Beachcomber Trouble

by Stephanie Queen

  “Sometimes you’re a nut for melodrama, you know that?”

  “I know everything.” He gave her that smartass cagey grin with his dimple nearly hidden by the beard stubble. She felt her gut soften and her chest tighten. Then she threw her hands on her hips in her Wonder Woman pose to power up her resolve against him. He was no good for her.

  She took a moment to force herself to remember the two women she knew about from his past. One he deserted and the one who deserted him. He’d learned nothing from either experience. Neither was a recommendation for her to jump into their affair with both feet. Both were warnings to stand clear of the pool entirely and stop dipping her toes in before she was bitten by the Dane-shark and drowned, flailing hopelessly and losing her lifeblood.

  Now who was being melodramatic?

  At least she had the good sense not to share her crazy thoughts.

  He sighed and his grin faded.

  “Stop obsessing over our romance, girlie.”

  Her heart nearly stopped a beat while she processed the evidence that he was an actual mind reader. Planting her hands more firmly on her hips and widening her stance, she jutted her chin high and even stuck her chest out further than it should in good conscious go.

  “Get a reign on your ego, lover boy.”

  He laughed softly and stepped into her, wrapping an arm around her waist and forcing her to collapse against him. He whispered in her ear, “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

  She shoved him off her and walked through the slow traffic to the other side of the broad street toward the building he’d pointed out. Before she got there, she noticed the man with the ball cap and the cell phone leaning against the building in the shadow. Floyd Parker. She had to assume he’d been watching. She wasn’t sure, but she had a feeling that was not a good thing.

  Dane caught up to her and they hit the curb together. Before she said a thing, Dane said, “Floyd sighting at ten o’clock.”

  “You’re so last century. No one uses clocks anymore.”

  “Okay—Floyd is waiting for us against the wall.”

  “I knew that.” She kept moving.

  The only thing he hated more than worrying about whether Shana was alive or dead while some thugs had kidnapped her and dragged her to the other side of the equator was when she made a point to point out how out-of-date he was—how old he was. How much older than her he was.

  Lucky for him, Floyd Parker was a handy receptacle for the fallout of his now pissed-off mood. There was no need to play it cool with Floyd any longer. He needed to get Floyd to follow them back to the States.

  Floyd stashed his phone in his shirt pocket and looked up at them when they were still several yards away. He gave them a slight nod and went inside the glass doors of the building. They followed him to an elevator and Dane’s antennae—another old-school reference he was sure Shana would call him out on—buzzed because being trapped in an elevator with a desperately dangerous man was almost always a bad thing. Dane only remembered one time when it worked out okay.

  The doors closed behind him and the one good thing about the closed quarters was that Shana gave up her power pose and stood close. She didn’t squirm when he wrapped an arm around her and stood so that he shielded her from said danger. Floyd took off his ball cap, took a hanky from his pants pocket and wiped sweat from his brow.

  “I’ll never get used to the humidity down here,” Floyd said.

  “How long have you been here?”

  Floyd laughed. He didn’t bother answering Dane’s not-so-clever attempt at getting info from him. There was no such thing as casual conversation with Floyd Parker, no matter how much he made it seem that way.

  Dane remained silent and when the elevator doors opened, he followed Floyd down the tiled hallway, keeping Shana behind him. They stopped three feet short of the door on the right where Floyd stopped. He waved a card in the vicinity of the door handle. No lock and key, not even any swiping needed. Dane was starting to hate technological progress. But then he remembered the gadgets Acer had given him and decided to smile.

  “This is your new safe house, if you decide to come to your senses,” Floyd said as he entered the room, whose temperature was cool and perfect in spite of the bright sunlight and high ceilings. It was ultra modern with marble tile, white furnishings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and an open kitchen dining and living area that had to be a thousand square feet. As big as Dane’s entire beach shack—and a waste of space, in his opinion. It lacked charm, but Dane could get along anywhere.

