by Meryl Sawyer
Dexxter stood at the window, staring at the sign illuminated against the dark sky. FOXX ENTERPRISES. He should feel something, he reflected. He had just inked the deal with the Asians who were purchasing his company. Foxx Enterprises no longer existed.
He liked to gaze out of his office window at the sign, symbolizing his success. His practical side told him that it was time—past time—to go to ground. The FBI had been hot on his tail. Now they had cooled off, but you never knew.…
Time to reinvent himself.
Time to ditch good old Irene.
A soft knock sounded on his door, and he called, “It’s open.”
A blonde with a bombshell bod sashayed into his office, courtesy of Technical Assistants, the call girls he used. “Hi, there. I’m Camilla Cassidy.”
His breath caught in his chest as she swanned across the room, her blond hair brushing her bare shoulders.
Amy Conroy.
Where had that thought come from, he wondered as the blonde strode toward him, her impossibly long legs hiking her skirt higher with each step. This woman was much more beautiful, much more sophisticated than Amy.
Camilla halted beside him as he stood by the window, her big tits brushing his arm. Her breathy voice sent a ripple of excitement down to his groin. “Monty up, Dexx. Monty up.”
She reached between his legs and cradled his balls. Her index finger homed in on the pulse point between his thighs. And gently pressed.
White-hot heat flooded his cock.
The techs were worth the price; he was fully erect in a second. Quick as a snake, she had his zipper down and her hand in his pants.
“Dexx, you have quite the monty,” she said as she freed his cock.
He grinned as she sank to her knees. Her silky hair brushed his shaft while she ran the tip of her tongue across his hot, aching flesh. He jutted his hips forward and she got the message. Hand cradling his balls, finger on the pressure point, she applied sweet suction.
All he could see was the top of her head. Amy, he thought, holding in his breath and trying not to come too quickly. Amy’s face disgusted him. It promised perfection—then revolted.
What if he didn’t have to look at her? Dexx imagined it was Amy on her knees before him, giving him the best blowjob he’d ever had.
When he found Amy—and he would find her eventually—he had plans for her. Then she had to die. He toyed with the idea of murdering her himself.
Death was messy and best left to professionals. He’d had several people killed, but he hadn’t been present to enjoy it. This time he intended to relish every second.
His private line rang, interrupting his thoughts, and he realized that he’d zoned out somehow. He was still holding his breath and he hadn’t come yet. The blonde—what the fuck was her name?—looked up at him with wide blue eyes.
He released his breath with a grunt. “Ignore the phone.”
The phone continued to ring, the blinking light indicating it was an interoffice call. Since it was past seven, everyone had gone home. Except Irene. She’d probably seen the blond come into his office and waited, timing it just right to ruin his fun.
He stared at the blond head so attentively bent over him. In the next instant his body shuddered, then exploded in a rush of heat so intense that he saw blotchy stars like Rorschach dots. The shaft of pure pleasure reverberated up his spine into the base of his skull. He threw his head back and released a lusty groan.
The phone hadn’t stopped ringing. He let the blonde take care of him while he answered it. “Yeah, Irene, what is it?”
“Am I interrupting anything?” Her voice was all honey.
“I don’t have time to talk to you.” He planned to make the blonde do him again. Pretending the woman was Amy turned out to be the hottest sex he’d ever had—bar none.
“I thought you might want to know what I picked up on the Internet about Amy Conroy, but I’ll tell you later.” She hung up on him.
He cradled the phone against his shoulder, punched the button for Irene’s line, then he jammed his cock back, where it belonged, and zipped his pants. The phone rang and rang.
That bitch was deliberately not answering. She couldn’t have left her office this quickly. He slammed down the receiver and sprinted out of his office. As he rounded the corner, he saw the elevator doors closing.
Dexxter tried to enjoy dinner with Camilla, but inside he was seething. He kept getting up to call Irene. Either she wasn’t home or she wasn’t answering.
