Gone Tropical
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Gone Tropical
by
Robena Grant
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Gone Tropical
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Robena Schaerf
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-190-8
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-191-5
Published in the United States of America
Praise for Robena Grant
Third Place, Romantic Suspense
2006 Where the Magic Begins contest
~*~
“Robena Grant writes a story filled with secrets and suspense...not to mention sensuality.”
~Linda O. Johnston,
author of the Pet Rescue Mystery Series
Dedicated to:
Amy Helm for lending me her name.
Bill Bryan for helicopter information.
Helen Grant for her knowledge of Queensland.
The unnamed police officer in Cairns
for his Aussie information.
Gayle, Gail, and Laura, my original beta readers.
And most especially to my family—
My mother, Merle,
my sisters Lynne and Jenny, sister-in-law Helen, brother Col, brothers-in-law Denis and Richard.
Thanks for joining me
on that wild and wonderful rainforest expedition.
Chapter One
Amy Helm ruffled the Sydney Morning Herald, an edition from the prior day, and huffed. It was so typical of Daddy to send a P.I. all the way to Australia when she knew her ex-husband better than anyone, and was dying to catch him at his conniving games.
She scanned the elegant Wellington Hotel lobby one more time. She was alone, except for the woman at reception, the scruffy macho guy from valet parking, and the creepy guy with the bald head. At least none of them tried to talk to her. A couple of smooth-faced men in crisp white shirts, maroon aprons, and black pants, entered through the glass hotel doors, laughing and jostling each other as they crossed the lobby. Beyond the doors, the sky was stormy but tinged with the first shades of dawn.
“Excuse me,” Amy called out. “May I order something to eat from the coffee bar?”
“Yeah, no worries,” one man said, and shot her a grin. “Give us half an hour to set up.”
Amy checked her watch. “Thanks.” As the men went about their work, a tiny frisson of excitement began to build and she wondered if they might recognize her ex from a photograph. If Steve was staying at the hotel, and with his addiction to cappuccino with a heavy shake of cinnamon, he’d have visited the bar often. She took out her cell phone and punched in the numbers of the only person she knew in Sydney. When the time was right she’d produce the photo, and play down her questions.
“Hi. Diana.”
“Amy, is that you?” Diana’s sleepy voice asked. “Where are you?”
“The Wellington—”
“No way! Why didn’t you call from the airport? I’d have picked you up. I’ve been worried sick ever since I told you I thought I’d seen Steve. I just knew you’d catch the first plane out. When did you get in?”
Amy laughed at the rapidity of her friend’s speech. “Late last night. I figured I’d sleep first, and—”
“Yeah. Makes sense.”
“But see, here’s the problem, I haven’t had any sleep. I called Daddy from San Francisco Airport, and, well…I confessed I’d gotten a hot tip about Steven.”
“Uh-huh,” Diana said, mid-yawn. “So why’s that a problem?”
“I told him I was about to depart for Sydney. The flight from San Francisco connects in Los Angeles. He sent a P.I. over on the same plane. But that’s another story. And how he got a visa so fast, I’ve no idea. The guy left me a message at the hotel.”
“And?”
Amy huffed. “
Mr. Turner
. He’s probably a middle-aged, pot-bellied control freak.”
“Uh-oh.”
Amy scanned the hotel lobby. She shivered and turned up the collar of her leather jacket. “I haven’t met him yet. He called, told me to sit in the lobby and see if I could spot Steven…at four in the morning. Can you believe it? And I have jetlag.”
“Want me to pop over, keep you company?”
“No. We’ll catch up later. You know, I’m determined to find Steven.” Amy tightened her grip on the cell phone, and lowered her voice. “He’s not going to get away with what he did to me…to Daddy. I was so stupid to marry him.”
“Calm down, love. It wasn’t your fault. You should know that. He’s slick as snot.”
“Sociopath is more like it. Even back then I sort of knew.”
“Stop beating up on yourself.”
Amy let out a puff of air. “I feel so guilty. I married Steven to piss off Daddy, and my brothers, and—”
“Yeah. I understand that, but you didn’t cause your father to put the guy on a pedestal.”
“I kind of did.” Amy grimaced. “I worked so hard to change their initial impressions of him. And look now…even the FBI can’t catch him.” Amy almost choked on her words as she remembered her last heated discussion with Mick Dawson, the American FBI agent. She cleared her throat with a cough. Steve had eluded capture for two years. And here she was with no plan—no idea of what she’d do if she did find her ex-husband—and she had no power of any kind, except she was a darn good psychologist. “I don’t regret telling Daddy I had a lead. I mean it was the right thing to do, even if our relationship has been strained for years.”
“Yeah. Good to tell him you were leaving the country. I’d love to see that bastard ex of yours behind bars. Maybe this skip tracer will be good.”
“Maybe. Thanks, Di. I know you have to get ready for work. Talk more later?”
“Sure thing, you call me…whenever.”
Amy turned off the cell phone and slipped it into her purse. She stretched and yawned. At least the rain had stopped. She’d ditch Mr. Turner when she could and get to work, or maybe take in some sights. She hadn’t gotten to sleep until midnight, who was she kidding? She’d spend the day in bed for sure.
