Sex on the Beach Series
Before You
Finding You
Savannah Martin Mysteries
A Cutthroat Business
Hot Property
Contract Pending
Close to Home
A Done Deal
Contingent on Approval
Change of Heart
Kickout Clause
Past Due
Dirty Deeds
Tall, Dark and Divine
Same Time Next Year
Fortune's Hero
The Boddy in the Snowbank
Island Getaway
Virginia Creeper
Ditching David
Friends with Benefits
For Jen and Jennifer, to much success and nothing but good times ahead.
MY RELATIONSHIP with Ty Connor lasted six months before hitting the skids.
We met in Key West in March, he came to Chicago in May, and we broke up the day before Thanksgiving.
It wasn’t because of another girl, or even another guy. It wasn’t because I didn’t love him anymore. It wasn’t because he didn’t love me. He said he did, and I believed him.
No, it was a lot simpler than that.
It was his job.
I was still in college, finishing up my last year at UC. Journalism. Ty was four years older, and had been working for the FBI for the past two years.
Yes, that FBI. My boyfriend was a Fed. An undercover agent. That’s how I met him. He’d been in Florida for Spring Break to catch a serial rapist, one who preyed on college girls coming to Key West to get drunk and get laid. I got involved in the investigation when I got involved with Ty, and things escalated from there.
The bad guy was behind bars now, and would go on trial in March, just as Spring Break was about to kick off again. I’d have to fly down to testify.
But after all that went down, Ty transferred to the Chicago office so we could be together. And my life was complete—sort of—until I learned that life with an FBI agent is hard.
We’d been dating for less than a month the first time he disappeared.
All I got was a text on my way to class one morning: Gotta go to work. Back in a week. Love U.
Sure.
I mean, I worried, of course. I knew what he did for a living. He hunted down rapists and infiltrated street gangs and arrested drug dealers and had the occasional run-in with pedophiles who had convinced him to cross state lines for immoral purposes, violating something he said was called the Mann Act. He dealt with a lot of bad people. Bad things could happen to him. Someone could hurt him, or kill him. He could disappear—really disappear—and I’d never know what happened.
A week passed, and he didn’t write and he didn’t call. I got angry, and then I got scared, and then I got more angry and more scared. I also didn’t sleep, and missed a couple of assignments I should have aced because I was too tired to think straight. If this kept up, I’d end up having to take my last year of college again, and that wouldn’t make my parents happy. Me either, for that matter.
He returned a couple of weeks later, like nothing was wrong, and after I’d hugged him and kissed him and touched him and made sure he was in one piece, he told me that this was the way it was going to be. The Bureau needed him to go undercover, so he went. He was good at it. He could still pass for seventeen with a little effort. There weren’t a lot of agents who could, so it was important that he do what he could while he could still do it. If I didn’t want to deal with that, he’d be sorry, but he’d understand.
How do you tell a hero—someone who puts his own life on the line to make sure you and other people are safe—that your worry about his safety and your GPA are more important than what he’s doing?
You don’t. So I sucked it up. Because I loved him, and wanted to be with him. When he was around, it was great. It was the times he wasn’t around that were the problem.
But I stuck it out. Until Thanksgiving, when I couldn’t handle it anymore.
We were headed to my hometown in Ohio to spend the holiday with my mom and dad, and the day before we were set to leave, Ty came and told me he couldn’t go.
I guess I should be grateful that he told me. He could have just left again, with a text when it was too late to do anything about it. So it was actually very nice of him to give me advance notice. But it just became too much.
“It’s Thanksgiving!”
“Gangs don’t stop dealing drugs because it’s a holiday,” Ty said.
“Isn’t there someone else who can go? We had plans!”
“Cassie.” He put his arms around me. “We’ve talked about this.”
I fisted my hands against his chest. Part of me wanted to pummel him, and part of me wanted to grab fistfuls of his shirt and hang on. I didn’t do either. “My mom and dad were looking forward to meeting you.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He nuzzled my cheek and my ear, his breath warm. “It’s the job.”
The nuzzling was nice, but not nice enough. “I don’t think I can do this, Ty,” I told his shoulder. “I love you. I want us to be together. But I don’t think I can do this anymore. Every time you disappear, I worry that you won’t come back. And then you do, and I worry that you’ll leave again.” And so on, in a vicious cycle that I knew had no end. Until the one time he didn’t come back, would never come back—and since I didn’t even want to think about that possibility, I forced my mind back to the present.
If this had been a stupid romance novel, he would have told me he’d always come back. Like he was some kind of super-hero.
He didn’t. Instead, he was honest. “I try to be careful. You know that.”
I swallowed. “I know. It just isn’t enough.”
When he dropped his hands from my waist, I wanted to cry, to change my mind, to tell him to hold on and not let go.
I didn’t. I dropped my own hands from his chest instead, and took a step back. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes were the bright green of emeralds. “Me, too.”
“It isn’t that I don’t love you.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“Take care of yourself. Please.”
My eyes were swimming with tears. When he leaned in to drop a soft kiss on my cheek, I couldn’t see him clearly.
