Dangerous Curves

by Kristina Wright

  “What’s that?”

  He reminded himself that she wasn’t a Florida native. “Key West had a problem years ago with drug blockades to the mainland. It slowed traffic and annoyed the tourists. The island seceded from the union in protest and proclaimed itself the Conch Republic.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Well, it was really just another excuse for a party.” He recalled the wilder days of the island nation. Key West shone now, but he missed the old days, the rough-around-the-edges, gritty Key West. Now it was just another glittering gem on the Florida tourist trail. He sighed.

  “Well, it certainly looks like a party.”

  Two women, clad in bikinis and body paint, crossed in front of the van at a red light. They waved at Jake and Sam.

  “Wait until it gets dark,” Jake said. “The clothing rules get a little more relaxed.”

  “And you complained about my outfit,” Sam grumbled.

  “Yeah, well, that’s different.” Jake didn’t need to be reminded of her outfit, and a sidelong glance set his pulse racing. If she put on a bikini, he’d have a heart attack.

  “Now what?”

  Sam’s question brought him back to the road. The light was green. “Now we find your father.”

  Sam repeated her father’s address from memory and Jake navigated the narrow streets lined with cars and pink rental mopeds. They pulled up in front of a small bungalow, neat by Key West standards. It was freshly painted a bright canary yellow. The gravel driveway was empty.

  Jake parked by the curb and shut off the engine. “Well, are you ready?” he asked when Sam showed no signs of getting out.

  “I don’t know.”

  He heard her fear and her indecision in those three words. “You can wait here if you want,” he offered. If he were seeing his father for the first time in over twenty years, he’d be a little nervous, too. Under these circumstances, he couldn’t blame her for wanting to bolt.

  “No, I’ll go.”

  Her decision made, Sam swung into action. She fumbled with the door for a minute, then seemed to steady herself. Standing outside the van, she eyed the house like it was a morgue.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” she said.

  Jake followed her to the front door. She hadn’t been lying. She was wearing shorts under her T-shirt—black, skintight, hip-hugging shorts that made her legs look a mile long. He swallowed hard. She did crazy things to his pulse. But he’d have her out of his life and out of his system soon enough. He didn’t need the complications she caused, no matter how nicely wrapped those complications were.

  Her knuckles were poised to knock when her hand fell to the side. “Looks like we’re too late.”

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  Sam gestured to the doorknob. “He’s gone”

  Sure enough, hanging from a string was a sign that read, Gone Fishing.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Jake said.

  “Naw, Sammy Martin is no kidder,” came a lilting female voice from behind them.

  Jake and Sam turned to see a dark-skinned woman in a floral-print bikini top and a long yellow skirt. She looked to be in her mid-forties and her waist-length braids were tied with brightly colored bits of ribbon and beads. They clicked as she shook her head and smiled.

  “Sammy’s out on the boat. He’s got a load of tourists fishing for marlin.”

  “Are you his neighbor?” Jake glanced past the woman. No car. But in Key West you didn’t necessarily need a car.

  She winked and shook her head again, the braids clicking merrily. “No, I’m Amalinaú Martin.”

  Sam had stood silently throughout the exchange and Jake almost jumped out of his skin when she spoke.

  “Martin?”

  Jake asked the question Sam couldn’t. “Are you some relation of Sam Martin’s?”

  “Oh, yes.” The woman’s smile widened. “I’m Sammy’s wife.”

  Sam nearly choked. “His wife?”

  The woman’s chocolate-colored eyes went hard. She propped her fists on her hips and stared at Sam. “Yes. What business do you have here?”

  Jake jumped in. “We need to see Mr. Martin. It’s urgent”

  “Well, now, I already told you. Sammy is out.”

  Her father had remarried. She should have expected that, but it still rattled her. The woman was the complete opposite of her mother. Dark and full figured, plain but somehow exotic.

  Sam tried to gather her scattered thoughts and forced a smile for the woman’s benefit. “When will he be back?”

  “Tomorrow.” The woman’s tone was curt. “Do you know Sammy?”

