Читать книгу Key West Heat - Alice Orr - Страница 9

“Desiree,” he breathed.

Des Maxwell was behind the false mirror over the Beachcomber’s long, teakwood bar. This observation post had been here when he bought the place. He’d thought about getting rid of it. He didn’t like keeping tabs on people when they didn’t know he was doing it. Instead, he told everybody who worked for him that from back here he had a clear view of everything, including the cash register. He figured that would keep most of them honest. There’s no such thing as being too careful in the bar business.

You can’t be too careful about a lot of things. Like letting yourself get blindsided the way he just did when she walked in and sat down. Of course, he knew she wasn’t Desiree. He’d seen Taylor Bissett’s photograph at Netta’s house, and Desiree had been dead almost twenty-four years now. That was just about time enough for him to get used to how much she had meant to him and how much of his life had died with her—like the only chance he’d ever had of anything even close to a family. Now, as he stared through the one-way glass at the woman who was the vision of her mother, he knew there hadn’t been time enough to get over his loss after all.

Des had half expected the daughter to show up here someday. Then again, he’d half expected her not to. Either way, she’d caught him by surprise tonight. It had never occurred to him that in real life she would look almost identical to her mother. Not even the photograph had convinced him of that. Nothing could have convinced him that anybody could look so much like Desiree. Nobody ever had. He pressed closer to the glass. The hair, especially, was as he remembered, and the skin he knew would be moist and cool in the night air, the way Desiree was cool while being warm and caring at the same time. He couldn’t tell if Desiree’s daughter might be warm and caring too. She was certainly beautiful. She was also subdued and aloof in that white dress, at least a world away from the halter tops and jeans cut off high enough to show some back cheek along the bar. She didn’t flash her body around that way any more than her mother would have done.

Still, there was something different about her, some way she wasn’t Desiree. Des couldn’t put his finger on it. He felt he needed to know what that difference was. He had to set her apart from Desiree, especially considering what a lot of people suspected about that night twenty-four years ago, and the fire. Taylor was only a kid then, younger than he was by several years. Even if what they said about her and the fire was true, she couldn’t have really understood what she was doing. Knowing that hadn’t kept him from wishing a thousand times that he’d done what he first meant to do that night and saved the mother instead of the child.

That regret rose in him now. Suddenly, he felt the need, stronger than ever, to set them apart from each other in his mind, these two women who would have looked like sisters, were they standing side by side. He knew he would be able to tell from the eyes. Unfortunately, Taylor Bissett was halfway across the room, and the mirror glass on the other side of here could stand a polish to clear up the view. He would have to go down there for a closer look.

Des headed for the steps that led to a side door at the end of the bar. He glanced one more time through the back of the mirror. “Damn,” he cursed as he saw a lanky man walk up behind Taylor with a smile on his face that said he intended to get to know her very well, very fast. Des quickened his pace toward the door.

* * *

WHEN TAYLOR FELT someone at her shoulder, she thought it might be the person she had come here to find. She looked up to see a dark-haired man of wiry build, attractive in a rawboned sort of way. He leaned over and flashed her a quick smile that told her he was just a stranger trying to pick her up, after all.

“I bet you won’t believe this, but I know you,” he said, starting out with the most clichéd of pickup lines.

“I beg your pardon. I don’t think I know you.”

“It was when you were a kid,” he said. “May I?” He gestured at the chair next to hers and sat down in it before she could say whether she wanted him to or not. His movements were abrupt, like a darting animal’s, so much so that there was no time to react.

Taylor hesitated. Was this a new twist on an old line? “Are you trying to say you knew me when I was a child here in Key West?”

“That’s right. I did.”

Taylor almost laughed at him. She had left here as barely more than an infant, and she hadn’t been back since. How could he possibly recognize her now as an adult?

“That was so long ago. You probably don’t remember,” he said. “Your aunt used to bring you to my mother’s house almost every day. I’d sneak around corners to get a look at you. You were almost as pretty then as you are now.”

“Thank you for the compliment. But you’re right, I don’t remember you. What did you say your name was?”

“Oh, sorry. I was so surprised to see you I forgot my manners. I’m Jethro.”

He took her hand and shook it briefly. His grip was firm, but darting like the rest of him.

“Was it my Aunt Netta who brought me to your house when I was small?”

“That’s right. That was her name. But you weren’t so small. I could already tell you were going to be tall like you are now.”

Taylor was again tempted to laugh. She had seen pictures of herself at three years old. She had been average size then, maybe even a bit small for her age. Her first growth spurt hadn’t happened till a couple of years later, at least. She was about to throw this guy some lines of her own, of the brush-off variety, when she noticed a man coming through a doorway at the end of the bar that extended the length of the room. He stopped for a moment to say something to the bartender. Taylor was looking at him with such concentration that, when he turned, he caught her staring. The directness of his gaze connected them, one to another, across the room with a flash of electric intimacy that almost made Taylor look away. She felt suddenly apprehensive, but she held his stare despite the flutter in her chest that was her heart picking up speed.

