He read the sign where a newly printed tag indicated “Surf America Competition,” a lofty name for a third-rate amateur competition on Martha’s Vineyard. He’d made a few calls and no one in the business had ever heard of it. As near as Dane could tell, they were recruiting wannabe amateurs with no talent and lots of money. Their heiress had been one of them to pay up the ten large for the entry fee, according to her parents. They knew nothing more about it. Nothing about the organizers.
But the large posters all over the island bragged of the million dollars in prize money and generated lots of buzz among the locals and vacationers—who knew nothing of surfing competitions and were excited to get a taste of the glam-cool sport. There were lots of hip street vendors out and about selling souvenir surfboards and T-shirts already and the competition was still a week away. If the weather held out. There was a rain date. Unheard of in the real world of surfing competitions. But no one here seemed to know or care.
Dane turned left and went up some wood stairs to the office occupying the entire second floor. A good test of his knee. It didn’t pain him and he thought with more determination of surfing again. When he emerged from the stairwell, he was surprised. The sleek sophistication of the dark polished floors, the stark white textured walls and the cube furnishings in metals and brights bore no resemblance to the Victorian style of the house. He walked through the reception area to the lone desk topped by a state-of-the-art communications and computer system and attended by a lovely middle-aged woman who bore no resemblance to Annette Funicello or anyone else from Beach Blanket Bingo or any other surfing scene. There were numerous psychedelically decorated surfboards adorning the wall by way of artwork and framed posters like those around town advertising the event. Otherwise, this could have been any hip business office and he’d have pegged it for the kind of digs upstairs from an art gallery.
“Can I help you?” The not-so-young lady asked. Dane couldn’t stop his smile at the canned words and the sudden feeling he was in a scene from a film noir about a seedy detective.
“I’m here to see the director. I have my nomination papers to judge the competition.”
Her smile warmed and she popped up from her chair with the verve of a younger woman. “Right this way.” She took the papers from his hand, glanced at his name and looked up with her wattage on dangerously high levels. “We’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Blaise.”
That didn’t bode well, but he followed her to the door and went in while she closed it behind him. The room looked like a combination of Dr. Seuss-like crazy angles and the inside of a Dali painting, with one wall converted to windows and the rest of them stark white and peppered with more surfboards as artwork. At the center of the surprisingly large room, where the ceiling was at its highest, sat a sleek black desk with next to nothing on it save a blotter, a clock and a pen. Not a computer in sight. Its occupant was absent although Dane didn’t know where they could be since this room seemed to take up most of the floor. Then a door opened and in walked his host.
Dane hid his surprise as he always did when he needed to, but the last person he expected to see was Jean Luc Ruse. He didn’t figure the guy to be a behind-the-desk type.
“Welcome, Mr. Blaise, please have a seat. I apologize if I didn’t mention in our earlier meeting that I was the director of the Surfing America Invitational Competition. I hadn’t realized you would become involved, but I’m glad you are. We can get to know each other better.”
“I didn’t know you surfed.”
“I could say the same about you.”
“I grew up in California.”
“Ah. I grew up in the south of France. A beautiful blue sea, not so much with the waves. We had other sun-and-fun activities there…”
Dane took a seat and Jean Luc sat behind his desk. There were no power games evident in his manner, no advantageous seating or big award statues or plaques to intimidate a guest.
“So I trust my paperwork passes muster. Anything else you need from me? I assume you have some instructions, score sheets and what-not to give me.”
“No, nothing of the kind. That’s all done on computer these days. We have a college intern in our office down in Oak Bluffs handling all the back end details.”
“How lucky for you.”
“No luck. A well-run organization. One I’m proud of.”
“Speaking of the organization… Exactly what surfing organization are you affiliated with? I didn’t see that in any of the paperwork.”
“We are independent. The first of our kind. We’re blazing new trails.”
“Is that right? Who’s funding the operation? Who do you work for, Jean Luc? I’m sure a surfing competition was not your brainchild, having grown up in the south of France where the waves are too small and all.”
He raised a brow.
“Would you like a drink?” He didn’t wait for an answer and picked up his phone to order two iced teas. “I have a special recipe to make them especially refreshing. You’ll like it.” He picked up Dane’s paperwork and looked at it for about three seconds before picking up the pen and dashing off his signature.
Dane noted he was left-handed.
The door slashed open and Shana strolled in—or rather her hat floated in with her under it. The wide white picture hat sported black and red plumage, probably fake. Or at least Dane hoped to hell it was fake. Her black-and-white dress featured a fitted bodice with an enticing scoop neck and a flared skirt that outdid the hat for girth-busting daywear dimensions.
She stopped short as if she were a mime hitting an invisible wall the instant she saw Jean Luc look up from his desk. He dropped his pen and stood, lighting up with what Dane would swear was pride. Coming from behind his desk, Jean Luc walked forward with a hand outstretched as if Shana were pulling him along an invisible thread toward her. Dane may as well have dropped through a trap door in the floor a la James Bond. He felt his un-presence.
“You—what are you doing here?” Shana said.
