Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes)

by Blair Bancroft

  Hooked. I was an oddball junkie, a slave to fantasy.

  My date with good-old-boy Flint Ramsay couldn’t come soon enough. I was in dire need of a healthy dose of reality. As long as it had nothing to do with dead bodies.

  But when Friday night came, as much as I’d tried to shove Rhys to the back of my mind, comparisons were inevitable. Flint was tall and solid, what everyone expected of a SWAT team member. Rhys was only an inch or so shorter than Flint, but maybe thirty pounds lighter. More agile, almost graceful. Rhys was dark-haired, gray-eyed; Flint a sun-streaked blond with the eyes of a Florida sky. Rhys was a man of the world, sophisticated, articulate; Flint, a man of few words, yet with a body language that spoke volumes. Each, in his own way, could charm even a Florida vulture out of a tree. I was the push-over, the rag doll caught in the middle, swaying first one way, then the other.

  I was eager to see Flint, to discover if my melt-down was still there, the breathless anticipation, the raging hormones about to explode. I needed a weapon against Rhys, against Interpol. Against jumping in over my head.

  We played it safe, Flint and I, settling for the dinner and a movie we’d missed when I flew off to Peru. Though I have to tell you Flint went back so many times to the Amish Kitchen’s buffet table, I figured management might be ready to rethink their refills policy. The food was totally wholesome and delicious, but I found myself pushing it around on my plate, while I concocted an even more severely edited version of my trip to Peru than I’d put into Fantascapes’ files. Because, unfortunately, Flint’s polite questions about my trip were rapidly losing their casual intonation. Cop that he was, he sensed something . . . was zeroing in on details I had no intention of mentioning.

  Shit! What kind of international undercover agent would I make if I found it so hard to lie?

  At that thought, I choked on a mouthful of carrot and raisin salad. No, no, no! It wasn’t going to happen. I was never going to work for Interpol.

  The movie was an action/suspense drama. I winced at every gun shot. Flint noticed and took my hand. As good as it felt, I knew I was a fake, a world-class hypocrite. I’d killed a man. I bet even Mr. Macho Flint hadn’t done that.

  Flint might not say much, but he’d zeroed in on the new me. He pulled into the parking area across from the only late-night restaurant in the center of town and gave me a long look, keeping the engine running. “You really want a drink, or would you rather talk?”

  Loud music resounded from the restaurant/club on the south side of the street—it was karaoke night. “Let’s find some place quiet,” I said.

  We cruised to the end of Main Street and pulled up at the beach. We took off our shoes, crossing the dunes on a wooden ramp, a three-quarter moon and a goodly number of stars lighting our way to one of the benches on the beach. Because of the baby sea turtles, there were a minimal number of yellow sodium lights in the parking area, and the only lights shining from the long row of high-rise beachfront condos were the soft glow from individual apartments. And yet . . . even with the moon silvering the white caps and the cool sand squishing beneath my toes, I couldn’t help remembering the calm before the storm on our first date when Viktor and an unknown assailant had fought at the fishing pier, only a mile or so south of the downtown beach where we were at the moment.

  “Okay, Laine,” Flint rumbled, “now tell me what really happened in Peru.”

  Chapter Eleven

  At night the gulf seabreeze fades to a light caress, the birds go silent, and the waves slop against the shore with little more than a sibilant hiss. Tonight, thanks to the lack of lights along the beach, the brighter stars penetrated the glow of the three-quarter moon, adding their twinkle to the fairy-tale quality of the night. Sitting on a wooden bench next to me was my dream man—a handsome hunk with a sharp brain and what I was beginning to suspect was a good heart beneath the tough-guy-SWAT-team image. And I had a decision to make.

  What did I tell him? Nothing? Something? Everything? Maybe talking would organize the jumble in my mind. I needed to find the Laine I used to be—professional, analytical, decisive. Not some flaky female mooning around with her head full of a stranger who needed a full-time bodyguard, not a lover. Or a Laine with grandiose visions of being part of the world’s most far-reaching police organization.

  “Laine?” Flint scooched closer, his arm circling behind me along the back of the bench.