He took the blonde home right after dinner and drove over to Irene’s town house, but she wasn’t home. He sat in the pitch dark in his Ferrari, freezing his ass off until she returned just after one o’clock:
He barged past her into the warm condo. “What did you find out?”
Irene yawned, then said in a sugar-coated tone, “Can’t this wait until morning? I’m bushed.”
“I want to know what you found out—now.”
“You can’t imagine the hits we had when we put out the word on the Web that we were from Hollywood—”
“Who’s we?”
“Zane helped me. Who else?”
“He’s a crappy excuse for a private eye.”
She crossed her legs again and smiled. What was so damn funny?
“Zane didn’t find Amy because you had him looking in the wrong place. We put that mutt’s picture on the Internet, saying we wanted a dog like him for a commercial.”
“Who’s going to buy that bridge? A half-eared, butt-ugly dog.”
“After the chihuahua on the Taco Bell commercial, weird-looking dogs are all the rage. We received thousands of responses. One seems particularly promising. Groomingdale’s in Key West claims to have groomed a dog named Jiggs that looks exactly like the picture.”
“Key West?”
“The southernmost place in the country. That’s just about as far as you can get from Seattle, isn’t it?”
She had a point, but he wasn’t about to admit it. “What did they say about Amy?”
“That’s the interesting part. The dog’s owner was in a terrible car accident that required extensive reconstructive surgery. The groomer hasn’t met the woman.”
Dexx leaned back in the chair, his pulse beating erratically. This was as close to a lead as they’d come. Heat pooled in his groin just thinking about the plans he had for Amy.
“I’ve sent Zane to Key West to check it out.”
Matt walked up Thomas Street with Jiggs wrapped in a towel under his arm, heading toward Groomingdale’s. The main drag in Bahama Village, the street was lined with quaint churches and Cuban stores. Unlike touristy Old Town a few short blocks away, the village was just enough off the beaten path to give him a glimpse back in time.
“Aw, hell,” he said out loud. His temples felt tight; he had the beginnings of a headache. Sometimes when he’d gone without sleep, working a big story, he developed a killer headache. The last thing he wanted now was a bad headache.
He reached a shady part of the sidewalk and decided that he didn’t have a headache. It was just an unusually hot, humid day. He should have worn his Yankees ball cap.
The homes in Bahama Village were one story high and one room wide, shotgun style houses with tin roofs. They were packed together like cigars in a box, he decided as he looked around. Most of the residents were Bahamians and Cubans, many of African descent.
Simon Ambrose was living off Thomas Street with friends, Matt reminded himself. He’d have to pay him a visit while Groomingdale’s washed Jiggs. No one touched Shelly like that and got away with it scot-free.
He stopped dead in his tracks. How had she managed that? She’d turned the tables on him. Now he was feeling protective of her.
Go on, admit it. You’re feeling a helluva lot more than protective.
Since when had desire replaced hate, he wondered, starting to walk again. Why did he want to get closer to Shelly when he knew damn well he should run the other way?
Last night he’d sat in the restaurant, watching
Shelly. Kyle Parker had made a real play for her. The man was proof positive that bullshit could be delivered with a macho spin. She went for it, never once slanting a look in his direction.
“I’m not jealous,” he muttered under his breath.
Don’t lie. Life is too damn short.
He had been jealous. Why? She hadn’t appealed to him at all when they’d been in New York. So, what had changed?
Face it, schmuck, you’ve changed—big-time.
He knew better than to kiss her. Contact—of any kind—encouraged obsessive types. Shelly was a nutcase, of that he was positive, yet something about her called out to him. Long ago he’d learned to accept his physical needs. What guy wasn’t horny more than half the time? But his reaction to a woman had never been this intense.
He could still feel her lips parting under his. There had been a tentativeness to her kiss, an unexpected innocence that reminded him of a sultry summer night and his first kiss. Suddenly, he’d been young again, unburdened by the cruel realities of life.
The kiss had aroused her as much as it had him. The feel of her body, the sweet, musky smell coming from her skin had gone to his head like a shot of tequila. In another minute he would have had her down on that chaise. She’d stopped him. Why?
