Chantal, Jillian - Surfer Bride (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Jillian Chantal

  Quincy caught a cab to Marta’s hotel. She had the cabbie wait as she went upstairs to help Marta with her luggage and the massive amount of statues she’d bought the evening before after their celebration dinner. Marta had treated Quincy to a fine meal, both to celebrate the new contract and to celebrate her win at the competition. They’d gone back to the man’s “factory” in the street, and Marta loaded up on the little wooden statues. She even had to go to one of the late night markets to buy another suitcase to pack them all in. Quincy had laughed at her friend’s folly.

  When Quincy got upstairs in the hotel, she jogged down the hallway and tapped on the door of Marta’s room. “Open up, Princess Buddha. Time to go.”

  Marta opened the door and peered out, bleary eyed. “Do you have to be so chipper at dawn? Seems illegal to me.”

  “You’re usually the one with the perkiness issues. Didn’t you get enough sleep?” Quincy pushed past her and into the room.

  “Nope. Had to pack all those statues. Make sure they were wrapped good.”

  “Speaking of good, it’s a good thing we have a private plane. It’d be a real hassle to carry all that crap through the airport. This way, the car just takes us to the plane and we move the stuff over. The nice thing about a private plane is the private hangar. No dragging bags down the endless corridors of the airport.” She stood among Marta’s bags and looked at them. Quincy shook her head.

  Marta leaned over and peered in Quincy’s eyes. “Is that you in there? Thought you hated the idea of a private plane. And I’ll have you know, my stuff is not crap.”

  Quincy had the grace to giggle. “Seems like I’m getting used to the idea already.” She made a face. “God, am I gonna be a spoiled prima donna?”

  “I hope not. I hope you can stay humble.”

  Quincy snorted. “I think I’ll always be a wahine, not an aristocratic sophisticate like Percy wants me to be.”

  “Why marry a man who wants you to change?”

  “Oh, Marta, he hasn’t asked me to change. I’ll still be surfing. Even after the kids come, I’ll still be surfing.”

  “Hard to surf in downtown London. And I’m afraid after the kids come, Percy won’t let you leave home.”

  “Very funny. He actually enjoys my surfing. And who knows, as much as I want kids, I may never want to leave them.”

  “I hope you’re happy with your marriage, Quincy. I know you deserve it. You’ve had a rough time, and it’s your chance to have something good happen to you.”

  Quincy looked at her agent who was also her friend. “I know. I lost my parents, found Finn and then lost him. I really feel like now is my time.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, God, speaking of time, I left that cab driver downstairs. We gotta go.”

  They each grabbed a couple of bags and made their way down the hallway to the elevator.

  When the ladies came through the door of the hotel, the cab driver rushed to open the trunk of the car. They couldn’t get all the bags in the trunk along with Quincy’s boards. Marta ended up in the front seat with the driver with one bag on her lap and one edged sideways between her and the driver. Quincy was in the back with three bags and had about a half inch of seat to sit in. The driver had put a bungee cord on the trunk to keep the items in the back in the vehicle.

  Quincy could barely sit still on the long drive. She kept getting an attack of the giggles. “Marta, this is a story I’m going to tell for years. My kids are even gonna hear about this ride to the airport.”

  Marta couldn’t look back at Quincy since she was surrounded by all the luggage. “What’s so funny?”

  “You and your crazy souvenirs. This is completely insane. I don’t even have enough room for one cheek on this seat. It’s nuts.”

  “Oh, hush. You know I have your wedding present in here.”

  “Please, God, no.” Quincy collapsed in giggles again.

  Marta sat in a huff the rest of the way to the airport.

  When the cab pulled into the hangar where the jet was parked, the driver jumped out to open the back door where Quincy sat behind him.

  Quincy got out of the car with difficulty and stretched her legs. She did a couple of deep knee bends and arched her back. “Thank God the trip wasn’t any longer. I feel like a pretzel.” She walked over to the front passenger side where Marta was still seated. “Let me go aboard and tell the steward that we need help with all the baggage. You wait here.”

