"Win what?"
He turned to face me. "You."
I stared over at him. "Let me get this straight," I said. "You thought that if I learned that Conrad wasn't rich, I wouldn't like him anymore?"
"So you did like him?"
"Stop clouding the issue," I said. "What kind of person do you think I am?"
"Are you starting a fight with me?" he asked.
"No. You started one with me."
He shrugged. "Not gonna fight with you. Sorry."
I gave an exasperated sigh. "I didn't like Conrad for his money," I said. "I liked him for what he accomplished."
Bishop gave my bare legs a long, lingering look. "You know what I like?" he said.
"What?"
"When you sit on my lap."
I was still miffed. "You're trying to distract me."
He held out his arms. "Come here," he said. "You can tell me all about it."
I tried to glare at him. "No."
Grinning, he dove for me, lifting me off my chair and dragging me onto his lap.
Squealing, I swatted uselessly at his arms. "No fair!"
His voice was low in my ear. "I know."
Something in his voice made my stomach flutter. "You're playing dirty," I said.
"Yeah?"
I felt his hand on my thigh. It crept higher, slipping under my sundress. My breath caught, and I looked around. We weren't the only people out here. On a balcony maybe five rooms over, I saw a middle-aged man reading a newspaper. On the opposite side, I spotted a woman sunbathing on her stomach.
When his fingers brushed the satin of my panties, I gave a little gasp. I glanced down, surprised to realize that our pose would look fairly innocent unless someone were standing right above us.
"You're terrible," I said in voice that was hardly convincing.
"I know." His fingers drifted along the edge of my panties, tracing along one side, and then the other, avoiding the center in a way that absolutely maddening. My breath hitched, and I squirmed against him.
I heard his voice, low in my ear. "You're mine," he said, "and I'm never gonna let you go."
Wordlessly, I nodded, feeling my legs tremble and panties grow damp.
"Tell me," he said.
Desperately, I arched into his touch. "I'm yours."
"You are," he said, slipping his fingers under the satiny fabric. "And don’t you forget it."
He gave me a gentle stroke and then another. Turning my face against him, I moaned into his chest. It felt hard and strong, just like the muscular arm that cradled me against his unforgettable body.
When he slid a long finger inside me, I bit my lip to keep from moaning again. I knew I needed to be quiet. But with what he was doing, how he was making me feel, it was so damn difficult that I could hardly concentrate.
I looked up, meeting his gaze. Breathlessly, I said, "Let's go inside."
"No," he said. "I want to see you like this. Right here, right now."
Deliberately, he began to slide his finger out, taking his sweet time, twisting slowly, teasingly, as if he knew I was craving just the opposite. I raised my hips, desperate for more, and almost willing to beg for it.
He yanked down my panties, leaving them constricted around my upper thighs. Panting, I heard myself whimper. The whimper turned into a moan when his thumb brushed my clit.
Soon, I felt his fingers slide inside me. I was so wet and so hungry for him, the waiting was torturously long as his fingers remained absolutely still.
I ground against his hand, struggling to open my thighs, to encourage him, wanting him to touch me some more and never stop.
"Tell me again," he said.
Breathlessly, I said, "Tell you what?"
"Tell me you're mine."
I whimpered.
"Say it," he said.
Wanting more, so much more, I pushed against him. "I'm yours."
His fingers moved ever so slightly, teasing, promising. I gave another little whimper.
"For always," he said.
After a desperate nod, I lifted my hips, grinding into his hand.
"Say it," he said.
"For always," I breathed.
"That's right," he said as his fingers started moving again. "And if you ever forget it, I'm gonna remind you, just like this. Got it?"
Nodding, I stifled a moan and let my head fall back against him. Before I knew it, his thumb was making the most delicious circles, making it hard for me to think. And then there were his fingers, moving in that special way, in and out, and then side-to-side, twisting just long enough to send me nearly over the edge.
