A Lover Awaits

by Patricia Rosemoor

  She wasn’t about to admit he had a valid point, of course, but Phoebe was getting more upset by the moment. She bit into a conch fritter as she slid off the bar stool. Her mind was made up. She was going to the Osprey Nest—alone.

  “I don’t know why I tell you anything.”

  “Because you know I care about you...even if you sometimes don’t have any more sense than one of those shellfish you like so much.”

  “Thanks loads.”

  Kevin reached over the bar and gently clasped onto her wrist. “Give it up, Pheebs, please.”

  His expression was beseeching, as if he really did fear something bad might happen to her. She pulled her arm away.

  “I can’t give it up.”

  “Why not?” he persisted, suddenly sounding angry. “Why won’t you leave the investigation to the professionals, when that’s what they’re paid to do?”

  “Because finding the truth about Audra’s murder isn’t a job to me like it is to them, Kevin. It’s personal.” Why couldn’t he understand? “I lost one of the best parts of my life. I won’t rest until I know why.”

  Kevin didn’t say anything more, merely stared at her, his expression now reflecting her own anger and frustration back at her.

  A weird feeling suddenly gripped Phoebe, an impression that Kevin’s reaction was too strong. He cared about her, of course, but could more be involved here? Surely not. Surely he was only being a good friend.

  Sighing, Phoebe turned away from him only to walk straight into a man drawing up behind her.

  Hands gripping her upper arms to steady her, he asked, “Going somewhere without me?”

  Chapter Seven

  Gaping at Simon, Phoebe wasn’t certain how to react to his arrival.

  He was looking more tempting than she’d ever seen him—tight, worn jeans and a thin T-shirt emphasizing a body that had been honed to near perfection, undoubtedly by physical labor. (She couldn’t visualize him working out in a gym...) A sweep of dark hair grazed his forehead and dramatized the dark intensity of his deepset, hooded eyes.

  Heart pounding, washed by a sense of relief that he hadn’t made a fool of her, after all, Phoebe chose anger to mask her reaction.

  “You!” she said accusingly. “I thought—”

  “I can only imagine,” he said dryly. “What? It’s strictly a woman’s prerogative to be late?”

  She nearly bit her tongue after saying, “You could have called—dinner’s cold.” The second time that day she’d sounded pathetically like a wife.

  He glanced at the platter. “But it still looks pretty good to me. How about throwing it in a container. We can eat while we drive.”

  Phoebe realized this was a defining moment in their working relationship. She could choose to verbally string him up by his ears about being late, or she could choose to be as cooperative as she wished him to be. Somehow, she couldn’t see that lecturing him would get her what she wanted.

  So she got hold of herself and said, “Sure. Give me a couple of minutes.” Remembering Kevin, she turned back to the bar, saying, “By the way, this is my partner...”

  Her introduction trailed off as she realized Kevin had moved away from them without saying a word. Elbows wedged on the edge of the bar some ways down, he was leaning into a pretty customer’s space and saying something that was making her laugh. This one was a brunette. Expanding his horizons? she mused, knowing his current penchant for blondes.

  “He seems to be otherwise occupied.”

  “Give him a minute.” Her partner’s concern for her had certainly dwindled fast in the light of an attractive woman’s arrival. “As soon as he gets her vital statistics and a phone number, he’ll be back.”

  Phoebe went for that container and her shoulder bag. But when she returned to the bar a few minutes later, Kevin was still preoccupied. And Simon was wolfing down a conch fritter. She checked the platter. He’d been doing a creditable job of decimating the seafood while waiting for her.

  “These are great,” he said.

  “When they’re hot, they’re fantastic.” Her appetite returning with a vengeance, she popped an oyster into her mouth and unceremoniously slid the remaining food into the container. “Ready when you are.”

  “Then let’s get going.”

  Phoebe noticed Kevin didn’t even look up as they walked by...as if he were studiously ignoring her. So unlike him. What was his problem? First being overprotective. Now acting like...what?

  Again, the weird feeling...