  Quincy walked up the metal staircase to the plane. As soon as she stepped on board and into the cabin, she heard sirens. They seemed to be echoing off the metal walls of the hangar. What the hell? Wonder what that’s all about. She looked around the plane. She’d been on it before, of course. Nothing looked remotely out of place, except for the lack of a pilot and crew. She was dumbfounded. What was going on? Where was everyone?

  She turned to head back out the door to see if she could locate the crew. It shocked her to see a Balinese man in a police uniform standing right behind her. He held a gun pointed at her chest. Quincy opened her mouth to speak, but before a word came out, he grabbed her and threw her down onto her stomach. Her chest slammed into the aisle floor, and she lost her breath. It stunned her at how fast it all happened.

  The cop placed his knee on Quincy’s back and said, in English, “Don’t make a move or I’ll blow your head off.”

  She lay still until he handcuffed her, caught her breath and then said, “There must be a mistake. I’m Quincy Holt. I’ve been here for the surfing competition. I don’t think I’ve broken any laws.”

  The man pulled her up by the wrists and she yelped in pain as the cuffs dug into her skin. “Shut up, lady. We know who you are. And who your friends are, too. They’re already at the jail. I’m taking you in.”

  Still confused, Quincy asked, “What am I charged with? What crime? What friends?”

  He laughed and jerked upward on the cuffs. “Playing stupid won’t help you here, lady. This is not your United States. You got no rights. We can hold you as long as we want, and we don’t have to tell you one thing.”

  Quincy tried to hold it together. Wouldn’t do any good to cry. She knew enough to know that. Her hands hurt, and she thought she felt a trickle of blood drip down her arm.

  The policeman shoved her out the door of the plane and to the steps. She looked down and saw Marta. She was out of the cab and stood with their bags all around her. There were at least seven law enforcement officers going through the bags. All the statues that Marta had taken such care to pick out were broken on the concrete floor of the hangar. Quincy’s boards were also in pieces on the ground. Quincy was grateful that at least Marta wasn’t in cuffs. She was crying though.

  The policeman shoved Quincy again, and she stumbled down the stairs. She fell and hit her knee on the step. The officer snatched her up again and hissed, “Either walk down the steps now, or I’ll drag you.”

  When Quincy finally got to the bottom of the metal steps, she turned to the officer. “What’s your problem? You already have me in custody. Why shove me around?”

  The man spat on the ground in front of her. “Rich American. You think you can come to my country and sell your illegal weapons. You want my people to kill each other?”

  Quincy gaped at him. “What the hell are you even talking about? I came here to surf.”

  Before the man could answer, another man approached. He was clearly in charge as the others moved out of his path. The second man stopped in front of Quincy. He sneered at her. “I’m taking you down to the jail to join your cohorts. I’m letting the other woman go.” He turned to the officer who had shoved Quincy. “Get that other woman on a commercial flight out of here. Now. We have no intelligence that she’s involved, and her bags are clean.” He pointed at Quincy. “Take this one down to lock up.” He strode off.

  Quincy looked over at Marta and yelled across the hangar, “Call Percy. He’ll get me a lawyer.”

  Marta nodded, but before she could say anything, Quincy was hauled off to a
police van. The last thing Quincy saw as she was crammed into the back of the van was her surfboards in pieces on the concrete and Marta bent over her broken statues in tears.

  * * * *

  Fennimore Smith watched in fascination as the news media in the United States picked up on the arrest of world champion long board surfer, Quincy Holt, almost before the van she was in arrived at the police station in Bali. The coverage was on all the cable channels. He was amazed at the coverage. The Miami news stations and papers made a huge deal of it. The city’s favorite daughter whose parents had been murdered by armed intruders had been accused of smuggling firearms into Bali on a private jet. BongoMongo executives were on the television trying to distance themselves from the golden girl of the day before. Even Karl Murray, CEO, made an appearance on the news channel to disavow any knowledge of her behavior. He indicated that the morals clause of her contract would be invoked in order to cancel her appearances as their new spokesperson.