She’d been mad as hell when he reminded her of how hot she’d been for him. Okay, okay. It wasn’t a smart thing to say, yet something inside him forced him to antagonize her.
It had backfired. If you dropped dead tomorrow, I’d dance on your grave. Her words echoing in his ears, he’d gone to bed last night with the mutt in cod liver oil dogging his heels.
He’d lain there in the darkness, the half-eared dog curled up at his feet, the ceiling fan overhead swirling. Cod liver oil fumes wafted through the air, nearly gagging him, as he pictured Shelly.
Dancing on his grave.
She’d been furious with him when she’d said it. He understood her anger. After all, their entire relationship had been charged with anger and lies. Still, he couldn’t help feeling something more was going on now.
She seemed to be using anger to disguise … hurt.
Could Shelly be hurt? It didn’t seem possible, considering how she had behaved in Manhattan. Then she couldn’t be hurt, but now … Who knew?
When it came to women, he was worthless except in the sack. This woman seemed to be hurt and disappointed in him. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.
Sure as hell, he was missing something.
He told himself to let it go, let her go. He knew better than to hang around her, kissing her, angling for a chance to make love to her. He knew better, for chrissake. “Just leave her alone.”
The promise sounded empty. Even Jiggs looked up and cocked his little head, not believing one damn word Matt had said.
Ahead, he saw the Groomingdale sign, a snow-white poodle with a pink bow in its hair. He shifted Jiggs to his other arm. “No bow, you hear? That’s sissy stuff.”
He walked past the offices of Vegetarians for Earth Consciousness, the kind of green movement that could exist only in Key West. Down a narrow walkway stood the grooming salon. He walked in and the bell on the door tinkled.
No one was at the counter, but a female voice yelled from the back room, “I’ll be right there.”
He put Jiggs on the counter, removed the towel, and tried not to gag. The cod liver oil was bad enough, but this morning Bingo had pushed Jiggs into a bowl of Nine Lives. Tuna and cod liver oil ripening in the tropical heat was worse than manure.
He looked at the wall behind the counter and read the sign: As long as you see men as worthy of respect, we’re going to have a problem.
Great! Lesbians owned the place. He might have known. The gay community was extremely tight-knit. Trevor was bound to support his friends.
He reflected a minute, then decided that being a lesbian meant taking a lot of shit from macho types. It was a classic problem of stereotyping. Some men gave them a hard time, so all men were lumped together as the enemy.
“My stars!” cried a heavyset woman with buzz-cut black hair. “What happened to Jiggs?” From beneath grizzled brows she scowled at him as if he’d slithered out from beneath a dank rock.
“Conditioning fur is best left to professionals.” She swept Jiggs into her arms, raised him to her nose, and took a deep whiff. “Tell me it’s not cod liver oil.”
Matt didn’t bother to explain. “He needs a good bath. No prissy bows.”
She headed toward the back room, then stopped. “Do you talk to the woman who owns Jiggs?”
“Sure, we’re both staying at Half Moon Bay with Trevor.”
“There’s a picture of a dog like Jiggs on animalnetwork.com. A producer wants an unusual dog for a commercial. If she’s interested, I’ll let them know.”
Jiggs in a commercial. Now, that was a stretch even for Hollywood. “I’ll tell Shelly about it.”
Chapter 16
She gazed into the mirror and decided that her leg didn’t appear too withered. No doubt, having a removable cast that could be taken off at night had helped. She was pale by Key West standards, she thought, looking at herself in the Day-Glo orange bikini she’d bought for a dollar at Jo Mama’s.
“It’s the only body you’ve got. It’ll have to do.” She was never going to be tanned like burnt cinnamon, the way so many women around here were. And Clive had ordered her to stay out of the sun.
The doctor who had just removed the cast had told her to swim as much as possible to rebuild strength in her leg. She ventured out of her room and onto the terrace at Half Moon Bay. Thank goodness no one was around to see her pale body in the skimpy bikini.