  Surely Kevin couldn’t dislike Simon sight unseen.

  Before going out the door, she glanced back over her shoulder and caught her partner staring after them. Unsmiling. Seemingly focused on Simon.

  Uneasy, Phoebe led the way out.

  THE OSPREY NEST sort of looked like one. While not perched in the branches of a tree, the unpainted, weathered wood structure had been built on stilts for protection against flooding, as had many buildings in this neck of the Glades.

  A passenger this time, Phoebe noted the motorcycles lined up between old beaters and all sorts of utility vehicles. Simon himself was driving a well-aged pickup. Undoubtedly, he’d fit right in with the bar’s crowd.

  He whipped into an open space and killed the engine, but made no move to get out. “I’m setting some ground rules before we go in.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I do all the talking. Like, you stick to me like glue. Like, you follow my lead no matter what. Agreed?”

  While she yearned to make a crack—call him Your Macho-ness, perhaps—his tone stopped her. This was a different Simon from the one she’d been experiencing all day. This was the closed, angry man who’d kicked her out of his brother’s house, a man who wouldn’t stand for any argument from her...or anyone else, she was certain.

  And probably that was for the best.

  “Agreed.”

  The night was still and humid and crowded with swamp noises. They’d arrived at the edge of civilization. Phoebe felt as if they were crossing the line into the wild.

  Upon entering the establishment teeming with rowdy men, she was certain of it. A raw energy electrified the smoke-filled place and immediately put her on edge.

  There were only three other women that she could see. One was a harried waitress slapping away roving hands as she tried to deliver a drink order. The other two were partnered with raunchy, bearded guys wearing leather vests over otherwise bare torsos. When yet another of the bikers leered at her, Phoebe was thankful she hadn’t come alone. She squeezed closer to Simon.

  He gave her a quick, assessing look. “Problem?”

  She shook her head. “What now?”

  “Like I said...follow my lead.”

  He started through the horde, Phoebe close behind. The few tables were crowded, as was the neon-lit bar. More rough-looking men filled the standing room and shouted at each other over the wail from the jukebox—a woman complaining about her carousing man. A few gave her such a thorough once-over that she gladly became Simon’s shadow. Although he was acting as if she wasn’t there, she was pretty sure he sensed her every twitch. When a middle-aged Cuban caught her attention, showing off his gold front teeth and silently indicating he’d buy her a drink, Simon gave him a chilling frown.

  “The lady’s with me.”

  That’s all it took to persuade the man to go back to his compadres.

  Simon and Kevin had both been correct about this not being her kind of place. The Osprey Nest. How fitting, the osprey being a predator. The bar was filled with them.

  Simon elbowed their way up to the bar and ordered two draft beers without first consulting her. Though Phoebe wasn’t particularly fond of the stuff, she didn’t dare protest. She merely lifted the mug and took an obligatory if small sip.

  “Keep the change,” Simon said, giving the bartender a ten. “Seen Bubba tonight?”

  “Over there.” The man indicated the pool table in the back corner.

  Whipping his free hand around Phoeb
e’s waist and snuggling her closer to his side than made her comfortable, Simon led her toward the knot of men hunkered around the green felt-covered table. She grew warm and blamed it on the beer, even though she’d barely taken a sip.

  Or maybe she was experiencing the adrenaline rush of doing something slightly dangerous.

  Anything to negate the possibility that Simon had that potent an effect on her...

  Ahead, a few more women mixed with the crowd around the pool table. Each clung to her companion. One slid a bold hand down her boyfriend’s stomach and trailed it across an upper thigh. He gave her a hot, suggestive look.

  Phoebe turned away...her gaze meeting Simon’s.

  Did he notice her discomfort?

  He dipped his head so his lips were at her ear. “You could take a few tips...” he whispered.

  Though his warm breath made Phoebe catch her breath, she muttered, “Keep dreaming.”

  Deliberately ignoring him, she focused her attention at the far end of the pool table. There a stocky man wearing a wrinkled tropical-print shirt and a baseball cap let out a whoop and victoriously waved his cue stick in the air.

