Paradise Crime Thrillers Box Set

by Toby Neal

  “They have their uses, and they have expiration dates when those uses are done,” he’d told her when she confronted him.

  Sophie swallowed at the crime scene photos of that case.

  He had never even slowed down his vigilante activities through the whole eight months they had been aware of each other. According to DAVID’s collection, he was pulling off a vigilante coup of some kind at least weekly.

  Sophie slammed the lid of the laptop down. Her breath heaved through her lungs as if she’d been running.

  She had told him how she felt about his activities: that she couldn’t support it or agree with it; that she couldn’t believe it was right for one man to be judge and jury.

  “You’re a hypocrite, Mary Watson,” he’d said, referring to the identity she used when she went off the grid.

  And in the end, she’d admitted that she was a hypocrite, that she understood the utility of what he did in reaching criminals that the law never would, and she’d even had him extract her sadistic ex’s child bride from her gilded cage.

  They’d left it that they would agree to disagree on the issue…but somehow she’d believed he heard her, that he was changing, that he understood and respected her enough to listen to her on something so important.

  Tears of anger and disappointment pricked her eyes. “Demon spawn of the accursed,” Sophie swore in Thai.

  Her phone dinged with a text message, and her eyes widened when she saw it was from Connor. The timing was awfully coincidental.

  She wouldn’t put it past Connor to be spying on her through her laptop—certainly he had the skills to do that…but he wouldn’t, would he? He had before, but that was back when they were adversaries.

  Rage filled Sophie at the thought of her laptop’s camera eye being used to watch as Sophie sat naked in front of it…and of course, the Ghost would have cloned her machine and would be observing what she was doing on DAVID, and online.

  He’d have confirmation that she knew that he was still up to his vigilantism.

  She clicked on the text message.

  Every chiseled muscle was poetic in its clarity in the black-and-white composition of a photo of Connor playing violin, naked from the waist up. Anubis, his Doberman, gazed at his master with devoted focus, the dog’s head even with Connor’s waist.

  The picture was good enough to blow up and frame on the wall—excellent, like everything he did. Sexy and refined, artistic, a carefully chosen bit of theater for her appreciation—one that he knew would get to her.

  It was like Connor was reading her mind—but he was probably just spying on her!

  Another text message arrived from him with an innocuous ding.

  Was thinking of you as I played this piece.

  Sophie stood up and stalked back and forth to discharge her anger, gathering her thoughts and deciding how to respond.

  She picked up her phone and stabbed out a message with her thumbs. Quit spying on me or you’ll see things you don’t want to see, just like I did when I logged into DAVID and saw what you’ve been up to. Clearly my feelings and convictions don’t mean anything to you, so I don’t know where that leaves us.

  Sophie set the phone down again, and stomped into the bedroom to change. She came out dressed in the short black Lycra dress with the flirty skirt she’d brought for social occasions. By all that was unholy, her alter ego Mary Watson was going out.

  Sophie was done waiting, waiting, waiting…to be healed and not so afraid, then to be in love, then for the right moment, the right mood, the right man.

  Maybe there was no right man for her, and she’d always be alone.

  But she didn’t have to be celibate. It was time to get over the issues left over from her violent marriage, and just ‘get laid’ as the Americans called it.

  Sophie slid her feet into the sensible strappy black sandals she’d brought, grabbed her square wallet and keys, and headed for the door, turning off the already-vibrating phone.

  She was going to Lahaina to find a bar.

  And she wasn’t planning to come back to the condo alone.

  Chapter Eight

  Sophie had adopted the identity of Mary Watson months ago when she went off the grid the first time. Mary Watson knew how to handle men, wasn’t afraid of being attractive, and didn’t have issues in the bedroom. The feminine, fun-loving identity was a way that Sophie could leave her past behind. And, sitting at the bar looking over the glitter of light on the water of Lahaina Bay, Sophie decided that putting on Mary Watson was like donning a party dress—just what she needed.

