“And they call it Paradise?” As she whispered the words, she blew a series of puffs into his ear.
The man shuddered. “It is not far,” he managed to say. “Would you like me to carry you?”
“Yes, please!” Wrapping her arms around his neck, Melanie gave a little hop, and was pleased when he caught her in midair. The man was nothing if not coordinated. “You don’t mind leaving your luggage?”
He threw back his head and laughed. This gave her a chance to inspect the indentation in his cheek, which she decided was of natural origin. “From where would a thief come? Where could he hope to hide?”
“I see your point,” she said.
Then a problem occurred. To be precise, Melanie’s investigation of Hal’s cheek interfered with his face’s inclination to return to its normal position. In choreographic terms, he looked down just as she looked up.
If you are going to distract a gangster, you must take advantage of any opening. Besides, Melanie was feeling a delicious thrill at being held so elegantly, so easily, so powerfully by a deadly killer who shuddered when she blew in his ear.
She tightened her grip on his neck and pressed her lips against his. His mouth was hard, just as she had imagined, but also hot.
Very hot Before she could make a strategic duck to one side, his tongue advanced into her mouth and he tightened his grip around her back and under her thighs.
Being held horizontally, Melanie discovered, had its disadvantages. In the first place, it was impossible to back off.
In the second place, the man did not have to maneuver very far to progress from kissing her mouth to trailing his tongue down her throat, to nuzzling inside her partly open jacket toward two rapidly responding feminine orbs.
She had to admire the Iceman’s grace. Not once did he stumble or lose his balance.
With the litheness of a dancer and the command of a weight lifter, he shifted her position so that her head tilted away and her back arched toward him. The man was not wasting any time.
No wonder he had been able to land three wives. He had probably consummated their marriages while still kneeling with a ring in his hand.
This was not what Melanie had had in mind. She had wished to promise him anything but give him the slip.
Instead, she gasped into the fog as his virile tongue invaded the scooped neck of her sweater and prowled almost the whole way to one straining peak. At any instant, his mouth would close over it.
The most peculiar part was that Melanie couldn’t find it within herself to resist. The man deserved applause.
He certainly deserved more of a reward than a shove in the face and a kick in the cojones. But did he really deserve a free mouthful of something she considered exclusively hers to bestow?
Never mind, he was already there. After one tantalizing lick, Hal Smothers mouthed her nipple with heartfelt appreciation.
Her breathing speeded up. If Melanie had been cold, that moment was now history.
She actually liked the way she felt. Good Lord. Who would have believed the man could be so gentle and so desperate, all at once?
Something was moving through the fog, not far away. A low rumble reached her ears.
“Uh, Hal!” Melanie tried to tug her sweater into place.
With a low moan, he released her, but only to take a breather. Then he burrowed in again, looking for the other one.
“Hal!” She squirmed a little harder.
“Mmm?” Reluctantly, he came up for air. In the misty half light, she saw that he wore a dazed expression, as if he too had just been bonked by a golf ball.
Quickly, she straightened her top. “I think our ride is here.”
He made a snuffling noise that was somewhere between clearing his throat and choking with embarrassment, then lowered her. Upright again, Melanie swayed a moment before catching her balance.
The incident had happened so quickly that she might almost have imagined it Was it true? Had Hal Smothers just bypassed her shields before she could even sound a red alert?
The big guy turned to load his suitcase into a black 1930s limo that had stopped a short distance away. The driver, a wizened antique who might have been the car’s original owner, waited on the far side of the hood, smoking a cigarillo.
“Good thing the ferryman called me.” He gave Melanie a wink, or at least that’s what it looked like in the mist. “A pleasure to meet the blushing bride.”
“I never blush,” she said, and got in the back seat Good heavens, the man thought she had walked down the aisle with this lug!
Well, Hal Smothers was known as the marrying kind. If she were a grasping sort of person, Melanie might consider a quickie wedding, followed soon thereafter by a set of thumbscrews skillfully applied by her lawyer.
But she was not. Heaven knew, Melanie had no great love for men. In her experience, they either wanted to tag along on her adventures or preached the stuffy idea that women shouldn’t parachute into war zones.
They nattered on about her long legs, spent too much time gazing into her green eyes and generally bored her to death. Mr. Fastest-Tongue-in-the-West was probably no different from the others.
But she maintained a fastidiousness about ethics. On her personal scale of justice, honest mistakes could be forgiven, and people were expected to take custody of their own broken hearts. That did not excuse deliberate exploitation, by either sex.
Hal Smothers might be made of money, and it might be ill-gotten, but if Melanie Mulcahy ever chose to put her hands in his pockets, it would not be for the purpose of removing his wallet.
HAL RODE to the Casa Falsario in a state of semivertical arousal and acute shame.
He had snatched Melanie in order to win the affections of the lovely Rita. It was not to be supposed that the future mother of his children would appreciate him rooting around in another woman’s sweater, regardless of what he found there.
True, Melanie had practically thrown herself at him, but she was suffering the effects of golf-ball ricochet It was only natural that she should feel dizzy, and seek comfort from her male protector.