  Sam exchanged glances with Jake. The concern she saw in his eyes helped calm her frayed nerves. She took a deep breath but before she could speak, the woman’s eyes widened as she studied Sam’s face.

  “You’re Sammy’s daughter.”

  It was more a statement than a question, but Sam nodded anyway. “How did you know?”

  The woman’s hand floated in the air, not quite touching Sam. “Here,” she said, gesturing at Sam’s cheek. “And here.” Her fingertips hovered above Sam’s lips. “You look so much like him.”

  Sam felt tears prick her eyes. She looked like her father. She had only the vaguest childhood recollections of him. All she could remember was a tall man, but at the age of six, everyone seemed tall. She remembered his laugh—hearty, full of life. That was how she remembered her father. A blond man with a big laugh.

  The woman’s own eyes seemed moist as she dropped her hand to her side. “Why are you here now? Why, after so long?”

  Sam wanted to scream. Why? She wanted to ask her own questions. The tears sparkled along her lashes now; she could see them reflected through the sunlight “I need his help.”

  The woman nodded, her dark eyes shuttered. “Ah. Well, he won’t be back until tomorrow.” She started past them toward the house and Jake put his hand on her arm.

  “Sam didn’t know where her father was until recently,” he said. Sam wondered why he was defending her, why his voice sounded so fiercely protective.

  “Well, now she knows.” The woman turned to look at Sam. “Come back tomorrow, Samantha. Sammy will want to see you.”

  The door closed before Sam could answer. Then she remembered. “The film!”

  Jake shook his head, his hand firmly on her elbow. “Tomorrow, Sam. You have to see your father anyway.” He glanced at the darkening sky. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”

  Sam let Jake lead her back to the van. Fletcher licked at her ear as she climbed in. Tomorrow. She had to wait another day to see the father she hardly remembered.

  Jake put the van into gear and maneuvered out of the narrow driveway. He looked over at her and she couldn’t read the expression in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “Don’t.” She waved her hand in the air, turning her face to the window. “Don’t be nice to me or I will cry.” Tears flooded her eyes and her throat felt painfully tight.

  “All right,” Jake said. “Do you want me to yell at you a little bit? Maybe tell you what a pain in the ass you are?”

  Sam managed a smile. “No, but don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get your chance.”

  Jake steered out into the busy main road, which was cluttered with cars and tourists. “You’re probably right.”

  Sam pushed thoughts of her father to the back of her mind. There was still so much to deal with. “So now what do we do?”

  “We kill time until tomorrow. Hopefully your father will get back early.”

  “And how do we go about killing time?” Sam asked as laughter drifted in the window.

  “Aw, sweetheart,” Jake drawled. “You’re in Key West. There’s no better place to kill time.” He frowned at the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Problem is, with the Conch Festival going on, I don’t know if we’re going to find a place to stay.”

  “No. Don’t say it.”

  Jake nodded. “Yep. We might have to slee
p in the van tonight”

  Sam groaned.

  As luck would have it, they were able to find a hotel that not only had a vacancy but also accepted cash. It was an added boon that they could park the van in the yard behind the inn, out of sight. The aging hippie behind the counter leered at Sam and stroked his long greasy ponytail as Jake paid the outrageously high rate.

  “Had to kick out a bunch of teenyboppers last night,” the hippie rasped around the cigar clenched between his teeth. His enormous potbelly was barely contained by a faded Deadhead T-shirt. “They were tearing up the place. Smoking, drinking. Wild kids.” He shook his head.

  Jake took the room key. “We’ll try to keep it down.”

  The hotel manager nodded, giving Jake a man-to-man wink that made Sam’s skin crawl. “Ain’t got yourself one of those moaners, huh?”

  A hot retort burned on Sam’s lips but Jake clamped his fingers around her wrist.

  “Come on, honey.” He practically dragged her out of the stuffy, smoky office. He opened the van for Fletcher and the dog bounded out, his tail wagging hard. “Let’s check out the room. I’ll get our stuff later.”

