Hurricane in Paradise (Florida Keys Mystery Series Book 10)

by Deborah Brown

  HURRICANE

  IN

  PARADISE

  PARADISE SERIES

  BOOK 10

  DEBORAH BROWN

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted, materials.

  HURRICANE IN PARADISE

  Copyright @ 2016 Deborah Brown

  Cover: Natasha Brown

  PARADISE BOOKS

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  About The Author

  HURRICANE IN PARADISE

  Chapter One

  A gust of wind blew the front door open, sending it bouncing off the wall. Creole stumbled into the entry, his black hair whipping around his face. A crack of thunder boomed behind him, announcing the fury of the rapidly approaching storm. “Madison Westin,” he barked, sounding like an angry dog. “What in the hell are you still doing at home?”

  Dropping a small bag at the bottom of the stairs, I watched as my boyfriend veered left, going into the kitchen, dripping wet from the sheets of rain slamming the house in all of Mother Nature’s ferocity. The wind’s howling sounded like someone screaming at times.

  Luc Baptiste was his birth name, Creole the undercover moniker he used in his employment as a Miami detective, but only a handful of people actually knew that little fact. He stood over six feet, his muscles accentuated by his soaked t-shirt. At the moment, he had a two-day scruff of beard and his eyes were an irate blue; when they turned a deep cobalt, I knew he was more than mildly annoyed.

  Another bolt of lightning flashed through the garden window. I counted under my breath and listened until thunder rocked in the distance, the eye of the storm getting closer. It was just beginning to make its presence known.

  “You need an umbrella.” I watched as he shook the water off like a wet animal. “The news said the hurricane won’t make landfall until tonight.”

  He scowled, looming over me, his brows pulled together. “You promised you’d be going with Fab and Didier to Miami.” He tugged on a tendril of red hair that had escaped my hair clip.

  When I first moved to the Florida Keys, living by myself got old––fast. So, when Fabiana Merceau showed up one day with her suitcases, she caught me off guard, but I was happy to have her move in and had never been sorry that she became a permanent fixture. Not long after, Fab met her supermodel boyfriend, Didier, and decided, without a word to the man, to go to the hotel where he was staying, pack up his belongings, and unpack everything into the closet upstairs. Didier was a quick fit as a friend and family member. And nice to look at over morning coffee, or any other time. It made life easier that we had erratic schedules and were rarely all in the house at the same time.

  “I didn’t make any promises.” I tried not to flinch at the weaselly tone in my voice. “No one asked my opinion, or I would’ve told all of you that I didn’t want to go anywhere.” I tossed him a towel from a stack that was going into the Hummer if I got scared enough to change my mind and leave. “The news always over-dramatizes the weather reports. Its only forecast to make landfall as a category two. If it turns out to be a ‘rain event,’ they’ll still close the roads and take their time in reopening them, leaving us hanging out for several days since there’s no way to sneak back home with only one road in and out of the Keys.” I tried not to roll my eyes when, upon hearing the word “sneak,” his dark scowl returned.

  “You’ve lived here long enough to know the back side of the storm can bring the most damage.”

  I ignored his lecturing tone. I didn’t think now was the time to tell Creole that I wasn’t aware there was a difference. I’d ridden out a few hurricanes, often in the dark, the electricity not able to handle the onslaught, and when the sun came out again, the only damage left in their wake were piles of leaves and tree branches. I’d thankfully never experienced one of the more destructive ones.

  Tarpon Cove sat at the top of the Florida Keys. The last damaging hurricane to roll through happened before my arrival. The old timers liked to say, “It’s been a damn long time since we had a direct hit.”

  Lightning skated across the sky in non-stop action, the wind shrieked, and the lights flickered.

  “Let’s go.” He reached for my wrist and pulled me into his arms, lifting me slightly, just enough to draw me against his chest.

  My fingers curled into his thick, dark hair, and I traced a line over his lips and ran my hand over his jaw, feeling the scratch of rough stubble. He tilted his head and kissed me, then gave a low growl and deepened the kiss.

  “What about the cats?” I took a moment to appreciate the muscled chest resting under my fingertips. “Fab texted an address on Ocean Boulevard, which makes it a good bet that it’s a five-star hotel. Good luck sneaking Jazz and Snow in. I don’t know what kind of traveler Snow is, but Jazz will meow loudly enough to make his presence known. I’m not leaving them behind. I don’t understand people who do that.”

