Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Roxanne St. Claire. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Barefoot Bay remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Roxanne St. Claire, or their affiliates or licensors.
For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds
Flight Risk
A Barefoot Bay Kindle World Novella
By Karen Ann Dell
A Message from Roxanne St. Claire
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Barefoot Bay Kindle World, a place for authors to write their own stories set in the tropical paradise that I created! For these books, I have only provided the setting of Mimosa Key and a cast of characters from my popular Barefoot Bay series. That’s it! I haven’t contributed to the plotting, writing, or editing of Flight Risk. This book is entirely the work of Karen Ann Dell, an author who is no stranger to the sands of Barefoot Bay.
Readers who love a touch of suspense on the sands of Barefoot Bay are going to adore this FBI agent who gets stung in his own “sting operation” – by love. With plenty of sizzling chemistry and heart-stopping danger, Karen Ann Dell delivers an unforgettable romantic suspense.
Roxanne St. Claire
PS. If you’re interested in the rest of the Barefoot Bay Kindle World novels, or would like to explore the possibility of writing your own book set in my world, visit http://www.roxannestclaire.com for details!
Other Books by Karen Ann Dell
The Blue Point Cove Series
Hers by Request
His by Design
Theirs by Chance
Healing Hearts Series
Rehab for the Heart
Barefoot Bay Kindle World Novellas
Double Play
A Family for the Holidays
Acknowledgments
As always, my heartfelt thanks to Roxanne St. Claire for creating the wonderful world of Barefoot Bay, where I’ve spent many a happy and thrilling hour enjoying her stories. I am so pleased to write my own tales in this beautiful setting.
Also my thanks go to Craig Hildebrand and Jessica Williams for their input on aircraft, charter jets and flying in general. Any errors in that department are strictly my own.
To my first readers and tireless cheerleaders, Darlene, Hilde and Karen, thanks for all the encouragement, comments and support. A special thanks to Lucy Lakestone, a fine author herself, whose insight truly helps my books become the best they can be. And last, but never, ever, least, my editor Chris Kridler who helps mind my p’s and q’s (that’s punctuation and quotes, dear readers!) when she’s not out chasing storms. Find her books and see her awesome photographs at skydiary.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
A Message from Roxanne St. Claire
Other books by Karen Ann Dell
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER ONE
Owen watched as Ari—Ali—Angi… What the hell 1s her name? Arianna, yeah, that’s it. Arianna sauntered across the lobby, slowly enough to give whoever might be watching a good look at her long legs, shoulder-length blond hair, and the form-fitting, ultra-short dress that showcased her abundant charms. She disappeared through the archway into the dim recesses of Rick’s Cafe Americain, the appellation a nod to Bogart’s famous watering hole, at the Moroccan-themed Casa Blanca Resort & Spa.
Her brother was nowhere in sight. Excellent. Arianna was greenhorn-agent Hank’s favorite type—curvy, gorgeous, and narcissistic. Her IQ might be on the lower edge of normal, but that would only make things easier. Yeah, Hank could handle this.
Owen pulled out his cell phone and texted the FBI newbie as he angled across the lobby to glance into the bar. “Your blond bombshell target is at the end of the bar in Rick’s. Alone.”
“Check.” Hank believed in brevity.
Mission accomplished, Owen returned to the registration desk. A glance at the clock behind it showed 4:40.
The employee on duty offered a smile with his soft-spoken greeting. “Welcome to Casa Blanca Resort & Spa, sir. How may I help you?”
“My name is Owen Ziegfeld. I have an appointment with Lacey Walker at 4:45. Would you let her know I’m here, please?”
“Certainly, sir.” The young man moved a few steps away and picked up the phone. After a muted conversation, he returned to Owen. “I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Walker is still in a meeting. She shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes and apologizes for keeping you waiting. Would you care to wait out on the deck? Or in the bar, perhaps? Casa Blanca will gladly pick up your tab. Or, if your schedule is unable to accommodate the delay, she could meet with you tomorrow morning.”
The flight from the Hamptons had been long, cursed with bad weather that required re-routing around the winter storm making its way up from Philadelphia. He was tired, wanted a shower and a stiff drink, and was more than happy to put off his meeting until the morning. Besides, he wanted to watch the fledgling agent make his approach to the “target.” It promised to be interesting. Hank had two things going for him. He sounded like James Bond and was handsome enough to pull off the part.
That, unfortunately, was where the resemblance ended.
“I understand. Please tell Ms. Walker I’ll see her tomorrow morning. Say, around 9 a.m.?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll let her know.” He nodded, then turned his attention to an older couple, whose clothing, luggage, and demeanor proclaimed their membership in the one percent.
Exactly the type of clientele Owen wanted to attract to his charter jet company. If he could get an endorsement from the management at this high-end resort, he could look forward to shuttling the rich and possibly famous from the cold, dreary northeast to the bright, sunny oasis that was the Casa Blanca Resort & Spa.
