Half Moon Bay

by Meryl Sawyer

  “Do you like it? Bubbles did my makeup and hair for me. Is it too much?”

  He closed the door behind him. “I should have a gun to head off the guys.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am serious. You’re drop dead gorgeous.” The look in his eye was as intimate as a caress. “Kyle’s back. No doubt, I’ll have to take care of him first.”

  She looped her arms around his neck. He looked incredibly handsome in a navy shirt and white slacks. He was every woman’s dream come true.

  “What about me? Bubbles has the hots for you. No doubt, the other women out there will be all over you.”

  “Bubbles is no competition for you, babe, and neither is Irene.”

  A chill skipped down her spine. “Who’s Irene?”

  “The new couple, remember?”

  “Oh, sure, the couple we saw yesterday. What are they like?”

  “Irene’s okay, if you like cheap brunettes. But Dexx is a piece of work.”

  Dexx.

  The word hit her full force, and she let out a startled gasp. She dropped her arms, mind-numbing fear engulfing her.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  She hurried toward the bed, trying to marshal her thoughts. “It’s a cramp in my arch. I don’t think I should be wearing heels so soon after getting out of the cast.”

  She collapsed on the bed, and Matt sat beside her while she took off the lovely shoes. She fiddled with the clasp, wondering how they knew where she was. Did it matter?

  She had to leave before they killed her.

  If she could get to Key West, she could call the FBI, then hide until they came for her. It would mean leaving Matt. Just the thought of not seeing him—for what?—months, or even a year, made a cold knot form in her chest.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  The heartfelt concern in his voice brought tears to her eyes. How could she leave him after waiting a lifetime to find him? He put his finger under her chin and brought her head to the side to face him.

  “You’re crying. Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m not crying,” she protested in a shaky voice, tears cresting in her eyes but not falling. “I’m just upset that I’ll have to wear thongs and ruin the pretty outfit you bought me.”

  She stood up, the sandals in one hand, and marched over to the closet. It was about as ditzy an excuse as she could imagine, but she couldn’t tell him the truth. She needed to be in flat sandals so she could run if necessary.

  As she opened the louvered door, a thought hit her. Why would Dexxter come here? The sneaky little weasel always sent henchmen to do his work.

  Maybe they didn’t know for certain that she was Amy Conroy. They must have come to see for themselves whether or not she was the right woman. It was the only explanation that made sense.

  Buying time, she made a big deal out of choosing between the two pairs of sandals. With luck, she could fool them into believing she was Shelly. The Witness Protection Program had wiped all her records clean. There was no way—she knew of—that Dexxter could prove she was Amy Conroy.

  Matt could be very helpful in deceiving Dexx. After all, Matt had known her in New York. If he believed she was Shelly, it might convince Dexxter.

  What good would it do? Even if she fooled Dexx, there was Irene. Dexxter was a sniveling little weasel. In her opinion, Irene was the one to watch. Even if Irene didn’t realize she was Amy Conroy, Irene might kill her just to cover her bases.

  Kicking herself for not having anticipated this and having an escape plan, she decided she didn’t want to call her contact in the FBI. Last time, there had been a leak somewhere, and she had nearly lost her life. There had to be a field office in Miami. If she went there and explained the situation, they might arrange better protection.

  She slipped into a pair of thongs, then turned to face Matt. He was still sitting on the bed, studying her with a puzzled expression. Oh, Lord. She didn’t want him to think she was so goofy.

  “I just wanted you to be proud of me.”

  He stood up and walked toward her, his arms outstretched. Gathering her close, he whispered, “I am proud of you. Proud of the way you look. The way you’ve changed.”

  Changed? Oh, God. She didn’t want him saying that in front of Dexxter. “I haven’t changed. You didn’t really know me. That’s all.”

  “Okay,” he responded.

  His eyes bored into hers, and she wondered what he was really thinking. This night would be the last time she might ever be with him. She desperately wanted him to remember her and not think of crazy Shelly.

  “I was just being silly,” she tried to joke. “In those heels, I didn’t have to look up to you all the time.”

