by Melissa Good
Tropical Storm
Melissa Good
Yellow Rose Books
Nederland, Texas
ALSO BY MELISSA GOOD
Dar and Kerry Series
Tropical Storm
Hurricane Watch
Eye of the Storm
Red Sky At Morning
Thicker Than Water
Terrors of the High Seas
Copyright © 1999 by Melissa Good
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-932300-60-4
Third Edition
"author's cut" edition, revised, and expanded First Printing 2006
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design by Donna Pawlowski
Published by:
Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC
4700 Highway 365, Suite A
PMB 210
Port Arthur, Texas 77642
Find us on the World Wide Web at
http://www.regalcrest.biz
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter
One
THE ALARM BURRED softly, nudging the somnolent figure sprawled over the waterbed toward wakefulness. One long arm reached over and slapped the snooze bar, then moved back to its resting place, even though the pre-dawn gloom reflected off pale eyes that were already open, and gazing at the dull white of the ceiling.
Tiny clicks and hisses of the ice machine in the kitchen and the soft hum of the central air cycling were the only sounds that stirred the darkness, save for the soft breathing of the occupant of the bed. Finally, that breathing expanded into a sigh, and the waveless mattress rustled as the tall figure rolled up out of bed, and padded across polished teak wood floors into a pale salmon, marble-floored bathroom. The light flicked on, causing an audible groan, then the water ran in the marble sink, splashing loudly as it hit warm skin.
The reluctant riser finished wiping off the excess water with a soft towel, then faced its reflection. “Morning.” Pale blue eyes set in an angular, high-cheekboned face looked back, framed in dark, shoulder-length hair that just now was lying in disordered layers above a high, strong forehead. The voice was a warm contralto, slightly hoarse from sleep, and the lips that formed the word quirked into an ironic smile as they got no answer.
The light from the bathroom streamed across the wooden floor, guiding the tall woman’s way as she moved through the bedroom and into the living room beyond. She stepped barefoot across the soft Berber rugs scattered over the warm ceramic tiles and ended up in the kitchen.
Another flick and the recessed lighting came on, bringing the rich blue and white room to life, gleaming dully off the royal blue tile countertops and the rippled surface of the white appliances. Only the refrigerator was out of scheme—it was stainless steel, as befitted its commercial origins.
On the countertop, next to a sleek coffee machine and a well-used blender, was a computer terminal, dark except for a blinking box in the lower right corner. “On,” she told it. “Mail.”
“Mail,” it obediently responded. “Dar Roberts, six messages, two urgent.”
“Read.” She yawned, and moved to the coffee machine, punching the On button and watching as the slow stream of water impacted the grounds she’d prepared the night before. In the background, the computer patiently read her messages.
2 Melissa Good Urgent
Sent by: John Dierhdoh
Subject: Associated Synergenics
Time: 4:32 AM.
Hey, Dar, the Associated Synergenics deal went
through. They passed diligence late last night, so we need to get a pirate squad in there. Lucky for me it’s in your neck of the woods. Let me know how the raping and pillaging goes, all right?
John D.
“Mmm.” Dar turned around, and leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not bad...not bad. Next.”
Urgent
Sent by: Lou Draefus
Subject: Preliminary Budgets
Time: 2:53 AM.
Dar—
The preliminary budgets are in. We’re counting on
your talents to make them fit. Call me when you get in the office.
Duks.
“Damn.” Dar sighed. “Dukky, you know I hate budgets. Just give me a damn number, and I’ll fit it in. Don’t make me argue all morning over how many pencils to allocate to the damn SBU.”
“Do you wish to send reply?” the computer inquired, having caught her preprogrammed keyword “Dukky.”
Dar checked the transcript of what it had just recorded. “Send.”
“Thank you,” the computer replied. “Next message…” It continued, going over more ordinary matters while she grabbed a bowl and poured cereal into it, then opened the refrigerator and held the bowl under a milk dispenser, listening to the pleasant crackle as the liquid infiltrated between the dry flakes. She applied a spoon to her breakfast and leaned back against the counter again as the messages finished playing. “Only six. Not bad.”
The computer chimed. “Incoming meeting request: Video, Alastair M.”
Dar silently cursed under her breath, then sighed. “Go.” A light popped on the small egg-shaped camera on the top of the monitor, and a picture window opened up on the screen, displaying a cherubic, round-faced man in his mid-fifties, dressed immaculately in gray pinstripe with a dark blue tie perfectly knotted around his thick neck. His hands were folded on the mahogany desk in front of him. When his eyes shifted to his own screen and saw her, a smile edged onto his fatherly features.
“Now that’s the way I like to start my morning. Dar Roberts in her underwear,” the Chairman of the Board chortled.
Dar continued to eat, merely giving him a look. “You just broke EEOC, Alastair. We’re gonna have to do something about you someday.” It was a Tropical Storm 3
joke and they both knew it. EEOC was strictly adhered to in the company, up to a certain level. Once employees got beyond that, they became “one of the boys” and were expected to develop a thick skin along with it. Dar, as a corporate vice president, was beyond that level, and so had to put up with remarks about her looks from the upper echelon all the time. Fortunately, she considered, at least they’re compliments. She’d heard the cruel remarks directed towards a few of the other senior women execs, especially Ellen Evans in Finance, who was battling a weight problem among other things.