  Marta Grier made many appearances on cable channels to protest the innocence of her client. She told everyone who would listen that there was no way Quincy would have done anything illegal. Marta tried to call Karl Murray to salvage the contract, but she couldn’t get him to take her calls. She saw him on television accusing Quincy of being immoral and that’s when she took her own fight to the media. She was determined to help her client’s cause. She called a couple of lawyers but couldn’t find one to make the trek to Indonesia to help Quincy. She even put in a call to Amnesty International.

  Finn was stunned at all the coverage. He cringed every time he saw it on the television news channels. It was a true media circus. Who knew surfers were so important? He never knew anyone even followed that sport. Sure, he’d seen some competitions on obscure sports channels and had watched some that Quincy was in when they dated, but had no real idea of the actual fame of a professional surfer. National coverage of her arrest seemed extreme to him. He’d always wondered at the obscene amounts of money Quincy earned, but he thought the surf community was small and insular. Even the few competitions he’d been to hadn’t attracted a huge audience. Shows what I know. I had no idea that an arrest of a surfer would be so newsworthy. It’s not like she was a pro ball player or something.

  Finn didn’t feel like gloating about her arrest. He was too upset over the whole thing. He’d tried to tell her. Tried to warn her about the asshole. But even he, in his wildest imaginings about the man, never really thought Percy Hicks would actually smuggle guns on the very plane he sent to bring his bride home. Hicks was an awful man, but Finn didn’t really want to believe that he would risk his fiancée’s freedom to sell some guns. It was a terrible thing to do to one’s fiancée. Finn felt a little relieved though because he knew Quincy would never marry the man now. One good thing to come of the fiasco.

  Coop came into the room where Finn sat in front of the big screen television. Finn was seated on the brown leather sofa with the remote to the TV in one hand and his cell phone held to his ear in the other hand.

  Finn pointed to the chair beside him with the remote for his brother to sit down. He spoke into the phone. “Is it kosher then? It’ll be allowed?” He paused to listen to the person on the other end of the line. “Let me know then as soon as you know.” He hung up and looked at Coop.

  “Gonna go rescue the damsel in distress?” Coop raised an eyebrow and nodded at the television where yet again, Karl Murray was on the screen. He sat down in the chair by Finn.

  Finn sighed. “Trying to get clearance to intervene. All of us over here know she’s not involved. I can’t believe the guy would let his fiancée get arrested over his deal. Seems a pretty crappy thing to do to the woman you supposedly love.”

  “Not trying to be a downer here, but do you think it’s a good idea to run off over there after her? Can’t you back off and let someone else go? And don’t forget, she sees you as an enemy anyway for what you did to the woman you supposedly loved, too.”

  “No. I can’t leave it to someone else. This is my case, and I need to be the one to go. And I also need to let her know I regret what I did to her. Not like Hicks. I’m sure he’s not regretting a thing.”

  His brother looked at him in pity. “That’s not it. It’s not that it’s your case. We both know it.” He reached across the span between the chair and the couch and touched his brother on the knee. “Don’t do it. Just walk away. Walk away for your own health. She’ll kick your teeth in and laugh while she does it.”

  Finn shook his head. “I can’t, Coop. I can’t leave her there. There’s no telling what conditions she’s in. I can barely breathe for worrying about her and how she’s coping. These places can’t be good. It’s not like here. Our jails aren’t great, but it’s gotta be much worse there.”

  Cooper stood up and moved to sit beside his brother on the couch. He put his arm around Finn’s shoulder and leaned in to look him in the eye. “This is exactly why you need to send someone else. You’re a mess already, and you haven’t even gotten there yet. How you gonna hold it together? And how you gonna survive when you get her home and she dumps you again?”

  Finn pulled away from Coop and jumped up. “I’m going to pack. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’m leaving as soon as my commanding officer clears it.” He stalked out of the room and up the stairs. His footsteps echoed down into the room.

  * * * *

  Cooper got up and walked over to the side table near the chair he’d vacated. The phone was on the table. He sat back in the leather chair and dialed his sister, Jamie.

