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Jack tensed.
“You can’t keep me here,” Baldwin stated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides.
“Sir, I am requesting that you remain where you are,” Jack said. “You’ve been informed this is private property and that you are trespassing. We will render whatever assistance is needed, but if you attempt to leave this area, I will have no choice but to restrain you.”
“You and who else?”
“I don’t need anyone else.”
“Right. You’re going to shoot me?”
“Not unless you shoot first.”
Baldwin narrowed his eyes, obviously calculating. After another harsh curse, he rushed into Jack with his shoulder.
When he made contact, Jack grabbed Baldwin’s wrist with his left hand, twisted hard and flipped the trespasser onto the sand. He pressed a knee into his kidney.
“Hey,” Smitty yelled, stepping forward.
In one smooth movement, Jack withdrew his Sig Sauer and leveled it in the center of Smitty’s body mass. “Stay there,” Jack instructed.
Smitty halted. Ike’s eyes widened.
“Is your Taser ready, Ike?” Jack barked.
Smitty shot his arms into the air and stepped away from Ike. “Don’t tase me, man. I’ll wait on the boat.”
Jack nodded. Smitty had obviously been tased before.
“How about you?” Jack asked, looking down at Baldwin who was still eating sand.
“Yeah, sure,” Baldwin muttered. He raised his head and spit. “Just let go before you break my arm.”
An hour later, the trespassers stood on the deck of the Miami Beach PD’s patrol boat on their way back to the mainland. Jack sighed as he watched the boat’s wake grow smaller. So much for his peaceful month on Collins Island. The wrecked Mako remained on the beach, an eyesore that he’d definitely hear about from the home owners’ association.
Baldwin and Smitty had refused to make arrangements for the boat. They’d been given a week for removal, or a salvage crew would disassemble the vessel for scrap. For some bizarre reason, they didn’t seem to care about the boat, which made Jack wonder about their motive.
What the hell were they up to? And what had been in those backpacks?
* * *
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, WISHING the pool guy would get here already, Claudia tossed her textbook aside and padded in socks to what she now thought of as security central. She studied the static image of the front gate, but no one was visible. What time would the serviceman show? She’d closed all the window coverings so he couldn’t see in while he worked. She’d been antsy all morning and wouldn’t be able to relax until the pool maintenance was completed.
Not that she’d been doing much relaxing for the last four days. Her grand intention, her goal during her solitary confinement, was to study for certification as a physician’s assistant, a job she considered the wave of the future in health care and one that paid far better than working the floors of a hospital. She had all the material she needed in old-fashioned hardbound books. No way was she venturing on the internet to leave a footprint for Carlos’s bogeymen to trace, even though an excellent free course existed online to help her cram.
But every morning, after two hours of reading and taking notes, she’d grow restless and unable to focus. A walk around the estate released tension, as did a swim in that gorgeous heated pool. But going outside was off-limits today until the pool had been checked and proper chemicals added.
She glared at the television, which also provided an escape. She suspected by the end of her confinement she’d hate TV. Either that or she’d be one of those weird addicted viewers who couldn’t miss an episode of Hoarders. But she didn’t dare turn up the sound this morning.
Where was the pool guy? Alert for the slightest noise, she soundlessly returned to the sofa and grabbed her book. Not even a week, and already she longed to venture beyond the walls of Villa Alma. She’d seen photos of a gorgeous beach. The golf course—all of the holes with a view of the Atlantic—looked prettier than the one on Pebble Beach.
Claudia forced her attention back to techniques for taking a good patient history. She found the subject interesting. She really did. She wanted to learn how to— Her head jerked up at a noise outside. The gate opening?
She crept to the monitor. Yes, the gate stood wide open. A red-haired young man, maybe an older teenager, walked into the image carrying a yellow bucket in each hand. He wore shorts and a T-shirt, but soon disappeared off the monitor.
Claudia tiptoed back to the couch and slowly, oh so carefully, set her butt down. No one—especially not young maintenance men who might be susceptible to bribes—could know she was here. She considered Jackson Richards and his team a weak link, but had to assume the security of übersafe Collins Island was trustworthy.
