As if they were old friends, each of the men greeted her with a hug, making the moment a little awkward. Her chest tightened. She fought unexpected tears. Her own family didn’t treat her so cordially and here three strangers had accepted her with open arms.
Errol rested on his cane. “I hope you’re hungry. We’ve conjured up some fiery fish tacos with crunch corn salsa.”
In all honesty, she wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t eaten much since Stella had passed. The lunch she had partaken in at the Seafarer’s had been enough for the entire day, but she hated to disappoint the men since they had gone to all this trouble.
She forced a smile and placed her bag upon the floor. “Starving.”
Byron laced an arm through hers. “I grilled the fish, so I know it will be perfect. Can’t vouch on the salsa.”
“Why you ol’ barnacle-plucking water demon. You know darn well I know my way around veggie salsa.”
Byron winked at her before he threw back a disparaging comment of his own.
The camaraderie between the men was delightful. It lightened the heaviness that slowed her feet as she entered the kitchen. Immediately she was filled with a sense of warmth. From the seashell curtains, the copper pans above the large island, to the antique stove and oven, it was as if the kitchen itself welcomed her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it felt “real”. Even the table set with four place settings, each with a red napkin circled with what look like coral, appeared inviting.
“Sit,” Harold said as he made his way to the refrigerator. He returned with a pitcher of ice tea and a bottle of rum. “Don’t know which you prefer. I also have milk and water.”
Taking her coat off, Sky took a seat, blurting, “Why are you helping me?” Her outburst surprised even her.
“Because you need help,” he said matter-of-factly. Errol and Byron stopped what they were doing at the counter and came to stand behind him.
“This world is tough enough without being alone,” Byron said.
“But you don’t know me.” She trembled. “Don’t know that I’m alone.” They knew nothing about her. She could be a mass murderer for all they knew.
Errol chuckled. “Girl, we didn’t just fall off the shrimp boat. You’re young, alone or you’re running from something or someone. Either way you’re in Whispering Cove. Our town.” As if that explained everything, they turned and continued what they had been doing prior to her ebullition.
Sky curiously watched as they filled bowls with sour cream, shredded cheese and a combination of vegetables. She felt a little like Alice in Wonderland. Had she fallen down the rabbit hole? Were there really people who helped simply because someone needed it, or had she closed herself off, refusing to see people for who they really were?
Nothing more was said as everyone took a seat. Shaking out her napkin, she laid it gently in her lap. When Harold passed the platter of grilled fish to her, she got a whiff of cayenne pepper. After dishing a small helping, she passed the platter to Byron.
“Try some of this.” Errol held out a bowl of salsa. “There’s a special ingredient in it.”
Sky recognized corn, red bell pepper and onion, but not the small chunks of white. After she rolled her taco, she waited until each man began to eat before she took a bite. A variety of flavors erupted in her mouth.
“Mmmm. I taste a hint of lime, cilantro, but what is this white stuff?” she asked.
Errol’s chest puffed. “Jicama.”
“Jicama?”
“Mexican yam or some call it a turnip.” He gazed over the tumbler of rum he held. “Ever been to Mexico?”
“No. I’ve never been past Florida.”
Byron swallowed. “Florida is nice this time of year. Is that where you’re from?” Both Harold and Errol stopped eating. They might not have realized it but they leaned slightly forward, awaiting her response.
Sneaky. They were fishing, but slyer people had tried to trip her up. “No. Canada.”
“That’s right. You did say Canada.” Byron eased back into his chair. “Where in Canada?”
“Calgary.” She reached for the rum and poured a finger of it into her glass and drank it down, welcoming the burn. “Harold, I’ve been driving since six this morning. Would you mind if I turned in?”
“Not at all. Upstairs, first door on the left. Should be extra towels in the bathroom linen closet. Make yourself at home, lass.”
Byron raised his glass to her. “Sleep well, chickadee.”
The legs of the chair screeched across the floor as she pushed it back and rose. “Good night.”
