“Frank Stuart.” The girl’s uncle stood in front of his chair.
Aidan guessed the man matched him in height and weight and looked to be in good shape, though a bit older judging by the gray at his temples. Still the guy could probably pack a wallop, and Aidan knew he had better stay alert.
He shook the uncle’s extended hand. “Aidan.”
“Just Aidan? You don’t trust me with your last name?”
Aidan didn’t do trust. He instilled trust. In others, not the other way around. He’d been chased for his money since grade school. Came from having a limousine deliver you to the front steps of school every morning. Even before he noticed girls—and that went way back to elementary school—the other boys fought to be friends with the rich kid. Not Aidan. The rich kid.
Aidan let no one close. He trusted, really trusted, a small handful of people in the world: his friends Rhett, Garrett, Ian, and his investigator Shaun.
Funny. No women.
“Just Aidan,” he said.
“All right. Thank you for rescuing my niece, Just Aidan.”
He fought the smile twitching at his lips, unsure if he liked this uncle yet or not. “You’re welcome.”
“You’re not from around here.”
Time to either pony up some information . . . or fib. No way would Aidan pretend to be someone else like his friend Garrett did when he visited his new casino in Biloxi. But if Aidan told anyone in Cypress Key who he really was, instinct warned him he would become persona non grata in this town. His newest project would be viewed as interfering competition. Suddenly, Garrett’s position in Biloxi looked a whole lot different. Much harder to judge from the hot seat.
“No. I crew for a yacht broken down offshore. Needed an ignition controller system fixed, so I brought the part inland for repair.”
The doctor appeared in the lobby, and Frank leaped to his feet. “How is she, John?”
“Casey’s not in any danger, but I’m fairly certain about the concussion. She’s out again, and I want to keep her until she’s awake and stays awake before I release her. Why don’t you go on home, get something to eat, and come back in a couple hours? There’s no sense in you sitting here and waiting all that time, and the food in my snack machines is stale. I’ll call you immediately if there’s any change.”
Frank looked ready to argue but sighed instead. “All right. But you call me,” he ordered, pointing a finger at Davis.
At the door, he turned back to Aidan. “Did you? Take it in?”
“What?”
“The part.”
“No, everything happened so fast, the part is still on my runabout.”
Frank stared down at his bare feet. “Along with your shoes. That must have been a fun run from the marina.”
“Not really.”
Frank perseverated on that tidbit. “You planning to wait here?”
Aidan shrugged. “Until she wakes. I need to be sure she’s all right.”
Frank stared at him for a long moment. “Doc said he’d call me if she woke. Want to come with me?”
“Where?” Aidan asked warily.
To beat me up and leave me in some palmetto patch?
“How about we go get your boat part and drop it off at Riley’s.”
Aidan’s brows rose.
“The marina repair service in town is owned by Neal Riley. Only one we got. After that, you can ride with me while I go shut down the golf course. I sort of jumped up and ran out when I heard Casey was hurt. We can grab a couple sandwiches at my snack bar and head back here to get Casey.”
Golf course? Hell, yeah.
“Sounds good to me.”
Frank and Aidan hustled to the runabout to grab his inoperable ignition controller, along with Aidan’s topsiders, and deliver the worthless part to the infamous Riley. The repairman pronounced he could actually have the part ready to go by the next day, which shocked Aidan since he could never get the large—port repair services to fix anything on his yacht in less than three days.
Frank drove his worn pickup truck to the opposite end of town. Toward the abandoned airstrip Aidan noted, having consulted enough satellite photos to recall the layout of the town. Roads went from small subdivisions to a rural setting. Frank pulled out his cell phone, called someone named Mamie—maybe his wife—and gave her a status report on Casey’s condition.
As the truck rumbled past the airstrip, Frank said with a great deal of disdain, “Rumor has it that abandoned airstrip has been purchased by a golf resort developer.”
Aidan didn’t hazard a glance at Frank.
“Though the present owner, Maybelle Crawford, refuses to admit or deny,” he continued.
George Halowell was one of Aidan’s six vice-presidents in the real estate division of his family’s Wall Street investment firm, and Halowell bought the airstrip property under one of Aidan’s dozen different holding companies, Princeton Holdings. Aidan always kept his projects secret until construction started in case design efforts required additional property. Once locals found out a Cross Enterprises golf resort was planned, they jacked up the price on any adjacent properties.
“You believe rumors?”
“Some I do.”
Aidan wondered how Frank had heard a rumor that Maybelle Crawford had sold her property. If she’d told Frank, then Aidan’s jig was up. Aidan had met Crawford at the closing. He didn’t normally attend closings to keep things quiet, but the woman had made her sale contingent on meeting the real owner. “The man at the top,” she’d said.
Maybe it would be safe for Aidan to use his real name around here.
Until someone Googles me.
He scotched that idea quick. Better to be safe than sorry, though he tried to steer clear of photographers. Google images would probably nail him—shots of him and his models and actresses. None of whom held any interest for him at the moment but painted the picture of a playboy. Somehow he knew that particular portrait would not fit in around here.
