Читать книгу Hot For It - Melissa MacNeal - Страница 7

Cat stomped her feet in the frigid air that whipped along the curbside check-in area at the St. Louis airport. Just a week ago she’d been languishing in the loft at Trevor Teague’s, worrying where her next check was coming from, and here she was shipping off to an island paradise beyond her wildest dreams. To buy the damned island!

Maybe.

She reminded herself that, yes, the photographs on the Web site had looked too good to be true. And yeah, the arrangements for her offshore accounts and for the flight to view this island property had fallen into place as though her guardian angel—this time in the form of Grant Carey—had waved a magic wand. As he hefted her suitcases from the trunk of his Lexus into the check-in line, the breeze caught his steely hair and gave his cheeks a ruddy glow. A glow of sincere joy for her.

“I’ll be in touch, sweetheart,” he murmured, bussing her cheek. “Keep me apprised of your findings, and I’ll be sure all your new accounts and connections remain confidential.”

“If there’s anything we can do—” Bruce chimed in. Then he grabbed her in a huge hug. “This is so exciting, Cat! Have a fabulous time!”

“You’ll be the first one I call if I need a groundskeeper,” she insisted, returning his grin. “I owe you big-time, Mr. Bigelow.”

“And don’t forget to e-mail us soon as you get there.” Trevor slipped the strap of her computer case over her shoulder, letting his hand linger for a squeeze. “With that theft-detection software I installed, your laptop—not to mention your new book!—will be traced immediately if a thug snags your Mac. Can’t be too careful in countries where technology’s scarce.”

Cat bit back a remark about how protective they were all being. After all, they just wanted her to be safe and have the time of her life, now that she had a life. “And what does that do, again?”

“Every time you send an e-mail, a separate message goes to the account address I’ve set up, and it tells us the location of your laptop,” he explained patiently. “So if someone swipes it, you call the software company and they’ll know where your Mac is as soon as the thieves go online with it.”

Cat nodded as though she understood. “Like having an On-Star chip in a car?”

“Pretty much.” The architect stuffed his hands in his overcoat pockets, his grin tentative. “But we’ll think positive thoughts, Cat. You’re going on the adventure of a lifetime here, and we’re all wishing we could, too!”

She threw her arms around his neck, basking in his warmth and the subtle scent of his cologne…the way his close-cropped beard teased her cheek when he kissed it. “Soon as I’m settled, you might as well come see me,” she insisted to the three of them. “Why spend the rest of your winter in St. Louis when you could be sunbathing on my white sand beach watching the dolphins frolic?”

“Oh, stop! Just get on the plane, you tease!”

After a final round of hugs as she checked her luggage, Cat strode resolutely toward the terminal doors. When they opened automatically, as if recognizing her as the queen of her own ocean domain, she turned for a final wave. Three gorgeous guys raised their arms as though saluting her with their pirate swords, and she laughed.

It was a big improvement over bursting into tears, wasn’t it?

The trouble with flying alone, first to San Juan and then to St. Lucia, was having so much time to think. Oh, she’d brought along the stack of information she’d received about Porto Di Angelo, the island she was viewing, but she couldn’t focus on it. Cat alternated between little-girl giddiness over this adventure—was she really flying down to buy her own slice of paradise?!—and the gnawing fear that Laird King’s creditors would somehow shatter her new plans, despite the safeguards Grant had put into place.

And now that the first rush of hitting the jackpot had settled, she felt overwhelmed by loneliness. Surrounded by strangers and preoccupied flight attendants, Cat had to face emotions she hadn’t expected. She stared out the window a lot so the kid in the aisle seat wouldn’t think she was a nutcase when she went from tears to gleeful grins.

It felt odd to be setting out by herself, after nearly fifteen years of marriage to Laird. While she’d been shocked and pissed at the mess he’d left her, she couldn’t just erase the good life he’d provided her—at least on the surface. Then came the condolence calls and those damn threats from bloodsuckers trying to wrench money from her after they snatched her house and her car. Scary, to think how she could’ve ended up in a homeless shelter, had Trevor Teague not invited her into the house he shared with Grant and Bruce.