But maybe not. Carlos had taught her you couldn’t trust anyone. Ever.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and waited, forehead down, barely breathing. She couldn’t see the screen from here, but testing a pool’s water couldn’t take long. She closed her eyes, her stomach churning. When the kid left, she’d planned to put on sunscreen, recline on a lounge chair and stare at a clear blue sky. She already had on her bathing suit beneath her cutoffs, so maybe a quick dip, too. That would be the—
The door to the living room swung open. The pool guy sauntered inside pocketing a key, focused on the kitchen.
Heart pounding, Claudia reached for her Glock. She rose and backed toward security central, raising the weapon with both hands. How had Carlos found her so quickly?
The pretend pool guy hadn’t yet noticed her.
Never taking her gaze off the intruder, she pushed the panic button.
Nothing happened. A chill traced her spine. Had the lines been cut?
Whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world, Carlos’s hit man moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door.
“What the—” He jumped back as if stung. He swung his head.
That’s when he saw her. And screamed—just like a little girl.
Claudia stiffened her elbows. The gun was becoming heavy. “Hands up,” she said, amazed her voice sounded calm.
He shot his arms in the air, his face bright red. “Oh, God. Please. Please don’t shoot me.”
“Did Carlos send you?” she demanded.
“Who? No.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Who are you?”
“I work for AquaClear. I service the pool. No one is supposed to be here. I keep beer in the fridge and—oh, God. I’m going to be—”
He vomited all over the spotless kitchen floor.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN THE ALARM from Villa Alma sounded, Jack bolted from the security office and onto his golf cart. He punched the accelerator, but the slow-ass worthless piece of junk wouldn’t go over ten miles an hour. Hell of a thing in an emergency. He could jog faster than this.
He needed to find out what was going on inside Villa Alma.
As he approached Santaluce’s estate, he noted AquaClear’s service truck outside a wide-open gate.
Jack unsnapped the holster beneath his shoulder. Moving cautiously through the opening, he glanced up to the camera mounted high on the gate. Was Ms. Clark watching?
Ignoring the main house, he jogged toward the smaller cabana. He couldn’t see inside. Every window was covered.
The two on-duty guards arrived on their carts. He held up his hand to signal them to hold.
This wasn’t a police op, so he needed to follow the emergency protocol established by the home owners’ association.
At the front door, he placed his ear against the wood and listened. All quiet.
He motioned for his backup to approach. He positioned them at each end of the structure—although they were all but useless since their only weapon was a Taser.
Jack removed his Sig Sauer, pointed the barrel skyward and rapped hard on the door.
“Ms. Clark, Island Security. Please respond.”
Protocol dictated to wait five minutes and then breach. Five minutes was too long if someone was inside bleeding.
The door opened. Ms. Clark appeared. No blood visible.
Jack relaxed slightly.
“Took you long enough,” she said.
“What’s the emergency?” Jack demanded.
“Intruder alert.” With a Glock awkwardly clutched in her right hand, she motioned him inside.
“Watch where you point that thing,” Jack said. By the way she held the weapon, he doubted she knew how to use it. He signaled for his backup to stand down and stepped inside the cabana.
A foul smell was his first sensory impression. Next was how the place was closed up tight as a tomb.
P.J., the kid who serviced the pools, lay on a sofa with a washcloth over his eyes. He looked sick.
“This is your intruder?” Jack asked.
“Yep.” Ms. Clark moved to the kitchen, placed the gun on a counter, pulled on plastic gloves and squatted to clean up puke on the floor. That explained the smell.
Jack glanced back to the sofa. “What happened?”
P.J. groaned and sat up. He worked the washcloth between nervous fingers. “I keep Coronas in the fridge. This is my last stop of the day, so I pop a cold one and take a dip in the pool.”
“What?” A slow burn of anger ignited in Jack’s gut. “How do you get inside?”
“Santaluce gave AquaClear a key for some plumbing job last year.” Looking miserable, P.J. sighed. “I made a copy.” He met Jack’s gaze with pleading eyes. “No one is ever here. I never hurt anything, don’t look in any drawers.”
As the scenario unfolded in his head, Jack nodded. P.J. must have walked in unannounced, and Ms. Clark pulled her gun on him. Stupid kid. “You could have been killed.”