  Jamie answered on the third ring. “Hey, brother. See you on the caller ID. What’s up?”

  “You see the papers? About Quincy?”

  “Yeah. I saw the papers and the television. It’d be hard to miss it. Local girl gone bad.” She laughed at her own joke. “Why?”

  “Finn’s going to rescue her. The idiot is flying to Indonesia. Gonna be the hero.”

  “Oh. No. This isn’t good. Have to talk him out of it. Sure sounds like we need a meeting of the James Fennimore Cooper Club.”

  Coop let out a sigh of relief. “Exactly why I called you. Time to call in the troops, as it were.”

  “I’m on my way.” She hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

  Cooper sat back in the chair, leaned his head on the back cushion, closed his eyes and thought about his mother. She’d not been a very good mother or a good wife to their father either. One good thing she did do was establish the James Fennimore Cooper Club. The man was her favorite author, and she’d named all three of her children after him. They’d all had to read his books as kids and knew the stories by heart almost before they could actually read them. They all used to tease her that they were glad she didn’t love Edgar Rice Burroughs instead.

  She’d started the club when they were small. When they’d fight and take sides, she’d tell them that they were each all the others had and would have all their lives. When an outsider would upset one of them, she’d remind them that they were a unit. A tradition evolved where they would have meetings to encourage and support each other.

  Cooper thought this was surely one of those times that a club meeting was necessary, and he was glad his sister agreed. He couldn’t wait for her to arrive to help him talk sense into his brother. They needed to act before he let his heart be broken again, by the same woman who had ripped it out of his chest and stomped on it two years before.

  Chapter Seven

  “It may seem a hard task to condemn fellow creatures to long years of confinement in prison but it is not so hard if they clearly deserve it.”

  Thomas Mellon (American businessman 1813- 1908)

  Quincy sat in the jail in Bali in a cell with fifteen other women. She was the only one who looked to be from somewhere other than Indonesia. She felt very alone although she was surrounded by people. She was freaked out by the people who stared at her as if she was from another planet. And maybe to them, she was.

  The cell itself was one large room
, painted white. There was graffiti all over the walls. In lots of colors. Where did they get the markers to write on the wall with? All I have is this jumpsuit they put me in after the strip search. She shuddered at the memory of the strip search. She looked down at the jumpsuit she wore. Where would an inmate stash such a thing? There are no pockets in this thing.

  She read the words on the walls. She couldn’t read any of them. They were all written in Balinese or Indonesian. She couldn’t tell the difference. Just looks like a bunch of squiggles. Colorful squiggles, but squiggles nonetheless. Quincy suppressed a giggle at her inane thoughts. I guess mulling over the markers is keeping my mind occupied anyway. It’s either that or cry. Can’t cry. Have to be brave. She sat up straighter to make herself at least look like she was brave.

  In addition to the three graffiti-covered concrete walls, there were bars across the front of the cell. Quincy shivered as she looked at those.

  Several beat up benches with chipped paint took up the space in the cell, bolted down benches. They were all painted the same white as the walls. Women sat all around the room, some on the benches, some on the floor, all chattering away. It sounded like a room full of magpies.

  Quincy wanted to put her hands over her ears but didn’t want to let anyone in on her secret. She was terrified. All the other women in the room acted like they were at a party. Laughter echoed off the bare walls. If I show fear, the others will pay more attention to me. They’re already looking at me too much. I wish they’d stop.

  No one in the room spoke much English. Quincy was surprised. She’d always heard a lot of the Balinese people spoke English because of the number of tourists. Most of these ladies were clearly in another trade where the language wasn’t needed.

  Quincy had been put in the large cell as soon as she was released from the custody of the police van and put in a jail-issued jumpsuit. Thank God they at least took off the handcuffs. She huddled on her bench in the corner and lost track of time. Her arm and wrist hurt where the arresting officer had been so rough with her. She had no idea how long she’d been in the cell. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours or even days. Time seemed to stand at a halt. One thing she did know. Her bladder needed some relief, but she didn’t want to use the communal toilets at one end of the holding cell.