The Beachcombers: Prequel - Beachcomber Investigations Series Read online

  “Don’t forget to study, bunny.”

  She darted a look back at Dane to see the smirk before he disappeared down a dirt path.

  The ride to the house should have been impressive and gorgeous and given her something to appreciate, but all she could think was what had she gotten herself into with that Demon man. She would have to play flirty with him—maybe let him kiss her. The thought kicked up the pace of her pulse and sent a flutter through her and she felt horror on the heels of the heat. He was all male and he was attractive; she’d have to give him that. She would concentrate on that and forget the fact that he was an insufferable pig. And old. In both body and soul, but mostly his soul.

  She hated seeing the man’s old soul. It made the otherwise tough-as-a-junkyard-dog man seem vulnerable. It softened her and she could not afford to soften where he was concerned. That was her survival instinct talking.

  Dane stole down the path until he reached the side road where he’d left his car, his mind spinning, but not enough for him to forget to be careful and check the area before approaching the nearby supermarket. He walked in the back door and strolled through the storeroom without breaking stride and without making eye contact with anyone. That didn’t mean he didn’t see them. None of the three grocery workers in the back room bothered to pay attention to him.

  Emerging through the swinging double doors into the deli department, he plastered on his local-tourist persona and stood in line to buy something. He’d figure out what when Jim the deli man asked. Dane took a deep breath and thought about the girl. This wasn’t good. It wouldn’t work. He could feel his blood pressure rise in the form of heat and an increase in his pulse rate. It wasn’t too late to call Peter and tell him it was a no-go. The governor could get someone else. Sam could do it. Anyone. Shana George was poison to him. She was the exact kind of woman he avoided—had been avoiding for years. Since Elena.

  Zipping up that line of thought and any inevitable comparisons, he took his turn at the counter.

  “A pound of baloney, please.”

  “A whole pound just for you, Mr. Jones? You having company?” The deli man winked at him.

  “No, just me. Can never have too much baloney, Jim.”

  Jim laughed, and that made Dane smile and he let out a breath. Baloney.

  Was he really trying to feed himself baloney? There was no way in hell he could call the general, the man who saved his life—the man who’d introduced him to Elena—and tell him no. He was stuck in this beach bunny mission up to his sweating balls. He’d have to handle it.

  Heat rose again, this time in all the wrong places, as he ran through what “handling it” meant. It meant handling Shana—literally. He’d need to flirt with her, kiss her, maybe more. The spike of testosterone made him curse as he took the baloney. “Shit.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  “Problem, Mr. Jones?”

  “Yeah, Jim, you could say that.”

  “What is it? The baloney too thick?” The man was sincere. Dane guffawed on the inside.

  “Nah. Woman problems, Jim. There’s no help for it.”

  Jim laughed good and loud at that one and Dane sighed as he walked away, knowing it was time to jump in with both feet. He wasn’t about to let Shana George get him off his game, was he? He would handle her. Even if she was a dead ringer for Elena in all the ways that counted—goddamn gorgeous, plenty of edge and attitude. And tough. Made his heart palpitate just thinking about her.

  Chapter 3

  Dane drove to his beach shack on Harbor Lane, the one place on the planet that he thought of as home. A quick glance in his rearview told him he hadn’t been followed when he turned off Owen Park Way and also that his mouth was turned down as if he wanted to punch someone. Now would be a good time to call Peter.

  With one hand on the wheel as he pulled into the crushed seashell-and-gravel drive that fit exactly one car, Dane pulled the phone from his pocket and hit the governor’s number.

  “That was quick. Does this mean you’ve already wrapped up the case?” Dane could picture the grin on the man’s face.

  “This ‘case’ doesn’t appear to be a good match for my skill set.”

  “Is that some kind of P.C. language that’s supposed to mean you think it’s beneath you?” Peter chuckled.

  “Glad someone is amused by all this. How about if you have Chauncey Miller take over working the case when he gets here? Maybe with a different angle.”