P.J. closed his eyes. “I thought I was dead.”
And so he puked out of fear. At the stringent smell of bleach, Jack glanced toward the kitchen where Louise Clark continued to work. “You ought to make him clean up the mess.”
“I’m used to it,” she said. “And he’d just throw up again.”
“I’m sorry,” P.J. said. “I’m really, really sorry.”
Louise stood. “That’s about the hundredth time you’ve apologized.”
“Please don’t tell my boss,” P.J. begged. “I know I’m not supposed to ever—”
“You should have thought about that before you trespassed,” Jack said.
“Trespass?” The kid’s eyes widened.
“Ms. Clark could file charges.”
“Charges? Oh, God. I’ll never do it again. I swear.”
“No, you won’t, because you’ll never set foot on this island again.”
P.J. rose. “I’m fired?”
At his expression, Jack worried the kid might hurl again. “Or your employer loses the most lucrative pool contract in Miami. Yeah, I think you’re fired.”
“Please, don’t do that,” Louise said in a small voice.
Jack turned. She stood in the kitchen holding an aerosol can of Lysol. “What?”
Stripping off gloves, she moved into the living room. “How old are you, P.J.?”
“Nineteen.”
“In school, right?”
“FIU.” He swallowed. “I’m studying hospitality management.”
A smile flitted cross her lips as she met Jack’s gaze. She was probably thinking, as he was, that P.J.’s behavior hadn’t been exactly hospitable.
“I won’t press charges,” she said.
“The home owners’ association has strict rules,” Jack said. “There’s no option here.”
“But you don’t have to tell.” She looked at P.J. “You’ll never do this again, right?”
Hope blossomed on the kid’s face. “Never,” he said. “Never. I swear.”
“Can’t you cut him a break?” she asked.
Jack stared at her. Nice lady. “I have to document the incident.”
“Blame it on me. Say I made a stupid mistake, new tenant and all. I pushed the button wondering what it did. He’s just a kid, really. I’m certain he’s learned his lesson.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jack told her. He turned back to P.J. “Give me the key.”
P.J. removed a key from his shorts and handed it over.
“Have you completed your work?” Jack asked.
“Yes, sir. I always do that first.”
“Then take off. You’ll be hearing from me.”
With a grateful look at Ms. Clark, P.J. scurried out.
“Are you sure about this?” Jack asked Louise.
She nodded. “He scared me when he burst in here, but no harm done.”
“Everything else all right? I still haven’t seen you around the island.”
“Everything is fine.” She looked away. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re welcome. By the way, I arrived exactly four minutes after the alarm sounded.”
She glanced up. “You timed it?”
“I did.”
She shrugged, and looked down again. “Seemed a lot longer.”
“Yeah, it did to me, too, actually.” Jack evaluated Louise Clark as she nibbled on her bottom lip, noting long, firm legs beneath the frayed edge of denim cutoffs. She wore a pale yellow bathing suit top, firm breasts as full as he’d imagined straining against the thin fabric.
Down, boy. She’s off-limits for a whole lot of reasons.
Ms. Clark was one fine-looking woman, but she couldn’t hold his gaze. Did she have something to hide? Maybe she didn’t want to file charges because she didn’t want any involvement with law enforcement. He’d been shocked when she opened the door holding an automatic. Why did this woman own a gun? Or maybe it was Santaluce’s weapon.
“Will I see you tonight at the clubhouse?” he asked.
She made eye contact, looking interested. “What’s going on at the clubhouse?”
“Happy hour every Friday night during season. Remember I told you about it?” He couldn’t participate in the festivities, but his job required him to observe.
“Oh,” she murmured. “No, I can’t make it.”
“Other plans?”
“Right,” she said, again looking away. “I have other plans.”
Doubting she’d even leave the villa, Jack moved toward the door. He had no excuse to linger and learn more about Louise Clark, much as he might want to.
“Please don’t report P.J.,” she said. Her words held him at the threshold.
“Are you always so forgiving?” he asked, looking down at her serious expression.
“Forgiving?” she asked, sounding amused, blue eyes widening in obvious surprise. Her gorgeous mouth curled into a smile, illuminating her face with that beauty he’d noticed on their first meeting, and he suddenly needed to know what she was thinking.