And, blast it, he was her protector. He had deliberately removed Melanie from her habitat, and until he returned her, he bore full responsibility for her safety.
Everything that had been intact must remain that way until her return. And a gentleman was required to assume that everything about a lady was intact.
But…was it? inquired a roguish part of his brain. Had she not returned his kiss and wriggled appealingly in his arms? Had she not blown in his ear and gasped with pleasure as he…as he…
Hal folded his legs tighter and gritted his teeth. Best not to think about it.
His thoughts returned to Rita. She had claimed that Melanie intended to disrupt her charity cruise. He was finding it harder and harder, however, to picture Melanie as a stealth agitator from the whaling industry.
Worse, he was beginning to wonder whether Rita was as suitable a marital prospect as he had imagined. She owned several sweaters, but he had never been tempted to poke around in them. And he wished he had checked out her claim that it was customary to send a three-yearold to boarding school.
The fog thickened as they approached Casa Falsario. Then Hal realized that he was observing the arrival of nightfall.
It being September, and the clientele of Casa Falsario being sketchy at best, he had little hope of encountering a festive atmosphere. Most likely they would sit alone in the dining room, eating bowls of thin soup slopped in front of them by a shuffling ex-con.
However, he reminded himself, there was really no need to stay more than a day or two. He had promised Melanie rest and relaxation, but she did not seem the restful type.
The mission had been accomplished, Hal realized with decidedly mixed feelings. This very evening, the Jolly Roger would depart from Los Angeles, sans Melanie, and he would have earned Rita’s deepest thanks.
He tried to picture the woman with whom he intended to share the rest of his nights,
her raven hair spread on the pillow, her pale blue eyes blinking at him from within their raccoon-like nests of makeup.
It was no use. The hair he saw was light brown and short, barely covering a large lump. The eyes were a peculiar shade of green with narrow pupils, like a cat’s. The figure was slimmer, the smile more generous.
Hal wanted to take Melanie Mulcahy to bed. Several parts of his body were already seconding that motion.
But as a suitor to Rita, he could not. As Melanie’s protector, he could not As a gentleman, he must keep his head high and the rest of himself low.
The limo creaked to a halt in front of a Spanish-style building. All that was visible of the rest of the compound was a white stucco wall stretching in both directions, its paint flaking from the harsh sea air.
The wall existed not so much to keep anything out as to make the patrons feel at home. Over the years, most of them had spent considerable time behind walls of one sort or another.
On the far side, Hal knew, the resort fronted the island’s coast, a sheer bluff tapering to a rocky point Atop the rocks sat a lighthouse whose glow, diffused by fog, was intermittently visible even from here.
“Hey,” said Melanie, “this place really exists.”
“You thought otherwise?”
“I had my doubts.” She unfolded her impossibly long legs. “Aren’t people going to think it’s odd, me checking in with no luggage?”
“Not around here,” Hal said. “Also, in case I forgot to mention it, I will be happy to buy any necessary items at the gift shop.”
“This place has a gift shop?”
“Duty free,” he said.
“Smuggled?”
“You are a little too smart,” said Hal.
He tipped the driver, gripped his bag and led the way into the lobby. It was a small plain room with terra-cotta tile on the floor, smudged paint on the walls and a battered wooden counter running along one side.
Hal pushed a button. To his surprise, Arthur “Drop Dead” Cimarosa himself slouched in from the back room.
Usually, Drop Dead did not put in personal appearances because in the event of guests who did not know him, this had a less than salutory effect Drop Dead was not only ugly, he was said to have a Medusa-like effect on susceptible individuals. Also, Drop Dead had a nasty temper and, despite his seventy-two years, a quick trigger finger.
Melanie stared across the counter at this balding man with a face like a gargoyle. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cimarosa,” she said.
Drop Dead, who was extremely nearsighted but too vain to wear glasses, leaned to get a closer look. His face cracked into a smile.
“Good-looking dame,” he said. “One of the fellows expecting you?” In Hal’s direction, he tossed, “Beat it, driver.”
“This isn’t the driver,” Melanie said. “Don’t you two know each other?”
“Of course,” said Hal, but did not extend his hand because if Drop Dead was in a bad mood, he might not get it back.
The island’s owner turned his attention to Hal. He squinted, he frowned and then he coughed. “You? Here?”
“I realize we lack reservations.” Hal made a pseudo-Italian gesture with his hands. “We need only two rooms for a couple of nights. I do not see why that should be a problem.”
Drop Dead grumbled as he poked through a card file. “Sorry, no room.” He did not sound sorry.
“Oh, come on.” Melanie leaned against the counter in a manner that emphasized her lovely sweatered globes. “I’m exhausted and I just got beaned by a golf ball.”
“Also she might have to sue Grampa,” added Hal. “We would not want that.”
“The lady,” said Arthur Cimarosa, “can have the bridal suite. You can get lost”
He handed Melanie an oversize metal key and snarled, or maybe he was smiling. Then he stumped off.
“Is he always like that?” she asked.
“Only when he is in a good mood. Otherwise, he tends to shoot first and check IDs later.” Still puzzling over Drop Dead’s behavior, and choosing to ignore the latter’s instructions to depart, Hal picked up his luggage and led the way into the courtyard.