He was powerfully angular, almost too imposing for the low-ceilinged barroom. The lines of his face might have been chiseled from the rich-grained wood of the beams supporting that ceiling. His cheekbones were high and resolute, like the ridge of collarbone below his square, dimpled chin. He seemed out of place somehow in this smoky barroom, as if he was meant to be out-of-doors, among trees and landscapes as rugged as himself.

He began walking across the room. He was headed, in as straight a line as possible, directly toward her. She had guessed who he was the moment she saw him. He walked as if he owned the place, and that meant he had to be Destiny Maxwell. She felt that ownership reach out toward her the way it sometimes did with very strong-minded men. She steeled herself against its strength. She wasn’t about to be dominated, especially not by this particular man, no matter how strong-minded he might be. If this was to be a test of wills, she was determined to come out the winner.

Still, she couldn’t deny how attractive he was. She had seen it in the photographs in her portfolio, but those had only been pictures. The man in the flesh was even better-looking, almost disturbingly so. She would have preferred that not to be the case, but Taylor wasn’t accustomed to lying to herself. She had to admit, if only in private silence, that even the way he walked was somehow unsettling to her. He moved fast across the room without appearing to hurry at all, as if he wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t the kind of man who hurried for anybody. He might put on a little speed when his priorities required it, but he didn’t hurry. That would mean behaving as if something really mattered to him. Taylor guessed that this man didn’t like things to matter to him, or to let anybody know they did.

Des Maxwell might possibly be the handsomest man she had ever seen. He might also be the coolest and the most detached, and that coolness and detachment intrigued her. It also made her increasingly uneasy with every step he took because, the closer he got, the more striking he looked. As he approached she noticed more details about him, such as that he was quite tall, six feet or more. She couldn’t tell exactly from this angle. His hair was bronze and gold, much like April Jane Cooney’s. His deep, copper tan made Taylor aware of her own snowbird-pale skin.

Taylor felt a sudden shift of perspective, as if she had turned abruptly at an angle to see something not visible in her former line of vision. However, she hadn’t moved a muscle. She knew what was happening. She had experienced it before. The barroom scene disappeared for her for an instant and was replaced by something much more disturbing. She could see her body stretched out full length and naked. His nude body lay atop hers. Their skin touched, almost blended, but remained mysteriously different, like night from day.

Then the image was gone, as suddenly as it had materialized, and she was watching him stride toward her once again. Unfortunately, as with other such experiences, the shadow of the vision remained, along with its aura of strong sensuality. Taylor struggled to erase that sensation from her consciousness. She reminded herself that she’d always been put off by men who were what she thought of as too handsome. Vanity usually came along with such physical gifts, and arrogance. The way this particular man moved led her to suspect a generous portion of both.

Still, Taylor had to concede that the very sight of him had shaken her. Or, could it be just the vision she was reacting to? She hadn’t gotten over being startled when this kind of thing happened. She doubted she ever would. The experience made her feel unprotected, as if her usual defenses had toppled and she was left completely vulnerable. She definitely didn’t want to feel that way now, in front of Des Maxwell. She stifled the impulse to swallow hard against the rapid beating of her heart.

“Well, Jethro,” the tall man said when he reached the table. “You usually don’t prowl your way in here till the weekend.”

She wouldn’t go so far as to say there was a sneer in his voice, but it came very close to that. Meanwhile, though he was talking to Jethro, Destiny Maxwell was staring at her. His green eyes didn’t waver an instant from their study of her face. She felt their imposition so keenly that she was tempted to slap him for his rudeness, or maybe to dispel the shock his close-up gaze seemed to be causing to her system. She could actually feel her stomach tightening into a knot under his scrutiny. The vision of herself naked under him had already unnerved her. His stare couldn’t help but add to her uneasiness. She felt the warmth of a blush rise unbidden beneath the white cotton of her dress. The thought that he deserved a slap grew stronger, as if he might, in some deliberately insolent manner, be forcing this blush upon her, all the while enjoying her embarrassment.

“You two know each other. Right?” Jethro asked, glancing from one icy stare to the other.

“Not really,” Taylor said.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong about that. I’m Des Maxwell, and you are Taylor Bissett, which means I’ve known you almost all your life.”

Maxwell sounded so aloof he might not have been there at all, as if his words had been spoken with no connection to the rest of him. Taylor found that aloofness as provoking as his rude gaze and his calculated movements. Besides, she was getting tired of being declared an old acquaintance by men she had no memory of ever meeting.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said. “I do not know you.”

