“And Juan Montoya got away.” Hargreaves poured another splash of rum into both of their glasses. “We’ll work with the DEA and with you,” he said, “but we want to be informed about what’s going on. You have a problem and you need backup, you call me.”
He opened a manila folder and studied the papers inside for a moment. “There’s a drug deal going down somewhere on the island,” he told Sam. “Montoya’s probably masterminding it. They dealing in something a lot heavier than ganja, Jamaican marijuana. It’s something new, more expensive, more dangerous, maybe even deadly because we think they’re mixing it with a powder that may very well be contaminated. Believe me, Mr. O’Shaughnessy, we want the men behind this. Most of all we want Montoya.”
“The DEA’s got first dibs. I’m taking him back to New York.”
Hargreaves lit a cigarette. Through the pale gray smoke he looked at Sam. “Just be sure you get him and he doesn’t get you, my friend.”
They had lunch, and afterward Sam asked where he could rent a car.
“You know how to handle a Harley?” Hargreaves asked.
“Sure. I had my own until a couple of years ago.”
“Then take mine. It’s faster than a car and better on the mountain roads. Of course, if you’d rather have a car, I’ll arrange it.”
Sam shook his head. “The Harley’s fine.”
Now here he was, racing around the mountains with a dame who wasn’t a lanky brunette hanging on behind him.
He slowed for a curve, and when he did, she tightened her arms around his waist and leaned into him. He felt the brush of her cheek against his shoulder, the press of her breasts against his back. He took a gulp of the clean sea air. To hell with lanky brunettes, he thought, and with a wolflike grin sped on toward Ocho Rios.
Chapter 2
Lisa was windblown and frazzled. There was a smudge of grease on her skirt, the heels of her new pumps were scuffed and she was afraid, when O’Shaughnessy turned the motorcycle into the curved driveway of the Poinciana Hotel, that she would forever walk bowlegged.
“Well, we made it.” He shot her a grin and offered a hand to help her off. “You okay?”
“More or less,” she said once she was on solid ground again. “Thank you very much for the lift, Mr. O’Shaughnessy.”
“Sam.”
“Yes, well...”
A bellman, smiling a greeting, hurried out of the hotel. But the smile faded when he saw the Harley. “You be checking in?” he said doubtfully.
Sam nodded. “Where’s the registration desk?”
“Inside, sir. But—but you have no luggage?”
Sam reached behind where Lisa had been perched, grabbed a duffel bag and tossed it to the bellman. “Only this,” he said as he took Lisa’s arm to lead her up the red-carpeted stairs of the hotel.
The lobby, though small, looked clean and cool. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the sea, Lisa could see the wide outside patio with the striped chaises, umbrellaed tables and swimming pool. Beyond lay the beach, palm trees and the turquoise sea.
“May I help you?” The man behind the desk looked first Lisa, then Sam up and down.
She ran both hands over her hair to try to smooth it. Before she could say anything, Sam said, “We’d like to check in.”
The man wrinkled his nose in a sniff, raised his eyebrows and said, “I’m afraid we’re all booked up.”
“But I have a reservation,” Lisa protested.
“I think not.”
“But I do.” Lisa stepped closer to the desk. “It was made by a travel agent in Miami.”
“Under what name? Mr. and Mrs....?”
“I’m O’Shaughnessy,” Sam said. “This is Miss Collier.”
The thin lips pursed. “I’m afraid we can’t accommodate you.”
“But my reservation,” Lisa started to say. “I...”
The desk clerk, as though he had other, more important things to attend to, turned his back on her. Before he could step away, Sam reached across the desk, swung the man around and, grabbing his tie with one meaty hand, pulled him smack up against the registration desk.
“My name is Sam O’Shaughnessy,” he said in a pleasant voice. “My reservation was made by Captain Filoberto Hargreaves. This lady is Miss Lisa Collier from Miami. We are not together, but even if we were, that would be none of your business. Miss Collier, who had taken a taxi from the Kingston airport, was stranded on the highway when the taxi broke down. I offered her a ride on the motorcycle Captain Hargreaves was kind enough to loan me.”