“The only good news about this rumor,” Frank was saying, “would be that Archer Bartow didn’t get the land.”
“Who’s Archer Bartow?” Aidan asked, though he already knew.
“The mayor of Cypress Key.” Frank spoke as though the words tasted like spoiled fish.
“He was after it?” Aidan asked, surprised. His real estate team investigators had missed that colossal tidbit.
“Archer wants it for another of his cheap housing developments.”
“Bartow does affordable housing?” A second surprise, and he hated surprises.
“Of course not,” Frank said grimly. “The homes are built cheap and sold expensive. The first homes to go during Hurricane Irma a couple years back were all his.”
“Nice guy.”
“Right.”
“I take it you don’t want another golf course around here,” Aidan said, thankful now he hadn’t divulged his identity or reasons for being in Cypress Key.
Frank looked at him as though he’d grown an extra nose. “Are you kidding me? A golf resort will put me out of business.”
“Not necessarily. The resort could bring you more business since you’d be priced lower,” Aidan offered.
“Right.” Frank shot him a suspicious look, and Aidan decided to keep his mouth shut.
He’d had no clue the town was against a developer creating a new golf resort. This would not be a quick in and quick out for him to check on his site. He had damage control to do here or at the very least reconnaissance. They rode in silence for a few more miles until the first holes of the golf course came into view.
Aidan perked up and all but pressed his nose to the window glass. “This is your course? I’m impressed.”
No small compliment either. From what little he could see,
the fairways and greens had received the same loving care that his PGA-tour courses received. He made up his mind right then if the rest of the course looked as good as what he could see from here, he would buy Frank’s course for his regulation golf links and leave the new course as his PGA-tour venue. He had always intended to have two eighteen-hole courses just like all his other resorts. He liked the idea of an easier course paired with a more difficult course.
Frank grinned for the first time since he’d met the man. “You like it?” He looked like a father who’d had someone compliment his child.
“Looks awesome. How’d you end up owning a golf course?”
Frank hesitated at first, then said, “My brother Dave died rather unexpectedly, and I came home to take care of Casey. Dave and I were raised here. Golf was all I knew.”
“Maintenance?”
Another hesitation. “No. I played on the PGA tour when I was younger.”
That floored Aidan. The very last thing he had expected Frank to say.
“No kidding. That is so cool.”
Frank shook his head. “That was a long time ago.”
Aidan decided to save his hundred questions for another time.
Minutes later, Frank pulled up at the pro shop. A nice-looking Key-West-style clapboard building in a soft sea-green color with white shutters. A verandah wrapped all the way around, wider at one end with a scattering of small, white wrought-iron tables. Like a lot of small-time pro shops, half the building appeared to be the pro shop and the other half a snack bar.
Frank nodded at the porch end with the tables. “You go on inside. Mamie’s still here. She’ll fix you something to eat. I won’t be long.”
“I can help you close up.” Aidan shrugged when Frank stared. “I know some about golf courses. I play golf whenever I can.”
The older man seemed surprised by his offer.
“Okay. If you’ll hose out those returned golf carts—”He pointed to the string of golf carts haphazardly parked at the snack bar end of the building. “And put them in that cart barn—” He gestured toward a single-level, matching-clapboard building about fifty yards behind the pro shop, half-open under roof, half-enclosed with a sign that read Cart Return. “I’d be obliged.”
“Sure thing.”
Aidan knew exactly what to do. Growing up, he’d practically lived at his father’s country club, as much to get away from his parents’ constant fights as for a love of golf. Maybe one induced the other. After he had graduated college and been forced to work at the family’s investment firm, he took over their fledgling real-estate division, then later begged to build a golf resort.
When his lucrative initial golf resort won a slew of awards, his father had agreed to more golf resorts and eventually left Aidan alone—as long as he remained in the family business. If he left, not only was he cut off from his inheritance, but his father would dissolve the real-estate division in the company and fire everyone in it. A threat meant to keep him in line. Forever.
Aidan knew he could succeed in time, on his own, but his father had couched their agreement in a steel coating of guilt. “How would your betrayal look to the rest of the world? Cross Enterprises employees would be forced to share the consequences of your defection.”
Aidan had heard the guilt speech so often he knew the words by heart. The speech was designed to shackle him to the family business. His father had a unique flair for words, for coercing others to his way of thinking. Aidan knew this because he had inherited the flair, and it had served him well in his ventures.
His father’s threat had kept him locked in place, kept him from following his heart and his own dream.
With practiced ease, Aiden gathered the stray carts, cleaned the refuse from each of them, hosed them out, and parked them in proper alignment in the shed, attaching the hanging electrical cords at each numbered slot to the battery stored on the cart.
Frank showed up just as he finished and viewed his work with raised brows. “Nice job,” was all he said, then led Aidan to the snack bar.