While she’d always loved to travel—she and Laird had gone abroad or cruised every year—as a writer, she’d spent most of her time alone. In imaginary worlds of her own creation. But this trip was taking her to a whole new reality, where she didn’t know a soul. She’d really jumped off the edge—mostly because that shooting star and the swaggering voice who called himself Spike had pushed her.

What if her parachute didn’t open?

What if this leap of faith landed her among sharks and crocs who smelled her fear and swallowed her whole? Would that theft-detection software protect her, half a world away from everything and everyone she knew?

When she got off the plane in San Juan, she still had no answers. Thank God her travels had taught her how to navigate airports: this one was colossal, and she was alone in a sea of people moving toward their gates with their own concerns. Their own companions.

Hey, you got me, doll!

Cat fought the urge to gaze crazily around her. She was approaching the security checkpoint and didn’t need those uniformed agents thinking she was wacko. The smell of cigarettes was suddenly so strong, she could’ve been in one of the glassed-in lounges where they confined smokers these days.

“Where were you when I was feeling so lonely on the plane, huh?” she muttered. She stepped out of the stream of people funneling toward the X-ray machines, in case anyone was watching her talk to herself.

Like you would’ve talked to me on that plane, Spike replied. I was in the center seat the whole time. Watching the movie.

“Right. You could’ve told me you were there—”

You needed that time alone, babe. I’ve learned to never come between a woman and her mood swings. He cleared his throat ceremoniously. Better get your sweet self into that security line, missy. It’s a loooong way to your gate, and if you miss this plane for St. Lucia—

“Are you telling me what to do?” Cat stepped out of the restroom doorway, smiling apologetically at the dark-skinned lady who came out and stared at her funny.

Okay, fine, doll. I got work to do, anyway. If you’re gonna get all pissy—

“I’m not getting—”

And by the way, I can hear you just fine if you think your part of the conversation. See ya around, sugah—if you make your plane, that is.

Half an hour later, Cat scurried aboard the little express jet.

“Thank you for waiting,” she gasped at the glaring blond flight attendant. She beelined to her seat, avoiding the eyes of the passengers who’d been there several minutes ago. The door whumped shut behind her, and as they taxied away from the terminal the spiel about plane safety came over the speaker system.

What a relief that, again, no one occupied the aisle seat beside her. She could catch her breath and regroup without—

Without so much as a thanks or a kiss-my-ass! The pilot had to take a sudden leak, or we’d be long gone, girlfriend. See if I ever hold a plane for you again!

“I am not your—” Cat caught herself and let out a long sigh. I am not your girlfriend, Spike—or whoever the hell you are! How come I smell your beer and cigarettes now when I didn’t before?

Spike chortled. That’s how I share my charming self when I wanna get your attention. Had plenty of time for a smoke and a couple cold ones, waiting for you to get down the concourse.

With a disgusted sigh, she stuffed her laptop under the seat in front of her. All these years she’d wanted to believe she had a guardian angel, and now he turned out to be a rude, crude—

Don’t forget lewd! Love the way those knit slacks hug your ass when you bend over, baby.

The heat rose to her cheeks as she sat bolt upright and glared at the empty seat between her and the aisle.

“Something to drink, miss? Coffee, or perhaps some wine or a cocktail?”

Cat looked up, her face aflame. The uniformed steward had leaned over his rolling refreshment cart to speak to her in an exotic accent that crossed Bob Marley with Ricardo Montalban. His sexy, sun-kissed face belonged on the cover of GQ magazine, and his twinkly blue eyes suggested something much more addictive than liquor.

“Not here on the plane. Everyone will want to watch,” she quipped.