The clerk began to struggle. When he did, Sam tightened his grip and raised the man up onto his toes. “Her luggage will be along later,” he went on in the same pleasant voice. “Your bellman already has mine.”
“Please...” The man’s face had started to turn an interesting shade of red.
“I’m sure you didn’t understand the situation,” Sam continued, sounding like somebody’s kindly, if somewhat strange, uncle. “But you were rude to Miss Collier and I think you owe her an apology.”
The clerk bobbed his head and Sam let him go. “I—I...Miss Collier, is it? Well, yes, I believe we do have your reservation. And I...” He glanced at Sam. “I most certainly apologize for any misunderstanding.”
She’d been appalled, actually she’d been scared out of her wits when Sam had grabbed the man and all but hauled him across the front desk. But appalled or not, she was finding it hard to keep a straight face. She managed, however, and said in what she hoped was a haughty voice, “I’d like to be shown to my room now.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Oceanfront,” Sam said. “With a balcony.”
“I’m not sure we...” The clerk took a deep breath. “Yes, of course, sir.”
“I’d like oceanfront, too.”
“I’ll see to it.” He put two registration slips in front of them, and when both Lisa and Sam had filled them out, he banged the bell on his desk. The young man who’d taken Sam’s duffel bag ran forward. The clerk said, “Show Miss Collier and Mr. O’Shaughnessy to their rooms.”
Sam said, “Thank you so much, Mr....?”
“Abercrombie.”
“You’ll send Miss Collier’s bags to her room when they arrive.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
They followed the young man, who seemed barely able to keep a straight face, up the flight of carpeted stairs to the third floor.
“This be your room, ma’am,” he said, when he stopped in front of a tall white door. “Mister’s room be right next door. Best rooms in whole damn hotel.” He chuckled and with a wink said, “That be because big mister here be scaring de livin’ sheet out of old Abercrombie.”
“Mr. Abercrombie needed the livin’ sheet scared out of him.” Sam dug in his pocket, and before Lisa could open her purse to tip the young man, said, “This is for both of us.” And to Lisa, “You go ahead in. It’s been a long day. I imagine you’re pretty tired.”
“All the way down to my bones,” she admitted.
“See you later then.”
“Very likely.” She started into the room, then hesitated. “Thank you again for helping me, Mr. O’Shaugh nessy.”
“Sam. Remember?”
“Of course. Sam.” And with a smile at the boy, she started into the room.
“How about dinner?”
“Dinner? Well, I...” She hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of a man she would ever be interested in. He was too big and brash. Too everything she disliked in a man. Still, if it hadn’t been for him, she might very well still have been sitting on the side of the highway waiting for Moses Begrande to reappear. She’d have dinner with him, and starting tomorrow she’d do her best to avoid him.
“I’m not sure my luggage will have arrived by then,” she said, stalling.
“Then wear what you’ve got on. Eight o’clock?”
“All right.”
“I’ll meet you out on the
patio.”
The bellman opened the door to Sam’s room. She turned away, not at all happy to have him right next door. And when she heard the young man laugh and say to Sam, “Convenient, yes, Boss?” she went in and closed the door, none too gently, behind her.
* * *
He was standing at the bar drinking a beer when she stepped out onto the patio. He saw her hesitate and look around, but he didn’t move or make an attempt to go to her because he liked looking at her. She was wearing blue. The dress was short, coming to an inch or two above her knees, but unlike the pink skirt, it flared out around her drop-dead-gorgeous legs, enticingly splendid in three-inch heels.
She spotted him and he hurried toward her. “I see your luggage arrived,” he said.