“You, too,” he told me. And then he stepped back. I didn’t blink until he was through the door and out of sight, because I didn’t want to watch him walk away. The tears kept my eyes nicely blurry, and that’s the way I wanted it. It wasn’t until I heard the door slam on the first floor, that I knew he was really gone.
THE FLORIDA Keys looked just the same a year later. Lots of turquoise water, white sand, and almost-naked people.
The difference...
Well, there were a lot of differences. I was coming in alone, for one thing. Last year, my best friends Mackenzie and Quinn and I had come down together. And since Mackenzie had been footing the bill, we’d been staying at a gorgeous high-rise hotel right in the middle of Party Central.
This year, I was alone, and paying my own way. And since Mackenzie is a successful country music singer, while I’m a struggling college student, I could kiss the high-rise goodbye. The airport shuttle dropped me outside Richardson’s Motel. Nowhere near the middle of Party Central; down toward the southern shore of Key West, but close enough that I could walk to Duval Street.
Ty had been staying here last year, so I figured it was safe. The FBI wouldn’t put one of their agents up in a place that wasn’t. And because it was out of the way and a little past its prime, the price was right, too.
The same guy as a year ago was perched on a stool behind the counter in the office. I think he was wearing the same T-shirt: green, with a Wizards of the Coast logo. And he might be reading the
same magazine: something Japanese, with tentacles.
When I walked in, wheeling my suitcase behind me, he looked up. And blinked, but didn’t say anything to indicate that he remembered me from last year. Just waited for me to speak first. “Cassandra Wilder,” I told him. “I’ve booked a room for the next two weeks.”
Spring Break was actually a week from now. And Quinn and Mackenzie were both coming. Quinn would be bringing her boyfriend James, the struggling artist AKA Ivy League Dude, who was even wealthier than Mackenzie. Or at least he had been, until he gave up all the money to prove to Quinn—and I guess to himself—that he could make it on his own.
Mackenzie was finishing up a concert tour, and would be landing in Key West toward the end of next week. Her boyfriend Austin was supposed to be coming as well, but last I heard something had gone wrong there, and she’d been talking about breaking up with him. Something about a girl in his dressing room, and an article in some magazine. We’d all gotten used to the lies the paparazzi told, but this one wasn’t a lie, or at least Mac thought it wasn’t. I was a little confused about the whole thing, but that could be because I had other things on my mind.
The trial of Stan Laszlo, the rapist from last year, had started today. I guess it was someone’s bright idea to time it to coincide with Spring Break a year later, to show how seriously Key West law enforcement took the safety of the tourists. There was very little doubt Stan would get hit with a whopping sentence, and that would make the police look good and all the Spring Breakers feel safe. They’d drink and party and spend more money, and everyone would be happy.
Except those of us involved with the trial, I guess. It wasn’t so bad for me, but I’m sure the girls he had drugged and assaulted weren’t looking forward to talking about it.
Stan had attacked me, but since the police had been watching, he’d been pulled off and arrested before he could do any real damage. I’d volunteered to be bait, after it became obvious to all of us that I’d become a target. Stan had seen me with Ty, and he knew Ty was there to catch him, so going after me must have seemed like a good idea. If he could get away with it, it would destroy Ty, on both a professional and a personal level.
I don’t think it occurred to him—Stan—that he wouldn’t get away with it. He’d always gotten away with it before, so he probably thought he was invincible.
Surprise.
And now he was on trial, and I had to testify. Which was why I was here, looking at the specimen with the scraggly beard and shifty eyes.
Wizard Dude didn’t give any indication he remembered me. Nor did he seem curious as to why I was there a week earlier than all the other Spring Breakers. He didn’t speak at all, just shoved a piece of paper and a pen in my direction and pointed at the line where he wanted me to sign. When I had, he put a key on the counter. A real key, not one of those high-end keycards the high-rise hotels have. This was your basic Yale on a ring with a turquoise plastic tag. The number 102 was written on it in black magic marker.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded. By the time I walked out the door, he was already deep into the tentacle porn again.
Richardson’s Motel consisted of an A-shaped building where the office was, and in each direction, a wing of rooms. The whole thing was painted white with a cheerful red roof and bright turquoise doors. Outside each door sat a planter with red flowers. And while I’d been here once before, looking for Ty, he hadn’t been in, so I hadn’t seen any of the rooms. It was with a bit of trepidation I inserted the key into the lock of room 102 and pushed the door open.
It could have been worse, and that’s about the best I can say for it.
It was clean, mostly, but quite worn. The furnishings were 1970s motel style: a basic bed with a low headboard, a dresser with three drawers, a table and chair over by the window. A small microwave on top of an apartment-size fridge in lieu of a bedside table. The bathroom had a sink, a shower, and a toilet, all functional but not at all pretty. The only nice thing about the place was the bouquet of flowers sitting on the table. Lilies and carnations and some sort of little spriggy things, with a small card perched against the vase.
My heart skipped a beat.
I hadn’t seen Ty since he’d walked out my door the day before Thanksgiving. I had no idea whether he was still in Chicago, or whether he’d transferred to another FBI field office after we broke up. For all I knew, he could be working out of San Francisco or Miami by now. He hadn’t tried to contact me, and I appreciated it, since seeing him again would only make things worse.
