The Beachcombers: Prequel - Beachcomber Investigations Series

by Stephanie Queen

  Shana could have worn her modest one-piece swimsuit, but even as her hand hovered over the bright red garment and she remembered that the color didn’t flatter her, she reached for the gold. The white and gold bikini more than flattered her. She remembered trying it on and feeling a sensual flush as she gazed at herself in the mirror. That was when she vowed to save it for a special occasion.

  Whether or not she ought to consider a surfing date—practice for the competition with an audience of Dane Blaise and Jean Luc Ruse—a special occasion was entirely a judgment call on her part. That was what got her. Why should she think it was so special? Why and who was she trying to impress?

  No way would she examine that question too deeply now. But all the same, the unanswered question hadn’t stopped her from putting on the suit—and hadn’t stopped that same rush she felt with it on. Only maybe it was more this time. She felt like a queen walking out the door as she grabbed her board and, barefoot, stepped off the deck into the dewy grass and headed for the sand. She was ready to seduce Jean Luc as her job dictated. No more than that, she promised herself.

  Then she remembered she also needed to surf like the pro she’d once been—without getting herself killed.

  Of course the waves off the beach right outside this beach house weren’t competition class, but they’d do for starters. A shiver of anticipation struck her, leaving goose bumps on her skin even under the hazy heat of the early morning sun. It would be a scorcher. She ought to turn back and grab her cover-up in spite of the slathered sun block and the patch of white zinc that striped across the bridge of her nose and down to the tip.

  When she kept walking, she knew without a doubt the answer to the question she’d previously asked herself. She meant to impress Dane. She knew she’d impress Jean Luc with her surfing, and that was good since that’s what her mission was all about. She needed to turn him.

  But there was no need to turn Dane’s head. In fact, her need to impress him was so against everything it was forbidden. She’d need to keep a very tight lid on her emotions and on her attraction most of all to make sure she maintained at least the veneer of professionalism. A whisper through her mind said that she’d fool no one. She couldn’t even fool herself anymore and she was the biggest fool on the planet.

  Stopping when the sand turned from soft loose ash to wet and hard-packed, she dug in her toes as a small wave retreated, sucking the surf from under her feet. She looked up at the sun rising on the horizon and let the sight and sounds of the surf, the smells of the ocean calm her, make her feel at home. She lowered her board and slapped it down onto the shallow water. She meant to get at least one ride in before anyone saw her—anyone named Dane. No need for him to know it had been years since she’d done it. But just like a bicycle, she knew she could ride again today like she’d never stopped.

  “Isn’t there a rule about never surfing alone?” Dane’s voice boomed over the surf. There was no question in his tone, only the familiar irritation.

  She looked up as he strode closer across the hard, wet sand, carrying his board like it was made of airy Styrofoam. The impact of his bare tanned chest hit her once he got within splashing distance. Her body heated up from her core outward. The sun had nothing on her. Hopefully she didn’t radiate her arousal, at least not beyond the automatic smile. In spite of her dry mouth, she found her voice.

  “Nice suit, Blaise. If you want to be mistaken for a banana tree.” She nodded at his long shorts emblazoned with bold yellow bunches of bananas on a tropical lime green background. She’d have pegged him for a more basic khaki understated look. She could easily picture him in cutoff jeans, for that matter, like a throwback to the seventies, although she doubted even at his advanced age he was that old. But he had the ’tude, that hippie je ne sais quoi about him. Maybe it was more a devil-may-care mindset that went well with any era, sidestepping the pop-culture-du-jour.

  He scowled. “Seriously, girlie. You can’t come out here alone. Who knows what could happen.” He stopped within a foot of her and planted his board. She looked away from the flexing muscles of his arms and chest.

  “Seriously, surfer dude, the waves here are the equivalent of a bunny slope. I’d sooner hurt myself carrying my board through the sand.” She looked back at him and gave him a scoffing smile.

  “Who said anything about the waves?” He lowered his voice. “There’re a lot more dangerous things to be wary of following you here.”