“Good night,” all three said at once.
As Sky took the stairs one at a time, she wondered what it would be like to live in a house like this. To have friends like the people she met earlier. Tabby had made her feel included. The rest had accepted her, because Tabby had. And Harold and his friends, well, they were exactly the storybook grandfathers she had prayed time and time again for.
A yawn caught her unaware. She sucked in a breath, her mouth gaping as her jaws felt like they unhitched. As she released the air from her lungs, she realized just how exhausted she really was. Tonight she would sleep like the dead. Tomorrow? She’d just have to wait and see how it evolved.
Harold waited until he heard Tempest’s boot heels click up the stairs. “So? What do you think?”
Byron took a sip of his rum. “She’s a runner.”
Errol nodded his agreement. “No doubt in my mind, but she’s not your typical runaway. What intrigues me is that when she’s not chewing that blasted gum, her speech is cultured. It shows a level of education, upbringing. From how she presented herself during introductions to her table manners, each are a mark of refinement.”
“Aye, I thought the same. She be masquerading.”
“I don’t think she’s from Canada either,” Byron interjected. “I heard not one ‘eh’ from her.”
All three began to guffaw. A true Canadian couldn’t help but use “eh” from time to time. When their laughter died, Harold took a drink and set his glass on the table.
“Poor lassie. You should have seen ’er when Leo cuffed ’er. She be scared as a mackerel tangled in a net.” A burst of laughter shook his belly. “And then the fires of hell ignited in ’er eyes. If she’d had a fishin’ knife, she be filleting young Caan alive.”
“Hmmm,” Errol hummed, rolling the amber liquid in his tumbler. He slid his slippery gaze toward Byron. “You know there’s a thin line between love and hate.”
What the—
“Oh no you don’t, you scurvy dog. Bringing them two together be worse than releasing the Kraken. We be batten down the hatches in Whispering Cove.”
“But think of the challenge, Harold. It could be a windfall.” Byron raised his glass, so did Errol. Harold followed, took a sip and then set his tumbler down.
Do they take me as a fool?
“Not on your life. Enough said.” He picked up the bottle of rum and poured half a glass.
“Cards?” Errol asked.
“Why not.” Byron slid the bottle across the table and poured himself a finger of the alcohol, after which he filled Harold’s to the brim. “We can play while we eat.”
Errol rose and retrieved the cards and poker chips from the kitchen drawer where Harold kept them. As he sat back down, he asked, “So what will it be? Nickels? Dimes? Quarters?”
“Quarters,” Byron quickly responded. He raised his glass again. “To the holidays.”
Harold followed suit before drinking deeply. “Nothin’ like a good glass of rum to celebrate the holidays.”
“Shuffle, Errol. I’ll dish out the chips,” Byron offered.
The flutter of the cards lolled Harold into a content state of mind, or was it the alcohol? It didn’t matter. He’d done a good deed today. He had family who loved him and was surrounded by his friends. He felt good, until he picked up his cards and realized he had nothing—not even a lowly pair. Holding on to a ten and a king of clubs, he tossed a t
wo, five, and six into the center of the table along with a poker chip.
Errol waited until Byron disposed of his cards and then dealt himself two cards, Byron one, and finally Harold three. He added the new cards to his others only to discover a five, seven and nine. Releasing a throaty grumble, he tossed his cards into the center.
“Take a drink, Harold. It eases my soul when I have a losing hand,” Errol suggested as he threw two chips into the pile.
Harold did just that while he watched his friends play. He was on his third sip when Byron revealed two pairs and won the pot. Errol won the next two. Byron took the next three.
“Bah,” Harold growled, picking up his glass to find it empty. Well blast it. “Best for me to cut and run, before you leave me high and dry.”
“One more hand,” Errol encouraged as he began to deal without awaiting a response.
When Harold picked up his hand, he gleamed inwardly. The urchin had given him two pairs—twos and queens. This hand belonged to him, he silently gloated.