  “Look, I know you just got back from some ungodly place that no one is supposed to know about—not even me—and I don’t need to hear the details to know it was a bad mission. Maybe you could use some rest. But maybe you need a different kind of mission instead. Something not as harrowing.”

  “Doesn’t matter about the danger to me if we end up with dead bodies in the end.” Dane paused and added quietly, “It’s not my bones I’m worried about.” That cost him. There wasn’t another living soul he’d have admitted that to, he realized. He could never tell his mother, no matter how close they were and no matter how much he loved and owed her. It would cause her too much grief to know. Once upon a time he’d have told Elena and she’d have soothed his soul with her special brand of balm—with lovemaking that was part physical and part soul-wrenching.

  Peter quieted on the other end of the line and Dane checked his phone to make sure they still had a good connection. It was good and secure. Finally Peter spoke.

  “I didn’t realize. I hadn’t considered that. I’ll see if Chauncey can handle the role—he just got back from his honeymoon and I promised him light duty but—”

  “No. Don’t.” Last thing Dane needed was to cause a new bride grief—maybe even make her a widow so soon after finding her bliss. “I’ll have myself a whiskey and buck up. You’re probably right. It’ll feel good to work in something other than fatigues.” He looked around his shambles of a kitchen-dining room combo and hoped he’d still be resting here when this was all over. But before the thought finished floating through his mind, he knew better. The place he called home would no longer be an escape. It would be tainted by the mission, however lightweight it might prove to be.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” No need to go into it. Wouldn’t help. Peter knew damn well what changed his mind. His friend also knew he’d be good for his word and would jump all in for all he was worth.

  “I know I can count on you, Dane, and I owe you everything. I’ll make sure Chauncey knows—”

  “No. I’d rather you didn’t do that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I’m skeptical about the con and about the Aussie woman.” Dane didn’t like her name. It was too girly and immature. Maybe it fit her. Maybe not.

  “She’s all we’ve got. She can surf and I’m told she’s tough as nails.” Peter paused a beat. “And I’m told she’s a real looker. Perfect for the role—an irresistible mark for this con. You can make up for her inexperience.”

  “That a P.C. comment meaning you think I’m an old S.O.B.?”

  “I’m counting on your ability to handle any situation—not in spite of your age, but because of it.” Peter sounded dead serious.

  Dane matched his tone and said, “Tell me the real reason you’re in this.”

  “Two reasons. The daughter of a good friend has gone missing, which you know. And we have reason to believe some Brazilians with very nasty reputations may be involved.”

  “Brazilians. Damn important detail to leave out of the briefing.”

  “So far that part is sketchy. You need to verify on your end, but with an open mind so we don’t miss anything. Think you can do that now that I’ve tainted your mindset?” Peter’s voice went back to smiling. Dane found he preferred it that way. The general had always been upbeat and he now realized how much he’d needed that—craved it, if he were honest.

  “My mind is a very talented and well-behaved machine—like the rest of me. I’m in and we’ll get your friend’s daughter back.” One way or anothe
r. Peter grunted on the other end of the line because he’d heard the words Dane had not spoken. They ended the call.

  Dane raised the night vision binoculars to his eyes from his slouched position. No need to be too obvious. The Frenchman wouldn’t respect him if he had no tradecraft. There she was. In the bedroom. In full view of the window. Blinds up and curtains billowing around her silhouette in the soft light. Unpacking her bag. He hoped to God she closed the blinds before undressing for bed. His hard-on couldn’t stand to get any harder. This whole thing called for a trick he hadn’t had to use since he was a horny young man—pre-Elena. He picked up the giant cup of icy Pepsi and scooped out a few cubes and dropped them on his crotch. Clenching his teeth for a moment, he let out a breath and knew it worked. Goddamn. He hated that woman. If he stood in front of Elena right now…then he remembered he should not go there.

  Dane resumed watching. Shana left the room, still fully clothed. Scanning the area, he swung the binocs to where Frenchie, his fellow Peeping Tom, sat, sans car, and in some bushes. Apparently he wasn’t worried about dogs. Apparently because he’d done his homework and knew there weren’t any.