  She stirred a pale blue drink shaded by a small paper umbrella, and smiled at the man who had taken the seat beside her.

  “I would offer to buy you a drink, but I can see that you already have one,” he gestured to his own pale green concoction in a martini glass. “Do you think less of me for liking appletinis?”

  Mary Watson laughed, and smoothed her short skirt. “I like someone who’s secure enough to buy whatever kind of drink he likes. My name’s Mary.”

  “I’m Chad.” A shirt in faded chambray draped the man’s muscular shoulders, and the hands holding the martini glass were rough with calluses. One of his thumbnails was dark with a blood blister—he’d probably hit it with a hammer.

  She pointed. “I see you are in the construction trade.”

  Chad’s brown eyes widened, and he grinned. “You a detective?” His smile was not unattractive, a pleasing composition of simple enjoyment and anticipation.

  “Sometimes. In another life.” She lifted her drink and tipped it toward him. “To new identities.” He would do for what she had in mind.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Sophie turned her head to see the new arrival. Brett Taggart took off that Indiana Jones hat and set it on the bar. “Never know when a bad day will start looking up.”

  Sophie leaned forward and drew a deep draft of the sweet, foamy drink through her straw as her stomach plummeted. She might not be getting laid after all. “They say it’s a small island. I guess it’s true. Hello, Dr. Taggart. Brett.” Sophie said his first name as he raised a brow at her. She stirred the dregs of her drink and lifted a finger for the bartender. “Give me a cosmopolitan this time.”

  The man with the appletini got up and left with a little headshake.

  “I’d like it if this was the Old West and they just parked a bottle of whiskey next to my elbow,” Taggart said. “It’s been that kind of day.”

  “I take it you heard about the body.” Sophie watched the bartender shake her drink.

  “Just got done being interviewed by MPD. Not fun.” Taggart threw back the whiskey shot he’d ordered, and tapped the bar for another.

  “Guess we are both out of a job for a while.” Sophie accepted her new drink and sipped it. She hardly ever imbibed, and the first one was already having an effect.

  “Yeah. Won’t be doing much at the site with it being a crime scene.” Taggart threw back his second shot and tapped for a third.

  “You appear to take your drinking seriously. No frills.”

  “I’m a purist. When I do something, I do it one hundred percent and with total focus.” Taggart was wearing a tight black tee and worn jeans that made her want to touch them. He narrowed piercing dark eyes at her. “And I’m good with my hands.”

  Sophie felt a tingle.

  The guy with the appletini had not given her a tingle.

  Sophie lifted her glass. “To drowning our sorrows, as they say in America—with total focus.” They touched rims, and the chime of the glasses reverberated through her. “What did you tell the investigators?”

  “Can we not talk about that?”

  “Don’t know what else we have in common.” The second drink went off like a bomb in her empty stomach, and heat flowed out from that empty place inside her, running along her nerve endings and relaxing her stiff spine into a supple curve.

  “We have this. Being alone in a bar, getting drunk.” Taggart picked up his third dr
ink.

  Sophie turned her head to him, and smiled. “Not alone anymore.”

  Taggart’s grin was much better than the man’s with the appletini—it framed straight white teeth and lifted his cheeks into well-worn creases that bracketed his eyes with intelligence and humor. “You are so right.”

  He leaned over, sliding a hand around the back of her neck, and drew Sophie toward him.

  His kiss was assertive, confident, and thorough. Sophie liked the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the smell of tobacco, with all its associations, in the warm place beside his ear.

  He let her go eventually. They both sat back. Sophie finished her drink and lifted a finger for another. “That was nice.”

  “I knew it would be.” Taggart sipped his whiskey this time. “I wanted to do that from the minute I met you.”

  “Oh.” Sophie kept her eyes forward, trying to figure out what she was feeling.

  Meeting him here was ideal in some ways. She was sure Taggart knew what he was doing in the bedroom, and she felt safe with him, which was no small thing. Plus, he lived here, and there was little likelihood of a messy entanglement with her home on another island.