Alastair chuckled. “You can do anything you like to me, sweetheart, anytime. Just call Bea and have her schedule you up here, all right?”
The tall, dark-haired woman crossed her legs. “Careful, Alastair. At your age, you gotta watch your heart. I don’t think you could handle me.” This kind of verbal sparring was something she frequently enjoyed with the CEO, and she suspected he did as well.
The chairman grinned. “Don’t you worry, I’ll have a Viagra milkshake beforehand.” Then he cleared his throat. “All right, enough fun, though I’m enjoying both the view and the conversation. That Associated deal.” Now his hazel eyes went serious, almost predatory. “I need it in at fifty percent, Dar.”
Dar stopped chewing for a minute, and stared at him. “Fifty? Do you want to also continue to do business, or just scrap them?”
The company acquired accounts by offering to outsource their business at a lesser cost. When they took over, it was up to Dar, and other execs at her level, to scour the resources they took over and find a
way to meet that cost, the usual method being to cut staff, which was always the biggest expense in the IT field. Ten to twenty percent was their average cost reduction, though Dar was famous for pushing the line, and had achieved thirty-five percent in her last two accounts. “If it’s scrap, I’ll just turn it over to Duk’s folks, and forget about it,” she said, “ I’m not going to waste my time counting pennies out there.”
Alastair shook his gray head. “I need it, Dar. We’ve got the stockholders meeting coming up in two months, and I have to post third quarter before that. With the budget the way it is, and that fiasco with United Telecom, either you give me Associated at fifty percent, or we’re not going to show double-digit growth, and you know what that means.” He gave her a smile. “C’mon, I know you can do it. And when you do, I’ve got a little surprise for you.”
Dar sighed. “No more surprises, Alastair, huh? The last time you almost killed me when you made me drive that damn Lincoln down here.”
“Tch tch...grumpy this morning, aren’t we?” The CEO laughed. “No. It’s better than that, I promise.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Dar promised grudgingly.
“Atta girl. You know, Dar, you set such a good example for everyone else.” Alastair leaned back and regarded her. “What a poster child you are—
beautiful, healthy, crunching on your granola there.”
Dar glanced up at the blue cereal box, with the lurid tiger waving a spoon at her, and smiled. “Oh yeah.”
“You have to come out to Houston one of these days and teach my wife some of your tricks.”
“I hate Houston, Alastair,” Dar commented, finishing up her bowl and 4 Melissa Good setting it into the stainless steel sink, then turning and grabbing a cup for her coffee.
The CEO grinned. “I’ll forgive you for saying that, just for that nice view, Dar,” he teased, “One of the perks of my job, I tell ya.”
Dar lifted her cup and gave him a wry look. “Nice seeing you too, Alastair.”
“Fifty percent, Dar,” the older man stated with a wave. “See ya.” The screen went dark.
“End meeting.” She sighed and watched the computer close the session down. “Happy Monday,” she muttered, as she took her cup and opened the sliding glass door that led out to her second-story balcony. The wind was coming in from the east, blowing back her hair and pressing her T-shirt against her body. She set her cup down on the small stone table and went to the railing, leaning on it and looking out over the rock-filled jetty to the endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
The air was full of salt and thick with moisture, and she breathed it in, letting the familiarity soothe her as she listened to the rhythmic sound of the surf against the coral rocks that made up the base of the island on which she lived. In the east, the horizon displayed a gray, cloud-studded line over the still darkened sea, and it was so quiet she could hear the soft clanging of boat tie downs from the nearby marina. A gull swooped overhead, its feathers whipping the thick air as it soared along the coral, searching for food.
Dar reached behind her and picked up her mug, curling her hands around the ceramic surface and taking a sip of the flavored, pungent beverage.
She enjoyed the peace of early morning, and if she didn’t turn her head to see the long Miami Beach skyline rising to her left, she could imagine she was out in the Caribbean somewhere, viewing the sunrise.
Her condominium was a split-level townhouse, sharing a cluster with four other residents here on the outer eastern shore of the small island. The outer walls were reinforced steel and concrete, neatly designed and landscaped to simulate quaint adobe, but meeting current hurricane codes as was mandatory in Dade County.
That meant low, sloping roofs and all-concrete block construction, and a challenge for high-class architects to make buildings look less like bunkers, but Dar had spent one Category Five hurricane in the place, and she was glad to skip on the glamour in trade for having the walls stay put around her.
Fisher Island was an exclusive community, offering large oceanfront residences for those who could afford to pay unbelievable prices for them. Dar was thankful that she had inherited hers. She had seen the price tags for them, and found it hard to believe someone would spend five million dollars for what amounted to an apartment. Even a really, really nice apartment, with five bedrooms and three bathrooms, and a gorgeous kitchen, which she seldom used.
She could afford it. Being the VP Ops of the largest computer services company in the world garnered her a very healthy paycheck, but it was the principle of the thing.