  I sat up straight, pretending I didn’t notice. For two people our age it was laughable. Except I was certain the moon was revealing two grim faces that looked like they should be in an interrogation room at the county jail instead of on a dimly lit bench on a romantic Gulf Coast beach.

  So . . . after a struggle with my professional ethics assured me I wasn’t bound by any sort of “need to know” rules, I told Flint everything. The whole sorry mess from Paolo’s phone call about the wrong airplane for the Nazca lines to the Wild West scene on the VistaDome and Rhys and I being rescued by our respective embassies.

  For what must have been a full minute the only sound was the soft lap of waves hitting the beach. “You pretty tight with this Brit?” Flint asked at last. Which made me go all warm inside, as I’d expected him to freak over my killing a man, as Jeff had. And, instead, he’d zeroed in on my relationship with Rhys.

  “We went through a lot together, enough to form a strong bond,” I responded carefully. “And I have to admit an offer from Interpol is intriguing. Dad once told me it started out as a good-old-boys’ club of cops dedicated to catching the bad guys who flitted over borders faster than the national cops could blink. But it was all so far away, part of a different world. I had no idea what Interpol actually did, or how.”

  I was babbling, moving away from the personal as fast as my tongue could get out the words. “All right, I admit it,” I added softly. “I wouldn’t mind learning a bit more.”

  “Do you expect to see him again?” Clearly, Rhys loomed larger than Interpol on Flint’s radar.

  I followed the lights of a mid-sized cruiser heading toward the jetties. “I have no idea,” I told him, my words so soft they were almost lost in the swish of the waves.

  Flint looked toward the horizon where the sky was indistinguishable from the sea. After several beats of silence, he abruptly changed the subject. “Do you mind my asking what your dad thinks about all this? I got the impression from Jeff that you were the one who was never supposed to get involved in Protect and Serve.”

  I drew a deep breath before I answered. “The best intentions . . .,” I murmured. “It just happened, Flint, I’m still not sure how or why. One moment I was tagging along on a Fantascapes exotic vacation, and the next I was bodyguarding an amnesiac Brit, evading knives and bullets, crawling out of a car wreck . . . and killing someone.”

  “Sorry, Laine.” Flint wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close.

  I snuggled in, grateful for his strength. “Actually, Dad was cool. Better than I expected.”

  “And the brothers?”

  A mischievous grin chased away the gloom. “Only Doug and Jeff know. They were floored. I wish I’d had a picture of their faces.”

  “Your mom?”

  “Mom’s been a Halliday a long time. I doubt anything surprises her any more.”

  Flint’s sympathy went a long way toward easing the merry-go-round in my mind. I knew simple friendship wasn’t what Flint had in mind, but he was doing a great job of adjusting to my confusion. Truth was, my life was on hold. I’d met a stranger on a mountain in Peru, and he’d staged an invasion as competent as any five-star general’s. He was in my heart, my mind, my body, and I didn’t know what it would take to get him out.

  At the door to my apartment Flint lowered his forehead until it almost touched mine. He tilted up my chin and gave me one of those soul-tingling looks every girl hopes to see some time in her life. “You know,” he said, his blue eyes as steady and rock solid as his body, “staying on this side of the door is not what I want from you. But I’m not stupid
. I know when not to push. You willing to put up with me again next Friday? Or are you going off to Timbuktu or some other oddball place?”

  I wanted to throw myself in his arms and cry it all out. But of course I didn’t. “Love to,” I said, and fled inside. I didn’t hear his footsteps until I’d turned the dead bolt and put the chain in place. Only then could Sergeant Flint Ramsay’s size thirteens be heard slapping the vinyl tile in the upstairs hallway. There was a lot to be said for independence, but there were times when having someone treat me like a fragile flower was . . . well, not so bad.

  My machine had a message from Dad. Rhys Tarrant was a Criminal Intelligence Officer, seconded from Scotland Yard to Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. There was nothing available about what he was doing in Peru. Therefore, he may have been telling the truth about that as well.