The waitress walked up behind Maxwell with a frothy white drink on her tray. “He ordered you a piña colada,” she said with a nod toward Maxwell in response to Taylor’s inquiring glance.

Taylor caught the flash of adoration in the young woman’s eyes as she looked up at her boss. Unfortunately, Taylor couldn’t help understanding that look. In addition to the attractions she had already noted, his hair fell winsomely across his forehead, and a thatch of sun-blond curls peeked through the open neck of his shirt in disturbing contrast with his tanned skin. He was positively spilling over with masculine charm, and she was keenly aware of the danger in that. She told herself she was determined to avoid such danger and that it was the power of this determination which made her hand tremble as she reached into her purse for her wallet.

“The drink is on the house,” he said and took hold of her wrist before she could pull out her money.

His fingers were warm against the thin skin above her pulse. She felt that pulse quicken as if it might begin at any moment to pump visibly beneath his touch. She pulled her hand away from him before that self-betrayal could happen.

“I prefer to pay my own way,” she said, handing a bill to the waitress, who had watched this exchange with considerable interest.

“Suit yourself,” Maxwell said with a shrug.

“Say, you two, what’s all this sparring about anyway?” Jethro darted halfway up from his seat and yanked the chair opposite Taylor’s away from the table. “Why don’t you sit down and take a load off, Des?”

“What do you say, Ms. Bissett? Should I take a load off, as Jethro puts it, or take a walk?”

Taylor stared straight back at him. She forced herself to be just as cool as he was. “Suit yourself.”

“In that case, I accept your invitation, Jethro,” Maxwell said, sitting. “How’ve you been, anyway?”

“I’ve been super, Des.” Jethro looked bewildered, as if he might be surprised by Maxwell’s acknowledging him at all.

“And how’s Winona?”

“Oh, Ma’s always tip-top.”

“That’s when she isn’t over the top,” Maxwell said almost under his breath.

“Wait a minute,” Taylor interrupted at the sound of the less than common female name. “Is your mother Winona Starling?”

“She sure is,” Jethro said enthusiastically. “That’s who your aunt used to bring you to see when you were a kid, like I told you.”

“I remember that,” Maxwell said.

“Well, I don’t remember any of it.”

Taylor felt her annoyance deflate suddenly. Too many people seemed to know more about her life than she did. Meanwhile, Maxwell was watching her. He appeared more thoughtful than arrogant this time.

“What exactly do you remember?” he asked.

His green-eyed gaze had turned unexpectedly warm as honey, or at least it felt startlingly that way to her.

“I remember almost nothing,” she said.

“Loss of memory can come in handy sometimes.”

The warmth had vanished from his eyes and his voice, as if she might have imagined them there, like one of her visions. Taylor had been about to lower her barriers against him long enough to ask what he might know of her early childhood here in Key West. His renewed coolness put a stop to that.

“Are you accusing me of lying about what I do or do not remember?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I was only making an observation.”

“You really don’t remember anything about being a kid here?” Jethro chimed in.

Taylor didn’t answer him. The fascination in Jethro’s voice and the quizzical way he was looking at her made her feel like a specimen in a jar. Des Maxwell’s smart-aleck detachment had revived the urge to slap him, hard and fast, straight across his sneering face. Taylor wished she had stayed in her room at the guesthouse and taken a bubble bath as April Jane Cooney advised.

Taylor pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “I have to be going.”

Maxwell took a moment to let his smile appear, so slow and wide that she could tell it was insincere. “Don’t let me chase you away.”

Taylor picked up her purse instead of doing what she really wanted to do with her hand to his arrogant smirk.

“I never let anyone chase me anywhere,” she said.

Despite that declaration, Taylor walked fast to the open doorway and out into the street. “Calm down,” she said, then glanced around to see if anybody had noticed her talking to herself. Two young men in T-shirts with beer bottles in their hands turned from lounging against the building to look her up and down in impudent appraisal. She avoided their eyes and would have begun walking back toward Amelia Street, when a recollection of the shuffling bum and his sly laugh kept her riveted where she stood, uncertain for the moment what to do next.

Emotion burned her cheeks. She had kept herself in check through all that had happened these past weeks, so soon after the death of Aunt Netta, Taylor’s last real remaining family. Her sense of loss, the trip down here, her scare outside the guesthouse earlier this evening—each pressure had piled upon the others. She had been closer to her saturation point than she realized when she walked into Maxwell’s bar. Then she saw him, with his brazen attitude, as if he couldn’t care less about any of it. That was the last straw. Tears trembled on Taylor’s lashes. She didn’t want anybody to see her wipe them away or know how upset she was. She wouldn’t give Des Maxwell that satisfaction, even if he didn’t know about it. She willed the tears to dry where they stood and vowed there would be no more.

“Are you all right?”