  Snow, my long-haired white cat, had been pregnant when I first rescued her from life with fifty other unrelated felines. Thankfully, she’d only had two kittens—a boy and a girl. Neither looked remotely related. They had b
oth been adopted by my friend and employee, Mac, who was eager to become a new cat mom. My only condition was that they be spayed or neutered; all three went to the vet on a discount plan.

  Jazz, my hundred-year-old, long-haired black cat, had adjusted quickly to getting a trophy girlfriend in his old age. A few sniffs, a handful of hisses, and they were sleeping together.

  “One of Didier’s designer friends offered up his beach-front digs.” Creole made a face, which usually made me laugh; instead, I returned a half-hearted smile.

  Creole shook his head; he’d made up his mind that we were leaving, and he was not letting me talk him out of it. He crossed the kitchen and retrieved the cat carrier sitting on the floor by the island. He scooped up Snow and stuck her in first, followed by Jazz. Since they had both been rudely woken from sleep, it took him less than a minute, neither meowed, even when the door banged closed.

  Our eyes flew to the garden window over the kitchen sink, where the pelting rain had picked up speed, sounding like gravel was being thrown at the glass. The winds ramped up to a yowl that steadily grew in intensity.

  “We should stay.” I avoided eye contact, knowing he’d veto the idea, but I had to suggest it.

  “We are not going to be one of those couples that makes the news because we had to be plucked off the roof. How would I explain being so stupid to my boss? Remember him? Chief Harder? And in the next breath, I’d have to justify the squandering of county funds on my rescue.”

  “Take off your clothes.” I stared up into his deep-blue eyes and winked. “I’ll toss them in the dryer. Unless you want to drive to Miami in wet clothes?”

  He peeled off his shirt, followed by his jeans. I openly stared while he undressed. “I know what you’re up to.” He shook his finger at me. “It’s not going to work. I’ve got a change of clothes upstairs.” He turned out of the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time.

  The wind continued to grow, the storm beating the sides of the two-story Key West-style house that I had inherited from my Aunt Elizabeth. A sizzle of lightning strikes followed by an ear-splitting crash had me running to the French doors that led to the pool area. Flicking on the outside lights, I peeked out, and immediately noticed that the palm that had stood in the far corner since before my aunt bought the house now lay on its side, a row of flower pots crushed under its weight where it had landed perilously close to the pool.

  “That could have been worse,” I muttered to myself. I didn’t like leaving the house to fend for itself any better than leaving the cats to do the same. I crossed my fingers, certain I had nothing to worry about; the house had withstood many pounding storms, never sustaining more than minor damage.

  “Ready?” Creole called from the bottom stairstep, my suitcase in one hand.

  “Am I following you?”

  “Nice try.” He laughed. “You and the cats are riding in my truck; that way, I can keep an eye on you.”

  Happy not to be driving in the pouring rain, I gave in and crossed the room, picking up the small tote lying on the floor next to the banister.

  Chapter Two

  A week later, when all the power had been restored, Fab and I were headed back to Tarpon Cove in separate vehicles. Annoyed when Fab made a snotty comment about the cats riding in her Porsche 911, Creole had offered up his testosterone truck. At any other time, it would have been funny that it took several tries to hike myself up into the cab. After much fiddling with the seat and having to sit up straight for my feet to reach the pedals, I was relieved that at least it started with no problem. After a few miles of jumping and jerking down the road, my driving smoothed out. I said a silent thank you that I hadn’t run into anyone that knew me, so at least my driving skills wouldn’t be used against me as a source of amusement.

  The first thing I noticed, when merging onto the Overseas Highway, the main road that ran through the Keys to the southernmost point of the U.S. – Key West, were the piles of tree limbs that were stacked on the side of the road. I groaned when I spotted a couple of refrigerators, thinking a new one was in my future. I’d wait until it was hauled out of the house to even open the door—there was nothing like the smell of rotten food that had been sitting for days. The overturned outhouse I saw was only funny if no one had been in it as it was swept over on its side.

  Turning the corner onto my street, I spotted my refrigerator, secured with rope, already sitting at the curb and was surprised to see that there were four cars parked in front of my house, two sticking out of the driveway. I drove by slowly. Not recognizing a single one, I made a U-turn and parked at the neighbor’s across the street. They’d offered their driveway up as additional parking when they weren’t in town, which was often since it was a summer second home. All the houses on the block had withstood the storm. My potted flowers had taken the biggest hit.

  Fab’s hot rod careened around the corner and screeched to a halt behind Creole’s truck.