  Shana whistled. She must have different taste in furnishings than he did. He made a mental note to buy a white sofa and throw rug for her when they got back to the Vineyard.

  “I’m very sensible, Floyd. That’s why I needed to check the place out before we bring our team in.”

  “Then you approve?”

  “I’m still checking it out.” Dane moved around the room, not expecting to be able to detect listening devices with his eyes, but he did have that gadget which would come in handy.

  “When are we expecting the call from the kidnappers?” Shana said.

  “All business.” Floyd shook his head. “Except with your guy Dane here, of course. Note the master suite with the jetted tub—”

  “Answer the question, Floyd,” Dane said on a sigh. The man’s pleasure at referring to his and Shana’s romantic status prickled him more than it should and he had to work not to let it get to him. He didn’t have to be cool with Floyd, but certain things were off-limits. Shana was off-limits. And apparently Shana had been targeted.

  Dane wasn’t sure who was targeting Shana, whether it was the Tavares family—or Floyd Parker.

  “The message I received said sunset. You have until then to move your people in, but be careful. I can’t guarantee they aren’t being watched.”

  Dane nodded, biting back a retort about Floyd’s guarantees or lack thereof.

  “Is there a secure line?”

  Floyd nodded and showed him to the wall of windows and a low table with an old-fashioned clunky dial phone in beige that definitely did not look like it belonged with the slick furnishings. It looked quaint, but Dane doubted it was a working secure line. He’d check out the wiring later. Acer had taught him a thing or two over the years. He knew what to look for.

  “I’ll leave you to regroup and get your people here. You might take the time to make arrangements to obtain ransom money. Plan on millions. I’ll be back later.”

  “Sunset? What time is that?”

  “Seven p.m. or so,” Floyd said. That was very imprecise for a man Dane knew to be the king of precision in planning—which is the only reason the CIA had allowed the otherwise miserable man to continue to work as a handler. This Dane knew from his past experience with Floyd.

  Dane nodded, while he surreptitiously checked out the kitchen. Shana did the same. He assumed they were being listened to and possibly watched.

  “See ya later,” Dane said. He let Floyd see himself out. Dane watched him go in the reflection of the large mirror on the main wall. Once he left, Dane took off his watch that was hardly a watch and looked for the correct small metal knob to turn. He knew he’d found it when the watch’s face changed to a dial showing a dark background and a green line that would shoot up if there were any listening devices within three feet. It made a light buzzing noise—probably for effect, knowing Acer.

  “What the heck is that?” Shana whispered. Dane had his finger against his lips to warn her. He took the occasion to close in and nuzzle her ear as he told her about the latest bug detectors Acer had given him.

  He moved around the room, pulling Shana with him, keeping her close. He whispered, “Any bet against finding at least two bugs?”

  “Not counting you?” she whispered back. She smiled, and then leaned in over his shoulder as he moved through the living room, his eyes on the watch face, and into the bedroom. He stopped at the threshold.

  “Very nice—if you like sleeping in a ballroom,”
he spoke out loud.

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Shana said. She watched over his arm as the watch face lit up.

  Dane moved them into the bathroom and turned on the shower and closed the door.

  “We’re not staying.” That got an eyebrow rise from her.

  “Do you expect me to guess where we’re going—more importantly why?”

  “Floyd has this place set up. Let’s pretend we think it’s Tavares who’s setting us up, find another place, and tell Floyd.”

  “So if we tell Floyd and they still find us, then we know he’s in with them.”

  “If not, we’ll work with Floyd.”

  “Where are we going to find another place?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  “I’d rather not—I’ve seen the shack you live in.” She smiled and he pulled her in.

  “Want to take a shower?” He was only half kidding. The room was steamy and Shana smelled like the goddess she was, sweet and spicy and round and gorgeous in her bright colored dress.

  She gave him a look. He was good at reading her looks. Unfortunately, this one said no.