  But they were working together, and there had just been a murder on their mutual job site, and she was pretty sure that tomorrow, in the cold hard light of day, it wouldn’t seem like a good idea after all.

  It sure seemed like one now.

  Taggart picked up her hand. He stroked her fingers, and it sent ripples of sensation through her arms, tightening her nipples. “You have beautiful hands.”

  Connor had done the same thing to her hand, and Connor loved her. Connor was waiting for her to be ready. He was wooing her, respecting her, and trying, in his way, to be honest. She didn’t really believe he would spy on her—he had his own code of ethics. Yes, the timing was surprising, but not really. They were both alone in the evening. That’s usually when they texted.

  He had never told her he had stopped being the Ghost, just because she wished he had.

  Sophie gently removed her hand. “I don’t think this is going to happen.”

  “It’s such a bad idea that it’s good.” Taggart leaned over and kissed her again, but this time it felt invasive, taking too much.

  She pulled back. “I think you should leave. We’ve both had a lot to drink.”

  “You’re probably right. Good thing I live nearby and don’t have to drive.” He lifted his brows. “Sure you won’t change your mind, come see the back alleys of Lahaina?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “Well, too bad.” Taggart showed no effect from the shots he’d consumed. He pushed a hand through his hair and clapped the hat back on. “Thanks for making a terrible day just a little bit better.” Taggart threw a couple of twenties on the bar. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Sophie waited until he was gone before she finished her drink and slid off the stool. Her wobbly legs eventually took her outside of the bar, and she breathed drafts of fresh air, hoping the nausea and whirlies would go away. She probably should have eaten something during her drinking binge. There was no way she could drive back to Ma’alea.

  But there was someone she could call. Someone who would drop everything and come rescue her, no questions asked, whenever she needed it.

  Even with her eyes crossing, Sophie knew the number to press on the favorites list of her phone. “I’m sorry, but I think I need a ride.”

  Sophie had resumed her spot at the bar and had consumed two more drinks, along with a plate of nachos, by the time Jake Dunn arrived, striding through the crowded bar. He elbowed the man next to her aside with a glare.

  “What brought this on?” Jake slid her off the stool and hooked her arm around his neck as her knees buckled.

  She fumbled for her purse. “I have to pay.”

  “Hey. The lady and I were having a conversation…” The man beside her was foolish enough to object, but shut his mouth at one glance from Jake’s steely gray eyes.

  Sophie giggled. “You’re scary, Jake. But not to me.” She put a handful of bills on the counter and Jake supported her out.

  “You’re giggling. How weird,” he said, and she giggled some more. He was big as a house and warm as a stove. Leaning on him felt as natural as if she’d been doing it her whole life.

  Once in his rental car, a shiny black Ford Escape, Sophie leaned her head back against the seat. “I found a body at the site. I’m in big trouble for letting a murder happen there.”

  “I heard. Bix called me.” Jake reached across her and pulled her seatbelt down and buckled it. His big shoulder was nearby, and she leaned her head on it. Her breast brushed his arm, and it felt good.

  “You’re drunk.” He pushed her upright and reached over to recline her seat, so abruptly that she fell back and away.

  “I know.”

  Jake turned on the SUV with a roar and pulled out.

  Sophie turned her head to look at him. It was clear that Jake wanted her, and had since they first met. Why had she resisted the obvious until now? “Take me to bed. I want to have sex.”

  A long silence.

  “Was that rude? I am sometimes socially awkward, I know. But I am just saying what we’re both thinking about.”

  Jake had his eyes on the road and both hands on the wheel, and he was way too far away with his warm, hard muscles. Sophie burped delicately. “Did you hear me? I just propositioned you.” She put her hand on his leg. “You’re really very attractive, Jake. I’m sorry I never told you that before, but I didn’t want to make your big head bigger. So, let’s do it.”

  “This isn’t how I want this to go.” Jake tightened his big hands on the steering wheel. “No. It’s not going to happen this way.”