  She darted a glance. She saw no one and frowned. She knew he meant he was the danger, but she wasn’t biting today. Too early. “Not at this hour, boogie boy. Let’s get in the water before your paranoia takes you over completely.”

  He laughed, then lifted his board and tossed on the water next to hers until it floated further, then gave it a shove with his foot as he hopped alongside, then stood. The water of an incoming wave lapped around him as he stood with his hands on his hips watching the water.

  Damn. He was probably a legendary surfer, too, with her luck.

  “By the way. Nice suit. Of course, it makes you an unmistakable target, but I understand you like taking risks.” He turned over his shoulder, still balancing in the mild surf of the shallow water.

  She watched him, still standing with her feet firmly planted in the sand under the knee-deep water. Of course he was talking about sexual danger. Duh. One-track mind. And she should not forget it. But it was time to change the subject.

  “You know some people might consider this cheating—a contestant surfing with one of the judges.”

  “Good. Maybe they’ll disqualify me and I can compete. I could use a couple million bucks.”

  She laughed and pushed her board out, jumped on, landed on her knees and paddled.

  He was great on the board. The quintessential California beachcomber. She paddled in to shore after they both caught and rode a half dozen small waves. The sun rose higher, glinting strong, so that she could feel her skin burning through the salt water and sun block.

  He ran past her carrying his board over his head and splashing through the water like a little kid in a race to not be the rotten egg. She looked up with a grin, ready to laugh at him until she saw Jean Luc standing there. It was time to work and she tensed so that she hadn’t even realized she’d been relaxed a minute before. It was too late to appreciate the ease she’d had in the surf with Dane and the waves.

  Jean Luc wore creamy silk drawstring pants that fluttered about his long slim legs in the ocean breeze. His loose white silk shirt was left unbuttoned to show his broad tanned chest with just enough muscle and dark chest hair to save him from being pegged as old. Middle-aged was bad enough. She realized this had to be the shady side of his career. In this business he’d have to find a new role. But then, maybe fronting for the moneymen was his new role. She wasn’t exactly sure what his involvement was, in spite of his stated position as the director of the competition. She knew—they all knew—for certain he wasn’t the moneyman. She’d had her bet on Ned being the watchdog for the behind-the-scenes big guys. The problem was figuring out who they were—and getting Susan Whittier back unscathed in the process.

  She left her board on the wet sand and strode up the slight hill in the soft sand, laboring each step. She slowed and tried to catch her breath.

  “Early in the morning for such a strenuous workout.” Jean Luc greeted her with a smile and an outstretched hand. He had two lounge chairs positioned under an umbrella and an assortment of coolers, baskets and a small beach table holding tall iced drinks.

  Dane stood dripping with his back to the sun and watching her, one hand on his upright surfboard and the other on his hip. If there weren’t lives at stake, she might feel like she was an extra on the set of a Beach Blanket Bingo movie remake and was trying to steal the heart of the leading man away.

  Or maybe she was the leading lady after all. The zap through her system ended between her thighs in a dizzying pool at the thought, and she turned from Dane to smile at Jean Luc.

  “Is
one of those drinks for me? I’m in training so I hope it’s water or Gatorade or something replenishing.”

  “Nothing but the most refreshing icy cold juice and protein drinks for you, Shana. I know it’s improper for me, being the man in charge, but you are already my favorite.”

  “Is that right? What does that get me exactly—I mean besides a cold drink?” She took the drink from him and sipped through the straw. She felt Dane’s eyes on her and wasn’t sure if he was thirsting for her drink or for her. She felt that tingle start again and clamped down. Hard.

  Jean Luc eyed Dane, then turned back to Shana. “Let’s talk more about business at my office—over lunch.”

  “Sounds promising.”

  “Watch out for any business deals with Mr. Ruse. After all, he does business with the likes of Ned.”

  Jean Luc frowned. “Would you like a drink, Dane?” Jean Luc turned and got a bottle from the cooler behind him, handing it to Dane without waiting for an answer.