Taylor whirled around. She half hoped to find Maxwell standing there, so she could deliver the slap she’d resisted giving him in the bar. Instead, it was Jethro Starling.

“You looked so upset when you left. I thought I should come after you.” He seemed pretty agitated himself, with his eyes wide open in a startled expression.

“Thanks,” Taylor said, after a deep breath.

“One reason Des gets to people is that they know they can’t get to him.”

Taylor was surprised to hear such a sober assessment from someone so high-strung he could hardly stand still on the pavement.

“I noticed that.”

“Look. Why don’t you let me give you a ride home? It’s late for you to be out here on your own.”

Taylor hesitated, and that made him fidget more than ever.

“I wouldn’t hurt you or anything like that. I could get you a cab if you don’t want to drive with me.”

Taylor glanced up and down the street. It was late. She didn’t see any taxis, but she could call one as Jethro said. She remembered the creepy guy in the pink cab from the airport, almost as scary as the shuffling bum had been. Her instincts told her Jethro was harmless. Besides, Aunt Netta had known his family.

“I’d like a ride, thank you,” she said.

“Great. My car’s right over there.” He pointed to a red Corvette at the opposite curb.

As they walked across the street, Taylor caught sight of a dark sedan parked farther down the block. She stopped short, but then she saw that the windshield was transparent, not black glass. She continued walking.

“Maxwell really did get to you, didn’t he?” Jethro said as he opened the car door for her.

She didn’t feel like explaining about the sedan. “Maybe,” she said. “Does he ever get to you?”

“As long as I’ve got my good luck going for me, nothing bothers me.”

Taylor couldn’t help smiling as he slammed her car door and hurried around to get in the driver’s side. She would have guessed that there was hardly anything that didn’t bother Jethro. He flipped the car into gear and made a U-turn in the middle of the block, causing a pickup truck to screech to a halt in the opposite lane. The truck honked noisily, and Jethro honked back before taking off southward on Duval Street.

“How did you know my guesthouse was in this direction?” Taylor asked.

“Guesthouse? I thought you’d be staying at your family’s place by the shore.”

“No. I have a room not far from here on Amelia Street.” Aunt Netta might have been able to live with the ghosts of Stormley, but Taylor wasn’t. “Your family must have known mine pretty well.”

“Just about everybody knows my mother.”

“That reminds me,” Taylor said, thinking of the question she’d had earlier, before her encounter with Des Maxwell knocked it out of her mind. “Exactly how old was I when you last saw me?”

“I’d say you were about six or seven.”

Taylor needed a moment to take that in. “I don’t see how that could be possible. I left Key West when I was three years old, and I haven’t been back since.”

“Oh, no. That’s not right. You were six or seven like I said. I remember you used to bring your library book with you sometimes. Three-year-olds don’t read library books. You were old enough to be in school last time I saw you.”

“Maybe you have me mixed up with somebody else,” Taylor said.

“It was you, all right. I wouldn’t get that mixed up. I had kind of a crush on you.” He smiled over at her. He looked embarrassed. “I used to watch you especially.”

Taylor didn’t feel entirely comfortable with Jethro’s infatuation story, whether or not he might be correct in his memory of her as the object of those affections. She was even less comfortable when he took a sudden right turn off Duval Street.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “I told you my guesthouse was off Duval.” She slid her hand onto the door handle and got ready for a fast escape.

“Amelia Street is one-way. I can’t turn onto it from Duval.”

“Oh, I see.”

Taylor relaxed some, but she kept her grip on the door handle. At the end of the block the headlights picked out white letters on a telephone pole. Vertically they read Whitehead Street. Jethro made another turn, to the left this time. It was definitely darker here, with far fewer people around than back on Duval. If Jethro Starling intended to do her harm, she was giving him every opportunity. She could hardly believe she had climbed into a car with a stranger, and a strange-acting stranger at that. She was about to make her move and shove open the door when the car slowed. The pole marker on the corner ahead said Amelia Street, and Jethro was signaling to make a left turn.

Taylor was about to breathe a sigh of relief when she heard sirens. A whirling light reflected in the sports car’s rearview mirror. She turned to see two police cars behind them. Jethro steered to the side of the road. The police cars sped past and around the corner onto Amelia and the block where she was staying. She was surprised by that. This had seemed like such a quiet street, not at all the kind of place she would expect screaming sirens.

Then, Taylor remembered the dark sedan and the certainty that it was stalking her down that same quiet block. A wave of apprehension swept over her even before she saw that the police had stopped in front of the Key Westian and were already headed toward the porch. Jethro turned the Corvette onto the same block and slowed to a stop near the corner.

“Which house are you staying at?” he asked.

Taylor didn’t answer right away.

She lowered the car window to get a clearer view. She didn’t like what she saw. Two policemen had stationed themselves on either side of the guest-house door, and their guns were drawn.