Dane hoped she didn’t overact the part and gave her a look from his invisible space. Did he suddenly think he had telepathic powers? To be more effective, he spoke up.
“I was surprised myself.”
She turned as if seeing him for the first time. “And you—what are you doing here? Visiting with an old friend? Having a nice joke at my expense?”
“No, no, ma belle. Come and sit. Have some tea with us. We were just discussing Dane’s role in the American Invitational Surfing Competition. I’m the director of the competition. He will be a judge this year since he insists he’s past his surfing prime.”
“I think it’s your prime-gone-by we were discussing, but never mind,” Dane said and turned back to Shana. “Don’t tell me you’re really going to compete?”
“Of course.” She spread her arms and beamed a supermodel-worthy smile between the two men.
Dane would like to say he was immune to her spellbinding feminine wiles, but he didn’t want to start fooling himself over a woman at this late stage. If he admitted to himself he was vulnerable then maybe he could guard against it. But wasn’t that what he’d been doing all along? And wasn’t the steel wall of caustic charm turning out to be counterproductive?
Hell of a mess. But at least Shana had Jean Luc mesmerized. Or so he portrayed. He was a con. He always acted mesmerized by beautiful and not-so-beautiful women alike. That was his specialty.
“I’m pleased beyond words, ma cherie.” Jean Luc swept Shana over to a cushy chair and proceeded to pour her his special iced tea after it was brought in by his pleasant receptionist. Maybe Dane ought to check it for poison first.
The thought made him smile and he figured he should quit channeling James Bond movies. Jean Luc was no Doctor No and he was no James Bond. Although he had to admit, Shana most definitely was Bond girl material. She sat with athletic grace in spite of the voluminous skirt surrounding her long legs down to just above her knees. If you didn’t stand too close to her, she seemed female-sized instead o
f having the Amazonian proportions that she did. Must be off-putting for some men. But not for real men like him. And Jean Luc. And Captain Lynch. And any man who was a real man.
He let his frown show because it suited the moment anyhow.
Jean Luc handed her the tea with a flourish and a bow and waited with a smile for her to take a sip and approve it. Which she did.
“I have my check and my registration papers and came here hoping it wasn’t too late. I know you have an opening since my friend Susan has… bowed out.”
“She’s disappeared without a trace, you mean?” Dane said.
“Your participation is most welcome, Shana. I would never turn you down. I can tell from the way you move that you are an exceptional athlete and I look forward to watching you surf. We have practice trials coming up soon.”
“Wonderful. This tea is delicious. What do you put in it to give it that distinctive flavor? I can’t place it.”
“Arsenic,” Dane said.
Jean Luc laughed. Shana pursed her lips. Dane shrugged.
“It’s a family secret. Recipe handed down for generations and protected by a sworn oath to keep it from outsiders,” Jean Luc said. Then he gave her his lazy conspiratorial smile to draw her in as if she were his closest confidant and said, “If I told you, I’d have to marry you.”
Dane guffawed. Shana laughed full out.
Jean Luc sat looking satisfied. Dane hoped it was the man’s satisfaction with him and Shana as his accomplices for his latest con. Or someone’s latest con. They needed to get in close with Jean Luc and whoever else he was working with.
Dane knew if he found out who was behind it he’d find the heiress—hopefully alive. He’d probably find big money and lots of other things too—probably some he’d rather not run into. Especially not on semi-vacation on this beachcomber surfing mission that wasn’t supposed to be taxing. Except for Susan Whittier.
Dane knew he’d be taxed. There was no question now. Jean Luc was in charge in name only, fronting for someone he didn’t like. Someone far more dangerous than himself. There was a wrinkle of anxiety underneath the man’s satisfaction. Jean Luc was out of his league.
His cohorts were in Dane’s league. That was not good. Dane played in a very tough league.
Chapter 8
Shana didn’t know if she was more nervous or angry with herself for being nervous. Even when she was a teenager she didn’t get like this, never tried to impress boys. They’d always been automatically impressed by her. Or she didn’t care.
The question popped into her head as she stepped in front of the mirror one last time—why the hell did she care what Dane thought of her? Of course she wanted his professional respect, but she felt she’d made an impression after the coffee shop. And the meeting with Jean Luc at the surfing competition office went well too. But the chill along her skin and the twitching of her nerve endings right now had nothing to do with impressing him professionally.
Closing her eyes against the shimmering image of herself in the strapless aquamarine silk sheath that showed off every physical attribute she had—including her long legs with the matching strappy heels, she turned on those heels, grabbed her small purse filled to the brim with a gun and cell phone and not much else, and marched toward the front door to wait. She ignored the low whistle from Chauncey, only smiling and taking surreptitious deep breaths to settle the twitching. She felt like someone was shooting her with little electrical shocks at rapid fire from a mini stun gun.
Dane pulled up into her driveway in the purplish twilight with the headlights glowing from the shiny Jag. She swore under her breath at the leap in her chest, as if a frog had escaped from deep inside her. If the leaping frog was a euphemism for her dormant sexual desire—dormant ever since she’d begun her law enforcement career odyssey—then it had most definitely escaped. Damn leaping frog picked a fine time to come to life. With this man of all men? The most patronizing cowboy beachcomber son of a brick she’d ever met.
