Lancelot's Lady

by Cherish D'Angelo

  Aw, crap.

  A worried Higginson sat in the chair, his arms folded tightly across his chest and his expression dark and moody.

  "You look like the grim reaper," JT said dryly.

  "He'll be by any minute if you keep this up."

  "Then he'd better bring reinforcements. I'm not ready to go yet."

  "You've got one foot in the grave. And it's sinking."

  JT scowled. "Stop treating me like I'm dying."

  "You are dying," Higginson said sharply. "When are you going to get that? You need to conserve your energy."

  JT closed his eyes, wishing he could drown out his friend's voice. He knew he was dying, but that didn't mean he had to lie back, play the feeble invalid and wait for it to happen.

  "You're pushing yourself too hard."

  JT flashed Higginson a smile. "I have things to do, places to visit, people to―"

  "Piss off?"

  "People to see, and―"

  "Floors to pass out on," Higginson finished for him.

  JT sighed. "That wasn't my plan." He struggled to sit up, then gazed out the window. "I miss her, Higgie."

  "I know, my friend."

  "The house just isn't the same without her."

  Higginson pulled the chair closer. "JT, you remember why you're doing this. To make amends. To fix what's broken."

  "To find some peace," JT whispered.

  "You have to take better care of yourself. If not for yourself or me, then do it for Rhianna. When she comes home―"

  "She is coming home," JT interrupted. "Isn't she?"

  Higginson nodded. "I'm sure she'll be back. You're like a father to her."

  "I'm old enough to be her grandfather and you know it."

  "You're all she's got," Higginson said, standing. "So you'd better be here when she returns."

  JT gazed into his old friend's eyes. "She's going to be pissed."

  "I expect so, sir."

  "She won't like that I tricked her."

  "You're probably right, sir."

  "Did I do the right thing?"

  Higginson rested a hand on JT's shoulder. "My friend, I have known you for many years, and in all this time I've come to recognize that you always do the right thing. In the end."

  "Fine." JT pushed the covers aside. "Now help me out of this blasted bed. We've got to plan Rhianna's welcome home party."

  "Your wish is my command, sir."

  Higginson held out a hand, but JT slapped it away.

  "Knock it off with the sir crap, Higgie."

  "Yes…sir."

  ~ * ~

  Sitting in the shadows of his compact office lit only by the golden glow of a table lamp, Winston Chambers tamped out the cigar and stared at the dead butt in the ashtray. Cohiba Behike. One of the most expensive cigars ever made. He'd paid twenty-five thousand for the cigars. Only one hundred desktop humidors had been manufactured, each with forty handmade, numbered cigars. The ring of paper around the top also boasted his name―Winston Archibald Chambers.

  He licked his lips, savoring the rustic blend of coffee and cedar flavors on his tongue. Like an orgasm, the cigar had been good while it lasted.

  He glanced at the manila folder on his desk. He'd scribbled his client's name across the tab.

  JT Lance's guilt had more than paid for the Cohiba Behike cigars. Now what? A new car? A casino weekend in Vegas?

  Scratching his chin, the fleeting thought that he should have shaved crossed his mind. Then again, it worked for Winston. Being a private investigator meant he had to blend in, not get made. It meant he could go places where law enforcement types couldn't. It meant he got results, whether with a bribe, a threat or his fists.

  Which reminds me, I haven't been to see Miss Shirl's girls for a while.

  Miss Shirl was the owner of Bare Essentials, a downtown Miami gentlemen's club. At least that's how Winston preferred to think of it. The girls there had been brought in from exotic countries―Jamaica, Mexico, Japan, China, Malaysia. Even Canada.

  Winston preferred Japanese girls. Small and meek, they knew their place―on their knees or their backs. He could easily lay down ten grand at Bare Essentials for a night of debauchery and fun. Sometimes more if he had to pay for damages. Like the fat lip he gave the last bitch, a smart-mouthed little Malaysian whore who'd fought him when he wrapped his hands around her scrawny neck.

  Should've strangled the bitch.

  He leaned back in his chair. It groaned rebelliously under his weight, a hundred pounds of it superfluous.