  I thought about it while I got ready for bed. I thought about it while I stood beside my window, gazing out at the spotlights in the park, at the lighted windows of the shops on the far side of Main Street. Golden Beach—my Golden Beach. After those first rocky months, I’d grown to love it. I would never leave. Wouldn’t leave the family, wouldn’t leave Fantascapes. Both needed me. But if Rhys—if Interpol—still wanted me and could use me in conjunction with what I was already doing—then maybe . . .

  I hadn’t allowed myself to get excited before, but now . . .

  No man can serve two masters . . .

  Well, I was woman . . . and I could.

  Three weeks later, my resolution wasn’t quite so firm. The Fabergé eggs were coming along nicely, as was my relationship with Flint, whose patience was phenomenal. If he hadn’t scowled and growled occasionally at being kept out of my bed, I would have thought him downright weird. Or been insulted.

  I’d brought a strange souvenir back from Peru—the bolas. On a whim, perhaps because I couldn’t let go of Peru, I had it fitted with three wooden balls in place of the gourds that had splattered against the Inca wall in Cuzco. And then I tried to figure out how the darn thing worked. When my first success shattered my best living room lamp, I was forced to find a quiet corner at the city’s sports park. I soon discovered there was power in the feel of the wooden balls on the ends of the ropes as they whistled around my head. Power as I let go and they zinged toward their target. Power and intense satisfaction on the day they finally snapped the branch off a Brazilian pepper tree—the one I’d actually aimed at. Yes!

  Just wait, ’til next time, Arlan. With a triumphant grin, I added the bolas to the suede sling pouch where I stored my Lady Smith and my Glock.

  The most serious crisis since I got back was Marsha Michelson, a wealthy widow who longed to appear on stage. In return for a hefty contribution to the local theater’s endowment fund, I arranged a walk-on for her. She was totally thrilled by her twenties costume, complete with fringed chemise, long pearls, a feathered headband, and a mother-of-pearl cigarette holder. She was there for every rehearsal, soaking up theatrical ambiance as drunks soak up gin.

  But came opening night, she froze. They had to push her on stage. Where she took one look at the audience and promptly fainted. An ambulance was called. The predominantly senior audience waited patiently. The show went on without the widow. Fortunately, nothing was hurt but Marsha’s thespian ambitions, and she was a great sport about it all. In the future she would confine her theatrical ambitions to financial support. I apologized to everyone. I sent flower arrangements to the director, the president of the Theater Guild, and the widow. The theater, in return, granted Marsha carte blanche to attend as many rehearsals as she desired.

  My visions of jumping headfirst into international intrigue faded as fast as Marsha’s theatrical ambitions. I’d had no word from Rhys. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Hardly surprising. If I couldn’t even guarantee a successful conclusion to a walk-on on a local stage, what right did I have to consider myself ready for Interpol? Or Rhys Tarrant?

  My desk phone rang. It was Grady, asking me to come upstairs to his office.

  Three years ago, when our business was outgrowing our first-floor space, Dad took over the apartment above the Fantascapes office and converted the bedroom into a business office for Grady and the living area to a conference room, complete with boardroom table and comfy chairs. Truth was, most of our business meetings were conducted at Halliday House on Sunday nights, but the boardroom table made a great place to eat the lunches we imported from the café down the hall. To facilitate access to the upper floor, Dad had gotten permission to knock a hole in the floor and insert a fancy spiral staircase. Black wrought iron, of course.

  So about sixty seconds after Grady’s phone call, I emerged from the stairs to find my cousin sprawled at one end of the massive conference table, a piece of paper in his hand. Grady not at his computer? The world must be coming to an end.

  “Hi.” After one glance at me, he returned to staring at the paper as if he expected it to burst into flame. “I heard about Mrs. Michelson,” Grady said. “Too bad. She’s a nice lady.”

  “I guess it just goes to show money can’t buy everything,” I sighed. My mood wasn’t buoyant, and neither was his. I wondered what was up.

  Grady scrunched his eyes closed, thrust the paper at me. “This came in today’s mail,” he said.

  Frowning, I took the elegant bit of paper, which turned out to be check. From Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, France. For a sum well above the amount I had spent on Rhys Tarrant.