He watched her shove the door open and stride down the walk, determined as all hell to carry on businesslike. But in that getup and especially with those heels, he could think of only one business she was suited for. It was not law enforcement. He stayed in his seat even though his impulse was to jump from the car and open her door. No need to further instigate her. Not now. Maybe later though.
She opened her door and inserted one long leg, strappy sandal first, then slid in.
“What are you smiling at?” She frowned.
He turned his attention from her and welcomed Chauncey, who slid into the back seat.
“Gorgeous night for a riding in a convertible,” Chauncey said.
“Is everything a go?” he asked, eyeing Chauncey in the rearview.
Chauncey nodded.
“Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you for asking,” Shana spoke sharply.
He turned to her.
“You look ready to charm.”
That quelled her. Then she took a deep breath and spoke. “I’ve been giving their MO and the current setup some thought and I think we have to consider the possibility that they may use drugs tonight.” She paused, but he didn’t interrupt her so she continued with her theory.
“I think they may infiltrate while we’re in the house, presumably while we’re asleep—in a drug-induced sleep. Jean Luc will want to deflect suspicion from himself. Especially now with the missing heiress a hot issue. He’s sticking around for something big since he’s taking a big risk, so we need to assume it has something to do with the area, the Whittiers’ house, or something else entirely. But he can’t send someone in while we’re at dinner with him or he could be suspected as a partner. Maybe he’ll send someone to do recon while we’re out at dinner, then come back late at night when all are asleep.” She paused and looked for his reaction.
He kept his mouth shut. Let her play it out before he popped her balloon.
“The drugs are insurance—to try to make sure we’re out for the night. To minimize complications. We should guard against the drugs, but without being obvious—make them think we got whatever dose we were supposed to get.” She finished with another deep breath.
“Very interesting theory, Shana,” Chauncey said with a nod of approval. “Are you sure you’ve never been a burglar yourself?” he quipped.
Shana laughed. Dane felt her eyes turn to him and hold.
“Doubt the surfing competition is a cover for burglary. Too big an expense. There’ve been no police reports or insurance claims filed since Jean Luc appeared in the area. Doesn’t explain the missing heiress and lack of ransom.”
“He’s not noted for kidnapping. It’s not his style. Maybe the fact that she’s missing is coincidental. Maybe her phone call was genuine,” Chauncey spoke up.
“Doubt it.” Dane turned to Shana as he pulled the car up to the valet. “I think her disappearance has something to do with the shady surfing competition. It’s a scam of some kind for sure. Don’t know what the deal is yet. What do you think?”
“Of course. You have all the answers.” Shana’s nostrils flared. He squelched his fascination with the look, with her flustered anger.
The valet came around and took his keys, but before he got out of the car he leaned over and whispered in her ear, breathing in her scent. “Was Susan Whittier kidnapped or is she on a trip legitimately?”
Shana turned to whisper back in his ear and said, “I think she’s dead.”
He hid the resonance that vibrated through him. Maybe Shana wasn’t a total novice. Taking her chin in one hand, he pulled her face toward his. When her shocked green eyes were on him, he drilled her with a cold stare and lowered his lips to touch hers, carefully as if to avoid a static charge. But no amount of caution could have prevented the stunning jolt to his system when the flesh of his lips touched her moist pouty mouth.
He quickly backed away and said in a last murmur in her ear, “Keep that to yourself for now, Ms. George. We could be wrong.”
Chapter 9
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nbsp; Their table was waiting. It was a good thing because Shana needed to sit. Her legs shook. She wondered if it was appropriate to have a drink, given their undercover status, but hell, she needed one if she was going to make it through the meal.
It was not that she was worried about Jean Luc or carrying off her rich beach bunny surfer role. It was him. That damn man. Dane Stinking Blaise. The ridiculously legendary nuclear bomb to her nervous system.
He followed closely behind her and she followed Chauncey to their table in a semiprivate nook. Jean Luc stood.
“Remember—we’re together,” Dane whispered closely behind her.
She stumbled a fraction and recovered before anyone noticed. Except Dane, who took her arm and began his role as her love interest in earnest.
Jean Luc beamed at them so that she’d swear he was the happiest man on the planet if she didn’t know he was as fake as a twenty-three-dollar bill. Introductions were made to Chauncey. She sat squeezed in next to Dane and across from Jean Luc at the small four-person table. Shana took up her menu and she clenched her jaw to stop it from dropping.
“Don’t worry about the prices, my dear guests. This is a special night for me where I get to make new friends.” Jean Luc chuckled and leaned back in his seat with a wave in the waiter’s direction. Shana gave him her stock haughty look and hoped he hadn’t seen through her. She was going to need to bolster her spoiled heiress persona if she was going to get through the night without giving herself away, let alone the sting mission.
The waiter appeared at their table and Shana figured that was the first time she’d ever seen a waiter respond to that move in real life. Jean Luc must be a regular. A big-tipping regular. He had a well-financed operation just as their intel had reported.
The Beachcombers: Prequel - Beachcomber Investigations Series Page 6
