Tropical Getaway

by Roxanne St Claire

  “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?” he demanded.

  She kept her gaze on the water. “No.”

  “Why did you tell him we were leaving? What reason did you give him?”

  “I told him it was personal.” She turned to him with an accusing eye. “And like everyone else on the ship, he probably assumes it’s…we…I’m…romantically involved with you.”

  No doubt they did assume just that, and frankly, that was fine with him. They’d stopped in the lounge together, late at night. They’d traveled to Antigua and kissed on the water taxi, if only because of her persistent questions. By now the entire crew undoubtedly knew he had dined in her cabin and that she’d spent last night in his.

  He tried Genevieve on his cell phone one more time when they reached the metal hut terminal, knowing his phone wouldn’t work on the plane. He stabbed the Power Off button as soon as he got her voice mail again and muttered a curse.

  “What’s the matter?” Ava asked.

  “I was trying to get Genevieve. Nobody has heard from her.”

  “What are you planning to do, Dane? Give her a one-way ticket to hide out before you call the police?”

  Dane watched his pilot deplane and stride toward them. “I know what I’m doing, Ava.”

  “You’re just going to give her enough warning to skip town,” Ava said. “If she hasn’t already.”

  He wouldn’t admit that the same thought had occurred to him.

  At his lack of response, she flipped her hair over her shoulder, a sure sign of an impending temper flare-up, but Captain Galbraith reached them before she could blow. They exchanged greetings, got the luggage stored, and took seats. They were the only passengers on the six-seater, a purely functional plane that Dane and his staff used to hop islands and change ships.

  Ava shouted over the noise of the engine, apparently not ready to give up her argument. “I just don’t understand why you want to protect her.”

  With his most menacing frown, he pointed to the cockpit, reminding her of the pilot’s presence. “I only know one way to shut you up, Miss Ava Santori. Shall I employ it?”

  She buckled her seat belt and crossed her arms, seething with unspoken thoughts. After they took off, she studied the scenery below. Dozens of dark emerald islands dropped like jewels into liquid sapphire settings, each wrapped in palm-fringed beaches of white sand and azure water. Jagged mountain peaks broke through low hanging mist, giving an unreal aura to the vista.

  Feeling Dane’s stare, she turned to him. His mesmerizing aquamarine eyes offered no hint to what he was thinking. He simply watched her. Sometimes, she imagined he could read her mind.

  “We’re coming to St. Barts,” he said, his gaze still on her. He reached over and ran a light finger over her white knuckles. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded and turned back to the window. Dane’s gentleness got to her more than anything.

  The single engine changed speed, and she felt the plane drop gradually, then quickly. They practically kissed the peak of a mountain and then flew so close to the tree line that the palm fronds bent in response. The landing strip appeared from nowhere at the base of the mountain and ended, abruptly, at the edge of the sea. She closed her eyes and felt her stomach dip as they descended. With a jolt, they touched the runway with a deafening screech. Like every other plane that landed in St. Barts, they came to a stop within a few hundred yards of the water.

  She exhaled with relief when the engine quieted down.

  “You either like that drop or hate it,” he said as they unhooked their seat belts.

  “I hate it. I hate feeling like I’ve lost control.”

  “No, you don’t.” He shot her a sly grin. “You love it.”

  Her stomach repeated the sensation of descent. With ease, he released the door and dropped the metal stairs, and in a few moments, they gathered their luggage and walked the short distance to the tiny terminal.

  Then Ava saw the pack of people, hustling toward them with purpose. A handheld television camera with the NBC logo at the center of the group brought her to a standstill.

  “Holy hell,” Dane muttered. “Is this your friend Boyd’s doing?”

  A man holding a microphone signaled to the cameraman, and they ran toward Dane and Ava. “Mr. Erikson! Mr. Erikson!”

  Ava’s heart thumped as she grabbed Dane’s arm, steadying herself against the urge to run back to the plane.

  Dane held up his hand and continued at his same deliberate pace. “I’m not doing an interview,” he said firmly.

