michael glowered at the two women on stage. Over their low-slung harem outfits, one wore the traditional girdle of gold coins; the other, an elaborate design in gold chainmail. If it weren’t for those girdles and some strategically placed necklaces, Michael thought sourly, there wasn’t a thing the girls had that wouldn’t be visible through the transparent fabric that ballooned over their arms, legs, and strategic bits of their torsos. Acts like this he could see at any topless bar . . .

  The drums picked up the beat. The girls shimmied and shook. Michael’s eyes widened. It wasn’t possible for the human body to move in so many different directions at the same time, but somehow these two women managed it. They weren’t young, he noticed, probably pushing forty, maybe more. But he had to admit they were very, very good at what they did.

  The music rose to a climax, then fell silent. After graciously accepting the applause and cheers of the audience, the two scantily clad women left the stage. “Okay, so it was art,” Michael conceded. Grudgingly.

  “I can’t believe you’re such a prude,” Kate teased.

  Michael didn’t even consider her words an insult. “You haven’t tried that stuff, have you?” he demanded, suddenly suspicious.

  “Sure. That’s one of the LALOC classes. It’s hard, by the way. And I’m terrible at it, so you don’t have to worry about seeing me make a fool of myself.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  They were wandering down one side of the village, passing colorfully garbed vendors selling everything from fantasy wind chimes to pewter and glassware decorated with ornate designs. An enticing variety of handcrafted pottery, sculpture, jewelry, leather, chainmail, and swords begged for their attention. “Good God, what’s that?” Michael demanded.

  “Rats and Bats,” Kate replied cheerfully as they approached a vendor whose display of grotesque creatures looked as if it had been designed by Stephen King. “His stuff is so different, his display so well laid out, he wins awards all the time.”

  “Gross.”

  “True. But you’ve got to admit he’s good.”

  “As a sculptor, maybe,” Michael conceded. He looked Kate square in the eye, raised a skeptical black brow. “I’m adding him to the list.”

  “Michael! He never goes to LALOC events. The members can’t afford his sculpture.”

  “That stuff is sick.”

  “Can’t you ever forget you’re a cop and just enjoy yourself?” Kate walked off. Michael couldn’t decide if she was teasing him again or if she really meant it. He caught up with her at a booth where she’d stopped to chat with the vendor. After acknowledging his introduction to Diane, Michael examined her display while the girls talked. Hm-m-m. It would appear he’d been missing out on some intriguing possibilities. The table was covered with vials of perfumed oil ranging from little more than medicine-dropper size to the large economy model. There was incense in thin sticks; containers for burning them, varying from utilitarian to ornate. Michael’s wallet wasn’t the only thing twitching inside his shorts. He suffered visions of Kate in the bubble bath, Kate lying beside him while he rubbed perfumed oil into her long length of naked flesh.

  “That one’s an aphrodisiac, hon’,” Diane told him with a wink. “Roses, patchouli, musk, ylang-ylang. Though I don’t imagine you need it, darlin’.”

  “Diane!” Kate flushed beet red.

  Michael unscrewed the top of the vial he was holding, sniffed. “Ah . . . roses,” he approved. “I’ll take it.”

  Kate glared as he held out a twenty dollar bill. Was that a flash of jealousy he’d seen? She wouldn’t have him, but she didn’t care to see any sign there might be another women waiting in the wings. Yet if he admitted he’d bought the perfumed oil for her, she’d probably brain him. Better to change the subject.

  “How about a psychic reading?” Michael suggested, nodding toward the booth next door. “Or maybe getting your face painted?”

  Kate laughed at him. “Michael, I’m a vendor. I don’t do tourist things.”

  “You’re not a vendor today. Go for it, girl. Have fun.”

  “Look who’s talking. You’ve forgotten the meaning of the word.”

  Michael considered. “You’re right. I’ve turned into an old curmudgeon.” His gravity wasn’t all mock. Kate had a poin
t. “But I’m trying.” Michael’s dark eyes gleamed. “Once I got into it, the belly dancers were fun.”

  After a glare that should have sliced him in half, Kate studied her program. “Okay, there should be a mehndi painter around here somewhere. Let’s get you a tattoo.”

  “No way.” Michael literally dug the heels of his sneakers into the dirt.

  “Relax, it’s just henna. Elaborate but harmless. I’ll let them do my cheek if you get one on the arm.” Kate grabbed Michael’s hand and dragged him to a pavilion set up under one of the giant oaks.

  An hour later Michael was still shaking his head as they ate pitas stuffed with roast vegies, downed with draft beer. “It’s much too gorgeous to wash off,” Kate chided. “Your uniform has long sleeves, right? So nobody’s going to see it.”

  “You going to work like that?” he taunted, his gaze lingering over the intricate design ornamenting Kate’s right cheek.

  “Probably. It’ll brighten up the office.”

  “I’ll say!” Michael breathed. “You’ll be the talk of Golden Beach.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Michael, face painting is done at every dinky little fair on the Gulf Coast. Everyone’s used to it.”

  “Not henna designs that look like they came out of some ancient Asian art book!”

  “So admit it’s too nice to wash off.”

  Michael sighed. “It’s too nice to wash off. But I’m not about to cover it in plastic while I shower,” he amended under his breath.

  “You’re a hopeless philistine.”

  “So we’d better hurry if we’re going to catch the tournament,” Michael countered.

  “It’s a postage stamp,” he pronounced a few moments later as they walked toward the bleachers set up along one side of the Lyst Field.

  “Compared to Manatee Bay, yes,” Kate conceded, “but they do a good tourney. Some of the same . . . Look! It’s the same Lyst Marshal.”