Then she felt stupid and crude: he was simply doing his job, and she’d come on like a shameless hussy—or like Spike had put such words in her mouth.

The corners of those eyes crinkled. “Too bad I have to work the return run,” he replied with a quiet laugh. “I could show you all the hot spots and private island playgrounds. I grew up on St. Lucia.”

Cat grabbed her tote bag. Maybe there was something to this angelic intervention thing! “Do you know about this island that’s for sale? It’s a gorgeous estate—amenities out the wazoo,” she gushed, “but I’ve never found out why it’s on the market. Who would want to move away from here?”

When she showed him the photo and online fact sheet she’d printed out, his face softened in recognition.

“You are looking at Porto Di Angelo? You will find it a lovely, gracious hideaway—just as these photos suggest,” he murmured. The steward glanced around and then sat down in the empty seat so the other passengers couldn’t hear. “It’s for sale because the Contessa—Valenzia Borgia—disappeared. It remains one of the unsolved mysteries of the Caribbean.”

“The Contessa? Valenzia Borgia?” A shiver of intrigue went down her spine. “That would explain the grandeur of the estate. But why didn’t the Web listing mention this?”

The steward placed his lips near the rim of her ear. “Pirates,” he whispered. “We suspect they kidnapped her—held her for ransom. She’s not been seen for perhaps two years now.”

Cat listened with wide eyes, wanting to giggle—yet sensing this man was deadly serious. It was more than the warm tickle of his breath against her neck that had her squirming in her seat. Weren’t the Borgias known for poisoning people? “And no one put up the money to—”

“She had no family. Only her devoted staff, who—the way I heard it—put the island up for sale out of desperation,” he replied softly. He reached into his shirt pocket. “With no authority to access her accounts, they had no way to offer the ransom, you see. No way to maintain the Contessa’s home, much less pay a detective to look for her. It’s all very sad. And very strange.

“Be careful, Ms. Gamble,” he added, gazing pointedly into her eyes. “A beautiful woman like yourself…unaccompanied…might give those pirates reason to strike again.”

Pirates! Why did the image of Johnny Depp in beads and eyeliner ambush all rational thought when the sexy steward said that word? He sounded totally sincere—

And as Cat read the card he left beneath the mimosa he didn’t charge her for, she didn’t know whether to laugh—or go straight home. ARIEL GAETANO, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS, it said above his phone number.

At first she was flattered. Then reality set in.

Now, how can an airline employee be doing investigations, huh? Your mind’s running away with that Contessa story—already planning to pump the staff as research for a book! she warned herself. Never mind that he might be associated with those pirates.

Hey, doll, you shouldn’t believe anything a good-lookin’ guy tells you—except me, of course. They’re only after one thing, ya know.

She could imagine Grant or Trevor ranting at her that way, too. And they’d be right. Life in the single lane was different from holing up with her computer, and she’d better shift into a higher gear pronto.

She glanced at the steward, who was now at the front of the cabin. He was pouring juice, chatting up another passenger in a language she didn’t recognize—but then his gaze flickered back to meet hers.

Cat held his eyes for a moment and then focused on the stack of printouts in her lap. Not even on the island, and already she was embroiled in something suspicious the Escape Artist site hadn’t mentioned. Like she should trust anything from a site with that name!

What have I done here? Why didn’t I listen to Grant’s practicality and Trevor’s protective questions? She gazed out the window at a sea of sparkling turquoise. Not a speck of land in sight. And why didn’t you warn me about this situation, Spike?

You didn’t ask. You were wishing for true love, remember?

The air from the overhead blower suddenly smelled cool and fresh. Her guardian angel had vanished, just when he could’ve given her information that might prove important. Useful, even.

But it was too late for second-guessing: the popping of her ears signaled the little jet’s descent, and fifteen minutes later they landed at the airport near Castries, St. Lucia’s capital city. Cat smiled flirtatiously at the steward and then trotted across the tarmac toward a relic of a terminal, too excited and nervous to wonder if everything here was so far behind the times. She was to look for a uniformed driver with a sign—the man who’d be taking her to her future home, if all went well!