Tossing three chips into the center of the table, he glanced to Errol and then Byron, who countered adding two additional chips. The barnacle scrapper leaned back in his chair grinning like a canary as Errol folded.
Harold studied the man for a minute. Had Byron taken two or three cards? Or was it one? His mind felt a little fuzzy. Maybe it was Errol who took only one card.
Oh what the hell.
“I’ll see your bet and raise you a dollar,” Harold said, almost positive his friend had taken three cards as he plunked four chips down.
“A dollar?” Byron frowned. “That’s kind of steep, my friend.”
“Scared?” Harold had this rumrunner just where he wanted him.
“Me? Scared? How about we raise the stakes?” Byron suggested.
“What ye have in mind?”
With a straight face, Byron said, “You lose, I’ll buy the rum for three months instead of one.”
Harold hesitated only a second. “And if you win?”
“You choose Tempest and Caan to focus your matchmaking skills on.”
Harold slammed his cards face down on the table. “You bugger. That’s a fool’s bet.”
Byron shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
When Harold paused Errol chuckled. “Now who’s scared?” He stuck his fists in his armpits and flapped his bent arms. “Bbbbrock. Brock. Brock. Brock.”
“Enough, ye chicken-lover. I be winning this hand as well as the bet, so let’s see what ye have.”
When Errol laid a straight down Harold knew he had been had.
Tempest and Caan?
He entwined his fingers, resting his hands on his belly and then he burst into laughter. “This be one bet I just might lose, so I’ll be needing your help. Agreed?”
With shit-eating grins plastered across their faces, they nodded.
“Then I have a plan. We be starting tomorrow.”
In the background the radio squawked. The first call in over an hour. In the distance Leo heard Marg assign the call to the new recruit from Arizona. Until now it had been a slow night, but it was usually slow in Whispering Cove. Not much happened during the winter months. Well, except for today. Three fender benders, old man Waters and Ruysdael got into a tussle down at the Fisherman’s Market, Joe Tillman came home drunk and Helen wouldn’t let him in the house, and Mrs. McDougal’s cat once again got itself stuck in a lobster trap.
Damn cat.
Through tired eyes, Leo strained to read the screen. “She has no record.”
Brody stood behind him. “License? Plate?”
“She has a Canadian driver’s license, which designated a trailer park space rented under another’s name. No home address, no rental agreements, no luck in discovering where she has lived. I haven’t even located a passport.” Leo paged down. “Nothing came up on the background and credit check. She doesn’t own anything but the RV, which was signed over to her about two months ago.”
“From who?” Brody asked.
“Stella Steinhardt. Her name was also on the trailer park space.”
“Do we know anything about her?”
“She passed away in Chicago a couple days after the vehicle was transferred. Death certificate states complications do to rheumatoid arthritis and COPD.” Which meant she was probably a smoker. Leo had an uncle die of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. “She has—had—business licenses up and down the coast and Canada, which show a transient lifestyle, but she’s never been in trouble. Like Miss Sky, she earned her living as a glass blower.”
“No business license in her name?”
“Nope. If I had to guess I’d say she’s living off the grid. No credit cards. No ownership. Nothing.” Of course, she could be thrifty and managed with what she had, which appeared as not much. It wasn’t an impossible thought, but Leo’s gut said differently.
“How old is she?”
“Just turned twenty-one according to her license,” Leo responded.
Brody took a step back and started pacing. “I hope this will ease Andie’s mind. But something tells me it won’t.” He ran his fingers through his black hair.
Leo couldn’t blame Andie. Harold was getting up in years and drank a little too much—a perfect candidate for someone to take advantage of. Brody must have been thinking down the same line, because he frowned again.