  By tomorrow he'd be a wealthy man.

  And I'll have JT Lance to thank.

  He laughed. "If he really thinks he's seen the last of me, he's got another thing comin'"

  He recalled the day he'd met the multi-millionaire. It was at an art auction. Lance was bidding on artwork for his mansion, while Winston was screwing the auctioneer's pretty, young girlfriend in the coatroom. Unbeknownst to him, Winston had dropped his business card on the floor when he'd dropped his pants. Lance found it later that evening.

  "I have a job for you," he'd said to Winston the following day when he'd called. "I'll pay you double your rates."

  The offer had intrigued Winston.

  "What's the job?" he'd asked.

  "I need you to locate someone for me. A girl."

  At first, Winston thought the old man had wanted the girl to satisfy his sexual urges. But this wasn't the case. Lance said something about wanting to make things right―whatever the hell that meant.

  Then Lance had sent him the photo.

  The first time Winston had seen it, he'd freed Willie and pumped him until he was spent. He'd had to wipe his shoes off.

  He slid the top drawer open and pulled out the worn photograph of Rhianna McLeod. It was her graduation picture, from nursing school. She was barely twenty-one, but she looked about sixteen. There was a haunted innocence in her fathomless green eyes.

  He stroked her face. "You can play nurse with me any time."

  Finding the girl wasn't that difficult. He'd had her parent's names. Bribes had paid for her birth records, school records and a complete file from Social Services.

  At first, Winston didn't understand what the old man wanted with her. Lance wasn't related to the girl.

  Or was he?

  That thought had cropped up in Winston's mind a few times. What if the girl was actually Lance's daughter? Was he perhaps looking for his missing heir?

  This led Winston to delve more deeply into JT Lance's background. His past seemed to be an open book. Self-made millionaire by thirty. Married once. Divorced. One kid, a son. Still, what if Lance had a daughter by someone other than his wife?

  It had taken some digging. He'd scanned newspapers, school records, anything he could find.

  Then he found it. The connection.

  He held the photo up to the light. "I know who you are now. But you have no idea who JT Lance is, do you?" Wet lips smacked against the photo.

  He wiped away the trace of saliva he'd left behind, then picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  "It's Win," he said to the woman on the other end. "I'll be in tomorrow night and I want your best room, a vial of E and your best champagne."

  Minutes later, he hung up. He was thrilled by the prospect of an entertaining adventure. This time he'd asked Shirl for a young redhead with green eyes and luscious curves.

  Oh, the things I'll do to her.

  Clasping pudgy hands across his ever-expanding girth. "I think I should take a holiday soon. Where to go?"

  He glanced at the map on the wall. A smile slowly creased his grizzled face, yet never fully reached his hardened gaze. "I've never been to the Bahamas."

  But first, he'd have to plan his retirement.

  Chapter 13

  At the beach near the dock, Rhianna relaxed on an oversized towel and listened to soft waves lapping against the powdery shore. The air was misted with the scent of the ocean and tropical flowers, an aroma she now identified with Angelin
a's Isle.

  They should bottle that scent.

  Flipping onto her back, she adjusted the top of the green bikini, applied some sunscreen to her face and slipped a fashionable pair of sunglasses over her eyes. Higginson had called them her "movie star shades".

  Sorry to disappoint, Higginson, but I don't feel like a star out here.

  She inched up onto her elbows and took in the view.

  Palm and coconut trees lined the beach with its pale sands and the ocean glistened as if a painter had taken a brush and swirled turquoise, violet and sapphire pigments together.

  It was peaceful here. Maybe too peaceful.

  There wasn't a soul in sight. Mrs. Atkinson had taken Misty to her cottage to do some gardening, giving Rhianna the rest of the afternoon off. And Jonathan…well, he was off working.

  Since that day when he'd kissed her, he'd been avoiding her. That suited her fine. She wasn't sure what to say to him anyway. Dinners had been quiet and most often he wasn't there when Mrs. Atkinson laid out the plates.