She followed the other passengers to the creaking baggage carousel and nearly peed her pants.

There was no missing the sign that proclaimed MS. GAMBLE in bold black letters—and it was held be a very tall, very black man who sported a diabolical goatee and had a braided pigtail hanging from the back of his head. He had the longest fingers she’d ever seen.

Is it my imagination, or are his thumbnails filed to a point?

She tried to smile. It wasn’t like three other blondes named Cat Gamble were going to rush over and claim a ride with this man. And it wasn’t like this stuffy, antiquated airport had a phone bank where she could summon another driver—even if she could tell him where to take her.

The man’s predatory smile told her he knew exactly who she was and what she was thinking. He was watching her sweat, and enjoying it.

She saw her cranberry suitcase chugging by on the conveyor belt and lunged for it, just as Mr. Sinister did.

“Allow me, madam.”

Who was she to argue? That voice belonged to Barry White and the moves were Shaquille O’Neal—and had Cat tried swinging the huge suitcase by its handle that way, she’d have shot-putted herself across the terminal. Or at least pulled her arm out of its socket.

“Thanks, but—I’m not a madam—I mean—I’m not married—anymore, anyway—and I—”

Her mouth froze, open, when he stooped slightly and suavely extended his hand. He was wearing a pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt and a colorful paisley tie—better dressed than most American men she’d met lately. Cat shook his hand, afraid not to.

“Cat Gamble,” she rasped as his large, dark fingers swallowed her tiny white ones.

“And I am Ramon,” he crooned, rolling that R in a chocolate-sauce voice spiked with island spices. “Leilani and I are so very happy to have you, pretty princess. You’ll make a fine new mistress for our home on Porto Di Angelo. She needs a classy lady like you to bring her back to life.”

So much for first impressions. Cat relaxed, smiling for real this time. With Ramon’s courtly voice still lingering in her ears, it was easy to discount that steward’s talk of abductions and ransom.

Or was she a fool to fall for this man’s grand manners? He didn’t wear an eye patch or a hoop earring, but plenty of corporate pirates had plundered unsuspecting buyers on dry land…something she’d learned the hard way when her husband’s habits came to light after he died.

But what choice did she have? She hadn’t traveled all this way to get spooked by a black man who escorted her to a black sedan with black-tinted windows, and then held open the door to its black leather interior.

Am I walking into a black hole I might never come out of? She was summoning Spike as much as asking herself this question, but her guardian angel apparently had better things to do when she needed him most.

“I—wasn’t expecting such a—a fine car,” she stammered, gesturing at the tropical wilderness within view of the airport and the obvious poverty of passersby who jabbered in the local language. They carried chickens in crates, and on their heads.

He moved with a graceful gallantry, stepping between her and that glimpse of harsh reality to close her door. Then he slipped into the driver’s seat beside her. The car, a big vintage Cadillac that would make collectors in the States drool, purred to a start. Cool air blew from the vents, circulating the scent of fine leather warmed by the afternoon sun.

“The Contessa insisted upon nothing but the best,” her chauffeur said in that cultivated voice. “You’ve probably not heard of Valenzia Borgia, but she was Italian nobility who lived with a sense of adventure and—”

“Lived? As in, past tense?”

Ramon smiled wryly. “She disappeared nearly two years ago, while on her evening walk along the beach. We have only my wife, Leilani’s, divination to go on, but Valenzia’s spirit guides instructed her to put the estate up for sale. The Contessa has no further use for it.”

Who did she believe? That hot airline steward or her driver?

“Do you think she drowned?” Cat hoped her questions didn’t sound nosy, Especially since Ramon’s talk of divination and spirit guides introduced a whole new set of issues.