I missed him terribly. I knew he’d be in Key West this week—he had to testify, too—and I couldn’t wait to lay eyes on him. The fact that it had been more than three months since the last time I saw him, hadn’t made any difference at all. The possibility that the flowers might be from him sent my heart into a fluttering of anticipation.
Except they weren’t. The card was from the Key West PD, or more specifically from one Detective Enrique—Ricky—Fuentes. He was the guy who’d been standing by to yank Stan off me and slap handcuffs on him last March. The Key West detective in charge of the case.
I turned the card over to check the back, but he hadn’t left any kind of message. I guess maybe he didn’t want it to look like he was communicating with me in secret. The cop in charge of the case talking privately to one of the key witnesses was something the defense could use to cause a lot of trouble. I didn’t want it to look like I was conspiring with him, either—and I figured I’d probably see him in court and could find a moment to thank him for the flowers then—so I didn’t use the phone number or email address on the card to contact him.
Instead, I emptied my suitcase into the bureau drawers and my toiletries onto the vanity in the bathroom before I gave my hair a swipe with a brush and headed out. I’d caught a morning flight out of Chicago, so it was still just early afternoon here. I needed something to eat, and I wanted to stop by the courthouse before my own testimony tomorrow, so I’d have some idea what it would look and feel like. It never hurts to be prepared.
The food was easy: I grabbed a hot dog from I Dream of Weenie and munched while I walked. The Courthouse was a bit of a trek, but the weather was nice—especially considering how cold it still was in Chicago—and there’s always plenty to look at in Key West.
The Courthouse was located in the Old Town, just on the corner of Thomas and Fleming. It was a Victorian building: two-story red brick with tall, white pillars, arched windows, and a square clock tower. The words Monroe County Court House and the year 1890 were written on the front, above the second floor balcony.
I pushed through the double front doors—louvered, to allow for the breeze to come in; no A/C in 1890—and a set of much more modern metal detectors, to find myself in a wide hallway with doors on either side. A security guard had been standing by the wall, and now he came toward me.
“Afternoon, miss.” He held out a hand the size of a ham. “Purse, please.”
I lifted the strap over my head and gave it to him.
He gave me a look from under bushy brows. “Name and business?”
“Cassandra Wilder,” I said, watching as he unzipped my shoulder bag and stuck his hand in. “I’m testifying against Stan Laszlo tomorrow. I wanted to see what to expect.”
He didn’t respond to that, just pulled an emery board out of my bag. One of the bushy eyebrows lifted.
“Nail file,” I said.
He put the tip of a finger against the point and tested it. And must have decided I couldn’t do much damage with such a wimpy implement, because he dropped it back into the purse again. “Last door on the right.”
“Thank you.” I looped the bag back over my head and headed that way.
A piece of paper in a frame to the right of the door said State vs. Laszlo. I pushed the handle down slowly, careful not to make any noise, and pushed the door in. It didn’t squeak. The voice from inside became audible as more than just a murmur. “—been acquainted with the defendant?�
�
The woman on the witness stand was a couple of years older than me, and a knockout. Long, black hair, big, brown eyes, puffy lips, and eyelashes for days. Not to mention the figure—although I won’t. The first time I saw Carmen Fuentes, she was wearing a tank top that said Save a Virgin – Do Me Instead, and she was flirting with Ty. I’d hated her on sight. It wasn’t until later that I found out she was Detective Fuentes’s sister, and Ty’s liaison with the police department, because nobody would think anything of it if he couldn’t stay away from her. We even made friends, sort of, later on.
There was no Save a Virgin tank on display today. Carmen was dressed in a crisp white shirt, one with three-quarter length sleeves and no hint of cleavage. Someone must have told her to dress down for the occasion.
Not that it made a difference. She was still a knockout, even with her hair scraped back from her face into a bun, and nude lipstick. Even her voice was more subdued than I remember it as she answered the question. “We both grew up in Key West. We went to school together. I’ve known Stan most of my life.”
“And were you ever involved?”
“No,” Carmen said.
“You never dated?”
She shook her head.
“Out loud for the record, please.”
“No,” Carmen said. “We never went out. Never dated. Never were involved. He asked me out, but I always said no.”
I slipped onto a chair in the second to last row near the door. A handful of people with cameras—reporters—were ranged along the back wall, but none of them seemed interested in my arrival.
Of course not, they were guys. And Carmen was testifying. Their eyes were glued to her.
The conversation continued up front, about how Stan wanted to date Carmen and Carmen thought Stan was a creep, while I scanned the courtroom.
The judge was sitting on the podium in the front, an older man in black robes with thinning hair. Carmen was behind another, lower podium off to the right. A court reporter sat down below on the other side, clicking away on the court record. The prosecutor must be asking the questions, because one of the two tables facing the judge and witness box was empty. At the other, I could see the backs of two heads: one slick and black, heavy on the mousse, and one wheat-colored. That one I recognized, even from this distance, as belonging to Stan Laszlo.
Finding You Page 1