  Dane sparked up his two-way, which was technically a three-way tonight, and talked.

  “Frogman is in position in the bushes. How about if number one takes a walk to scare him out of there and we can call it a night.”

  “So soon?” Shana drawled.

  Dane’s teeth felt like screaming.

  “He knows I’m here watching you. Our point has been made.”

  “You got a hot date, Mr. Dane the Demon?” She laughed.

  Captain Lynch came on with a fuzzy burst and a loud breath as if he were talking too close—apparently still figuring out how to use his equipment. He said, “Copy Number 2. Rendezvous in the morning as planned. Afternoon trip to the airport to meet the friend. I think we should meet again at—”

  “Got it, Cap. Over.” No need to go over that shit on the air tonight. Dane turned the telecom off and started the car. Without lights he backed it up the narrow residential street until he got to the main road and then took off. He moved slowly in case Frenchie or his cohorts wanted to follow him. After a quarter mile he had company in the form of a flashy convertible. One of Frenchie’s accomplices.

  It was a beautiful night for a drive and he had time to kill. He was the furthest a man could be from sleepy.

  Chapter 4

  “Captain—you there?” Shana knew it was Dane who had disconnected. She smirked at no one in particular since she was all by herself—sort of. At the same time she felt Dane’s disconnection end the fun for the night. Deflated, all the miles of travel caught up at once and she gave a loud yawn.

  “I’m here. Sounds like you need shut-eye.”

  “Yeah. Over—”

  “Not so fast. Dane was right about one thing—you will need to study up—”

  “Will do. In the AM. I’m a morning person, Cap. Anything else? You’re starting to sound like my handler.”

  “That’s because I am.”

  “You handling Dane too?”

  “Except when he’s handling me.”

  If she weren’t so tired she’d have laughed. As it was, she smiled.

  “Don’t you have a family, Cap?” The question seemed logical until after she heard herself. Out loud it sounded like pathetic fishing for personal information about a wife and kids by a woman on the prowl. Which she was most definitely not. Especially not with good old Captain Nice. Although she could not say why not after her subconscious asked her the inevitable question.

  “No family. No life. I live the job,” Cap said with a smile in his voice. Then he added, “Just like you.”

  “Touché. We’ll talk in the AM. Nightie-night then.”

  “Sleep well. Pull the blinds, lock the doors and turn on the alarms as if you’re a rich heiress.”

  “Or as if I’m being watched,” she added and clicked the button off. She hadn’t meant to flirt with the man. Habits were tough to break, but she’d have to try extra hard from now on.

  Shana locked the door behind her as she rushed down the walk to the waiting cab. The ride to the small town was short and if she wasn’t in character she’d have thrown on her sneakers and walked or even jogged. As it was she would be buying more of the same expensive stylish clothes at the local boutique—per Dane’s instructions via the two-way earlier. She wasn’t sure if she should be taking notes on tradecraft or scoffing. She ditched the two-way, turning it off and stuffing it in her bag.

  The cab pulled to the curb. She gave the driver a twenty-dollar bill, not exactly sure if she was over-tipping but hoping she had, and got out. Adopting her haughtiest pose, she marched toward the store, knowing that her first purchase needed to be a bigger, better bag. Her small sporty knockoff would not pass examination by a professional looking for a real-deal rich girl. Even though she expected Dane to be at the boutique, she pulled up when she saw him leaning against his car about thirty feet down the street. Though he looked casual yet vaguely cosmopolitan yesterday, Dane looked like a million bucks today. If she were back home in Sidney, she might even let out a wolf whistle.

  Dane flipped his phone from his pocket and punched her number. The instant she answered and before she finished the first syllable of hello, he said, “Turn on your two-way.” Then he punched off the call and tossed the phone into the car and onto the passenger seat.

  Two beats later, his two-way crackled to life and he heard, “What the hell, Dane. I hardly got a chance to get out of the cab.”