Her blond hair curled softly around her face and she smelled like peach blossoms. In her high heels she came just to his shoulder, a nicely wrapped package of a woman, delicate and altogether delectable. Almost small enough to put in my pocket, he thought suddenly. Could take her out whenever I wanted to, put her back in when I didn’t. That made him grin, and she looked up at him, puzzled.
A white-jacketed waiter approached. Sam said, “Table for two,” and took Lisa’s arm. The table was on the edge of the patio on a small rise of land overlooking the Caribbean. Red hibiscus surrounded the glass-enclosed candle in the center of the white linen tablecloth.
“Would you like a drink?” Sam asked.
“A martini, dry, with a twist.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“And for you, sir?” the waiter asked.
“Planter’s punch.”
Most of the other men were in lightweight suits or white dinner jackets. A few wore white guayaberas. Not O’Shaughnessy. He wore a blue denim shirt exactly like the one he’d worn today, only cleaner, white Dockers and sneakers without socks.
Their drinks arrived. Sam touched his glass to hers and, in a rough imitation of Bogart, said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” He took a sip of his drink. “What do you do in Miami?” he asked.
“I’m a commercial artist.”
“Here on business or vacation?”
“Vacation.”
“Married?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
He grinned. “I’m a cop. It gets to be a habit.” He took another sip of his beer. “Well, are you?”
“What?”
“Married.”
“I was until last week.” She looked out toward the sea. “I’m divorced,” she said.
“How do you feel about it?”
She turned back to him, wanting to say, “This isn’t any of your business,” but found herself saying, “I’m not sure. I think I stopped loving Philip, that’s my husband—ex-husband—a couple of years ago. I married him when I was twenty-two. We were together for almost seven years.”
She took a sip of her martini and put it down, wondering why she’d ordered it. It was Philip’s drink, not hers. And though he’d always ordered martinis for both of them without asking her what she wanted, she’d never really liked the drink. Yet out of force of habit she’d ordered it tonight.
“Something wrong with your drink?”
“No.” A reluctant smile softened her lips. “This was his drink, not mine. I don’t know why I ordered it.”
“How about a planter’s punch?”
“I’ve never had one.”
“Then it’s time you did.”
“What’s in it?”
“One of sour, two of sweet, three of strong, four of weak.” He grinned. “All you need to remember is that it’s made of a couple of kinds of rum.” He motionned for the waiter, ordered the drink and asked for menus.
He wondered what her husband had been like, and because he was curious, asked, “What does he do?”
“Philip? He’s an art critic.”
“And art critics do what? Criticize other people’s work?”
Lisa looked at him, a little startled, then she laughed and said, “That’s about it.”
The rum drink came. She tried it, smiled and began to feel better about the evening. O’Shaughnessy was all right in a rough-hewn sort of way. He was different from anyone she’d ever known. With the exception of her father. Sam was like him—big, brawny....
A sudden wave of nausea started in the pit of her stomach, and the palms of her hands went damp. She tightened them around the planter’s punch and downed half of it. She didn’t notice Sam’s questioning look, and said yes when he asked her if she’d like another. He ordered her drink and gave their food orders to the waiter.
“The pepper-pot soup is good,” he told Lisa. “Want to try it?”
“You’ve been to Jamaica before?”
“Couple of times.” Because she seemed tense, he talked about some of the other Caribbean islands he’d been to—Trinidad, Barbados, Haiti. “But I like Jamaica,” he said. “I like the people and the pace of life here.”
The waiter brought the pepper-pot soup. Made from Indian kale and kalalu, okra and chopped meat, it was spicy and good. That was followed by a green salad and steak, bloodred for Sam, barely pink for Lisa.
The second drink had relaxed her, and for the first time since she’d arrived, she began to enjoy the surroundings. A full moon shone over the sea. The trade winds the brochure had promised rustled through the palm fronds. The air was scented with frangipani blossoms, gardenia and ginger. At one end of the patio a five-piece orchestra began to play, and a few couples got up to dance.