  How very transparent I must have been for Grady to realize what this check meant to me. He’d guessed, or at least suspected, that I’d hoped Rhys would pay the debt in person. He’d said . . . he’d promised . . .

  “Laine, you said yourself that someone’s out to get Tarrant. There’s no way Interpol’s going to let him out of their sight until the mystery of Who and Why is solved.” Grady retrieved the check, giving my hand an awkward squeeze as he did so.

  “Sure. Thanks, Grady.” I stood there like a lump, contemplating my foolishness. Not until my dream burst did I realize how much I’d wanted it.

  Wanted him.

  I should have known, of course. What else could have shut down my intimate dreams of Flint Ramsay?

  Clearly, there were fantasies not even Fantascapes could arrange.

  There’s a long skinny barrier island just north of Golden Beach, appropriately named Needle Key. Its highest central hump, perhaps twenty feet above sea level, is occupied by two stunning mansions of Newport size and distinction, which were once the only houses on the island, except for a commercial enclave of motels and restaurants clustered around its southern bridge. In the fifties and sixties a few brave souls, ignoring the fact that only a low sand dune stood between them and the not-always-peaceful Gulf of Mexico, began building modest one-story homes along the narrow gulf-front road. Homes that in the last twenty years had been gobbled up for their land value and replaced with monster mansions, some even larger and more impressive than the two originals.

  In spite of the severe hurricane threat, the two original island castles still stood, surrounded by four times the land any of the new homes could boast. One of them was Crest House, with whose owner Fantascapes had a smooth working relationship. He only lived on Needle Key January through March. The rest of the time his mansion—the ultimate in Moorish-influenced Mediterranean Revival, from intricately tiled gulf-front terrace to inlaid furniture, marble bathrooms, towering trees, and elaborate landscaping—was available for elegant weddings and receptions.

  Today, I was working on the security details for our next wedding there, including how many of Dad’s private security army, known as Jordan’s Gerries, we would need. More than usual, I estimated, as the bride was an up-and-coming female attorney with political ambitions and the groom was a survivor of 9/11 who decided to get out of Dodge after walking down eighty flights in World Trade Center One. Neither was going to feel comfortable with just one squad of Gerries. In case you’re wondering, Gerries is a term coined by Grady when he was still in high school. Da
d’s security teams are composed primarily of retired police officers and retired military, including Marines, Seals, and Rangers. Major tough guys, but Grady had seen them as positively ancient, calling them Uncle Jordan’s Geriatrics. The name stuck. I suppose we should have opted for Halliday’s Heros, but at Fantascapes we tend to downplay the heroics. Jordan’s Gerries, it was. There were two teams, and I decided to use them both for the Palmer wedding.

  Jessie peeked her head through the door of my office. “Laine, there’s someone here to see you.” My face must have been an open book, because she added hastily, “Uh, sorry, he wouldn’t give his name, but I don’t think it’s your Interpol guy.”

  I gritted my teeth, refusing to crane my head to see around Jessie’s bulk in the doorway. Damn and blast! Did everyone know I was suffering?

  “Thanks, Jessie, send him in.” I started to stand to greet my guest and froze, my hand half-extended in the ludicrous position of an old crone reaching for her cane. “Arlan,” I hissed, allowing his hand to engulf mine before sinking back into my chair. “What brings you to our part of the world? You packing another bolas?”

  He gave me the suave grin of a man of the world speaking kindly to the little hick from the sticks. “Darling . . . what’s a bolas?”

  I looked him straight in his limpid eyes while I did an inventory of the gray hairs cropping up in his mass of dark curls. “A diabolical South American invention,” I told him, “that damn near splattered me instead of an Inca wall.”

  “Tch, tch, dear girl. A figment of your imagination. You must have been suffering from soroche.”

  So it was Arlan. One of his petty little retaliations for the ease with which I’d fixed the airplane problem at Nazca. “I repeat, what brings you to Fantascapes’ neck of the woods?”

  “A bit of spelunking and exploration,” he replied casually, though his hazel eyes were alive with glee.