  “But do you have any theories, sir? Do you think it was a hit-and-run?”

  Dane stopped midstep. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The accident, sir. Miss Giles. Your executive VP.”

  Dane took off his sunglasses and stared at the man.

  “Haven’t you heard? She was struck by a car, Mr. Erikson. She was jogging near Morne Rouge late last night.”

  His face blanched. “Is she…what condition is she in?”

  The reporter’s arms fell to his sides, the bite gone from his attack. “She’s dead.”

  12

  A va longed to be alone. More than that, she longed to be with Dane. But neither was possible.

  He’d left her at his home, after a whirlwind trip in a Jeep with a fifty-ish woman named Claire at the wheel. Around the hairpin turns, he alternately barked orders and suddenly went silent, closing his eyes and wincing like someone had punched him in the stomach. Then he’d focus on the road ahead and throw more instructions at Claire. Call all the ships into port, notify employees, and dear God, had someone called Nat and Elizabeth Giles? Then he squeezed his eyes again with a quiet grunt as the invisible blow landed.

  He told Claire to get Ava to his house, drive him to the constable’s office in Gustavia, and then round up some people for various tasks he enumerated like a computer. For a man who liked to think things through, he sure acted with an admirable amount of purpose.

  Claire had virtually no details on the accident, as she called it. Genevieve’s body had been found by a tourist early that morning, crumpled in roadside shrubbery not too far from Dane’s house.

  “What the hell was NBC doing at the airport?” Dane asked.

  “They’ve been poking around the offices for a day or two, working on some stupid story that lawyer put them onto. As soon as word about Genevieve hit, it flew like fire. They literally followed me to the airport.” Claire had looked at him regretfully. “I’m so sorry, Dane. I didn’t want to radio the plane. I wanted to tell you in person.”

  He put his hand on her arm. “I know, Claire.”

  Evidently Genevieve was a runner who had often been seen jogging along the dangerous, narrow roads at night. She could have easily been hit by one of the many drivers unfamiliar with the treacherous, narrow roads of St. Barts.

  But Ava knew better. And she was certain Dane did too. She sat quietly in the backseat with one thought pounding in her head.

  They are killers. Whoever they are, whatever they sell and wherever they do it, they kill.

  She closed her eyes, and images of Angelo Ferrisi dead on Salem Street flashed in her brain. She tried to concentrate on what Dane was saying, but she could only hear Genevieve’s strangled sound of pain in Valhalla’s dining room the day she overheard her conversation.

  They are killers.

  Before she got to talk privately to Dane, he’d ensconced her behind the palace walls and left. She stood on the veranda, looking at the mountains of St. Martin against the horizon and listening to the house noises. People spoke in hushed tones, the phone rang over and over again, the front door opened and closed. More Utopians.

  Marj had been put in charge of her, she could tell. The woman continually ambled over, put her arm around Ava, and asked her what she needed.

  “I need to cook,” Ava announced. If she couldn’t be alone with her thoughts and she couldn’t corner Dane to demand answers he didn’t have anyway, Ava
knew only one escape.

  “Well, darlin’, you do just dat. Come to da kitchen, sweets. Dere’s lotsa folks comin’ and goin’ and we should feed dem.”

  Dane’s kitchen was glorious. Built for entertaining, with top-of-the-line appliances and utensils. Ava dug around the walk-in pantry, then spent a few minutes perusing the oversize Sub-Zero refrigerator for ingredients. Marj sent her nephew to the market while Ava busied herself with prep for several dishes. A few more unexpected guests arrived, and Ava realized they would be gathering here all day. It didn’t matter that he had left. They were simply drawn to his home for support and shelter in their storm.

  She found a box of semolina and silently blessed whoever bought such a lovely ingredient, then quickly began boiling the water to mix it into gnocchi alla romano. The perfect comfort food. As she listened to the hushed tones of French, British, and other less recognizable accents around her, something felt oddly familiar.

  It certainly wasn’t the Italian kitchen of her childhood. The voices weren’t as loud or insistent as those of the aunts and uncles and cousins she loved. And the faces surrounding her came in every imaginable skin color. But it felt exactly like home. A gathering of clan, brought together in consolation or celebration. From baptisms to funerals and every sacrament and holiday in between.