  If only I had gotten out sooner, she wouldn’t have seen me sliding to the ground. The hot French woman would have been able to jump and land gracefully on her feet.

  “Party?” Fab’s blue eyes snapped as she inventoried the cars. “And you didn’t invite me?” She started across the street, reaching for the Beretta she kept in the back of her black designer skinny pants. “Did you notice no one else on the block has company?”

  I grabbed a hunk of her almost-long brown hair, and she stopped suddenly. “What’s our plan?” I retraced my steps and reached back inside the truck, retrieving my Glock from my tote bag on the floor.

  “I wish you’d stop doing that,” Fab grouched, pointing to my gun.

  Fab had harped over and over about not leaving home without a firearm on my person, which I rarely did. But who could have known I’d need one to get into my own house? I left the truck’s engine running, the air conditioner on for the cats, and locked the door. Thank goodness Creole’s truck had a combination lock and I knew the code.

  I ignored her comment. “Wouldn’t it be better to call the sheriff now, instead of after we shoot someone?”

  Fab snorted in response and grabbed my hand. “We’re going in through the back.”

  We crept down the widely known “secret path” that ran down the side of the house. Everyone in the family and a handful of friends knew of its existence, but a stranger would have to get lucky and stumble upon it.

  Between the loud music and water splashing, it sounded like a pool party was in full swing. “I’d like to start by shooting out the speakers.” Fab smiled evilly. “But since they’re probably yours, I’ll refrain.”

  “Put your gun away, and we’ll walk in like we live here, like whoever it is did. Don’t look at me like that. When it comes to self-defense, all bets are off.”

  Fab peered around the corner, turning back to me. “We can take them,” she said with confidence.

  I followed her into the pool area. Three men lounged around the pool, two women in chaises; they had tossed the pillows to the ground. Even with a quick glance, I was certain that I hadn’t met a one of them. I crossed to the outside kitchen area and flipped a switch, turning off the music.

  After moving in, I’d turned the underused patio area into an outside entertainment area, doing away with the dining room in exchange for a larger living space. My family ate more meals out here than inside at the kitchen island, which was impossible anyway if everyone showed up with their significant others.

  At the sudden silence, all eyes turned in our direction. “Lowlifes” came to mind. A bushy-haired man stumbled out of the house, beer in hand, wearing one of Fab’s silk robes. I knew Fab recognized her lingerie from the growl that rumbled out of her.

  Apparently more upset than I’d thought, Fab pulled her gun and pointed it at the man. “Start by explaining what the hell you’re doing here.”

  His hands shot into the air, and the beer can hit the ground, beer spillin
g out over the concrete. “Woah, sister, this here is my crew, and we live here.”

  “The hell you do,” I snapped, making note that when he got angry, his eyes turned a beady black. “I don’t know what kind of scam you’re running, but you’re not the owner, I am.” I cut off his response. “You have one opportunity to get out and do it now.”

  “Or what?” he sneered. “Your bimbo friend is going to shoot me? Oh, I know.” He jumped up and down in excitement. “Call the cops? Go ahead. And when all is said and done, I’ll be staying and you’ll be going. In addition, there will be the matter of the monetary consideration for scaring me and my friends, because I’ll be suing you.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. All the other men had stupid smiles on their faces, and the women had slipped off the deck chairs into the pool, making use of the inflatable toys. All eyes were on the confrontation. They didn’t seem to mind that the pool was dirty, filled with debris from the storm. The trashcan was overflowing; when they finished a beer, they tossed the can at it and let it lay where it landed.

  Fab’s bullet skimmed to the left of his leg, chipping a paver, and he side-jumped in an uncoordinated dance move. “Get out.” She waved the gun at him. “Next bullet blows your manhood to bits.”

  The wincing gasp from his friends was audible in the enclosed area.

  “Want me to call the law?” one man asked as he reached out, picking his phone up off one of my beach towels.

  Bossman nodded. I cut to the side around him to block the French doors, making sure no one could go back inside. His accomplice fidgeted with his phone.

  He probably didn’t pay the bill. In disgust, I fished my phone out of my pocket, dialing 911 and reporting the intruders to the operator.

  Looking inside my house, I gasped, my knees going weak at the condition of my living room and kitchen. The floor was covered in clothes, shoes, and beer cans, with pillows thrown about. From the doorway, I could see the kitchen sink piled high with dishes, the cupboard doors standing open, and my trashcan lying on the floor, where it had been dragged out of the closet and tipped over.