With his other arm, he pulled me closer, cradling me tight as his fingers teased and tantalized me beyond all reason. I was slick against him and so very hot that I swear, June in Alabama was cold in comparison.
With half-lidded eyes, I glanced down at my sundress, wondering if he'd been planning for something like this all along. He was so damn devious, it was almost scary.
But soon, the motions of his fingers made any rational thought utterly impossible. I pressed my face against his bare chest, finding it harder and harder to maintain any semblance of decorum. Squirming and panting, I bit my lip again and again, to keep from calling out his name as my stomach clenched, and my hips rose.
And then, I felt that wonderful floating sensation, like sweet oblivion, but a thousand times better, because it was real, and it was with him. Shuddering, I lay against him, loose-limbed and sweaty.
I wanted to die of embarrassment. And I wanted to do that again.
Bishop pressed his lips to my ear and said, "I thought you'd see things my way."
I groaned against him. "You are such a bastard."
"I know," he said. "But I'm your bastard. And don't you forget it."
The next evening, we regrouped in our hotel room after another long, discouraging day of unproductive sleuthing. Other than the time we spent alone together, the trip was proving to be a major bust.
"Even if anyone knows anything," I said, "they're not saying."
"You want to head back to Michigan?" he asked
I gazed out the balcony window. "I guess we should," I said, wondering how I'd managed to resist the pool or anything else the resort had to offer. "You know what though?"
"What?"
"We already have the room for tonight." I felt my enthusiasm grow. "And it's not like we'd be able to catch a flight out today."
Bishop smiled. "You want to play vacation?"
Did I ever.
We started with the pool. While Bishop swam laps, I sank onto a poolside lounge, soaking up the much-needed sun. When Bishop finished, he vaulted himself from the pool and made his way toward me. As he moved, the drops of water clung to his half-naked body, running a slow trail from his muscular pecs down to his picture-perfect abs.
Sinking onto the lounge next to mine, he placed a frigid hand on my bare stomach. I yelped and swatted the hand away.
"Water's nice," he said. "You should go on in."
I shuddered and wiped the cold droplets off my stomach. "No way."
His voice took on a cajoling tone. "It'll make the steam room that much better."
I eyed the pool. He had a point. The steam room would be nice no matter what. But it would be twice as good if I were a little chilly beforehand. I rose from the chair.
"Alright," I said. "But if the steam room isn't an oven, and I mean hot enough to cook a Thanksgiving turkey, I'm holding you personally responsible."
"An oven is dry heat," he said. "Since when do you steam a turkey?"
"You know what I mean."
Fifteen minutes later, Bishop and I were wallowing in steamy goodness. We had the room all to ourselves, and were basking in the far corner when a hazy figure appeared at the glass door.
"Damn," Bishop muttered. He removed his hand from my knee and leaned back against the tile wall.
A moment later, the door opened. A rush of cool air swept away the steam at the entryway, and for the
briefest instant, the figure came into clear view. I gave a small gasp. Beside me, Bishop sat up. The door closed. The figure entered, taking a seat on the far side of the long wooden bench.
For the longest moment, we sat in stunned silence. Finally, Bishop rose and made his way toward the door. In a hazy silhouette, I saw Bishop standing in such a way that would discourage the figure's departure any time soon.
I knew it was my turn to do something, but I didn't know what. I couldn't grasp what had just happened.
When you work as a fortune teller, people are always asking, "You ever see a ghost?" I never had, until that day, in the form of Edgar Kreezak, the city council member who'd fallen through the ice, dead, a couple weeks earlier.
Chapter 86
My head swimming, I edged closer to where the man sat. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was an optical illusion caused by the steam. Maybe the man just looked like Edgar. Maybe I was losing my mind.
I heard my own voice call out, softly, "Edgar? Is that you?"
The figure started, jumped to his feet and bolted for the door. When he reached it, Bishop put a hand to the man's chest and pushed him back. The man thudded onto the bench.
"Answer the question," Bishop told him.