  Ava added a dash of salt and oil to the water and smiled for the first time in hours. Dane Erikson had created a family all his own. She suspected he didn’t even realize that in the process, he’d become the classic patriarch.

  No one around her seemed to suspect foul play in Genevieve’s death. Accusations were made against an unknown hit-and-run driver, probably a tourist, lost or drunk. They blamed Genevieve herself for foolishly running at night. No one gave any indication that she might have been bumped off for knowing too much about the drug trafficking that was going on under their noses. And no one, she noticed, mentioned the lawsuit.

  As she glanced up from the cooktop at the people around her, she wondered what they thought about her being there. Had rumors about Dane and her already spread?

  “What is de matter, Miss Ava? Do you need something?”

  “What have you heard from Grayson Boyd over the last few days, Marj?”

  Marj shook her head. “Dere are only tree or four of de families dat want any part of de lawsuit, Miss Ava. Not too many folks want dat blood money.”

  “The settlements are fair and generous, aren’t they?”

  Marj nodded. “Oh, yeah. Mister Dane, he take care of all of us.”

  Ava slammed a wooden spoon on the granite counter. “I want to call Grayson Boyd right now. I want no part of his lawsuit. Can I use a phone somewhere?”

  “Come with me to Mister Dane’s study, Miss Ava. He won’t mind you being in dere for dat call.”

  When Marj left her and closed the door, Ava couldn’t resist wrapping herself in the aura of Dane that lingered in his private surroundings. Sitting at his massive desk, she traced its polished rosewood edge and gently caressed the leather armrest of his chair. She imagined him working here, doing his planning and strategizing. Thinking…of her.

  Ah, what a gibroni, her grandmother would say. What a fool.

  She picked up the phone and struggled with a French operator to get connected to Grayson Boyd’s hotel in town, studying the comfortable, masculine room.

  A slow southern drawl interrupted her reverie. “Well, well, Ava, my dear. Where have you been?”

  He knew damn well where she’d been.

  “I don’t believe Utopia or Dane Erikson was responsible for the loss of Paradisio.’’ Her heart knocked with each word. “I’ve talked to the families of the victims and visited their homes. The company’s offering a fair settlement, and I will not participate in the lawsuit or any action that will further this situation.”

  “Uh-huh. I heard you two were gettin’ real cozy. He’s quite the ladies’ man, I imagine.”

  She squeezed the receiver. “Mr. Erikson convinced me of his innocence, and the victims’ families have confirmed that he’s shown every indication of responsibly caring for them.”

  “So he screwed you right into submission.”

  “I have no further business with you.” With shaking hands, she hung up the phone.

  It’s what everyone would think. Dane had seduced Marco’s sister to convince her to drop the lawsuit. Why else? What else would he see in her? And she, like every other woman he’d targeted, had fallen for it. Face the truth, Santori. If it hadn’t been for some knife-wielding maniac on that ship, Grayson Boyd would be completely correct.

  A hard lump formed in her throat. Maybe the lawsuit was the reason he was so attentive. She laughed bitterly at what a cliché she’d nearly become.

  She pushed herself away from his desk and swallowed the ache in her throat. She’d better get back to the kitchen before the semolina boiled over.

  They were idiots. Lazy French idiots wrapped up in their tiny ministration of justice for crimes no worse than the occasional tourist mugging. Dane patiently told his story to the official gatekeepers, two local policemen. They listened politely and explained that they believed a drunken tourist had killed Genevieve. An impaired driver could have veered around that tight corner and crashed right into the bushes, not even realizing they’d hit someone. Disgusted with them, Dane finally forced his way into the airless office of Georges DeLuque. St. Barts’ constable had a condescending attitude and an air of self-importance that far exceeded his meager amount of power. He also weighed about three hundred pounds and struggled with every movement and breath.

  In his position, he explained to Dane, he supervised a security force of six policemen and thirteen gendarmes who were sent from France on a two-year tour of duty.