  The Flying Dolphin Inn was actually a renovated three-story house. The island-style Victorian boasted the famed gingerbread trim that Sam had seen in more than one travel spread. Unfortunately, the hotel was in the kind of disrepair that articles would refer to as the “before” shot.

  “Why didn’t you let me smack him?” she complained, rubbing her wrist as she followed him up the three flights of rickety stairs to the third-floor landing.

  “Because we need the room.”

  Jake’s key fit the lock to the only room on the third floor. The door creaked open to the smell of beer and sea salt. Fletcher pushed past them. clearly delighted at having a new place to explore.

  A double bed and an ugly, squat dresser crowded the small space. A large ceramic vase with hideous fake hibiscus blooms sat on the dresser. Bright green-and-pink tropical-print fabric covered the bed and windows, clashing with the thickly padded aqua-colored chair wedged into one corner. Sam could see the bathroom through a narrow doorway. She hoped it was clean.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Jake said, cranking the decrepit air conditioner up to full blast. He sat on the edge of the bed and the mattress sagged under his weight.

  Sam rolled her eyes. “That’s my line. Compared to my last accommodations, this is heaven.” She crossed to the window and pulled the cord on the curtains, revealing a sliding-glass door and a tiny balcony. The view took her breath away. “My, that’s gorgeous.”

  From three floors up, they had a spectacular view of the beach and ocean. Azure waves capped with white foam brought a sense of tranquillity to the dingy little room. The ocean’s roar acted as backup for the screeching gulls and the sounds of traffic Sam started when Jake touched her shoulder.

  “I never get tired of the view,” he murmured near her ear. For one heart-stopping moment, she wondered if he was talking about the ocean or her. Then she almost laughed. He sure as hell wasn’t talking about her.

  Sam moved away from the glass door, flipped on the bathroom light, and saw clean white porcelain. She sighed and said a silent prayer to the patron saint of housekeepers. The bathtub looked big enough for two.

  “Must be the honeymoon suite,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t be getting any ideas.” Jake shook his finger at her. “You heard the man. No wild behavior.”

  A tap at the door wiped the smiles off both their faces. Jake’s hand reflexively patted his waist where the gun had been. He’d tucked it back in the duffel bag when they’d gotten to the hotel.

  “Damn!” he swore softly and Fletcher’s low woof echoed him.

  “Now what?” Sam asked, wondering how many bones she’d break, jumping out a third-story window.

  “Answer the door.”

  Jake stood beside the door, tension in every muscle, as Sam called, “Who’s there?”

  A muffled voice replied, “Maid service.”

  Jake nodded for Sam to open the door. “Slowly,” he mouthed.

  Cracking the door, Sam looked out. Sure enough, a young woman stood there with a stack of towels in her arms. “For tomorrow,” she said, handing the towels over when Sam showed no signs of moving away from the door. “You might want to go to the beach. It’s supposed to be a beautiful day.”

  “Thanks.” Sam grabbed the towels and closed the door on the woman’s surprised expression. She made a face at Jake. “It was the maid. Imagine that.”

  Jake locked the door, but the flimsy hardware didn’t look like it would be much protection. Sam wondered if Fletcher had any hidden guard-dog talents he’d yet to reveal.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Jake said.

  “Right. Now we have towels, we have a room and we have nowhere to be until tomorrow morning. Now what?”

  He gave her the once-over before answering. She must look like a refugee. “I’d suggest a shower and some clean clothes.”

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten. All I have is a couple of shirts and the jeans I was wearing earlier.” She shook her head. “I am not putting those jeans back on.”

  Jake’s blue eyes darkened like a sky before a thunderstorm. “Then I guess I’ll have to buy you something to wear.” His voice was deep and throaty. A quivering awareness traveled up Sam’s spine.

  “You don’t have to,” she protested.

  “You can’t walk around here naked,” he growled. He stepped over to the dresser and pulled open drawers until he came up with a pen and a pad of paper with the inn’s name printed across it. He handed it to her. “Write down what size you wear. Shoe size, too.”