  The short man next to him slapped a bill into his free hand. “Guess tonight’s your night, Bubba.”

  The man they’d come to find...

  Bubba slid the money into an already bulging shirt pocket. “Who’s next?” A grin splitting his jowly face, he turned a beady gaze on the man closest to him.

  “Not me.”

  The next one threw up his hands. “I’m dry.”

  But a skinny guy on his other side said, “I got a ten to kill.”

  “Well, step right up, son,” Bubba said, whomping the cue stick on the floor. “I’m a thirsty man.”

  As the competitors stepped up to the table, Phoebe wondered what Simon was waiting for. She nudged him with her shoulder, which he ignored.

  “Aren’t you going to talk to him?” she whispered. His only answer was a hard waist-squeeze... prompting a squeak from her.

  Good grief...she wasn’t even supposed to talk to him now?

  Simon’s gaze was fixed on the table action. For the next several minutes, he didn’t take his eyes from Bubba. Phoebe could almost hear the wheels turning as he studied the man’s every efficient move until he blew what looked to be a pretty easy bank shot.

  Grinning, his opponent started taking down balls but missed the fourth.

  On his next turn, Bubba won the game.

  Pocketing the money practically before the eight rolled into its pocket, he asked, “Rematch?”

  “On an IOU?”

  Bubba snorted. “Yeah, right.” His gaze swept the room for a likely candidate. “Cash only. How about you, son?”

  The chosen one said, “I’m through for the night.”

  “And I’m no fool,” his companion added.

  “No guts, no glory!” Bubba stated, again whacking the end of his cue stick to the floor.

  Then Simon let go of Phoebe’s waist and stepped forward. “I’ve got a few guts. Some cash, too. A C-note.”

  Which he plunked down on the edge of the table to the appreciative murmur of the audience.

  “Whoa, big spender,” someone behind Phoebe muttered.

  “Who is this guy?” another whispered.

  “Don’t know, but I seen him here before. Usually keeps to himself.”

  A not unexpected impression, Phoebe thought, wondering if anyone really knew Simon Calderon.

  “You break,” Bubba said.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  Simon racked the balls, then shot the cue ball into their midst, sending them rolling in every direction. Two stripes and one solid whipped into pockets.

  He called, “Stripes,” then took a moment to study the layout before methodically cleaning them off the table.

  Bubba’s smile faded as their numbers diminished to one. Unfortunately, Simon’s thirteen ball stopped just short of a corner pocket.

  “Lucky thirteen,” Bubba said, his grin returning. “Well, now, ain’t this interesting.”

  The grin lasted all the way to his last ball. His six was lined up with the thirteen for the same pocket. If he kicked in Simon’s ball—which was inevitable, Phoebe thought—he would lose. The only option left to him was another bank shot.

  Which he missed, exactly as he had in the last game.

  Had Simon somehow planned it that way?

  Phoebe’s own skills at pool were amateurish at best. But she knew a shark could leave a ball anywhere on the table at will. She watched Simon quickly take out his remaining ball followed by the eight.

  Several people cheered.

  One of them said, “Hey, whaddya know, Bubba? You ain’t infallible tonight, after all.”

  Grudgingly, the stocky man emptied his shirt pocket and turned virtually all of his night’s winnings over to Simon. Left with a ten-dollar bill, he held it up. “Rematch?”

  “You said you were thirsty. How about I buy you a drink instead.”

  “Yeah, why not,” Bubba grumbled.

  Finally. Phoebe took a deep, satisfied breath.

  A handful of men were leaving a table, which Bubba skillfully commandeered before anyone else could get near it. Simon immediately sat, but Bubba pulled out a chair for her.

  “Here you go, little lady.”

  “The name’s Phoebe. He’s Simon.”

  Signaling a waitress, Bubba whipped a second chair around so its back was facing the table. “Where’d you learn to play like that, son?” he asked as he straddled the seat.

  “Here and there.” Simon placed the hundred and Bubba’s tens and twenties between them. “How’d you like another chance at this?”