“Miss Borgia was an excellent swimmer. Careful about herself,” he replied pensively. He swung the Caddie around a hairpin turn in the narrow road, which ended at the bottom of the hill. “Knowing how Valenzia had a highly developed sense of adventure, we suspect she either arranged for a…rendezvous that lasted longer than she anticipated—”

“Two years?” Cat murmured.

“—or she was abducted and has made the most of it.”

He flashed a white smile as he stopped the car at the very edge of the road, where nothing but the Caribbean Sea stretched before them. True, it was the most gorgeous shade of shimmering blue-turquoise she’d ever seen, but what the hell were they going to do now?

“And…and you never went after her? Never tried to find her?”

“Not all who wander are lost, Miss Gamble.”

What was that supposed to mean? And what was she supposed to believe? This man had just fed her a whopper about an Italian adventuress—without the least sign of anxiety about the Contessa’s life—and now they were sitting at land’s end like a couple of lovers out parking. The waves lapped at the rocky shore, accentuating the silence and the fact that there wasn’t another sign of civilization in sight. The fan circulated the scent of Ramon’s musky cologne with its cool air.

“We’re early,” Ramon remarked as he glanced at his watch. “The only way to take the car from here to Porto Di Angelo is by ferry. I hope Rodrigo remembers to come for us. When he dropped me here earlier, he and his pretty lady were taking a bottle of wine from a picnic hamper.”

When her face fell, the man beside her chuckled…a rich, seductive sound that, under different circumstances, might’ve made her, well—horny.

“You’ll learn quickly, Miss Gamble, that we islanders believe God gave us these little spots of paradise in the sea so we could enjoy every beautiful moment we spend on them. It’s a philosophy you’ll want to consider, if you plan to prosper here.”

Paradise…philosophy…prosper. Coming from the tall, dark—and, yes, devilishly handsome—Ramon in the pinstriped suit, those words made perfect sense in the same sentence. And yet…Cat toyed with the idea that he was mentally feeling her up. Partly out of allegiance to the Contessa, because he couldn’t sell his mistress’s estate to just anyone—

Oooh, and was she his mistress? Spike whispered.

—while sensing he was also sizing her up as a woman he might be living with…in whatever sense of that word applied. The hush of the engine, playing a duet with the waves licking the shoreline, cast a spell over her travel-tired mind.

Or did Ramon possess mysterious otherworldly powers, as his wife apparently did? It wasn’t much of a stretch to see this man with the close-cut, pointed goatee—and thumbnails—in the role of shaman or witch doctor. His eyes assessed her with leisurely curiosity. He exuded a comfortable sense of total control.

“And why do you want to buy Porto Di Angelo, Miss Gamble?” he asked in a deceptively dapper tone. “Many who can afford the Contessa’s playground aren’t prepared for the—culture shock, shall we call it?—of living such an isolated life. They’re not ready to depend upon a generator for electrical power, or to rely on a ferry operator like Rodrigo to get them to the mainland for groceries and supplies. Or when a hurricane’s blowing in.”

Cat caught herself following his lush lips, thinking how he’d make a wonderful late-night radio show host. Or hypnotist.

She blinked—maybe because Spike nudged her? While she couldn’t smell him, Cat had a tingly little sense of her angel’s presence. So…what was it Ramon had asked her?

“I—like Miss Borgia—am a bit of an adventuress,” she fudged, frantically fishing for a coherent reply. “I’m a romance novelist, Ramon, and my online research led me to the advertisement for your property, and—”

She swallowed, not yet ready to mention the Powerball jackpot or Laird’s death to this stranger. Which left damn little truth to draw upon.

“And you imagined yourself living in the exquisite luxury those photographs depict,” he continued for her, “without any real sense of the…potential threats we Caribbeans live with every day.”

“Are you one of them, Ramon?”

Cat fought to hold her gaze steady. Where had that come from? What gave a little white woman like her the balls to ask this big black—

His teeth flashed like pearls as his laughter filled the Caddie. “A woman who speaks her mind without mincing words! I like that, Miss Gamble.”