When she’d gotten up that morning, no one had been awake except for Bingo, who had been patrolling the beach, dying to strike terror in the hearts of the birds who fed along the tide line. She had found a note at message central, the table in the foyer, indicating Bubbles had called to say she was “trying out a tequila sunrise” and not to expect her home.
Jiggs had been nowhere in sight. Last night the little stinker—reeking of cod liver oil—had insisted on staying with Matt. Feeling slightly betrayed, she’d let him.
She’d taken the first boat to Key West without seeing anyone who was staying at Trevor’s. When she had returned, after having lunch at Margaritaville with Clive and Trevor, Half Moon Bay was deserted. She’d put on her new bikini, and now she was walking—using both legs fully—down to the beach.
She gingerly put one foot in the soft sand, then the other, taking care not to twist the leg that had been in the cast. She dabbed one toe in the water and found it was deliciously warm, inviting. She took a few more steps into the welcoming surf, then plunged headlong into the sea.
Beneath the aquamarine water, seashells were scattered across the crystal-white sand, and seaweed swayed like graceful ballerinas in the undulating surf. Gliding through the water, colorful fishes swam beside her as she floated along.
For the first time in weeks some part of her didn’t ache painfully as she moved. True, the fingers on her right hand still curved inward like a catcher ready to field a fast ball, and her left leg was still weak, but she was whole again.
With a new face, a new life. Giddy with happiness, she shot to the surface. Laughter erupted from her throat as she treaded water and stared at the magnificent blue sky doming overhead.
“Oh, Mama, look at me now!”
She gazed up into the blinding sun, positive her mother was in heaven. Watching. It was oddly comforting to think of her mother looking down at her and sharing her life. It didn’t make her feel so alone.
She couldn’t help wishing her mother could have visited Half Moon Bay, paradise on earth. Her mother would have loved the majestic palms rimming the white sand beach. The egrets, kingfishers, and frigates would have delighted her mother with their antics.
But her mother wasn’t with her to enjoy nature’s treasure, and wishing things were different was futile. She had to channel the love an
d courage her mother had given her in the proper direction.
“Character determines fate, Mama. Don’t worry about me.”
A man on a Wave Runner whizzed by, snapping pictures of Half Moon Bay and sending a rouge wave in her direction. It slapped her in the face and washed over her head. She emerged, hair slicked back, blinking furiously to clear her blurred vision.
“What a jerk.”
This was nothing new. Boaters cruised by all the time, fascinated with the compound Trevor had built at Half Moon Bay. The man aimed his camera at her and clicked. She dove under the water, wondering if The Beast would ever get used to people looking at her.
A disturbing thought hit her. Could the creep on the Wave Runner be one of Dexxter’s men? She doubted he could find her. More likely the man was taking pictures of women in bikinis, a favorite pastime in Key West, she thought as she skimmed, weightless, through the water.
“Get used to it,” she told herself. “People look you in the eye now. They talk to you. They take pictures. Amazing.”
She blew out bubbles and inspected the sea life on the ocean floor. She could have stayed down forever, except her lungs were burning, crying out for oxygen. Surfacing, she blinked, the saltwater stinging her eyes.
“Oh, lordy, it can’t be.”
Matt was standing on the shore, watching her. After last night, she never wanted to see him again. “You’re still hot for me.”
Who did he think he was?
Actually, a better question would have been: What kind of person had Rochelle Ralston been? “You’ll love me until I die, remember?” Matt’s words had seemed chillingly strange last night. Even more so now that she’d had time to think about the comment.
No matter how weird Shelly had been, it was difficult to forgive Matt’s conceited, arrogant attitude. She stopped herself, admitting this was really her problem, not his. He couldn’t help it if he didn’t live up to her expectations. If she’d had more experience with men, she wouldn’t have been so … so thoroughly disillusioned.
She stood up and waded ashore through chest-level water that dropped to her waist, her hips, then her thighs as she emerged from the sea. Matt’s sunglasses were pushed to the top of his head. He made no attempt to disguise the scorching gaze that slowly roamed from her wet hair to her ankles hidden in the foaming surf.
