Jess reached them first, well ahead of the others, his breathing unaffected by his run. “We thought we heard shots coming from here,” he said, scanning the dunes. “Didn’t you hear it?”
Sloan made a valiant effort to seem amused while she lied to a trusted friend who’d just raced to her rescue. “Those were firecrackers, Jess. Two teenagers set them off in the dunes and then split.”
“It sounded like shots,” Jess argued, planting his hands on his hips and staring beyond her shoulder.
Ted Burnby and Leo Reagan lumbered to a stop a few moments later. “We thought we heard shots,” Ted panted, but Leo Reagan was incapable of speech. Forty pounds overweight and completely out of shape, he leaned over and braced his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“A couple of teenage boys were setting off firecrackers,” Sloan lied again, feeling more awkward and resentful with each falsehood.
Leo and Ted accepted that far more readily than Jess, but then Jess was smarter and more streetwise, a big city cop who’d defected to a less violent community but whose instincts were still sharp. After a few moments more, he finally gave up his frowning visual search of the dunes and frowned at her instead. “Pete’s party is almost over,” he said bluntly. “We were wondering why you hadn’t shown up.”
In the current circumstances, there was only one possible, believable answer Sloan could give. “I was on my way there just now.”
He dropped his hands from his hips, adopting a slightly less aggressive stance as he surveyed her companion. “Who is this?”
To Sloan’s relief, the FBI agent decided to introduce himself. “Paul Richardson,” he said, reaching forward to shake hands with Jess, then Ted and Leo. Positively exuding relaxed male cordiality, he added, “I’m a friend of Sloan’s from Fort Lauderdale.”
“If you plan to get anything to eat at Pete’s party, you’d better get over there,” Leo warned the agent, his thoughts ever reverting to food. “The nachos are already gone, but the chili dogs are good.”
“I’ve had a long day,” Agent Richardson regretfully replied; then he looked at Sloan and said smoothly, “Sloan, you go to the party without me.”
Sloan panicked. He intended to vanish without answering any more questions! She’d unmasked him, and now he would simply disappear from Bell Harbor, leaving her in an agony of uncertainty, with no way of finding out why the FBI was watching her. She was so desperate to stop him that she actually clutched his arm. “Oh, but I want you to meet Pete,” she insisted. “We’ll only stay a few minutes.”
“I’d really be a drag tonight.”
“No you wouldn’t,” Sloan said breezily.
His eyes narrowed in warning. “I think I would be.”
“You couldn’t possibly be a drag. You’re such an interesting person.”
“You’re biased.”
“No, I’m not,” she argued, and in desperation Sloan switched to veiled blackmail and said to her friends, “Let me explain how really interesting he is—”
“Don’t bore them with any details, Sloan,” he interrupted with a meaningful smile. “Let’s go meet your friend Pete and get something to eat.”
Leo brightened at the mention of eating. “Hey, Paul, you like anchovies?”
“Love them,” Richardson said enthusiastically, but Sloan had the impression he was clenching his teeth.
“Then you’re in luck because the pizza had anchovies on it, so there’s a lot of it left. Never met anybody who likes anchovies, except Pete and now you.”
Throughout the discussion, Jess had been intently studying the FBI agent; then he seemed to lose interest and patience. “If we don’t get back to the party, the party’s going to come looking for us.”
“Let’s go,” Agent Richardson said agreeably; then he startled Sloan by curving his arm around her shoulders in what appeared to be a casually possessive, affectionate gesture. But there was nothing affectionate about the hard warning squeeze he gave her shoulders.
Jess, Leo, and Ted fell into step beside them, and the four men quickly struck up a conversation about sports. Soon the relative isolation of the dunes began to give way to a well-lit stretch of beach, where portable radios competed with the sound of the surf and beach blankets dotted the sand like colorful bandages, occupied mostly by young couples who were romantically inclined.
8
The kiosk where Pete’s party was taking place was next to a barbecue grill, and the smell of charcoal lighter and overcooked hot dogs was enough to make Sloan’s nervous stomach churn. Pete and his fianceé, along with the rest of the party guests, were standing a few yards away, listening to Jim Finkle, who’d brought his guitar and was playing a beautiful flamenco song. “He should have been a professional musician, not a cop,” Jess remarked, and he continued on to join Jim’s audience.