She let out the breath she’d been holding. He knew damn well she wasn’t really so brave or resourceful: he was playing along to see what he could get out of her…whatever that meant. Sitting so close to this powerhouse of a driver was becoming more of a challenge with every minute that ticked by. Where was that Rodrigo fellow, anyway? And why wasn’t Spike whispering brilliant questions or answers to her?

No response, on either count.

So Cat decided to see just how much truth Ramon could take. What did she have to lose? She could head for home anytime and never see these people again. She would tell Trevor, Grant, and Bruce the estate didn’t measure up to its advertisement. This overblown overseer might as well find out who she really was—because sometimes reality was far harder to believe than anything she could make up in her books.

“My husband overdosed six months ago,” she began, pleased that her voice didn’t crack on that subject, “and then I was confronted by more creditors than you can count, for debts he’d run up with his gambling habit. I lost my car and house in the process, Ramon. It was a stroke of sheer luck and a friend’s generosity that landed me a Powerball lottery jackpot. So here I am, ready to start a whole new life.”

His gaze hadn’t wavered; his lips showed no sign of a grin. “Leilani was right,” he murmured. “She saw you as a fugitive with a tragic past when she consulted her guides.”

Another little shiver streaked up her spine. Was this island voodoo he was talking about, like the priestess Tia Dalma performed for Captain Jack and his pirates in the movie?

“I, meanwhile, Googled you,” he went on matter-of-factly. “Along with the covers and reviews of your romance novels, I found your photograph, your Web site, the blogs you’ve posted, and several recent references to your personal tragedy in Midwestern newspapers online.” His big brown eyes softened then. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Gamble. Sorry you learned such regrettable things about your husband and then had to deal with them.”

“Th—thank you,” she wheezed, determined not to bawl—not after all she’d endured to get to this time and place.

“And I’m damn glad your story matches up with my research!” He pulled a compact walkie-talkie from inside his jacket and flicked a switch. “Rodrigo? It’s a go, man! Come and get us!”

Cat’s jaw dropped. From around a protrusion of rocks where wild orchids and bougainvillea bloomed in profusion and palm trees swayed in the breeze, a dilapidated ferry boat chugged into view. A man in island-print shorts and dreadlocks waved his arm excitedly from the large round steering wheel, as though he were greeting a long-lost friend.

“Meese Gahm-bahl!” he called out. He steered the ferry within a few yards of the shore, dropped primitive anchors over the sides, and then shoved a makeshift ramp toward the Cadillac. “Meese Gahm-bahl, we be so very happy to see you, preety lady!”

Cat narrowed her eyes at Ramon as he put the car in gear. “Don’t tell me,” she muttered, peeved at her own naïveté, mostly. “Rodrigo has not only Googled me, but he attends the chats I do at the Novel Talk site and follows my blog.”

“Does the screen name ‘Ferry4U’ ring a bell?” Ramon laughed and eased the car onto the ramp. “He’s read every one of your books, Miss Gamble—borrowed them from the Contessa. We’re all tremendous fans, and so honored to have you here!”

She let out an exasperated gasp. Then she spotted the photo from her Web site enlarged and posted on the ferry’s grubby wall, with a scrawled sign that said WELCOME! “If this is how you treat honored guests—”

“Things aren’t always what they seem,” he crooned, squeezing her hand. “It’s my mission—my duty to the Contessa—to investigate the dozens of prospective buyers we hear from each month, and to separate the gemstones from the cut glass. And as far as I’m concerned, Miss Gamble, you’re the Hope Diamond.”

Why would she argue with that? She swore she heard the popping of a beer can somewhere behind them—as though Spike were congratulating himself for pulling this whole thing off. What an ego that angel had! Why couldn’t she have gotten the kind who spoke in reverent tones and glowed with a heavenly—

Hey, whadaya want here? At least I didn’t smoke in the car, right?