Sam ordered coffee and soursop ice cream. Just about the time they finished, the band started a slow, sensuous bolero. He pushed his chair back and said, “How about a dance?” And before Lisa had a chance to refuse, he pulled out her chair and, taking her hand, led her to the dance floor.
“I don’t do fast,” he told her. “Watching a woman waving her arms and jerking around like she’s got Saint Vitus’ dance doesn’t do a damn thing for me. I like to hold a woman in my arms.” He put his arms around her. “Like this,” he said.
He was a surprisingly good dancer. She felt enfolded by him, which wasn’t, as she had thought it would be, half-bad. He tucked one of her hands up against his chest and held her that way. She felt the least little bit dreamy and wondered if she should blame it on that second planter’s punch.
“What kind of a cop are you?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Just a cop.”
“Like in a squad car?”
He shook his head. “Like in plainclothes.”
“You hunt down the bad guys in tennies and jeans?”
“And the bad girls.” He smiled down at her. She really was pretty and feminine, all nicely done up in her blue dress, with soft skin, sweet scents and fragrant hair. The moonlight cast pale shadows across her face. When a breeze ruffled a loose tendril, he reached up to brush it back from her face.
She flinched. He looked at her, surprised. “What is it?” he asked.
“What?” Pretending not to understand, Lisa forced a smile. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?” she said.
“Yeah.” He wondered what had spooked her, but decided not to ask because he had a hunch she wouldn’t answer. So he held her, contenting himself with the feel of her in his arms. She felt snug against him like this, her small fingers curled in his hand. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
Whoa, he told himself. You’re not here for romance, pal. You’re here to track Montoya down and haul his Cuban hide back to New York. No matter how cute a dame this is, you haven’t got time for any kind of female distraction. You catch Montoya and maybe someday you look her up in Miami. But for now...
He felt her breath against his throat as they began to move to the rhythm of yet another bolero, the slight, soft pressure of her breasts against his shirt, the slim and lovely legs pressed close to his. Legs a man could die for if they were wrapped around him.
He stepped away from her. “How about a walk on the beach?” he asked.
“I don’t think so.”
>
“Not a walk then. We’ll just take a look, okay?” And when she hesitated, he said, “You have to see the beach at night. There’s a full Jamaican moon. It’d be a crime not to. C’mon.”
“Five minutes.”
“Sure. Just a look.” They crossed the patio and went down the few steps to the sand. “Better take your shoes off,” he said, and she stepped out of the pumps. Her legs were bare, sleek and smooth. He reached for her hand.
The sea looked phosphorescent in the moonlight, like sparkles of stardust were riding atop the incoming waves. “Oh,” she said, and pulling away from him, she ran down to the shore. Warm water lapped over her bare feet and she bent down to scoop some of it up. He kicked his sneakers off and went toward her. “What’re you doing?” he asked.
On one knee, she turned and laughed up at him. “Catching moonbeams,” she said.
Nuttier’n a fruitcake, he thought. A pocket-size blonde trying to catch moonbeams in her hands. Loony tunes.
He grasped her shoulders and brought her up beside him. She looked at him, surprised, her lips still parted in a smile. “Damn,” he whispered, and kissed her.
For a moment she was too startled to move away. When she did, he tightened his grip and held her there. Her mouth trembled under his; her lips tasted of salt spray. He had a sudden urge to scoop her up in his arms and carry her down the beach to some dark, secluded cove where he could kiss the stuffing out of her. Instead, he let her go.
She stared up at him. “You—you shouldn’t have done that,” she said.
“Didn’t mean to. Sorry.” He tried for a grin. “Blame it on the moonbeans.”
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “I want to go back now.”
“Sure.” He picked up his sneakers, and when he took her hand, she didn’t pull away. When they reached the steps, he held her arm while she slipped into her pumps. At the top of the stairs, he said, “How about a nightcap?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ll walk you to your room, then.”
Moonlight Lady Page 2
