Last Ticket to Paradise
Carol Ericson
Copyright © 2019 Carol Ericson
All rights reserved.
Prologue
The sound of the drums thumped in her chest, urging her to gyrate to its primitive beat, but she couldn’t move her body. A man’s heavy arm encircled her waist, and she leaned against him, inhaling the fresh citrus smell of his aftershave. She clung to his chest and nudged the top of her head against the stubble on his chin.
He pushed her away and growled, “Slut.”
They all called her that, but they always came back for more. Except Jake. She stumbled on unsteady legs, and the man’s grip tightened on her arm. Why couldn’t she walk? Was she that wasted?
A different man grabbed her and hoisted her over his shoulder. The ground bounced up and down beneath her. Grass, rocks, sand—all swirled together into a beige mass of confusion.
Her stomach protested, and she retched, sour vomit burning her throat. Too much booze...again. Choking, she spewed on the ground, splattering the bare legs that trudged through the sand.
The man swore and swung her back into his arms. Mmmm. That’s better. She rested her head in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. Jerking back, she gagged as the heavy smell of garlic invaded her nostrils. She preferred the other guy’s aftershave.
Heat scorched her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered open. Flaming torches blurred in front of her watery eyes. Heads swayed in and out of her vision. She needed food. What kind of party was this without food?
Garlic Man placed her on a rock, its rough surface scratching the soles of her bare feet. She pitched forward. Somebody caught her. Two hazy figures pulled her arms away from her body and secured her wrists with rope.
A shiver spiraled up her back. When had she agreed to the kinky stuff? She closed her eyes and shook her head. How did the poolside party end up here? Where was Jean-Claude? The questions floated through her fuzzy brain without an anchor.
Rough hands grabbed the neckline of her beach cover-up. Yanking down, the hands tore the garment from her body. She pulled against the restraints holding her wrists. She hadn’t signed up for this.
Oh God. Someone ripped off her bikini. She twisted and turned her naked body, but her legs remained useless. Squinting, she tried to focus on her surroundings. A crowd of people pressed in, their mouths moving in unison, their hands shaking beads, their eyes rolled back in their heads.
Fear raced like a thousand pinpricks up her spine.
The low hum of their chanting grew louder, along with the drumbeat. The crowd undulated in time to the rhythm and began circling her. Flaming sticks jutted out in her direction from the teeming humanity swirling around her, singeing the ends of her hair, scorching her eyebrows.
One truth stabbed through the fog in her brain: She was going to die.
As the darkness closed in, she mumbled a long-forgotten prayer, stumbling over the words. The flames drew closer and closer. Oh God, she needed Jean-Claude. She needed Mom.
She needed Gigi.
Chapter One
Georgette clutched the arms of the airline seat, feeling naked. Her breasts jiggled beneath the thin cotton of her halter top as the tin can hit another air pocket. She’d never worn a halter top in her life. She hadn’t been braless since she was thirteen...make that fourteen. She was a late bloomer.
She raised her eyes from her toes tipped with coral-pink nail polish. Was anyone else worried? Her gaze darted around the small aircraft, alighting on the backs of heads. Nobody jumping out of their seats. Nobody screaming. The lone flight attendant browsed through a magazine in her jump seat.
Georgette took a deep breath and loosened her death grip on the armrests.
“That’s better. Turbulence is normal in these small planes when they start descending.”
Georgette jerked her head to the side. A man sprawled in the seat across the aisle from her, his broad shoulders spanning the width of the back cushion. One of his long legs extended into the aisle, and a bare foot rested on top of a scuffed Huarache sandal. His white teeth gleamed against sun-kissed skin.
She’d noticed him before—how could any woman not notice this man? But he’d fallen asleep before the plane had even left Miami.
She dipped her head once in acknowledgment. Probably a tourist with a manmade tan like hers. Of course, that didn’t explain his longish brown hair streaked blond by the sun, unless that was artificial, too. Could be one of those party-hearty beach bums, indulging in drinks and good times across the Caribbean.