The man rose again, looked wildly around, and then slumped back onto the bench with a long, sad sigh. I waited, dying to hear what he would say. When he spoke, it was with a quavering resignation that would've made my heart ache if I weren't so angry.
"I figured someone would find me sooner or later," he said. "Guess I should be glad it's you."
"As opposed to?" I asked.
"You don't know?" Edgar said.
"I have an idea," I said. "But it would be nice to hear it from you."
Edgar lifted a hazy hand to indicate Bishop by the door. "Who's your friend?" he asked.
"No one you need to worry about," I assured him.
"Yes he does," Bishop said.
I gave Bishop an exasperated look and then turned back to Edgar. "It's fine," I told him. "Now tell me. Who are you hiding from?"
"The condo developer," he said, "and a couple of goons who work for him."
"Conrad Harrison?" I said. "Why?"
"I guess you could say I owe him some money," Edgar said.
"How much?"
"A lot," Edgar said. "Fifty grand."
"Money you borrowed?"
"Not exactly," Edgar said.
I racked my brain. "A bribe?"
Edgar said nothing, and the pieces started falling into place. "To support his condo plan?"
Edgar remained silent.
"Come on," I snapped. "I cried over you, for God's sake." I felt my temper rise. "I even went to this candlelight vigil for you. Me and a couple hundred other people." With an effort, I lowered my voice. "Tell me, do you even realize what you've done?"
Through the haze, I heard a small choked sigh.
Once Edgar began talking, it was like a floodgate opening, with the words tumbling out over each other. It began with a fifty-thousand-dollar bribe to vote for the condo proposal. I might have found the amount staggering, except thanks to my recent condo tour, I knew the amount was relatively small considering the stakes.
"When I took it," Edgar was saying, "I didn't think it would matter."
"Why not?" I asked.
"I figured no way the proposal would pass," he said.
"And then what happened?"
"Conrad put on the pressure," Edgar said, "started demanding other stuff too."
"Like what?"
"Like the thing with your store," Edgar said.
I felt my temper rise. "The fortune-telling ban?"
He nodded.
"So you're the one who got us in trouble?"
His tone was petulant. "But it worked out okay, right?" He gave a shaky laugh. "I mean, you're not in jail anymore, are you?"
"No thanks to you," I said.
"And," he said, "I gave you good advice too. Remember? The fortune rocks?"
"Rocks or not," I said, "my mom's business will probably never recover."
"She's not the only one," Edgar said. "Look at my bait store."
"What about it?" I said.
"Conrad bought it, along with a bunch of other businesses along the river," Edgar explained. "I guess he figured that once the plan passed, he'd be in hog heaven."
"How so?" I asked.
"The way the law was written," Edgar said, "it wasn't just a waiver for the condos. It was a zoning change. If it passed, there'd be nothing to stop him from lining every block of riverfront with whatever the hell he wanted."
"But wouldn't that help the tax base?" I asked.
Edgar made a scoffing sound. "Not the way Conrad was working it. Want to know what was next on his agenda?"
"What?"
"A ceiling on property taxes," Edgar said. "Only let the city assess so high."
I sat back, stunned. "So the taxes wouldn't be assessed on the property's real value?"
"You kidding?" Edgar said. "They'd be lucky to assess for a quarter, the way Conrad saw it."
I gave a low whistle. "That'd be a huge selling feature."
"At the city’s expense," Edgar said.
"So much for extra policemen," I said.
"At first, I thought it was pretty damn funny," Edgar said. "I figured Conrad was spinning his wheels."
"What changed your mind?"
"The thing with your store," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"Shit," Edgar said. "With all the fortune-telling publicity, it got to where no one gave a damn about the condos anymore."
"But you still cared," I said. "Why didn't you stay in town and fight it?"
Edgar took a few moments in answering. "I should've," he said. "But I'd changed my stance so many times no one was taking me seriously. I figured, maybe, just maybe, if I got out of town, I'd figure something out."