Leo hung back a moment, however. “Have something to eat,” he instructed Richardson, gesturing expansively to a wooden table covered with open pizza boxes, large bowls encrusted with the remnants of cheese dip, chili, and potato salad, and a platter of cold hot dogs with buns. “Drinks are over there in the cooler,” Leo added before he headed off to listen to Jim. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks, I will,” Agent Richardson said, and with his hand still on Sloan’s shoulder, he forced her to remain at his side until they reached the table. Sloan knew he’d been angry at first, but on the way here, he’d seemed to truly relax, joking with Leo about men who like to cook, and even laughing at something she said. Since she hadn’t actually given his identity away, she naturally assumed he was feeling more charitable toward her. He even smiled as he handed her a plate and said furiously, “If you so much as utter one word tonight that might somehow jeopardize me, I will bust your ass for obstruction of justice.”
His continued anger caught her so off-guard that Sloan gaped at him while she automatically took the plate from him. Still smiling, he handed her a napkin, took one for himself, and snapped, “Got it?”
Having issued a warning that she knew was no idle threat, he spooned food onto his plate from each bowl and picked up a cold hot dog, but Sloan noticed he did not touch the pizza—not even when the guitar music stopped and Leo and the group were returning to the table. Evidently Agent Richardson’s dedication to duty and country stopped short of eating an anchovy.
“I wasn’t really going to tell them anything about you,” she explained, adopting the tone of calm reason that she always used to neutralize violent emotional situations. “But I am entitled to an explanation, and I couldn’t let you disappear without giving me one.”
“You should have waited until tomorrow.”
Sloan dipped a limp taco chip into some salsa and put it on her plate, determined to appear as nonchalant as he. “Really?” she retorted. “Exactly how was I supposed to find you tomorrow?”
“You couldn’t. I would have found you.”
“With what?” she said bitterly. “Binoculars?”
Her rejoinder almost seemed to amuse him, but the man was like a human chameleon, so she couldn’t be certain. “I see your point.”
“Hey, Sloan, where’ve you been?” Pete demanded. With his arm looped over his fiancée’s shoulder and a beer in his hand, he strolled up to them, and Jess tagged along. Mary Beth was blond and slender, a shy, refined, pretty girl who managed to look as happy as Pete without saying a word.
“Honey, show them the locket I gave you as a memento of the week before we got married,” Pete instructed as soon as Sloan finished introducing them to her “friend” Paul Richardson. “It’s solid fourteen karat gold,” Pete added proudly.
Mary Beth lifted the heavy, heart-shaped locket at her throat so they could properly admire it.
“It’s lovely,” Sloan murmured, trying to concentrate on everything happening around them, watching for anything that Richardson might consider as “jeopardizing” his case.
Agent Richardson leaned forward to study the locket as if he had absolutely nothing on his min
d now except socializing with Sloan’s friends. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
“Last month,” Mary Beth confided to him, breaking her personal record for lengthy conversation with a stranger, “Pete gave me a gold watch as a memento of the month before we got married.”
“He’s obviously crazy about you,” Agent Richardson remarked.
“He’s obsessed,” Jess corrected with a grin, but Sloan scarcely heard him. Her attention had riveted on an unexpected and immediate threat to Agent Richardson’s masquerade. Sara was strolling down the beach straight toward them with her date, and Sara never forgot an attractive male face. Earlier, Sara had said she didn’t intend to stay very long at Pete’s party, yet here she was. Agent Richardson seemed to notice Sloan’s distraction and followed her gaze. “There’s my friend Sara,” Sloan warned him as casually as she could.
“Along with her current man-of-the-week,” Jess said sarcastically as he took another swallow of beer. “This one drives an eighty-thousand-dollar BMW. Blue. His name’s Jonathan.”