Just like her sister.
Her stomach rolled, but it wasn’t from the turbulence. Was Mom right? Was Jamie in trouble? Wouldn’t be the first time. Georgette pursed her lips and thumbed through her magazine, the ink staining her sweaty palms.
That would be when eighteen-year-old Jamie was caught in bed with one of her married university professors. Big sister Georgette, older by a whole twelve minutes, had come to the rescue by rounding up other young women who said they were compromised by this professor.
Georgette had suspected these women of lying—or worse, being paid off by Dad—but the threat had been enough to stop the administration from kicking Jamie out of school. She’d dropped out later anyway, and the professor had been forced to resign his tenured position. Georgette didn’t have one doubt in her head that the teenage Jamie had seduced the clueless professor to secure a passing grade in his class.
The man probably hadn’t known what hit him, but Georgette hadn’t wasted any sympathy on him. He should’ve known better.
She shoved the magazine into the seat pocket and pulled Jamie’s last postcard from her purse. She studied the clear azure skies over topaz waters, palm trees arching over the white sand. Palumba was Jamie’s most recent exotic destination on a whirlwind trip paid for with Dad’s life insurance. Jamie got the cash, and Georgette got the care and feeding of the bookshop...and Mom.
She flipped the card over. Jamie’s loopy scrawl hinted at wild times with a ritzy international crowd and included a joke about getting in over her head. Mom could never take a joke where Jamie was concerned. Jamie’s correspondence had ended after that postcard, and Mom had spiraled into a tizzy.
It was unusual. Not one for texts or emails, Mom had insisted that Jamie send her postcards almost every day on her travels, keeping her up to date on her whereabouts, detailing her activities, describing her new clothes, her recent conquests. Georgette jammed the postcard back into her bag. Jamie had a lot of conquests.
Georgette pressed her nose to the cold window as the clouds parted and revealed water as blue as that postcard, lapping at the shore of a lush, green, heart-shaped island.
Her fingertips buzzed. Even if she had to spend time hauling Jamie out of another scrape, she planned to enjoy herself the rest of the time. She’d dreamed about traveling for a long time. Of course, her dreams starred London, Paris, and Rome, for the theater, art, and history, but the island of Palumba wasn’t a bad substitute. She planned to take in the archaeological dig and the museum that cataloged Palumba’s flora and fauna. Not that she’d find Jamie in either of those places.
The prop plane’s wheels touched down on the runway, bounced up once, and then churned across the asphalt. Georgette peeled her eyes open one at a time when the plane came to a jerky stop.
The sun-drenched man across the aisle stood up, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling of the plane. The muscles in his back visible through his thin cotton shirt, he hauled a duffel bag out of the overhead bin and dropped it at his feet.
Georgette wrinkled her nose. Definitely some kind of itinerant party boy working his way through the islands and spending his time working out. You didn’t get muscles lik
e those without working out.
The party boy gestured to her overhead compartment. “Can I help you with your bag?”
“No, thank you.” She reached up to click the compartment open and felt his eyes on her back. As her low-slung capri pants dipped even lower, she cursed her best friend, Linda, under her breath for insisting Georgette buy new clothes for the trip. Georgette had argued that a woman attracted a better quality of man with her brain as opposed to her body.
Yeah, like Brice?
She tugged at her bag and stumbled backward. A large, warm hand caught her around her bare waist, encircling it. Fingers skimmed her hipbone, and she lurched forward, almost falling into her seat face first. The hand flattened against her tummy, setting her back on her feet. One of those fingers nudged against the low waistband of her pants, sending shivers down her thighs. Brice’s touch had never had that effect on her, even when she was stark naked. Georgette spun around, waves of heat flooding her cheeks.
Mr. Beach Bum grinned. “That’s an awfully big bag for a little lady like you.”
Georgette widened her eyes. Little lady? She stood over five feet ten in her stockinged feet, towering over her petite sister and mother.