Grabbing his coat off the back of his chair, he slipped an arm through a sleeve. “Make sure she gets a business license.” When his coat was on, he pulled the ends together. “Gather whatever information off the document. Have Berta expedite it.” Metal rasped against metal as he slid the zipper to his neck. “I’ll speak with Harold again. Maybe we can persuade him to let her stay at the inn. Hell. I’ll even pay for it.” He pivoted to leave and then stopped. “Talk to Larry again. Get her vehicle fixed as soon as possible. Good night.” He headed for the door and then paused again, glancing over a shoulder. “And, Leo… Keep an eye on her.”
“Will do. Good night, boss.”
Leo sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was keep an eye on Tempest Sky. There was something about her that piqued his anxiety. And those eyes. She could bore a hole straight through him. Yet there was something sad about them too. What would she look like without all that makeup? Those purple extensions in her hair were down right nasty. And her lips… Well let’s just say they’d be kissable if it wasn’t for that gaudy black lipstick.
Scooting his rolling chair back from the desk, he got to his feet. Perhaps he’d swing by Harold’s before he went home. Check that nothing was out of sorts. Grabbing his coat from the rack, he headed for the exit.
A gush of cold air encouraged him to slip on his coat as he strolled through the parking lot toward his SUV. Clicking the button on his remote control, the doors unlocked. Once inside, the scent of new leather greeted him. He switched the heater on and then the radio. Classical music flowed from the speakers as he slipped the vehicle into drive.
Gray storm clouds hid the moon. If not for the coach lights lining the streets, casting a blue hue over the sleepy town, it would have been a pitch-black night, which was proven the moment he entered the outskirts of the city.
Harold’s house was set off the main road like most of the ocean properties. For aesthetic reasons the front of the residence faced the rolling ocean, while the backyard faced the street. A narrow, gravel road led to the property. Small stones popped beneath his tires as he neared. The bottom level of the house was lit along with one room upstairs.
Errol’s and Byron’s cars parked along the side of the cottage gave Leo some sense of relief, which almost made him laugh. What had he expected? To find the elderly man bound to a chair, his house ransacked and the woman gone?
When a shadowy figure passed before the bedroom window, Leo slowed and switched off his headlights. The image appeared once more and stopped so that a shapely figure was outlined against the shade, reminding him of the gentlemen’s club he and a handful of college buddies had visite
d in Paris. The shadow dancers stripping behind a screen had been the highlight of the evening.
When the woman raised a foot and set it upon something, Leo’s heart stuttered. Knee bent, she eased a hand down the inside of her thigh to her foot. His mind had to be playing tricks on him, because he swore he heard the soft whisper of a zipper fall as a dainty ankle was revealed when she removed a boot. He sucked in a breath. He’d bet his life he could circle that ankle within his index finger and thumb. Tossing the boot aside, her palms returned to her thigh and sensually caressed a stocking down past her knee over a shapely calf, until the stocking hung from her fingertips. For a moment he wondered what that silk would feel like sliding across his naked body. When she repeated the process with her other leg, Leo was spellbound and unable to move.
As she unlaced the bustier she wore, revealed her full, naked breasts, he knew it was time to get going. The last thing he needed was to be tagged a peeping Tom. But when his mind gave his foot the order to move off the brake, nothing happened. Instead his fingers tightened around the steering wheel. His cock twitched, spreading a tingle across his lap. A sharp rap on his window startled him and jerked his attention off the seductive creature upstairs.
“Caan?”
Leo inhaled a deep breath, blowing it out as he rolled down his window. A gust of cold air and two pair of suspicious eyes meet him.
“Byron. Errol.”
“Something wrong?” Concern tugged at Errol’s mouth.
“No, sir. Just doing rounds.”
“In your personal vehicle?” Byron gaze shot to the window upstairs. Thankfully, Tempest had moved so all he saw was the glow from within.
Errol grinned. “You wouldn’t be checking up on Harold’s young guest, would you now, boy?”
“No, sir.” When the elderly man’s eyebrows rose, Leo confessed, “Well, maybe. Just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Stockings (Whispering Cove) Page 4