Sloan had bigger problems at the moment than the senseless bickering of her two closest friends. She stepped forward as soon as the couple neared their group. “Sara, hi!” she said, talking fast, hoping to bluff her way out of a potential disaster. “Hi, Jonathan,” she added. “I’m Sloan, and this is a friend of mine, Paul Richardson, from Fort Lauderdale.” While the two men shook hands, Sloan tried without success to distract Sara from her scrutiny of the FBI agent. “Did you hear those firecrackers earlier? Everyone thought they were gunshots.”
“No,” Sara said, studying Paul Richardson’s face; then her expression went from puzzled to enlightened. “I know who you are. You were at the park yesterday!”
“Yes, I was.”
“I saw you there. In fact, I pointed you out to Sloan—”
At that conflicting piece of information, Jess Jessup lowered his beer can, staring hard at Richardson, and Sloan leapt into the breach. “Unfortunately, when you pointed Paul out, his back was to me,” she said with a quick laugh. “He was looking for me at the park, but we missed each other and didn’t connect until later.”
Sara gaped at her. “You mean, you knew he was going to be in town?”
“Of course not,” Sloan said, improvising madly. “When I invited Paul here, he didn’t think he could get away, and I assumed he wasn’t coming. At the last minute, he realized he could get away for part of the weekend, and he tried to surprise me.”
Sara’s interest switched from the peculiar logistics of Sloan’s fledgling romance to the financial prospects of Sloan’s potential boyfriend. “Get away from what?” she asked.
To Sloan’s relief, the FBI agent finally decided to help her out of the impossible predicament she was in, and he contributed an explanation. “I’m in the insurance business,” he said politely.
“Really!” Sara said with an enthusiasm Sloan knew she didn’t really feel. Sara wanted a rich husband for herself and she was determined that Sloan should have one, too. “Insurance is such an interesting field. Do you handle commercial, residential, or personal?”
“We handle most types of policies. Are you interested in adding to your existing insurance?” he quickly inquired, sounding as if he were about to launch into a sales pitch. It was a masterful diversionary tactic, because absolutely no one wanted to be at a party while someone tried to sell them insurance, and he obviously knew it. In other circumstances, Sloan would have been amused and impressed.
“No, I’m really not,” Sara said, looking panicked at the prospect that he would start trying to persuade her differently.
To Sloan’s enormous relief, he decided to extricate Sloan and himself from the whole ordeal. “Sloan’s been so busy this weekend that we’ve hardly had any time together, and I have to leave tomorrow,” he told the little gathering around them; then he looked at her as if they were at least very close friends. “How about fixing me a cup of coffee before I go back to the hotel, Sloan?”
“Great idea,” Sloan managed, and with a quick wave to her friends, she turned and walked away with him.
Sara watched them for a long moment; then she glanced at her date. “Jonathan, I left my sweater somewhere around here. I think it’s on Jim’s blanket. Would you mind getting it for me?” Jonathan nodded and walked away.
Jess eyed the other man with a cynical twist of his lips; then he took another swallow of beer. “Tell me something, Sara,” he said sardonically, “why do all the men you go out with have three-syllable first names?”
“Why do all the women you go out with have two-digit IQs?” Sara countered, but her verbal thrust lacked force because she was preoccupied with Sloan and Paul Richardson. Standing beside Jess, she watched the couple walking across the sand toward the street. “He’s very attractive,” she remarked, thinking aloud.
Jess shrugged. “He doesn’t do anything for me.”
“That’s because he doesn’t look like a topless dancer.”
“I don’t trust him,” Jess stated, ignoring her topless dancer remark.
“You don’t even know him.”
“Neither does Sloan.”
“Yes she does or she wouldn’t have invited him here,” Sara argued loyally, but in reality she was staggered that Sloan had not mentioned him to her.
“I’m surprised you aren’t already on your way to your office to run a Dun and Bradstreet report on him,” Jess said sarcastically.
“I thought I’d wait until tomorrow morning,” Sara retorted, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could rile her.
“You are one mercenary little bitch.”
Never before in their long history of rivalry had Jess Jessup ever crossed the line from sarcasm to profane personal attack. Sara felt tears sting her eyes, which upset her even more. “You really have a hard time dealing with rejection, don’t you?” she fired back.