A large woman with no discernible waist, rosy chubby cheeks, and twinkling eyes looked up when they entered. “Who’d you bring home with you, Frank?”
“This here’s Aidan.”
“Aidan . . .?”
“Just Aidan. He’s the one who took Casey to the clinic.”
Mamie eyed him as though she was Casey’s self-appointed guard dog, her narrowed sober eyes raking him up and down. Suddenly, she smiled and her now-twinkling eyes disappeared in her chubby cheeks.
“Thank you, Aidan. Frank went crazy when someone in town called and told him some stranger was carrying Casey and running toward the clinic. I feared he’d kill himself getting there.”
She waved the two men over. “Come on and sit down. I got those BLTs ready that you ordered.”
She pushed the plates with sandwiches and two bags of chips over when the men took their seats at the counter.
“BLTs okay with you?” Frank asked him.
“Sure. I’m starved.” Aidan wondered who the someone in town was, but he kept quiet and bit into his sandwich.
“You want beer or soda?” Mamie asked.
“Beer for me,” Frank said.
“Sounds good.”
They twisted off the caps on the bottles she handed over, and each took a long pull.
Mamie collected her purse from behind the bar. “I’m going over to the clinic.”
“Now, there’s no sense in you doing that,” Frank told her. “The doctor said she’ll be fine, and we’re going back as soon as we finish eating. You go on home. I’ll call you when John discharges her.”
“You promise to call me the minute you talk to the doctor?”
“I promise.” He crossed his heart.
“All right then,” she grumbled and headed to the parking lot.
“She really cares about Casey,” Aidan noted.
Frank frowned at him. “Most everyone in town cares about Casey. Most everyone in town would take it poorly if someone hurt her.”
“Duly noted.”
Was that a warning to keep my distance?
Aidan hurriedly finished his sandwich and chips, anxious to get back to the clinic to check on Casey, Frank’s warning notwithstanding.
Frank got the message. They swiftly locked up, climbed into the truck, and hustled back to the clinic. Oddly, the back of Aidan’s neck prickled like it always did when danger lurked nearby. He glanced over at Frank, but the man just looked grim again, seemingly as anxious to get back to Casey as Aidan was. He tossed off the weird prickling sensation as leftover adrenaline and nerves. Until he and Frank stepped into the clinic.
A barrel-chested, gray-haired law officer stood in the middle of the waiting room. The embroidered stitching over his pocket read, Sheriff Sam Watson. “You Aidan?” he asked.
He nodded, the neck-prickling expanded to full danger mode.
“What’s your last name?”
“Why?”
“I need to see some identification.”
“Why?” Aidan asked again.
He probably wouldn’t have been difficult if he didn’t have a crack team of lawyers in his back pocket, which was all his back pocket held at the moment since he’d gone and left his ID and wallet on the yacht.
“Because I asked,” Watson snarled.
Aidan didn’t care for the belligerent attitude. “It’s Doe,” he said, just to be stubborn.
The sheriff glowered. “Aidan . . . Doe, you’re under arrest for assault.”
Watson handcuffed him, read him his rights, and then marched him straight out the door to the waiting cruiser.
Aidan didn’t know which felt worse. Being arrested for the first time in his life or the look of anger and betrayal on Frank’
s face.
~ ~ ~
Dr. Davis had finally allowed Uncle Frank back to Casey’s room. He blew in and the wild, fearful look in his eyes shot a swift stab of guilt into Casey for having worried her uncle so much. Frank didn’t worry easy, and her fainting or whatever had happened today had done a number on him. She couldn’t remember anything after she slipped off the gunwale into the dark water under the boat. Until she came to with the hunk holding her hand.
Him, she’d never forget.
She smiled to calm Frank’s fears though even smiling made her head ache.
“I had to let him come back,” Davis told her. “His pacing—more like stomping—was making the few other patients in the waiting room nervous.”
“Can I go home now?” she asked.
Davis frowned first, then sighed. “I suppose so.”
He turned to Frank. “You need to wake her every couple hours through the night and check for post-concussion symptoms—trouble waking, seems confused, slurred speech, or her headache is worse. If she experiences these symptoms, you call me and bring her back in here. Otherwise, bring her back in the morning for me to check her over.”
Casey would have rolled her eyes if it didn’t hurt so much. “I’m fine. I just hit my head,” she groused. “I do it all the time.”
“But you don’t remember hitting your head, and my CT scan shows a slight concussion. So we’ll do things my way.”
Frank’s brows drew down hard at the words slight concussion.
“I’m okay, Uncle Frank. Just take me home, please?”
“I’ve written a prescription for higher-dosage Tylenol for Casey,” Davis said, handing it to Frank. “Fill this on your way home. Give her one or two every four hours for her headache. No more.”
Her uncle glanced around. “Any belongings?”
“No, just the now-dry clothes on my back,” Casey said. “My tip money and ID holder both got wet.”
PAR FOR CINDERELLA Page 3