  Rhianna had spent the past six nights in her room after dinner, her nerves a jumbled mess as she waited to hear the front door slam. Jonathan always tiptoed upstairs and disappeared into Misty's room before locking himself away in his bedroom.

  Her days were spent teaching sign language to Misty, a welcome reprieve from worrying about a stupid kiss that meant nothing.

  Jonathan's daughter was a fast study. Every sign was followed by its use in a sentence, a technique that Misty enjoyed. It was while they were in the kitchen, signing about the use of ingredients in the pantry, that Rhianna solved the mystery of Misty's brown toast. The girl loved buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top. It was something one of her past teachers had made for her once, but the woman hadn't bothered to teach her the sign for cinnamon.

  She smiled, thinking of Misty. Such a sweet child. And very sensitive. Just this morning she'd asked why Rhianna didn't talk to her Daddy.

  "Your Daddy's very busy," Rhianna had explained, though she still didn't have a clue what the man did.

  I never asked.

  In her attempt to distance herself from Jonathan, it had completely escaped her to ask her host what he did for a living. Banking? Some kind of Internet mogul? Whatever it was, Jonathan wasn't hurting for money.

  She flipped over onto her stomach and clenched her teeth. "Don't think of him."

  "Don't think of who?"

  Gasping, she scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over her handbag. "Jesus!"

  Jonathan flashed perfect pearly whites. "Not quite."

  "Stop doing that!"

  "Doing what?"

  She grabbed her towel and hid behind it. "Sneaking up on me."

  A dark brow arched mockingly. "I don't sneak."

  "That's exactly what you do."

  He took a step forward. She froze.

  When he reached out a hand, she jerked away. "What are you doing?"

  "Relax," he hissed. "You've got a blob of sunscreen on your chin." His finger lightly grazed her face. "There. It's gone."

  Rhianna tried to still her trembling hands. Wrapping the towel around her chest, she clasped it close, then leaned down to retrieve her handbag.

  "You didn't answer my question," he said, not moving.

  "What question?"

  "Who were you so determined not to think of?"

  Rhianna swallowed hard. Then she said the first thing that came to mind. "My employer. I miss him."

  A shadow crossed Jonathan's face. His lips curled downward. "I see."

  As quickly as he had appeared, Jonathan vanished into the woods, and Rhianna was left feeling that something was terribly wrong.

  ~ * ~

  Muttering a few choice curses, Jonathan fled through the overgrown brush and headed for the one place he always found sanctuary. As the roof of the small cabin came into view, he let out a frustrated growl and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  "What the hell is the matter with me?"

  There was something about Rhianna McLeod that made his blood boil, something that made him want to grab her and shake her―when he wasn't thinking of other things he'd like to do to her.

  "She'll be gone soon enough," he said, shoving open the wooden door.

  He took a deep breath. The air inside smelled of vanilla and cinnamon. There were bowls of scented oils scattered throughout the room. There were also other underlying aromas. The tang of paint and turpentine. Combined, the scent was welcoming and familiar.

  Jonathan studied the room.

  His sanctuary was small but inviting, with wood plank walls, rustic log furniture, a tiny kitchen in the corner, a small bathroom with a shower, and two bedrooms at the back that held only a bed each and a side table. The main room featured a sofa and one chair, pushed up against the back wall.

  He'd built the place with his own two hands. And a bit of help from some of the local islanders. He'd been so proud of the house. It was the starter home he'd promised Sirena, a way for them to get out of the cramped one-bedroom apartment they'd shared in New York. Sirena hadn't been happy when he purchased the island.

  "I don't want to live way out here in the middle of nowhere," she'd told him.

  He had to promise they'd leave the island often. And they had. Every week he took her to the mainland. They often flew to New York and sometimes to L.A. so Sirena could pursue her acting career.

  That was before he'd sold the boat to Roland. Before Misty was born.

  After the divorce, he'd retreated to the island with his tail between his legs. Not very manly, he supposed, but that's the way it was. Thankfully, Sirena hadn't fought for custody of Misty.

  "I want Misty to live with me," he'd told her as she prepared to leave the hotel on the mainland for California.