Was she just going to stand here gawking at this male specimen of prime beef? Linda had advised her to practice her flirting skills on the other tourists. Even if they weren’t her type.
Georgette’s eyes dropped to the man’s thighs bulging with muscles in his khaki shorts and traveled up to his wide chest, a sprinkling of hair visible through the open neck of his shirt. And this man, exuding alpha male scent like he bathed in it, was definitely not her type.
She raised her eyes to his. They tilted up at the corners, as if he found the whole world amusing. As if he found her amusing. Nobody found her amusing.
“I-I...it is sort of heavy.” She bent over to retrieve her purse and to hide her flaming face. So much for urbane flirting.
When she popped back up, she saw his broad back following the line of passengers down the aisle to exit the little death trap. Okay, Linda was right. Men took notice when you bared a little skin. Of course, you had to have a better follow-up than a stammer and a blush.
Georgette slung her bag over her shoulder and, smiling, thanked the flight attendant for one of the most terrifying experiences of her life. Of course, her life hadn’t been very terrifying, unless she counted the time Billy Russell dared her to ride her bike off the diving board at the local pool.
After snatching her suitcase from the baggage carousel and breezing through Customs, Georgette snagged a taxi to the Palumba Falls Resort. It was the most expensive, most luxurious hotel on the island. Only the best for Jamie Lawson.
Thick foliage crowded the edge of the road, and the cartoonlike colorful blooms emitted a heavy perfume. Georgette trailed her fingers out the open window, caressing the moist air. She could already feel her hair spiraling in the humidity.
The taxi pulled in front of a sprawling hotel that rose from the steamy landscape. Breezy causeways linked the public areas of the resort. Suites with thatched roofs stood on stilts in the water.
Georgette inhaled the salty breeze. She was going to have fun if it killed her.
She strode up to the front desk. She didn’t even need to use her flawless French, as she would on the neighboring islands. Palumba had been a French colony, but then the Spanish moved in and later the British, and everyone spoke English as well as a mixture of local dialects. “Hello, I’m checking in. My name is Lawson. Georgette Lawson.”
“Welcome to Palumba.” The clerk touched the flower behind her ear and smiled. Taking Georgette’s credit card, she turned to the computer.
Georgette’s gaze swept the expansive open lobby. A sparkling pool beckoned at the edge of the white sand, the blue ocean tumbling beyond. Guests strolled in from the beach to the pool, and Georgette sucked in her breath and gripped the edge of the counter. Several of the women were topless.
She’d known going in that this was an adults-only resort, but she’d thought that had meant no screaming kids at the pool.
The clerk glanced up from the computer monitor. “You do know that this is a clothing-optional resort? If that doesn’t meet your expectations, there are several other nice hotels on the island. The boss doesn’t want anyone to leave unhappy.”
Georgette gulped. She’d hang on to that optional part. She had to stay here. “Th-that’s no problem. My sister, Jamie Lawson, is staying here, also. Could you please give me her room number?”
The hotel clerk’s eyes widened, and she dropped her pen. “Jamie Lawson?”
Even though she and Jamie were as different as two sisters could be, especially twin sisters, she’d never gotten quite this response before. She nodded. “Do you know her?”
The clerk bent her head over her computer keyboard. “We haven’t seen Jamie here for a few weeks.”
Georgette swallowed the bubble of fear that rose up her throat. Jamie had probably taken a side trip, or more likely, she’d met a man who whisked her off somewhere. She cleared her throat. “When did she check out?”
“Jamie didn’t check out.” The woman lifted her shoulders. “She paid up through the end of this month and took off.”
Georgette sucked in her lower lip. Definitely a man. She’d wait here until Jamie returned, and then she could report back to Mom. “Do you think you could let me into her room?”
The clerk slid Georgette’s credit card back across the smooth wood counter and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lawson. We can’t allow guests access to other guest’s rooms. I probably blabbed too much as it is.” She looked both ways and then scribbled on a piece of paper and shoved it toward her. “Here’s her room number, though.”