  “Have it your way.” He pushed her away and toward the door.

  “Aren’t you going to shut off the shower?”

  “No. We’re leaving now.” He led her straight across the marble tiled floor, through the entry foyer to the door, and then halted for a look outside through the peephole. Nothing. He cracked the door, keeping her behind him. He felt her restlessness at his back. She wouldn’t stand for his protectiveness much longer.

  “Go turn on the TV,” he whispered. She went back into the room and did so while he ventured into the corridor. There was no activity. He waved his arm at her and she hurried up behind him as he moved down the hall, passing the elevator, and toward the exit stairwell.

  “What—”

  “We’re taking the stairs.” He knew he didn’t have to explain why. Pushing through the doors, he looked back at her and down at her feet, eyeing her heels.

  “Sorry for the inconvenience, girlie.” He was in too much of a hurry to laugh at the spark in her eyes. He grabbed the hand off her hip and pulled her along behind him as she attempted taking her shoes off. He slowed enough to allow her get barefoot and braced for the hand holding the shoes. Luckily, she didn’t hit him.

  They hit the street and the balmy air. Dane slid on his sunglasses and glanced in the direction of the pristine Ipanema beach, quelling a sudden urge to surf. Noting Shana’s glance that way, he took her hand and headed back to the scooter. It was still there.

  “Do you think anyone is following us?”

  “We’ll find out.” They jumped on the scooter and Dane took off along the beach.

  “Don’t we have to find a place? Don’t we need to get the others?” Shana leaned forward and shouted in his ear. Her lips were close. He felt the heat of her breath on his neck. Ignoring the goose bumps, he answered.

  “The others will meet us at the new place. I already texted them the address.”

  Shana pinched his side and he laughed.

  “Where the hell are you taking me, Dane?”

  “Let’s just say you should enjoy the views of Ipanema beach now. In a minute we’re heading inland to Tingua, Nova Iguaçu.”

  “We’re leaving Rio?”

  “We’ll leave Rio and head for a mountain dirt—or mud—road outside the city toward a rural area. It lies northwest of Rio, in the center of the northern part of its metropolitan area, Baixada Fluminense. The Iguaçu River runs through it.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  “You signed on for this, girlie. Hang onto your seat.” Dane turned off the beachfront road and turned the throttle up as far as it would go.

  He’d managed to call Acer on the burner phone and he was hauling David and O’Keefe up to the hills of Nova Iguaçu.

  Their forty-five minute trip ended on a mud road in a depressed area dotted with farms and ramshackle housing. There was a small grid of rough roads and buildings and Dane angled his small bike, praying it would hold up after the beating it had taken, between a pair of two-story nondescript cement buildings. He parked the bike behind the one with a couple of broken windows on the ground floor and grabbed Shana’s hand before she ran the other way. He dragged her inside the dark wooden back door.

  “Where the hell did you bring us? This is the least safe safe house I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  “I knew you would whine about it.”

  She stopped short and dug in her heels halfway down the back hall, then pulled her hand from his.

  “Don’t you—”

  “Don’t you worry, girlie. I was teasing. I’m always teasing. You’re so goddamned easy to tease and I love watching your Irish get up—”

  He moved in on her to prove how much he loved it. She put her hands up to stop him, but he flattened her so that her hands were pinned against his chest and she was pinned against the wall.

  “I don’t have an ounce of Irish in me,” she said, more calm and with an edgy glint in her eye—her warning glint.

  “Don’t worry—this house is so safe, we could—”

  “Don’t even finish that sentence.” Her voice was firm, cool and sharp as a butcher knife.

  He smiled. “I was going to suggest we eat dinner. What did you think I was going to say?”

  She shoved him off her. It was a good strong push. He didn’t push back. She had a knife and he didn’t want to test her resolve. He would have to come through with dinner now. He hoped to hell the place was stocked with something edible.