  “You see that we do not have an army of law enforcement at our disposal, Monsieur Erikson. This type of investigation will take some time. I will demand it is done properly.” DeLuque leaned his girth forward and smiled. “You must understand that.”

  He needed to go over this fool’s head, but nothing was more convoluted than St. Barts’ government. The island laws were administered through some half-assed tribunal called a subprefecture on St. Martin, and that rolled up into the government of Guadeloupe, which in turn was run as an overseas department of France. The constable and his band of merry men all answered to the mayor of St. Barts, who was conveniently unavailable.

  Dane pleaded his case succinctly, in French. He had reason to believe his ships were involved in transshipments of illegal substances. He suspected Genevieve’s death was somehow connected, and he needed the proper drug enforcement authorities to handle an immediate investigation.

  “We are blessed to be in a pristine enclave here on St. Barts. Drugs are not a problem,” the indolent French bureaucrat insisted.

  Dane wanted to kick the desk that separated them. Oh, it was true enough. The enormous sums of money brought in by the world’s wealthiest travelers meant St. Barts had virtually none of the drug-related crimes and violence that plagued its poorer neighbors. Until now.

  “Was Ms. Giles an addict, perhaps?” the constable asked, as though he already knew the answer.

  Dane cut the fat man with a stare.

  “Then why do you think there are drugs involved, Monsieur Erikson?”

  “I have done some preliminary investigating. I believe my ships are being used to transport drugs. As a result, I’m ceasing all cruises.” He refused to tie Paradisio to this situation. Not until he had an audience with someone who had a brain.

  “Preliminary investigating?” DeLuque chuckled and leaned back, dangerously far, in his swivel chair. “It sounds exciting.”

  Dane ignored the sarcasm. He’d already explained this to two other morons and no one seemed to appreciate the impact of it. It represented too much goddamned work for them. “I recommend that you contact the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration—”

  DeLuque waved him off. “Non! Non! They are cowboys, wild animals with Uzis who raid an
d kill. Non.”

  “They are trying to stop drug trafficking in the Caribbean islands.” Dane leaned forward, controlling the urge to throttle the bureaucrat’s folded neck. He wouldn’t get anywhere by ticking this guy off.

  “We do not want the world to think we have a drug problem on St. Barts, Monsieur Erikson.”

  Ah, another motive for doing nothing.

  “At least one woman is dead. We do not want the world to think we have a murder problem on St. Barts,” Dane said. “Especially under your watch as constable.”

  DeLuque’s face reddened. “You have your own ‘murders’ to deal with, Mr. Erikson. I understand you are being held responsible for the tragic loss of your ship. This is a convenient distraction, is it not? An excellent way to redirect attention away from the charges being made against you.”

  He should have expected this. DeLuque was either lazy, scared, or already on some Colombian’s payroll. Dane rose slowly.

  “It would be much easier to expose the bribery and incompetence that seems to have taken over so many of the island law enforcement offices,” he said casually. “Perhaps you have very compelling reasons not to contact the DEA.”

  DeLuque lifted his bulk from his seat, straining from the effort. “We will handle an investigation, Monsieur Erikson. We will inspect your ships and interview your employees.”

  “And the investigation into Genevieve Giles’s death?”

  “We have alerted all of the car rental vendors to check for damage on returned vehicles. We are carefully examining the scene of the crime. We will interview anyone who may have seen anything.”

  “Are you searching her home, her office? Looking for clues to the names of contacts she might have within the drug underground?”

  DeLuque shook his head as he waddled around his desk and opened the door for Dane. “Don’t you worry about how we do our work, Monsieur. I will be in touch with you.”

  Dane balled his hands into frustrated fists. When he left the constable’s office, he found the SUV that Claire had arranged to leave for him. He stuck the key in the ignition and knew exactly where he had to go. He had no idea how he’d enter Genevieve’s house without a key but decided he’d figure it out when he got there. At her front door, he realized he’d have no problem entering. Whoever had been there before him conveniently left the door unlocked.