* * *
CLAUDIA STARED AT Jackson Richards. This man thinks I’m forgiving? Man, does he have it wrong. She would never forgive her ex for the things he’d done. Her testimony would ensure the murdering bastard remained behind bars the rest of his life.
“Some people would disagree with you about that,” she said.
“What people are those?” Richards asked.
She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Memories of her ex curtailed fleeting amusement. Really, there was nothing funny about her situation.
And the reason she wanted Richards to cut P.J. a break was so the kid wouldn’t hold a grudge. Carlos taught her that people who held grudges were dangerous. What if Carlos’s friends found P.J. and asked questions, offered money for information? The teenager would jump at the chance to turn on the woman who’d cost him his job.
She couldn’t take that chance. Better to make P.J. an ally. And now that she thought about it, same thing with Jackson Richards. She needed him on her side, to be her friend. She nibbled her bottom lip, the phrase friends with benefits springing into her head. What she wanted from this hunk of a gladiator was definitely not friendship.
What would it be like to peel off this guy’s clothing, see what that magnificent body looked like au naturel? She crossed her arms in front of her chest so she’d keep her hands to herself. What is wrong with me?
She needed to get this man out of her sight before she reached out to test the strength of his impressive biceps with a quick squeeze. From the looks of those shoulders, she’d bet he could lift her with one arm. And once she touched him, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Enjoy the happy hour tonight,” she said, in a voice meant to encourage him to leave, yet not sound too rude. She needed this ally. “And thanks again for coming to my rescue.”
“You’re sure you can’t come?” he asked.
He was halfway out the door. He needed to go. Please go.
“I’ve got to study,” she said.
“What are you studying?”
She sighed. Me and my big mouth. “For the physician’s assistant exam.” She gripped the doorknob, signaling she meant to shut it, shut him out, that she wanted him to leave.
“You’ll need to take a break at some point.”
“But I shouldn’t drink booze on that break. Thanks again, Mr. Richards, but I need to get back to it.”
Still he hesitated, glancing back inside the cabana. “Are you proficient with that Glock?” he asked.
The quick change in subject caught her off guard, making her blurt out the truth. “I can pull the trigger, but don’t usually hit where I want.”
His gaze refocused on her. His eyes were insanely intense. Did this man know how he affected her? Probably. Likely all women reacted to him the same way. How could any heterosexual female help herself? She took a deep breath, feeling her resolve slip away.
“Practice makes perfect,” he murmured.
Remembering his gun when he’d arrived at the door, she wanted to ask if he was an expert shot. Of course he was. He was the security chief. Could he teach her how to hit her targets? Yeah, and what else could he show her?
She felt a delicious pull low in her belly, and opened her mouth to ask him to stay and begin a few lessons, but swallowed the words. Get a grip, Claudia. Remember—you can’t trust anyone.
“See you around,” Richards said and finally, thankfully moved outside.
Claudia closed the door and leaned against it. She closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. She was practically panting.
She waited until Richards had closed the gate and driven away on his cart, pulled off her shorts and dived into the pool. The blast of water was better than a cold shower.
* * *
BACK IN THE security office, Jack replayed his encounter with Louise Clark in his head. He’d been blown away by the fact that she didn’t want P.J. fired, figuring she’d want the kid’s balls nailed to the wall. Yet he was madder about the security breach than she was. He was considering cutting the kid a break, but could never trust him again. He’d feel compelled to check the security feed and the timing each time P.J. serviced the pools.
So Louise owned a gun and, from what she said, had obviously done some target practice. Was shooting a hobby or did she need to be proficient because of some threat? And who were these mysterious people who didn’t think she was forgiving? Why was she used to cleaning up puke? She was studying to be a PA, so maybe she was a nurse.
Damned perplexing. But he loved to solve a good riddle. Besides, what else did he have to do?
Ike Gamble, one of the guards on roving duty today, motored to a stop out front on his electric cart. The other, Rafael Garcia, arrived a minute later on his. They’d completed a circuit and were taking their afternoon break. The two entered the office animatedly discussing the excitement at Villa Alma.