  “Women.” He rolled his eyeballs. “Go figure.”

  His arms tightened around her. She sighed at the feel of his powerful, male body. All she’d asked for was a little time to be with him and get to know him. But once again, fate had dealt her a crummy hand. She had to make the most of their last night together.

  The precious memories might very well have to last her a lifetime.

  Dexxter Foxx stood on the terrace, sipping a martini. This was some place. Half Moon Bay made the Cape Cod cottage he rented look like a log cabin. Well, what could he expect? Irene had handled the lease.

  She was nearby, talking to Trevor, the fudge-packer who owned Half Moon Bay. His fruity doctor friend was serving miniature quiches. Matthew Jensen had disappeared over ten minutes ago to get the woman who called herself Shelly. Of course, he knew she was really Amy Conroy.

  Since then Dexx had been waiting, anticipation building, eating his nerves raw. He’d screwed Irene more times than he cared to count, imagining he was driving into Amy Conroy’s sexy body. Why hadn’t she shown up yet?

  Jensen probably had her flat on her back. If there was one thing Dexx hated, it was sloppy seconds. He’d make her pay and pay and pay.

  “Isn’t the view, like, awesome?”

  The red-haired creature who called herself Bubbles walked up to him, expecting a response. Every visible orifice sported a pierced object. He didn’t want to know what was under her panties.

  “Great view,” he said, wondering how he could ask about Amy. “What happened to Matt?”

  “He’s with Shelly.” The airhead ran her tongue over her lower lip, revealing yet another disgusting stud. It was hard enough to understand an accent laced with molasses. Why pierce her tongue? “It’s on again.”

  “What’s on?”

  “Their affair. They were, like, red hot lovers last year in New York. Then something happened. Now … well, you can’t, like, get a laser beam between the two of them.”

  “I see.”

  His so-called detective was as worthless as tits on a bull. Dexx had been led to believe Jensen hadn’t had a relationship with the woman. She’d stalked him. The blonde in the pictures couldn’t be Amy if she was involved with Jensen—again.

  He’d done a background check on Matthew Jensen. He was a savvy reporter who’d parlayed a rag sheet into a respected newsmagazine. Then he’d shocked the publishing world by quitting.

  Why?

  It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t give a flying fuck. Dexx was interested in the woman. Surely Jensen would have detected an impostor.

  He turned his back on the redhead and signaled to Irene. She sashayed over to him, tits jiggling in a black dress that left zilch to the imagination. Been there; done that.

  Jesus H. Christ. How he despised her. He could hardly wait for her “accident.”

  “Kyle was just telling me the most interesting story.”

  Kyle Parker, the guy built like a storm trooper. Something about him suggested the military even though he was in khaki slacks and a shortsleeve shirt. Dexx couldn’t decide who he’d instantly disliked more, Jensen or Parker.

  “The words Key West come from the Spanish words Cayo Hueso. It means Island of the Bones. Hueso took on the English pronunciation that sounded like
west.”

  “So?” Sometimes Irene had shit for brains.

  “Island of the Bones. Don’t you get it? We kill Amy right here. She’s bones like the mysterious bones the first Spaniards found.”

  “Zane is a chicken-shit excuse for a private detective. The blonde he took pictures of is not Amy Conroy. The woman’s been involved with Jensen for more than a year. They’re hot and heavy again. Jensen would know if—”

  Before he could finish, a striking blonde walked onto the terrace, her hand on Matthew Jensen’s arm. The woman was beautiful, built like a Vegas showgirl. Legs. Tits. A body that wouldn’t quit.

  This woman oozed class from every pore. She was wearing a wispy layered dress in a bold shade of green, but the gown wasn’t so tight that every man knew exactly what was beneath it the way Irene’s did. No, this dress was subtly provocative. It fueled a man’s imagination.

  The upward surge of heat in his groin made it hard to think. The only thought he could hold for more than a second told him that he wanted this woman under him and moaning.

  “Of course, that’s Amy,” Irene whispered. “How else did she get the dog?”