  "Take her," she'd replied. "I never wanted her anyway."

  He'd fought to stay calm. But all he wanted to do was tell Sirena what a coldhearted bitch she was.

  "I'll have my lawyer draw up an agreement for sole custody then," he'd said.

  "Very well. You go back to the island and hide away like you always do. I have a life to live."

  He'd watched Sirena walk out of the hotel room, out of his life and out of Misty's life. Forever.

  Now, he glanced around the cabin and wondered if Sirena had been right. Had he been hiding away all these years?

  He sank into the armchair and stared at the blank canvas propped up on an easel in the middle of the room.

  For the first time he couldn't think of a thing to paint.

  Not one damn thing.

  ~ * ~

  The following morning, Rhianna endeavored to focus on her lesson plan and Misty. She didn't want to think about Jonathan. She'd heard him sneak into the house well past midnight and go straight to his room.

  She gave Misty a smile of encouragement. The girl was studying a worksheet. She'd look at each sign and try to form them with her small hands. When she was successful, Misty smiled. A few signs were more difficult and she made frustrated growling sounds.

  Just like her father, Rhianna thought. If he's not scowling, he's―

  A vision of Jonathan's lips came to mind.

  Recalling his kiss, a surge of anger rushed through her. He'd taken liberties with her and she was confused by the feelings his kiss had aroused. Jonathan had managed to elicit a response from her, one she was unfamiliar with. No man had ever touched her the way he had, with a desire that her body answered willingly.

  I want him.

  She firmly closed the door on that thought. But it didn't stop the flow of other questions. Did Jonathan feel the same way? Did he want more than a kiss?

  She was sure that Mrs. Atkinson knew something had happened. Every so often, Rhianna caught the housekeeper staring at her, smiling.

  What if Mrs. Atkinson asked her again if Jonathan would be joining them for dinner?

  Rhianna's mind conjured up a scenario.

  Sorry, Mrs. Atkinson, she'd say. Mr. Tyler has met w
ith an unfortunate accident. He tripped over his inflated ego and hit his big head on a rock. He won't be joining us for dinner.

  "Ha!" Rhianna laughed aloud.

  "I'm done," Misty signed. "Can you read me a story?"

  Rhianna shot her a guilty smile. She'd have to wait for another time to continue imagining Jonathan's demise.

  "A story?"

  Misty nodded.

  Suddenly, Rhianna's eyes widened. She'd been so distracted that when she repeated Misty's request, she hadn't signed. The girl could read lips.

  "What would you like me to read?" she asked slowly, keeping her hands at her sides.

  Misty grinned. "I'll show you," she signed.

  As she raced upstairs to her room, Rhianna mulled over this new development. Jonathan hadn't mentioned that his daughter could lip read.

  He doesn't know.

  Thumping footsteps indicated Misty's return. She'd brought down three books, all fairy tales. She settled into a chair at the table, shoving the books eagerly toward Rhianna.

  Misty handed her a book. "This one, Ms. McLeod."

  Rhianna frowned. She was starting to feel like a drab spinster schoolteacher every time the girl addressed her so formally.

  "Misty, you can call me by my first name," she signed. "I'm Rhianna." She spelled her name.

  The little girl's eyes widened. Her hands flew into speech. "I can't do that. Daddy would be mad. He says I have to call my teachers by their last names. It's for…"

  "Respect?"

  Misty shrugged.

  "That's all right, Misty. We don't have to tell your father. It can be our secret. We can even use a secret sign for my name. I'll teach you how, okay?"

  Rhianna felt triumphant in the knowledge that she'd be going against Jonathan's rules.

  "Rules, shmules!" she said with her back turned to Misty. "Rules are made to be broken. Anyway, your father broke the rules first."

  The ASL course she'd taken a few years ago had taught her that to create special names for people, all one had to do was sign the first letter of the person's name and connect it to something special about them. In the class, a woman named Arlene was used as an example. She was a dentist, so the letter 'A' was signed with a brushing motion over the teeth.

  "What do you like doing, other than reading and playing with Barbies?" Rhianna signed.