  “Jake, really.”

  “Just do it.”

  Sam hesitated for a moment Now was not the time for feminine vanity. She hurriedly scribbled her clothing and shoe sizes and handed it back to him. She felt warmth creep into her cheeks when he glanced at the paper and his eyebrows shot up.

  “You look smaller,” was all he said.

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  Jake left with Fletcher on his heels. “I’ll be back soon,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to get into trouble ”

  Chapter 9

  Key West was alive. Jake loved everything about the town, from the sunburned tourists picking out seashell souvenirs that weren’t even from this continent, much less Key West, to the strange assortment of street vendors hawking their wares.

  Fletcher kept pace beside him, his tail in constant motion. Over the past couple of years, Jake hadn’t gotten out much, preferring solitude to crowds. But Fletcher seemed to be having a ball on their little adventure.

  “Having fun, Fletch?” Jake murmured to the excited mutt. Jake knew how he felt. After being cooped up in the van for hours, it felt good to stretch his legs. His knee ached a little, the scar tissue pulling taut with every step.

  He found his way back to Sam’s father’s house easily The house stood still and quiet, and he hoped Amalinaú Martin was still around. Rapping twice on the door, he waited.

  “You’re back?” the woman asked, eyeing him suspiciously through a narrow crack in the door. “I told you Sammy won’t be home until tomorrow.”

  Jake nodded, pulling Fletcher back as he lunged in friendly curiosity. “I know. I thought you could help me.”

  The door opened a crack wider. “What can I do for you?”

  Jake looked behind him, scanning the street. He expected Sam to show up at any moment. He turned back to Amalinaú and forced a smile. “Samantha mailed a package to her father about a month or so ago.”

  She nodded. “Right after the letter telling Sammy she was coming. Then she didn’t come.” Her voice hardened. “Sammy was so hurt when she didn’t show up.”

  “Yes, well, Samantha got into some trouble. She couldn’t come.”

  Amalinaú’s dark eyes went wide “Trouble? With the police?”

  “Something like that. But it was a misunderstanding.”

&n
bsp; The suspicion in her eyes didn’t fade. “And who are you?”

  Jake hesitated. Just who the hell was he to Sam? “I’m a friend.” As an afterthought, he added, “A cop.”

  Her face cleared a little. “So what do you want?”

  “I need the package Samantha sent. It has something that will help her take care of this problem.”

  She nodded. “I remember the package. Sammy didn’t say what it was.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  Fletcher pulled at his leash, anxious to explore all the new smells the dim interior offered. Jake shrugged apologetically. “Maybe we should stay out here.”

  Amalinaú stooped to pet Fletcher. “It’s all right. Rover will love him.”

  Jake followed her into the house, right behind Fletcher. The small bungalow was decorated in bright shades of yellow and green. White wicker furniture filled the narrow living room. Fletcher moved about as much as his leash would allow, sniffing every surface.

  Amalinaú smiled at the dog before turning a more serious expression on Jake. “Come with me. I’ll see if I can find the package.”

  She disappeared into another room that, from the looks of it, was an office. Jake and Fletcher followed her. The space was dominated by a large pine desk, overloaded with papers and books. Shelves lined three of the walls, crammed with everything from an ancient-looking set of encyclopedias to a recent copy of the latest thriller. But it was the fourth wall that caught Jake’s attention.

  Pictures were hung so closely together that they looked like wallpaper. Most of them were black-and-white but an occasional color photo stood out. Some looked like newspaper clippings, others were glossies.

  Jake moved closer to examine the pictures while Amalinaú rifled through the papers on the desk. The photographs were as vaned as Sammy Martin’s reading material. Many were candid shots of people. In one, two young Asian girls played next to a river. In another, a teenage boy smoked a cigarette and stared defiantly at the camera. Still another showed three young men toting guns, one of them with blood streaming from a shoulder wound.

  “Those are Samantha’s pictures,” Amalinaú said softly