  Shana pushed past Dane down the hall and hoped he didn’t notice the tremor of excitement in her hands and gallop of the pulse in her neck. She hoped there was food in this damn Brazilian version of his beach shack.

  She found the kitchen, which contained discolored worn linoleum flooring, a wooden table, and three chairs. There was a gas stove and a 1950s-style refrigerator—she recognized it from “Leave It To Beaver” reruns. Dane would probably remember the show—she shouldn’t go there. She turned and smiled at him without even a cinder of guilt.

  “We’re going to miss the call from the kidnapper—unless you aim to have Floyd come here—”

  “That would negate the entire purpose of coming here to get away from him—off his radar. No. We’ll meet him on neutral turf to talk to the kidnapper.”

  “You think Floyd will go along with that?”

  “He will if he wants his money.”

  “You’re betting an awful lot that there is no kidnapper. What if Oscar—”

  “He’s not in trouble. Believe me. I know.”

  What he didn’t say, she knew, because it was classic Dane protect the girl from the bad stuff attitude, was that he thought it was she and Dane who were in trouble.

  “No, you don’t know. You’re guessing. You have a hunch—or some such Dane Blaise voodoo.”

  She probably shouldn’t have said that because his expression went wolfish then. He loved it whenever she gave him credit for his sixth or sixteenth sense or whatever it was he had going on. He got closer. She didn’t back up, but she did look toward the window. The sill was too high to climb out—at least not gracefully.

  He stepped around her and yanked open the bulky rounded refrigerator door with the oversized handle.

  “Looks like we’ll need to go shopping.” He closed the door. “We have about twenty minutes until David Young and company get here.”

  “Call them and tell them to bring food.”

  He slipped the phone from his pocket and did as she suggested. He stood a foot and a half away, watching her—like a wolf licking his chops. Then he said, “That gives us thirty minutes and we don’t need to go to the grocery store.”

  His words hit her like an arrow zinging her with his special potent excitement. Her heart roared into overdrive as if it were shot by the Goliath of Cupids. Her tight control hiding her desire was draining, as if the arrow had pierced her willpower. She stood mute within the ci
rcle of his heat. She smelled his scent, the mingling of sweat and salt air. She was aware of the shallow breaths heaving her breasts up and down because Dane’s gaze flickered to watch them.

  She pulled up her ever-present armor of resentment held against men, all the men she’d fought all her life, and threw it over herself like chainmail to protect her from the threat of male dominance, of sexual conquest for its own sake. Her chin lifted and she heaved one last breath, pushing him away from her once again. It was hard. He was hard. He barely moved.

  “What the hell, Shana?” he practically growled. Whatever weakness she’d felt a moment before, whatever magnetic, inevitable attraction she’d felt and however compelling Dane was—like her kryptonite—his sense of entitlement lit her fuse.

  “I’ll tell you what the hell, Dane. I’m tired of being your convenient dalliance.”

  “Convenient? Are you shitting—”

  “We have no relationship. We have no commitment. We have no understanding. I do not belong to you. You do not belong to me. We have nothing but a working partnership as far as I can tell. Nothing that works or is functional besides our partnership in Beachcomber Investigations—so back off. Leave the rest alone. It’s wrong—”

  “Wrong? What the hell? We have more—”

  “We have what, Dane? We have nothing more than a partnership. You don’t belong to me,” she repeated.

  “I don’t belong to you? That’s crazy talk.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “You know we’re more than partners.”

  “Do I? After all this time and all the ups and downs, the partnership is the only goddamn thing that’s solid—for either of us. Our partnership. The only thing either of us has ever committed to, the only thing either of us is sure of. So don’t ruin it.”

  She pushed again and this time he backed away. He still felt hard, but he looked stunned. The churn in her gut as she took in his face, catching the flash of vulnerability there before it disappeared, surprised her, but she moved away from him, out of his reach, fast. As if he would chase her and as if she needed to escape him and his damned sensual he-man vortex.