“You can’t reject something that was never offered. And while we’re being so blunt,” he continued ruthlessly, “can you explain to me why Sloan Reynolds would want a shallow, mercenary, flirtatious tease like you for her best friend?”
Sara felt as if he’d punched her in the stomach. Never in her life had she confronted such virulent contempt from any human being except her mother, and the childhood memories flooded over her, paralyzing her. He was waiting for her to fight back, and she couldn’t. For some reason that wasn’t even clear anymore, she and Jess had disliked each other from the beginning, but she hadn’t realized, hadn’t even imagined, that he genuinely despised her. She stared at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears; then she dropped her gaze and swallowed, trying to force the words out. “I’m sorry,” she managed as she turned away.
“You’re sorry?” he repeated. “What the hell for?”
“For all the things I must have done to make you despise me.”
Jonathan arrived with her sweater and spread it over her shoulders, and they walked away. “I’d like to go home now,” she told her date. “I’m a little tired.”
Jess watched her walk away. “Shit,” he said bitterly; then he crushed the beer can in his hand and flung it into a trash container.
9
Sloan nodded at one of her neighbors who was walking his dog on the beach, and she smiled at another couple who were talking with friends in their front yard, but the minute she stepped into her own living room, she dropped the charade. “Why am I under FBI surveillance?” she demanded.
“How about that cup of coffee while I explain?”
“Yes, of course,” Sloan replied after a startled pause, and led him into the kitchen. If he was willing to stay long enough for coffee, then he must be planning to give her a genuine explanation, rather than the brusque brush-off she’d feared.
She went over to the sink and filled the coffeepot with water. As she spooned coffee into the basket, she looked over her shoulder at him, watching as he removed his navy cotton jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. He was about forty, tall and athleticall
y built, with short dark hair, dark eyes, and a square jaw. Clad in a white polo shirt, navy slacks, and navy canvas deck shoes, he would easily pass for an attractive, clean-cut, casually dressed businessman—except that he was also wearing a brown leather shoulder holster with a nine millimeter Sig-Sauer semiautomatic protruding from it. Since he seemed to be unbending a little, Sloan kept her tone very polite and even gave him a little smile of encouragement as she prodded him to begin. “I’m listening.”
“Two weeks ago, we discovered that your father was going to make contact with you,” he said, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down at the table. “We know he planned to telephone you today. What did he tell you?”
Sloan plugged the coffeepot in, turned around, and leaned against the Formica countertop. “Don’t you know that, too?”
“Let’s not play games, Detective.”
His clipped, autocratic reply irked Sloan, but she had a peculiar feeling that if she kept her cool and played her cards just right, he was going to tell her everything she wanted to know. “He said he’d had a heart attack and he wanted me to come to Palm Beach for a few weeks.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I don’t even know the man. I’ve never laid eyes on him. I told him no. Absolutely not.”
Paul Richardson already knew all that. He was interested only in her attitude and her spontaneous, unguarded reactions to his questions. “Why did you refuse?”
“I just told you why.”
“But he explained to you that he’d had a heart attack and that he wants to get to know you before it’s too late.”
“It is already thirty years too late.”
“Aren’t you being a little too impulsive here?” he argued. “There could be a lot of money in this for you—an inheritance.”
His notion that Carter Reynolds’s money should, or could, influence her decision filled Sloan with scorn. “Impulsive?” she challenged. “I don’t think you could say that. When I was only eight years old, my mother lost her job and we ended up living on hot dogs and peanut butter sandwiches for weeks. My mother wanted to call him and ask him for money, but I looked up peanut butter in a schoolbook and proved to her that it was one of the most nutritious foods on earth; then I convinced her I loved peanut butter more than chocolate. When I was twelve, I got pneumonia, and my mother was afraid I was going to die if I didn’t go to the hospital, but we didn’t have any insurance. My mother told me she was going to call him and ask him to guarantee the hospital bill, but I didn’t have to go to the hospital. Do you know why I didn’t have to go to the hospital, Agent Richardson?”
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