“Good job today, guys,” Jack told them. “I appreciate how fast you responded.”
“Man, what a rush,” Rafael said in his slight accent. He was a new hire, a Hispanic man in his thirties carrying a few extra pounds. “That’s the first time I ever responded to an alarm.”
“And hopefully the last,” Jack said.
“Everything all right inside Villa Alma?” Ike asked.
“Yeah, false alarm. The new tenant pushed the panic button by mistake.”
Ike nodded. “That happens every so often.”
“Sure broke up the day,” Rafael said. “I wish it happened more often.”
“You wouldn’t say that if someone had been inside bleeding or dead,” Jack said. Yet he’d once felt the way Rafael did. As a deputy sheriff in Marion County, he’d craved action like a junkie craves smack. But Rafael had no military or police experience. All he knew was the boredom of Collins Island. He didn’t understand how in a heartbeat a thrill could turn tragic.
The phone rang, and Jack reached to answer. “Break is over,” he told the guards.
“Okay, boss,” Rafael said, hiking up his belt, his hand moving protectively over the Taser as if he was on his way to the OK Corral.
Jack grinned. “Be careful out there.”
Ike rolled his eyes as he left the office.
“Security,” Jack barked into the phone.
“This is Lola,” she said needlessly in her distinctive voice. “I’m calling to remind you about the all-hands meeting tomorrow morning.”
“I forgot about that.”
“Conveniently, as usual. Thus the call. You know how I look out for you, Jack.”
“Can I skip it this time? Those meetings are nothing but a time suck.”
“Yet required for all available operatives. You’re expected at 9:00 a.m.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there,” Jack grumbled. He’d have to take the 8:00 a.m. ferry to make the meeting on time.
“I also wanted to let you know the facial recognition program didn’t get a hit on Louise Clark.”
“Too bad.” Jack suppressed a stab of disappointment. Damn. Was he craving action now, too? “Well, at least she’s not a known criminal.”
“She’s not in any law enforcement database we have access to,” Lola said, “so she’s never been arrested.”
“Good to know. Thanks, Lola.”
“So what are you going to do about her?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Liar.”
“I’m wounded,” he said, deliberately making his voice aggrieved.
“No. You’re curious and you won’t let it alone until you figure out what bothers you.”
“I have work to do,” he said, and disconnected.
Which wasn’t a lie. He wanted to complete the paperwork documenting the alarm this afternoon. Even as a deputy sheriff, Jack’s work habit was to get the paperwork out of the way immediately. Putting off drudgery only made a boring task loom larger and harder to initiate.
He pulled up the form on the flat-screen monitor, renamed a file for today’s incident and stared at the blanks he needed to complete. Lola had labeled him a liar, a dig that bothered him. She knew how much he valued the truth. What she didn’t know was he was about to file a false report, something he’d never done in his career.
And why was he doing it? What P.J. had done was not only against every Collins Island rule, but criminal. Although, yeah, no harm done except to Louise Clark’s mental health. Would it be better to fire the kid to teach him a hard lesson about following the rules? That lesson could alter his life. He might need the money for tuition and have to drop out of school. Jobs were still hard to come by for kids. An angry teenager could turn sullen and bitter.
Jack closed the file without entering a single word. He wanted to think about what he’d put in his report a little longer. Maybe he’d watch P.J. for a few weeks, see what happened. The report wasn’t due until the end of his stint as director.
Jack’s gaze drifted to the surveillance feed switching from camera to camera around the island. Everything remained calm. As usual, he thought, mimicking Lola’s comment.
When the stream landed on Villa Alma’s impressive front gate, he froze the image on a secondary monitor and leaned back in his chair. Was he considering cutting P.J. a break because Louise Clark had asked him to? He thought about his time inside the walls of Santaluce’s estate, searching for anything unusual, out of place. He hadn’t seen the junker car Ms. Clark had driven to her new home. Likely she’d secreted it in Santaluce’s garage. She’d indicated she didn’t plan to drive anywhere.
Surveillance cameras took a snapshot of every car loading the ferry. It’d take some digging, but why not get the car’s license plate and run her down from there? She could have switched plates, but maybe not. At least he’d have more information.