  “That was your first mistake of the day.”

  “Go—”

  “Now, now, girlie—don’t spoil the beach bunny vibe.”

  “You mean haughty heiress, don’t you?”

  “Can’t be too haughty. Need to look interested in men.” He paused and couldn’t resist overriding his professionalism—this one last time, he promised himself—and added, “You are interested in men, aren’t you?”

  Dead silence. She’d turned the damn thing off, upping his ante in the lack of professionalism department.

  He allowed himself a small smile before reining himself in. Maybe he needed his vacation more badly than he thought. He wondered how wise it was of him not to quit the assignment. A fine sharp pain stretched between his shoulder blades as if he were whipping himself into compliance. He glanced down the street at her then past her.

  It was too late to quit. It was too late for everything. An unfamiliar car with familiar plates pulled into traffic behind him. The game was on.

  She stepped inside Citrine Boutique with his words still burning her ears but managed to shed the acid, keeping only the key direction “not so haughty” in mind. After all, she wanted information about her long-lost friend Susan Whittier and they knew she shopped here.

  “Welcome, miss. I’m Emma. Please let me know if I can assist you.” The woman approached her with a smile and her hand outstretched. Shana took it and figured it wouldn’t be too hard to be friendly to Emma.

  “Oh, please do. I can always use professional shopping assistance.”

  “Wonderful. Size six?”

  Shana would normally be surprised that the woman guessed correctly, but she maintained her air of privileged cool like an invisible net over her real self. The character she played would be used to such service at such shops. Most people thought her larger. It was her broad shoulders and oversized breasts that usually threw them off.

  “My friend, maybe you know her—Susan Whittier—recommended your shop highly. I can’t wait to get together with her. I just got in yesterday.” Shana stopped to admire a scarf, watching the woman from the corner of her eye.

  “Oh. I don’t know. I heard—I’m not sure if she’s still on the island.”

  “Why would you say that? She told me she’d be here. We have plans for such fun.” Shana gave the woman all her attention now and willed her to say something.

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t at home two days ago when we wen
t to deliver a dress she had altered. And it was strange because she didn’t answer calls either. I just assumed she left the island. But…” The woman looked around as if for a clue from a nearby mannequin.

  “But what? It doesn’t sound like her to take off without notice, unless…”

  “Well, there was a gentleman. I thought at first she’d gone off with him. But…”

  Shana gave a sly smile and said, “That does sound like her, but … what?”

  “But I saw him yesterday at the Main Street Grill. I said hello to him and he very charmingly remembered my name although we met only once. I asked him about Ms. Whittier and he said he hadn’t seen her in days and to give his regards when I saw her. So… I’m sorry. I don’t know where she is.”

  “What was the man’s name? Was he French?”

  “Why, yes. Mr. Ruse. Did she tell you about him?”

  “She mentioned him only in passing. Very strange.” Shana checked her watch and determined to change the mood with a bright smile. She didn’t want to arouse speculation about the missing heiress. They needed to keep the investigation under the radar if they thought to find her alive and bring in the perpetrators. “I’m sure I’ll catch up with her. In the meantime, show me what you have. I packed light this trip.”

  Determined to buy up a storm before her partner caught up with her, she followed the woman, who circled around the sumptuous boutique picking one stunning piece off the racks after another.

  “And you will need at least one special night-out dress, I think?” The woman hesitated over a small rack of swirling slinky dresses.

  Shana nodded again. The woman picked a shimmering turquoise dress that looked too small for a ten year old—and was missing a back. But the color.

  “The color suits you.”

  “What there is of it,” she muttered as they headed for the dressing room.

  After trying on the beachy and flirty dresses and the strolling-around-town outfits, and piling up an impressive buy pile, she skipped to the turquoise temptation. Slipping it on, she tugged at the hem but it wouldn’t go any lower than four inches below her crotch. She pushed the dressing room door open and stepped out into the small area outside the rooms to ask for Emma’s opinion.