  “Two hundred? You gotta be kiddin’. I’m busted.”

  “I don’t mean gambling. I’m talking about a sure thing. A trade.”

  Bubba’s thick eyebrows pulled together and his eyes narrowed. “What kinda trade?”

  “Information.”

  “About...?”

  Phoebe jumped in. “Vance Laughlin.” And ignored Simon’s immediate glower.

  Bubba hesitated a moment too long to be believable before saying, “Don’t recollect the name.”

  “Maybe your memory just needs a jog.”

  Simon slid another hundred onto the pile as the harried waitress drew up to their table.

  “What can I get you folks?”

  “Beers all around,” Simon told her.

  “None for me,” Phoebe quickly said, then turned to Bubba. “Vance Laughlin is a successful Fort Myers businessman. You sent him some photographs. Don’t bother to deny it. You left your calling card on one of them.”

  “Could be, I suppose...”

  Simon pulled out yet another hundred and waggled it in front of the man’s face.

  Bubba licked his lips, hesitated a moment, then took the bill and started to scoop up the money from the table until Simon slapped a hand onto the pile.

  “Information first.”

  “Okay, so I do remember a Laughlin.”

  “He hired you to follow my sister Audra, right?”

  “Phoebe!”

  Ignoring Simon’s growl, she demanded, “Well, didn’t he?”

  “Not exactly. I have this contact...a lawyer in Naples.”

  Simon’s gaze was steely when he said, “I assume you remember his name.”

  “Yeah, sure. Only I ain’t gonna ruin a good thing. Know what I mean? I do jobs for him every once in a while.”

  “And you can keep on doing them. We’re not going to squeal on you. It wouldn’t be to our advantage.” When Bubba squinted at them as if trying to make up his mind, Simon added, “Or you can forget about the four hundred. A lawyer in Naples isn’t enough information to be worth this kind of money.”

  “Yeah, okay!” Bubba immediately snapped. “I believe you won’t say nothing. Name’s Don Platt.”

  “If an intermediary hired you,” Phoebe mused, “why did you contact Vance yourself?”

&nbs
p; “Figured he might like some extra copies of the wife,” Bubba said as the beers arrived.

  And obviously he’d wanted some extra money, she thought, figuring the extra photos had been a basis of blackmail. What had he done? Threatened to sell them to the Florida Investigator?

  She wondered how much more it would cost to get him to divulge details of his meeting with her brother-in-law. Before she could try to get anything out of him, however, he snatched the money, grabbed a fresh mug and stood.

  “Thanks for the beer, son.”

  “Wait a minute,” Phoebe protested. “I was just getting started. I have more questions.”

  “But I ain’t got no more answers.” With a grin, Bubba shoved the money into his pantspocket. “Be seeing you, little lady.”

  “Aren’t you going to stop him?” Phoebe asked Simon as the man strolled back through the crowd.

  He paid the waitress, then said, “Old Bubba’s told us all he’s going to.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He didn’t suggest I come up with another offer, did he?”

  “No.” She glanced back the way Bubba had gone, but he’d already disappeared from sight. “At least we got something out of him. A lawyer in Naples...how strange.”

  “Not when your sister was living there.”

  “Maybe not the Naples part, but why a lawyer instead of a private investigation service?”

  “Platt might have been someone Vance already knew. Someone he’d worked with on a deal.”

  Which would make a certain amount of sense.

  “Now the question is, how do we get a lawyer to breach his confidentiality agreement?”

  “Without his knowing it.”

  “You mean...do something illegal like breaking into his office?”

  “That’s one option.”

  One that Phoebe didn’t care for. She’d had enough of a scare with Vance himself.

  “What are the others?” she asked.

  “That’ll take some thought. In the meantime, let’s get out of here.”

  He got no argument from her. Phoebe was willing and ready to ditch the place. Simon shouldered his way through the crowd and again pulled her with him. She convinced herself that her relief at getting outside was due to the smoky, claustrophobic feel of the bar rather than his letting go of her.