  “That’s swell of you, Jean. Maybe I have you all wrong.”

  Jean Luc snorted good-naturedly and gestured Shana to have a seat.

  “Looks like you’ve set up camp here.” Dane stood over him, aware that the sun behind his head shone directly in the man’s eyes as he looked up from the chair. Hard to tell if he was paying attention behind his sunglasses.

  “I believe in keeping track of the talent in our events. You know very well this is a fabulous opportunity for maturing amateurs to take it to the next level.”

  “Or an opportunity for you and your backers to take advantage of a bunch of rich wannabe surfers, relieving them of a hefty entry fee.”

  Jean Luc laughed. “It’s a business. We intend to make a profit and provide some excitement while we’re at it.” He turned to Shana. “If you wear that bathing suit for the competition, ma cherie, there will be much excitement.”

  She raised her brows and took a long sip of her drink as she lounged.

  “Like I said, it’s been swell.” Dane jutted a chin toward Shana. “You ready for some practice on some real waves this afternoon?”

  That got her attention. The spark in her eyes and the way she leaned forward, exposing the shiny sea salt-sparkled twin orbs of her perfect breasts caused more than a spark in him. He adjusted his stance, but there was no comfort to be had in her presence.

  “I’m in. Will you pick me up—say around two?”

  “Wear something that will stand some wear and tear.” He eyed her and her damned perfect body with the broad muscled shoulders, shapely arms and… the rest of her golden tan skin right down her rib cage to her belly button and down her long, long legs. Damn. He turned before he lost his ability to walk away with any dignity at all.

  Goddamn if he didn’t hear Jean Luc chuckling under his breath.

  Chapter 14

  Dane walked back to his car and headed to his house. It was more like a shack, but he felt a bond to every square inch of the weathered wood, the shabby furnishings and especially the secret basement arsenal filled with the arms he’d collected over the years.

  So when he saw a man in shades and a hat and an unlikely suit jacket parked nearby and pulling out into traffic a few cars behind him, he went on alert. His hinky sensors told him it was his old pal Ned. Since the fireplug disguised as a thug was going to all the trouble to befriend him, Dane decided to let Mr. Ned follow him all the way home. It would be interesting to see what the tough guy did next.

  After Dane pulled into the crushed gravel drive of his small driftwood-colored shingled shack, Ned parked at the corner only three shacks down where Dane could plainly see him. He got out of his car and stifled the urge to wave at the man as the tightly sprung wooden screen door slammed behind him.

  Walking past the small peninsula of cabinets he used as a bar, Dane moved to the surveillance monitor mounted below the cabinet. He reached out and snapped it on. The gray visual came to life showing six different boxes with scenes from the perimeter of his little shack.

  Ned was sneaking around the far wall opposite from the door where Dane entered. Guess the guy figured he could get in a back window or maybe he was snooping around only to check him out. Time to put an end to the game before the fool’s luck landed him somewhere important. Dane quietly stepped back outside, but not before he pulled open a kitchen drawer and snagged his favorite nine millimeter Glock. Once outside, he came around back and snuck up behind Ned and shoved his gun in the man’s generous gut.

  Ned grunted first, then raised his hands and laughed.

  “Odd sense of humor. But then I should expect that since you’re an odd little man.”

  “You undercover?” Ned asked over his shoulder without turning around.

  Dane scoffed. “Undercover what? Who am I working for? Who are you?”

  Ned shrugged.

  “You must be undercover. Shana George is way out of your league. She’d never look at you unless you were a cop or you were made of money.” He tapped the side of the house and added, “You’re clearly not made of money.”

  “You forgot that one other thing women are fond of about men. Or maybe you’re a eunuch and wouldn’t understand.”

  “A what?” Ned turned sideways to face him now, his face in a real frown, like the stupid kid in junior high who knows he’s been insulted but doesn’t understand how.