“Thanks, Aunt May.” She toasted her departed, much-beloved aunt with her coffee. May Roberts had been something of a sensation in the family, Tropical Storm 5
marrying four men and burying them all, all the while adding to her considerable bank balance. She’d bought the condo as an investment and occasionally rented it out, but had willed it to her niece on her death, correctly figuring it was better for Dar to live here than in “that horrible Grove.”
The little place among the jasmine and ficus was far more Dar’s style: a studio, with a hot plate and huge bay windows, and worn real wood floors that had fifty years of dogs’ nail marks in them. She’d been able to walk to the waterside and wander through the area’s sometimes oddball residents and not feel out of place in her hiking sandals and cutoffs.
No one had to know she was a corporate big shot. She liked it that way.
Dar studied the horizon. She could have rented this place out when May died, and kept living where she was, but it had occurred vaguely to her that she might want to have a party someday and the condo had a lot more space for that.Plus the view from the porch of the Atlantic to the horizon was priceless.
After several years of residing in the middle of the eclectic artists’
community to the south, the change had taken some getting used to, but Dar had finally decided she liked the island. It was accessible only by car ferry.
She could get away from the city there and spend some time in quiet solitude without fights, and crime, or even noisy neighbors. Five million dollar apartments had thick walls.
The maintenance fees were outrageous, and accounted for all the island’s amenities, but they were less than the rent she’d been paying in the Grove, so it had worked out for her in the end. She found herself enjoying a lifestyle she’d never considered attempting, and even had fun watching the upper crust socialites who populated the island at their strange social rituals.
The sun turned the horizon coral pink, and before her eyes, the sea slowly moved from inky black, to fluttered dark gray, to a deep, rich green. The offshore current was lightly choppy, breaking the surface up into ripples, and she took a breath of the sea air with a sense of pleasure.
Its ever-changing, elemental nature had always appealed to her, and she often spent her early mornings in the peace of its uneven rhythm before she went on with her problem-filled, hectic days.
“Well, time to get moving.” She finished her coffee, then slipped inside the glass doors, moving from the warm humidity to chill air conditioning with a tiny shiver. The tile floor was cool against her bare feet, and she went quickly to the walk-in closet, shedding her T-shirt and exchanging it for her workout gear, which consisted of a pair of running shorts and a snug sports top.
She pulled her hair back and put a band around it, then sat down to put on her shoes, tugging the laces and tying them with efficient fingers. “I don’t think your wife would like my fitness secrets, Alastair,” she remarked to herself wryly. “They involve sweat, and lots of it.”
With a sigh, she stood and walked over to the small closet just inside the alcove where the stairs came up. She ducked inside to pull out a set of wrist and ankle weights, which she fastened into place carefully. Then she slipped down the stairs and unlocked the front door, locking it behind her as she emerged onto the small porch outside the condo. A dozen stairs led down to 6 Melissa Good the underground parking. She dodged underneath, endin
g up on the path that meandered down towards the water.
The island was about a mile across and roughly round in shape. She made it her habit to circle it four times, rain or shine, even in the wicked downpours subtropical Miami sometimes provided. With a sigh, she began to jog and headed off around the path.
It paralleled the Atlantic, at first, going on in front of clusters of condos much like the one her own was in. The architecture was mellow Mediterranean, with barrel tile roofs and adobe-style walls, and the buildings seemed to blend in to the surroundings. The landscaping, rich with salt-tolerant bushes, was neatly kept and perfectly trimmed, and she could see where beds of winter flowers were being planted to give a bit of variety to the scene.
Artificial variety. Winter had little meaning here, the one or two months of relief from the tropical heat and constant thunderstorms rarely providing more than a day or two of mild sweater weather. Seasons didn’t truly exist.
Once past the condos, she was moving in front of the beach club, with its rustic-style restaurant, and the small, if pristine, white sand beach that bordered it. Chaise lounges were already set up, the beach boys sweeping sand off their surfaces; the workers waved a familiar hello to her as she passed.
Then up onto the coral deck and past the old mansion, once owned by the Vanderbilts, which housed the main restaurant and club bar, its coral-surfaced saltwater pool glinting in the dawn light. Peacocks wandered over the pool deck and ruffled at her as she passed, letting out an occasional startled cry which split the air at odd intervals.
More condos next, then the triple-slipped marina, at this time of year crowded with boats bobbing gently on the waves. Some were sailboats, their sails furled under cover, and some were large motor yachts, ships really, which had multiple decks edged out in polished mahogany.
The back side of the island wasn’t so glamorous, since it faced the long series of piers that made up the Port of Miami, where trade from all over the Caribbean and South America docked long barges and cargo ships, and the towering rows of unloaders clanked gently in the breeze, as yet inactive.
That led around to the side, which faced Government Cut, the main shipping channel into the Port, where the car ferries had to cross to get to the terminal on McArthur Causeway. It was also the main entrance for all the cruise ships, and as Dar rounded the corner, she found herself passing Sovereign of the Seas on its way into port, its green glass windows reflecting the dawn light back at her. A few early risers on deck waved at her, but she kept her eyes forward and didn’t acknowledge them.