Something odd was going on. Why had Drop Dead been so displeased to see him? Was Casa Falsario really full in the off-season?
And how was Hal going to remain a gentleman while staying alone in the bridal suite with Melanie?
3
AT THIS EARLY HOUR, for twilight was dawn by Las Vegas standards, the courtyard sat deserted. It was a modest circular patio with cracked pavement, at best a sort of openair lobby and happy-hour retreat
Tonight it looked far from its best. In the haze, a few wrought-iron tables loomed like skeletons, and a mottled bunch of geraniums drooped in a planter box.
“This place doesn’t appear fully booked,” Melanie said. “How many rooms are there, anyway?”
Hal had come here twice before, once for Grampa Orion’s eightieth birthday and again for Sammy “Cha Cha” Adams’s marriage—sadly, short-lived—to a saxophone player. Drop Dead had stood in for the minister, since being the owner of an island was somewhat like being the captain of a ship.
However, as a businessman, Hal liked to get the lay of the land. He had made it a point to scope out the place.
“There are four individual rooms and two suites,” he said. “Also a conference room.” He pointed to a small freestanding building beneath a large palm tree.
He did not add that, to his knowledge, the place was never full except during special occasions. If anything was afoot, Hal had not been notified of it, and this was making him uneasy.
But maybe it was mere coincidence that so many people had descended on the island at one time. Such things were known to happen.
“What about that strange-looking man at the desk?” Melanie asked. “Where does he stay?”
“He lives in the lighthouse,” said Hal.
“Really? How romantic!”
Hal could not imagine anything about Drop Dead that would be considered romantic. However, such a notion might be expected from a writer of poetry. “Perhaps so.”
“These suites have two bedrooms, right?” said Melanie.
Hal had not gone inside either of the suites, but now that he thought about it, why should there not be two rooms? “Let us hope so.”
Indeed, he was hoping so. Fervently.
As they walked, a low whoosh came to Hal’s ears. Then came another whoosh, followed by a whump.
“Shuffleboard,” he said, following a curved walkway out of the courtyard. Sure enough, the moment they turned a corner, the bright flatness of a shuffleboard court appeared to their left
Beyond it, the fog held so thickly it was impossible to see the ocean, although they could hear the crash of waves below. In the darkness, the court appeared as a rectangle of light, or perhaps of the light-fingered.
At one end of it stood an elderly couple and a younger, pudgy pair. Joe and Violet McAllister were the hustlers of the shuffleboard circuit who, when they got tired of stiffing their fellow senior citizens for spare change, came to Casa Falsario to rest.
Their son and daughter-in-law had been straight-arrow citizens until the daughter-in-law was arrested for feeding a parking meter. When her husband threw a quarter at the arresting officer, he too hit the slammer. Although misdemeanants did not qualify for independent visitation to the island, they were allowed to come in the company of her parents.
If these were the sort of people occupying the premises, Hal had nothing to worry about The McAllisters generally stayed in the presidential suite and minded their own business, unless they smelled a good confidence game.
“Those folks don’t look like gangsters.” Melanie sounded disappointed.
“They are low-grade malefactors,” explained Hal. “The bridal suite is this way.”
He took her arm and felt her sway against him. Perhaps her injury was worsening, he thought with a trace of guilt He hoped to get her settled quickly for a rest
&n
bsp; Although the doctor had found no evidence of concussion, brain swelling might develop later. If Melanie wasn’t feeling chipper by later tonight, Hal would have to relocate her to a hospital.
It puzzled him that he felt reluctant to remove her from the island. Why should it bother him that, once they hit civilization, he would probably never see the lady again?
True, she had a passionate nature and a vivacious intelligence. He was finding her company more pleasant by the hour.
But she was the wrong woman. This time, he didn’t need a bullet in the shoulder to convince him. The sight of her dented car had been enough.
They reached the unit marked Bridal Suite. Hal was about to fit in the key, when he realized the door stood slightly ajar.
Drop Dead’s cleaning woman, Pixie LaBelle, who had served a long jail term for fixing a beauty contest in which the loser turned out to be the district attorney’s daughter, might be at work. Cautiously, Hal nudged the door open with his foot
“Hello?” he called. The front room, however, stood empty.
“What’s that?” Melanie indicated a metallic gizmo on the floor that looked as if it had been built from an Erector set.
“Perhaps some sort of security device,” said Hal. It didn’t appear threatening, so he stepped inside.
“It’s growling,” said Melanie.
Hal thought it sounded somewhat like an electronic slot machine about to cough up the goods. “Possibly it generates white noise to help people sleep.”
“We’re next to the ocean,” Melanie said. “Who needs white noise?”
“We will ask the proprietor,” Hal said. “Tomorrow.”
The growling subsided. With a doglike burp, the security device fell silent.
They entered the square living room, which was furnished with a cracked leatherette couch and two industrial-looking chairs reputed to have been sold as scrap when Alcatraz closed. Over the window, thin cheesy curtains hung unevenly from a rod.
Kidnapped / I Got You Babe Page 3