A small group of tourists, all with cameras, entered the lobby and it was only five-forty. The valet parking guy almost ran into the tourists. Talk about excess energy. He’d be a looker, if he cleaned up. She scanned the entire area. No scum-sucking ex-husbands visible. No P.I.’s either. What did a middle-aged P.I. from Los Angeles think he could accomplish?
Mr. Turner. Hah
! He’d said to sit in the lobby and watch for Fray, but do nothing, just see if he checks out.
And what…let Steven slip away again? Now there’s a plan!
The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filtered down the steps, and Amy relaxed in anticipation of the much needed hit of caffeine. She shifted in her seat, flashed the waiter a come-hither smile, and reminded herself why she’d agreed to help Mr. Turner. She needed back-up. The waiter raised a hand, fisted it then stretched his fingers wide twice. She figured that signaled ten minutes.
She crossed one leg over the other. Her backless high-heeled sandal slipped and she flipped it back on with her toes. The black patent leather gleamed against the brilliant polish on her toenails,
Tropical Paradise
, a deep hot orange that matched her new, spiky, orange hair.
Turner had told her to be inconspicuous. Fat chance with her hair color.
****
“Which do you think is the best day tour of Sydney?” Jake Turner asked, and picked up several brochures. He smiled, leaned on the far end of the reception desk and glanced toward the sunken lounge. He could see the top of Amy Helm’s head. She looked like a spike-haired pumpkin…if pumpkins could grow hair.
“I can’t give you any information on our guests,” the middle-aged night receptionist said. “It’s against our policy.”
Jake gave a lazy smile. He glanced at her name badge. “Listen, Lynne, I’m serious. I want to see some of the city while I’m here. Can I take you to dinner, and—”
“Don’t think me old man would like that,” Lynne said, and cracked a smile.
“Bring him along too.” Jake glanced up as a swarthy looking guy strode through the glass revolving doors. Bald, except for the fringe of lank dark hair that fell from just above his ears and tipped the collar of his blazer, he looked like Friar Tuck. The corners of Jake’s mouth twitched into an almost grin. Lynne frowned, stepped away from the computer, and stacked papers.
Now that’s interesting.
The man circled the lobby and then approached in a swagger. His damp navy blue blazer, with a burgundy and white emblem on the breast pocket, strained against his chest. Jake doubted it was his. Or, if it was his, then he hadn’t put it on in decades.
The guy slapped one hand on the desk. A diamond pinky ring flashed. “I say, has the daily newspaper arrived?”
A British accent, was it fake or real? Jake eyed him covertly. He appeared to be South East Asian, possibly Malaysian.
“Not to the lobby level,” Lynne said. “One will be delivered to your room Mr.—?”
“Firth.” The man’s shoulders squared. He adjusted his lapel. “Stuart Firth.”
Lynne pulled up the guest data base on the computer. “Ah, yes. I see you’re on the twentieth floor.” She glanced at the man. A tiny flicker of skepticism crossed her brow.
“I’ll take another stroll. Jetlag,” the Brit said, gave a two-fingered salute and walked toward the glass doors. “I’ll check back on the half hour. Will you save me a paper, please?”
Jake’s intuition sparked. Lynne had said she had no guest by the name of Steven Fray. This guy had the same initials, but he didn’t fit the description. The guy had thug written all over him, and that newspaper request could be an excuse to walk around and scan the lobby. He’d done similar things himself, on dozens of occasions.
He inched his way down the counter. “You okay, you look worried?”
Lynne nodded. “I’m fine. That bloke’s odd. He’s been in several times tonight.”
“There’s a guy in a black car doing surveillance, up on the rise. I noticed he was parked the wrong way, affording him a great view of the hotel. I’ll go check him out.”
“All I know is, this fellow isn’t who he claims to be,” Lynne said. She fussed with a few papers on the desk. “I’ll have to call security—”
“Why do you say he isn’t who he claims?”
“Mr. Firth has a slight Aussie accent. This bloke speaks the Queen’s English.”
The hair follicles on Jake’s head tingled. This was great. He was on to something, but what? He slipped his arms into the jacket he’d borrowed from the parking attendant, and then zipped it up. “Give me twenty minutes. Don’t call security.”
Lynne grimaced. “We have to report all suspicious behavior.”
“Do you want me to have someone from Australian Federal Police talk with you? One of their agents is on his way here to assist me. It’s important we don’t scare this guy away.”
“No, don’t waste any time.” She gave him a quick half-smile. “Night security is renowned for being slow anyway, and the bloke on duty tonight is the worst.”
“Thanks.” With long strides, Jake headed to the glass doors.
“But if he comes back in here without you,” Lynne called out after him. “I’m dialing.”
The Rocks district was almost empty of vehicles. Jake stuck close to the narrow, three-story row houses and the shrubs surrounding them. The man was almost at the black car. Jake called through to Sarge and gave a soft, brief update, and asked him to reassure Lynne. He knew she was nervous. He held back in the shadows. The Brit tossed the blazer onto the back seat, got into the driver’s seat, and sank low. The interior lights had been disengaged in the vehicle.
Jake muted the cell phone he’d purchased at the airport, ducked into the dark entrance of the end row house, and crouched behind a huge ceramic pot that spilled over with wet geraniums. He’d guessed right. It didn’t matter which country you were in, a good P.I. could always spot a fellow tail. He knew the routine well. But who was the guy tailing?