The resort was located on Mimosa Key, a long, narrow strip of land off Florida’s west coast connected to the mainland by a causeway just north of Naples. His sister, Sky, worked for the minor league baseball team that three billionaires had recently put together. Their brand new stadium was housed on the northern tip of the key. Sky had encouraged him to talk to Lacey Walker about providing charter service to the resort, as well as small-plane sightseeing tours of the local area from Tampa south to Key West.
Her idea fit perfectly with Mark’s request to keep an eye out for unusual boat traffic in the Gulf of Mexico.
How an old Air Force buddy, now a special agent for the FBI, had hunted him down and talked him into this cloak and dagger bullshit was a story for another day. His participation would be minimal, Mark had promised, doing mostly what he already did: providing air service along the east coast to those wealthy enough to afford to charter a jet, but not quite in the class of owning their own. There would be a decent financial reward, thanks to Uncle Sam, which would help him cover the payments on his growing fleet.
He wandered out to the deck, where suntanned men and scantily clad women of all ages had gathered to get
a head start on happy hour. The deck bled off onto a white sand beach against which clear, turquoise water lapped gently in the afternoon sun.
Beats the hell out of Philly in January. I really should fly the folks down here for a vacation. The idea of his surgeon father taking a vacation made him chuckle to himself. He never remembered his mom and dad going anywhere for more than a long weekend.
Owen claimed a stool at the bar on the deck and waited to see Hank appear from one of the villas the agency had rented as his cover. “Jameson’s. Neat,” he replied to the bartender’s greeting. Which got him a nod and fast service with minimal conversation. The employees here knew when to chat and when to respect a customer’s desire for solitude. Yeah, he could definitely see the advantages of taking a turn in the left seat to fly down here every few weeks.
A few minutes later, Hank strolled down the shaded path that led from the private villas. He crossed the deck without a hint of recognition as he passed Owen and went inside. Owen leisurely finished his drink, tossed a twenty on the bar, and casually meandered back through the lobby to Rick’s. The cool, dim interior was a welcome relief from the bright heat of the deck, and the decor was an artful replica of the famous movie’s bar. The bartender, however, was a knockout redhead who did awesome things to a pair of black pants, a starched white shirt and a black vest.
Owen stopped short when he saw that Hank was already deep into charm mode with a beautiful woman sitting at one end of the bar.
The wrong end.
He couldn’t blame the man, though. Mink-brown hair cut short sleekly capped her head and accented her long, graceful neck. The sleeveless sheath she wore clung to her slender body, and the well-defined biceps and triceps on display indicated she was toned as well as trim. Doe eyes, deep brown and fringed with long, thick lashes, tilted up at the outer corners, giving a slightly exotic appearance to her heart-shaped face. Her plump lips curved up in a smile as she chatted with Hank. He nodded to the bartender to refresh the woman’s drink, and Owen watched with interest as she curled her hand into a fist, took a pinch of salt from the small dish and deposited it in the depression between her thumb and index finger. Without any hesitation, she bit into the slice of lime, licked salt from the tiny well, and tossed back the shot of tequila. Hank did a fair job of covering his surprise as the woman circled the shot glass with a finger and nodded to the bartender for another refill.
Okay, this was not part of the plan. Owen slipped his phone from his pocket and texted rapidly. “Wrong woman. Urs at other end of bar.” He waited for the text to hit Hank’s phone. When the “Goldfinger” ring tone sounded, Hank tapped his jacket pocket to silence it without reading the message. Great. Had Hank missed the whole blond bombshell description? He had to steer him to the other end of the bar, where the woman he needed to enchant sat alone. That wouldn’t last long, if Owen read the interest in the eyes of the man two stools away correctly.
He sighed. So much for minimal participation.
Just as Hank reached over and caressed Doe Eyes’ arm, Owen clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, old buddy, how are you? I’ve been trying to reach you, and you’ve been ignoring me.” He gave the woman an approving once-over and addressed his next sentence to her. “I’m sorry to interrupt, miss, but I was in charge of orchestrating a blind date for Hank, and she’s sitting at the other end of the bar.” He swiveled Hank in that direction and gave him a gentle shove. “The lady sitting over there is Mark’s sister. You’d better go introduce yourself.” She wasn’t actually Mark’s sister, but he knew using Special Agent in Charge Mark Rossman’s name would get his message across.
Hank’s eyes widened in alarm. “Sorry, old chap,” he said, his British accent deepening with dismay as he resisted Owen’s maneuver. “I thought you said the beautiful woman sitting at the bar …”
“I can certainly understand your confusion,” Owen agreed. “This young lady more than fits the description, but that one’s yours.”
“But she … I …” His gaze ping-ponged between the two women. “Bollocks, O. I already—” He tapped the back of Owen’s arm and grimaced.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, Hank had already put the drug patch on this woman. The man could screw up the simplest plans. He indicated Doe Eyes and murmured, “You go. I’ll take care of her.”