Georgette smiled. “Thanks. I understand. I guess I’ll just stay here until she returns.”
Aunt Henrietta would do a good job of looking after the bookshop and Mom, even though the two of them hadn’t spoken for years. Just showed how worried Mom was to not only release some of Georgette’s money to her for this jaunt down to Palumba, but also welcome Aunt Henrietta back into her home.
Georgette knew Jamie better than Mom did. Mom believed Jamie was some helpless feminine flower, used and discarded by others, especially men. The truth was just the opposite. Jamie took what she wanted from men and cast them aside when she’d had her fill...or met her goal. Probably fleecing some poor guy right now.
Georgette followed the bellhop to her room on an open corridor that faced the beach. The beach mirrored Jamie’s postcard with its crystal-clear water and powdery white sand.
She unpacked her skimpy resort wear, filling the drawers and the closet with their bright colors. She showered, using the tropical shampoo and soap stocked by the hotel, the fruity smell rising on the steam.
Georgette bent over at the waist and towel-dried her hair. To fight her curls in this climate was useless. She plaited her unruly tresses into a thick braid.
She pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top, again feeling underdressed. She rarely wore shorts, even when the summer sun warmed the flat landscape of North Dakota. Her legs were too long, making her feel gawky. At least they weren’t blindingly white, since Linda had dragged her to a tanning salon a few days before her trip.
She slipped her feet into a pair of glittering flip-flops and shuffled to the poolside bar fronting the ocean. Might as well get to work.
She parked on a barstool and ordered a glass of lemonade. Half-naked hotel guests lounged around the pool, sipping tropical drinks. At least her new bikini wouldn’t shock anyone in this group. The men—had to be Europeans—sported tiny swim trunks, while the women adjusted the thin strings of their bikinis as they rose, dripping wet, from the pool. Or they had discarded their tops altogether.
Georgette turned back to the bar and waited until the bartender filled another tray of drinks for the waitress. She cleared her throat. “Hello. Have you worked here long?”
The bartender smiled and wiped the co
unter in front of Georgette. “Yes. I’m Nigel. I’ve been here since the Palumba Falls opened ten years ago. First day here?”
She’d always heard bartenders were talkative. Not that she’d know. “I just arrived. My sister’s staying here, too.”
He polished a glass. “A family holiday?”
She sipped her lemonade, puckering her lips as the cool, sour liquid spiked her tongue. “It will be once she returns. Maybe you served her. Jamie Lawson?”
Nigel’s eyes flickered. He drew the glass close to his face, squinted at it, and then rubbed a circle on its side. “Jamie. Straight blond hair, about this high?” He held his hand under his chin.
He left off the part about the beautiful wide blue eyes and the curvy figure, but he was close enough. “Yeah, that describes Jamie. You noticed her, then?”
He shrugged. “It was hard not to notice her. She wore the skimpiest bikini bottoms, drank the most exotic drinks, laughed the loudest, and generally was the life of the party out here.”
Georgette grimaced. Yep, that was Jamie all right.
Nigel tipped his chin toward the pool. “She spent a lot of time at the resort, by the pool. They all do...the tourists, I mean. Safest place on the island.”
Georgette narrowed her eyes. From what she’d read in the travel books, Palumba was considered safe—low theft, friendly locals, and not much violent crime. “The island isn’t safe?”
He spread his hands. “Tourists are very safe on our island, except for price-gougers. As you know, the resort fee is all-inclusive, and the boss prides himself on offering the most luxurious accommodations and the best food, but he won’t put up with vendors taking advantage of his guests.”
“The boss?” That was the second time she’d heard that phrase.
The bartender swept his arm across the expanse of the pool and the beach beyond. “The man who owns all this.”
Georgette dumped some sugar in her drink. “So, when did my sister leave?”
“I don’t know. She was here one day, gone the next. Like all tourists.”
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