  Dexx didn’t have an explanation. He watched the woman greet Kyle with an engaging smile. They were too far away to hear what was being said, but the blonde’s low, throaty laugh carried across the terrace.

  The shy gesture that he had noticed in the picture must have been a fluke. This woman moved with the self-assurance of a woman who knew she was the object of every man’s desire.

  From the looks of it, Jensen and Parker were both after her. Jensen seemed to have the inside track, but Kyle had a certain macho appeal that women flipped over. Take–a–number time.

  Dexx wasn’t worried. Not only was he handsome, he had money up the ying-yang. That made him irresistible.

  Chapter 25

  Pinpricks of sweat beaded Dexxter’s brow as he watched the blonde chatting up Kyle. Dexx swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, aware of Irene logging every move. He didn’t care what she thought. He had already concocted a plan for her “accident.”

  Trevor led the group in their direction, and Dexx’s hand went up to straighten a tie that wasn’t there. He was in a lightweight madras blazer and an open neck shirt. He’d selected the outfit especially for the blonde in the pictures, assuming she was Amy.

  He’d never given Amy more than a passing glance, but he’d known she had a thing for him. This woman was different; he couldn’t count on her falling for him immediately. From the looks of it, she already had Jensen and Kyle after her. He would have to finesse this one.

  “These are our new neighbors,” Trevor said by way of introduction. “Irene Hanson and Dexxter Foxx. Irene, Dexx, this is Rochelle Ralston.”

  Dexx stuck out his hand, itching to touch her. “Call me Dexx. That’s Dexxter with two Xs and Foxx with a double X.”

  She looked him directly in the eye, then giggled. “Oh, my, it sounds like a chromosome check, not a real name.”

  Everyone chuckled, even Irene, as Dexx stood, hand extended. Unfuckingbelievable! The blonde was having a laugh at his expense.

  Shelly held up her hand, the fingers curled inward. “I can’t shake, sorry. I was in an accident and my hand hasn’t healed.” She gazed at him as he withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of your name. I think it’s … interesting.”

  Liar. Interesting was what people said just to be polite.

  “I say the strangest things sometimes,” Shelly went on. “They just pop into my head. It’s a habit I’ve had for years. Right, Matt?”

  “She’s a troublemaker with a capital T. Always has been.”

  From the look on Jensen’s face, Dexx could just imagine what kind of trouble. Dexxter’s sense of embarrassment eased a bit. Close-up, Shelly was even better looking than he’d thought. The sound of her voice fascinated him. It was like raw silk, low-pitched and soft, yet with a slight rasp to it.

  Nothing like Amy Conroy.

  “Your parents probably, like, spent months to come up with your name, Dexx,” commented the redhead. “Parents do weird stuff like that. Bubbles is my real name. Now, I ask you, is Bubbles, like, any kind of name to put on a birth certificate?”

  Who gave a shit about her? Everyone, it seemed. The group sympathized, discussing names and their experiences. Even Irene jumped in, saying her name made her sound old, and it had been hard to live with as a child.

  The fruity doctor, who had spent years wishing his name weren’t Clive, brought Shelly a glass of wine. Kyle grabbed her attention with a story about how Kyle rhymed with bile and kids used to tease him.

  Shelly leaned toward him, saying, “All my friends call me Shelly.”

  He decided she was coming on to him. Jensen’s arm was still around her, but he was talking to Trevor and Kyle. This is more like it, Dexx thought, grinning at her.

  Irene, sensing competition, no doubt, chimed in, “We’re going to be married soon.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Shelly responded.

  How humiliating, Dexx thought, outraged to have this beautiful woman think he’d want to marry the likes of Irene. Comparing Shelly to Irene was like trying to make a Thoroughbred out of horse shit. Irene’s nails bit into his arm, and he knew she expected a response.

  “We came down here to start a new business,” he told Shelly.

  “Matt and I are reporters.”

  “Really? Have you worked on some exciting cases?” Dexxter moved a little closer as he asked the question.

  Shelly shook her head, a sexy gesture that sent her blond hair fluttering over her bare shoulders. “I’ve worked for tabloids mostly. You know, sex lives of movie stars and Elvis sightings. Matt was with Exposé.”