“Right-o.” Hank grimaced, gave Owen a telling look and blurted an apology. “I’m so terribly sorry, my dear. I must go, though it was lovely having met you.” He gave her a closer look. “Will you be all right to drive home?”
Owen now realized how thoroughly Hank had screwed the pooch. The dose of drug in that patch was carefully calculated for the buxom broad at the other end of the bar, who was three inches taller and easily twenty pounds heavier than Doe Eyes. Considering she’d had already had three drinks, the muscle relaxant she already absorbed through her skin would hit her like a freight train. This whole deal was spiraling out of control. “Don’t worry, old chap.” He glared as he emphasized the British term with a touch of sarcasm. “I’ll make sure the lady gets home safely.”
Hank nodded and hurried toward the blonde, casting a last pleading look over his shoulder at Owen.
Owen turned to find Doe Eyes on her feet and glaring at him.
“Out of my way, mister. I don’t need any help from you.” She shoved at his chest.
~~~
Miranda frowned. Who the hell was this guy? Besides a jerk who refused to move and thought he could take care of her.
She’d been having a nice conversation with Hank, whose dashing good looks and charming banter would make the heart of any woman under the age of ninety beat faster. And, okay, she’d admit it. She was a sucker for a British accent. After his first come-on line—which she couldn’t remember at the moment—she was completely enthralled.
Her week had been disappointing, to say the least, and the call from her stepdad had put the puke icing on her shitstorm of a day. Which was why she had stopped on her way out to have a drink at Rick’s and let Janey, the bartender, console her with a tequila shot. Or two. Hank’s arrival had not only cheered her up, it had reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in … Oh God, was it over a year, now?
Exasperated at her sudden abandonment, Miranda shoved the interloper in the chest again. And got about the same result she would have if she attempted to move Mount Rushmore. She was strong. She knew that because her personal trainer praised her progress over the last six months. So why didn’t this joker get out of her way when she pushed him?
Her gaze climbed Mount Rushmore’s broad chest, past the strong column of his neck, pausing only briefly at the squared jaw and delicious-looking mouth, and stopped abruptly at a pair of slate-blue eyes, one partially hidden behind a rogue wave of blond hair. Holy shit! This guy wasn’t Mount Rushmore. He was … Thor! The resemblance was so good, she almost looked for the damned hammer before she realized something was wrong.
Very, very wrong.
Maybe she shouldn’t have had that third shot of Patron.
Because she seemed a lot more relaxed than three shots of tequila would make her. Her arms felt leaden, and as she reached for her purse, the right one ached. She looked down at it and saw a small round patch, like a Band-Aid, on the inside of her elbow. Right where Hank had laid his nice, warm hand.
What the …? Had the Brit drugged her with something?
Her already racing heart went into overdrive, which only served to speed the drug through her system. The wave hit her knees like a linebacker at a Thursday night NFL game, and they buckled, plopping her back down on the barstool with a jolt. She sagged forward and smacked her nose against Thor’s chest as her arms slid limply to her sides.
“Okay, don’t panic, miss, I’ve got you,” Thor whispered in her ear. He gathered her up much as she would her dirty laundry, making sure nothing was left behind, tucking stray sleeves and pant legs into a cohesive bundle. “I will personally pound Hank into a bloody puddle for making such a stupid mistake, but first I want to get y
ou home safely.”
Well, isn’t this nice? Did this man, whose name I still don’t know, think I’d be fine with his plan to haul me out of the place where I work and where people know me? If only she could move her damn limbs, she’d punch him in the face or knee him in his balls.
Her brain seemed to be clicking along just fine, so she hadn’t been given GHB or some other knockout drug. Whatever its name, she’d been dosed with a fast-acting, potent concoction that made her muscles feel like overcooked linguine. She was rapidly becoming as pliant as a Raggedy Ann doll. Her heart kept beating at an alarming rate, no doubt due to the adrenaline flooding her system, but her breathing became shallow. With enormous effort, she sucked in a lungful of air, tinged with this guy’s spicy cologne. Fear kicked her heartrate into the stratosphere, and she desperately tried to communicate her diminished respiratory ability to Thor, who was busy gallantly assuring Janey that he wasn’t a serial killer and would make sure Miranda got home okay.
“I think that last shot was a bit too much on an empty stomach,” he suggested. “Except for a wicked hangover, she should be fine by morning.” Surreptitiously, he peeled the dot from her arm and stuffed it in his pocket. He laid a couple of twenties on the bar.
Miranda waved her hand feebly to get Janey’s attention, but the movement looked more like a wave goodbye than a cry for help. A bout of hiccups served to confirm her condition of drunken stupor, and her final attempt to punch Thor in the stomach came across as a friendly pat.
Goddamn it. How long would this shit last? Hank, the handsome Brit, surely hadn’t intended to kill her, so what the hell was going on?
The next thing she knew, the low, late afternoon sun blinded her as Thor belted her into the passenger seat of a rental car. He slid into the driver’s seat and reached over to go through her purse, coming up with her wallet.
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