  “Don’t be so mean. I know you want to.” The whirlies got worse, and Sophie swallowed some nausea. Maybe the nachos hadn’t been a good thing after all.

  “I’m not going to be your drunken hookup. It’s going to be a hell of a lot more, or nothing.”

  “Didn’t know you were so…” Sophie couldn’t think of the word, but suddenly knew she was in trouble. “Pull over! I’m going to be sick.”

  And she was. She puked into the grass on the side of the Pali Highway, lit up by the headlights of passing cars, with Jake Dunn keeping her from falling over.

  Chapter Nine

  “Spawn of a worm-riddled water buffalo,” Sophie cursed, holding her head in both hands as she put her feet on the floor for the first time the next day. “Oh. My. Oh. This hurts.”

  Piercing sunlight struck her aching eyes like a blow. She’d blocked it out by hanging extra blankets over the windows on previous nights, but hadn’t been in any shape to do so last night. Cramps knotted her abused belly. Her head was a huge, throbbing drum. “So this is a hangover.”

  Her first hangover ever reminded her of Dante’s Inferno. The sheer physical misery wasn’t something she wanted to repeat, but it included memories that made her groan afresh: propositioning Jake; throwing up on the side of the road; Jake carrying her in and putting her to bed…

  Sophie was still wearing her dress, but her shoes were set neatly side-by-side near the closet. She spotted a bottle of water and pile of analgesics on her nightstand, along with a note written on the back of a receipt.

  She crawled up the bed to the nightstand, unscrewed the water bottle, swallowed four of the pills and drained the bottle.

  Hangovers were caused by dehydration. Who knew that could lead to so many terrible symptoms? Or that drunkenness caused such embarrassing behavior? Certainly she’d heard stories from Marcella, even seen a few examples…but the reality was way worse than she’d ever imagined.

  She groaned aloud again, remembering how Jake had rejected her, and had held her up while she vomited. “Oh, son of a three-headed toad…”

  Sophie picked up the receipt and made her eyes focus. Jake’s handwriting was a mass of blocky hieroglyphics, slashes and dots that almost broke the paper’s surface. “Drink lots of water. Get some res
t. Someday we will laugh about this.”

  Not likely.

  She’d never laugh about Jake saying, “I’m not going to be your drunken hookup. It’s going to be a hell of a lot more, or nothing.”

  Memory was fuzzy after that, but that sentence was glaringly clear, and made her squirm.

  Self-hatred rolled over her in a greasy black wave, along with nausea, and she barely made it to the bathroom in time to lose the bottle of water and painkillers into the toilet.

  She staggered back into the bedroom and hung the blankets over the brightly glaring windows to shut out the light.

  Hours later, she was finally upright and had a shower, but the depression had replaced the hangover. She went back to bed with a handful of rice crackers and another bottle of water and more aspirin, and fell asleep.

  Late in the afternoon, she felt strong enough to retrieve her phone and check her messages. Connor’s number showed several calls but he had not left messages. Typical. He would not want to leave any sort of recording, especially about That Subject, but finally, there was a short one in his fake Aussie accent. “Miss you. Call me. We need to talk.”

  “Talking won’t change anything,” Sophie said aloud, and deleted the message. She didn’t see him giving up being a vigilante unless he was locked up, or dead. Neither of those options appealed, and her belly cramped at the thought. She plugged her phone back in and lay down, letting the depression suck her down and under like quicksand. She flashed to her mother, lying in bed—her wide, dark eyes fixed on the ceiling, her skin sallow and glossy black hair lank, her lips moving but forming no sound.

  Sophie’s depression wasn’t that bad. She would never let it get that bad. She had her father Frank Smithson’s big, strong, powerful energy to combat the psychological weakness she’d inherited from her mother, Pim Wat.

  She nibbled another cracker as the next message came on.

  “Sophie, it’s Lei. We are making some progress on the case and wanted to give you an update and get your help on a few things. Call me.”