  “The newsmagazine?” Irene asked.

  “That’s right.” Shelly turned her head toward Jensen, who was talking to Kyle. “Mart’s covered lots of really interesting cases.”

  “Like, what case was your favorite, Matt?” asked the Bubbles creature.

  Matt gazed at Shelly for a moment, an intimate look that fried Dexx, then Matt responded, “My favorite case was the one in Hawaii. Remember the woman who was discovered by a man out training a search-and-rescue dog? She’d been in a terrible accident. If he hadn’t found her, she would have died.”

  “I remember that story,” Irene said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “The woman had a head injury and lost her memory. She never recovered it. They couldn’t identify her.”

  “I saw her story on television. Missing! did a segment on her, trying to get someone to come forward and identify her,” Clive added. “The awesome part was that one of the shoes she was wearing belonged to a woman who had been murdered a year earlier.”*

  “I went to Hawaii,” Matt said. “My article and pictures on Lucky’s story got Exposé out of the red.”

  “Hello.” A policeman dressed in khaki bermudas and a shortsleeve khaki shirt came out from the kitchen, an envelope in his hand. “No one answered the bell, but I could hear voices, so I came in.”

  Dexxter quickly looked at Irene. The police didn’t make him nervous, but Irene had been jumpy since the FBI had come to the office. Irene lifted one dark brow and winked at Dexx.

  Trevor walked toward the man. “You’re not one of our regular officers. You must be one of the recruits from Key Largo.”

  “That’s right, sir. They brought us down for the Fantasy Fest.”

  “Things get rowdy around here during Fantasy Fest,” Clive told Irene and Dexx. “It’s a lot like Mardi Gras where too many tourists get drunk and fight.”

  “What can we do for you?” Trevor asked.

  “Chief Obermeyer sent me. He called this afternoon, but your phone was out of order.”

  “I knocked it off the hook and didn’t notice for hours.”

  “He wanted to let you know that the woman who was killed in the crash has been identified.”

  He extended the envelope, but didn’t seem sure whom to
give it to. Irene nudged Dexx, but his eyes were on Shelly. Chin tilted upward, Shelly looked expectantly at the officer.

  Trevor took the envelope, opened it, and read its contents. “The forensic team in Miami has identified the victim as Amy Joyce Conroy of Seattle, Washington.”

  Dexxter watched Shelly’s face remain impassive. Obviously, the name meant nothing to her. Irene poked him in the ribs again, and he was forced to take his eyes off Shelly. He whispered, “I guess Zane made a mistake.”

  “I don’t know. This is weird.” Irene shrugged.

  “I’m supposed to bring in Miss Ralston for questioning,” said the officer.

  “Why?” Shelly’s voice rose an octave. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “The chief said something about the Conroy woman being in the Witness Protection Program. She might have told you something before she died.”

  Uh-oh.

  The officer grinned, excited. “I’ll bet it was a mob deal. A hit, maybe.”

  What if Amy had blabbed everything to the knockout blond, Dexx wondered. It didn’t seem likely. Shelly hadn’t batted a lash when they’d been introduced. She hadn’t recognized his name.

  Trevor said, “We’re having a dinner party. Can’t she come in tomorrow?”

  “That woman didn’t tell me anything,” Shelly said. “She barely said two words.”

  “I thought you didn’t remember the crash,” Jensen said with a frown.

  “I didn’t until recently. Now I vaguely recall being at a Stop ’N Go, then I woke up in the hospital and you were there.” The way she looked at Matt as she spoke made Dexx want to kick the jerk in the balls—hard. “A little has come back to me, but not much.”

  “Let’s go call the chief,” suggested the officer. “I’ll ask him if it’s okay to come in tomorrow instead.”

  A warning voice whispered in her head as she followed the officer into the house. The FBI had to be behind this. All her prints had been removed from databases and her dental records pulled. The only way Amy Joyce Conroy had died was because they had wanted it that way.

  As soon as he had her inside, the officer said, “I’m Scott Phillips, special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m bringing you in.”