"Why didn’t you just give Conrad his money back?" I asked.
"You don't think I tried?" Edgar said, his voice rising. "He wouldn't take it back. He got all nasty about it too. You wouldn't believe it, but he's got a real mean streak."
I glanced at Bishop, standing near the entrance. "I believe it," I said. "So why didn't you go to the police?"
"And say what?" Edgar said. "That my bribe went to shit?"
"So you ran?"
"Not right away," Edgar said. "First, I told Conrad about a tape I got."
"By any chance," I said, "do you mean a cassette tape?"
He nodded.
"What's on it?" I said.
"You know I how got that cassette recorder in shanty?"
"I didn't know it recorded too."
Edgar gave a shaky laugh. "Neither did Conrad."
"So you taped him?"
"Yeah. I got a whole conversation of him offering me the bribe."
"Where's the tape now?"
Edgar glanced around. "Why do you ask?"
"Those goons you mentioned?" I said. "They found some tapes in your house. But they only had reggae."
"It was never at my house," Edgar said.
"Where is it?" I asked.
"Someplace safe."
"In Riverside?"
Edgar nodded.
"What happened then?" I asked.
"Then, things really went to shit," Edgar said. "The son-of-a-bitch had people following me. It was downright creepy."
"I saw some of those people," said. "The two goons you mentioned and some big guy in a parka."
Edgar coughed and looked away.
I squinted at Edgar, his figure a blur in the thick steam. "Wait a minute," I said.
"Huh?"
"The guy in the parka–" I felt my temper rise. "–it was you. Wasn't it?"
Chapter 87
Under the cover of steam, Edgar remained silent.
"Tell me," I said.
"Yeah," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "It was me."
"Why'd you run from me?" I asked.
"Guess
I panicked."
"Unbelievable," I muttered. "So I suppose you're the one who broke into my apartment too?"
"I didn't break in," he said. "I knocked. You didn't answer. The door was unlocked, so I figured I'd take a quick look. I saw my phone just sitting there, and–" He shrugged. "–you know."
"So you took it?"
"Figured I was doing you a favor," he said.
"Gee thanks." I shook my head. "You can't hide forever. You do realize that, don't you?"
"Yeah," Edgar sighed. "I know."
"We've got to go to the police," I said.
"No," Edgar said. "It's not gonna happen."
"Oh c'mon," I said. "You got any better idea?"
"Maybe," Edgar said. "I was thinking that someone, maybe your friend over there –" Edgar jerked his chin toward Bishop standing by the door. "–could meet with Conrad."
"And say what?"
"That I'll destroy the tape, or at least lock it away in a safe place, if he agrees to withdrawal his proposal."
"Why not just make the tape public in the first place?" I asked. "That'll destroy Conrad's chances for sure."
"But it'll destroy me too." Edgar's voice quavered. "I need my life back. I never meant to be gone forever."
"But everyone thinks you're dead."
"But they don't know I faked it myself." His voice picked up steam. "Maybe I was a victim of some hoax, just like everyone else. Maybe I went on vacation and came back, and holy shit, I'm surprised as anyone that I'm supposedly a goner."
"That doesn't seem right," I said.
"Look," he said, "my house, that river, it's all I have. I've gotta get it back. I'll make it up to everyone later."
I heard Bishop's voice from the door. "You'd have to come back to Michigan with us."
"But my house isn’t safe," Edgar said.
"So stay with me," Bishop said.
Edgar lowered his voice, addressing me. "Got anyplace else?"
I gave it some thought. "You could stay with my brothers."
"Where do they live?"
"In my dad's basement."
"Can't say I have any better offers," Edgar said. "Gimme the address. I'll leave tomorrow."
"Fat chance," Bishop said. "We're driving. Together."
The next morning, we rented a car and were off. Edgar sat in the back seat sipping pina coladas from a convenience store soda cup. Bishop and I sat in the front, with Bishop behind the wheel.
Illegal Fortunes Page 35