  Dane laughed and nudged him with the gun. “Let’s go sit on my patio and have a chat.” They walked out back to where a small slab of cement gave way to a quick grassy area and then sand down to the ocean. Seagulls squawked overhead as he shoved Ned into one of the two metal chairs that sat opposite a round metal table. He held his gun on the man’s balls under the glass table top. Not that Ned had much to lose.

  “You can see where my gun is aimed, right?”

  Ned smiled one of those toothpaste commercial smiles, but a bead of sweat slid down his right temple. He was left-handed and somewhat nervous, as he should be. Although he may have just been hot.

  “Take your jacket off.”

  “Let’s not play games. You know why I’m here,” Ned said without moving.

  “Let’s not play games. Tell me why you’re here.”

  Ned chuckled, but it was not the chuckle of confidence like he’d had before.

  “Wrong answer.” Dane shot his gun at the cement next to the man’s foot, chipping a nice chunk that caused a few pieces to fly at the man. Ned jumped with the quickness of a bullfrog receiving an electric shock. He swiped at his neck where a piece of cement hit him and caused a dribble of blood.

  “Shit. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Neither do you.”

  That made him shut up. But Dane wanted him to talk.

  “Why are you here? And if you don’t like that question, then how about answering this one—what’s your business with Jean Luc?”

  “We’re both involved in the American Invitational Surfing Competition. I handle the finances.” He licked his lips.

  “Since when do CPAs sneak around beach houses and go dancing with bodyguards?”

  “Since when do surf bums hang out with heiresses?”

  “Do you need to be reminded who’s holding the gun again, Ned?”

  “Go ahead. Have your fun now. You aren’t going to shoot me. And when we meet again, the tables will be turned.”

  Dane had an urge to at least give the man a limp, but he satisfied himself with lifting the table and pushing it on top of him so that he fell backwards under it. He’d have a few bruises anyway.

  “Jesus H. Christ. What the hell?” Ned sputtered from the ground and rolled out of his chair and out from under the table.

  “Guess I wasn’t done having my fun.”

  Ned stood with some trouble and brushed himself off.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m undercover—like you said. What am I investigating? What are you up to, Ned?”

  “You’re a goddamn freak. A nut. You should be certified.” Ned stood
in front of him now.

  Dane decided this was a good time to raise his gun again. As a friendly reminder.

  “One more time, Ned.” He aimed his gun at the man’s balls, less than a foot away and rock steady.

  Ned licked his lips. “We got an angle. We’re collecting big entry fees with the promise of a big prize.”

  “A million smacks. Let me guess. No one wins.”

  “Oh, we have a winner. In the bag.”

  “A lot of trouble to go through for a couple of million minus some substantial operating costs.”

  Ned laughed. “Not much of a businessman, are you? But I’m not surprised. No imagination. We have lots of legitimate income that more than covers the cost.”

  “Does any of the action include kidnapping and ransom?” It was a bold move, but he was on a roll with Ned singing like the proverbial fat canary.

  Ned eyed him and faced him with a stiff spine. “I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Blaise. A one-time offer, which I suggest you take. The alternative would not be pleasant. By now you’ve deduced that I am more than your ordinary businessman. I have ties to some very, very good and exceedingly tough business associates who know how to get their way. Without fail. By any means. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Get to the point.” Dane still held the gun. This was getting interesting.

  “Jean Luc tells me you’ve been nominated to be a judge for the competition by the local commission we assembled—to ensure buy-in from the community. As judge, we would like you to consider earning a bonus.”

  “And let me guess. To earn the bonus, all I have to do is rig the scores the way you want them.”

  “Precisely.” Ned smiled. He put out his hand to shake Dane’s. Dane slipped his gun in the back of his pants and shook, holding his nose metaphorically.

  “One more thing. Shanna is off-limits for you. Romantically speaking. I believe the lady may have prospects with our own Jean Luc. I—and the people I represent—would prefer it that way. Surely you and your cock can find another willing female somewhere on the island.”

  “We’ll see. But as the saying goes, you don’t own me.”