HardWind (3 page)

“I think I need something a bit stronger, Colton,” Jackson said. “Give me a Seven

and Seven and keep ’em coming.”

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HardWind

Colton nodded politely. “Mr. Cronin won’t be joining you, I understand.”

“Nope,” Jackson said. “I don’t think he feels welcome here anymore.”

Colton’s smile was sympathetic but he refrained from commenting. With a slight

dip of his handsome blond head, he vanished as silently and speedily as he had

appeared.

Gerard Dubois, a breathtakingly handsome waiter with his dark brown hair tied

back in a ponytail, slipped quietly to Jackson’s table and inquired if he would like his

customary meal of Caesar salad with anchovies and fresh, grated Parmesan, grilled

salmon served with oven-browned new potatoes and sautéed vegetables and Key Lime

pie for dessert.

Jackson thought about it for a moment then agreed that was, indeed, what he

wanted. Before Gerard turned away, he asked the waiter if he would deliver a message

to Miss Kiernan.

Gerard stiffened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson, but Miss Kiernan doesn’t wish to be

disturbed this evening.” He too gave Jackson an apologetic smile. “I hope you

understand.”

“All too well,” Jackson said. “Thanks anyway.”

For the next hour Jackson ate his meal slowly and with relish. Even though the

Corinth was a renowned five-star restaurant, there was nothing foo-foo about it to

Jackson’s way of thinking. No one tried to push Lobster Newberg or Dom Perignon

down his throat. The staff let the patrons order what they wanted and never frowned at

their choice of food. Likewise, Colton did not try to foist an expensive this or even more

expensive that off with each course.

“Did you enjoy your meal?”

Jackson looked up from the miniscule crumbs that were all that was left of his huge

slice of Key Lime pie. “Excellent as usual,” he replied, and half rose from his chair. “My

compliments to Diego.”

“Sit down, Jackson,” Star Kiernan said, and pulled out the chair across from him.

She took a seat, braced her elbows on the snowy white linen tablecloth and steepled her

fingers beneath her chin. She looked at her guest with just a hint of concern in her

beautiful green eyes. “How’ve you been?”

“Same old, same old,” Jackson said. “Had a knee replacement back in March but

I’m about up to par again.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said in her soft South Georgia accent. “I hope it wasn’t

too much of an ordeal for you.”

“Hurt like a son of a bitch at the time. What about you?” he asked. “How’s things

been with you?”

She smiled. “Business has been very good,” she replied. “Health wise, I’ve had my

quarterly migraines but nothing else to write home about.”

“And you’ve got a new friend, I hear,” he said.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Star looked out across the restaurant. “I’m just moving on, Jackson,” she said.

“What if he’d been with me tonight?” Jackson asked, referring to Dáire. “Would

you have stopped by to say hello?”

She turned her face back to him. “What do you think?”

“I think you wouldn’t have come tonight if you’d thought he’d be here,” Jackson

answered.

“And you would be correct,” she agreed.

“Are you going to make yourself scarce at the Farraige while he’s there?”

Star drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly, her gaze locked on Jackson. “I really

don’t want to talk about him, Jackson. It’s over and I’m—”

“Moving on,” Jackson finished for her. He picked up the napkin in his lap, wiped

his lips, folded the linen square and then laid it beside his plate. “Can I tell you

something before you write him off completely?”

“Why do you think I haven’t already written him off?” she asked.

“You came over to say hi,” he reminded her.

“To you,” she stressed. “I came over to say hi to you, Jackson.” She arched one

finely manicured brow. “We are still friends, I hope.”

“Always will be,” he responded, “but I’m his friend too, and this is killing him,

Star.”

She leaned back, lowering her hands to her lap. “Really?” she asked in a voice that

suggested she did not agree with Jackson’s statement. “And where did he go this

evening?”

“Probably to some sleazoid strip bar that serves oysters on the half shell, boiled

shrimp with a tepid seafood sauce and all the booze he can down before I am forced to

go retrieve his drunker-than-a-skunk self.”

“Sounds about right,” she acknowledged. “Five will get you ten he’ll have had a

few lap dances added to the menu if I know Dáire.”

Jackson cocked a shoulder at her remark. “Probably.”

She folded her arms and looked at him. “So what is it you think I need to know

concerning your friend Dairy Crow?” she inquired.

Jackson leaned forward. “I know things weren’t so good when he left here last

time.”

“Indeed they weren’t,” she agreed.

“He had one helluva row with our boss over wanting to sideline the assignment

until he could come back down here and clear things up with you.”

“And?”

“No go, doll. He was told in no uncertain terms that wasn’t going to happen. I don’t

think I’ve ever seen him so damned mad. He tried to reach you when he got to New

York but you must have taken the phone off the hook.”

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HardWind

She didn’t deny the charge.

“He tried several times more before our flight to Tokyo took off—then you know

how it is. No cell phones allowed on the missions.”

Star nodded. “Go on.”

“By the time we got to Tokyo, you’d had your phone number changed and every

time he called here, you were out or just not answering.” He reached out for the lemon

ice water beside his plate. He brought the heavy glass to his lips, took a sip and then

another before he continued. Setting the glass down, he licked his lips. “From Tokyo he

and I went to…” He stopped. “Well, someplace else.”

She frowned. “I don’t need an itinerary of his movements, Jackson,” she said. “He’s

always going to someplace else.”

“He was at that someplace else for a little over eleven months,” Jackson told her.

“In prison.” He paused. “They nearly killed him.”

Star’s frown became a look of shock then pain as tears gathered in her eyes. “He’s

all right, though,” she said.

“He spent three months in rehab when we were finally able to retrieve him, but

yeah, he’s all right now.”

The lips of the beautiful woman across from him quivered then Star looked away, a

single tear falling down her alabaster cheek. “It had to happen sooner or later,” she said,

reaching up to swipe it away. “One day, he won’t come back from one of his

assignments.”

“That’s the risk we take in our line of business, Star,” Jackson said. He glanced up

for a man had suddenly appeared behind Star’s chair. The man curled his hands over

Star’s shapely shoulders in such a proprietary way it brought a snarl to Jackson’s lips.

“Daniel Jackson,” Star said. “This is Brighton Boyd, a friend of mine.”

Boyd took his right hand from Star and extended it toward Jackson. “I’ve heard so

much about you, I believe I already know you, Dan,” Boyd said.

“No one calls me Dan,” Jackson snapped. Reluctantly he took Boyd’s hand but

didn’t bother to use the etiquette his mother had drummed into him and remained

seated at the introduction.

“What should I call you then?” Boyd asked, his blue eyes turning a bit flinty.

“He prefers Jackson,” Star said. She was staring at Jackson, her brow furrowed as

though she expected him to lash out at the man behind her.

“Jackson it is then,” Boyd said with a brittle smile.

“I…” Jackson began but his cell phone chirped. With a pained expression, he

slipped his hand into his pant pocket and retrieved it. Glancing at the readout, he

narrowed his eyes for he didn’t recognize the calling number. “Hello?”

Star was watching the expression on Jackson’s face. She patted Boyd’s left hand,

motioning him back, and stood up as Jackson ended his call. “It was nice seeing you

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

again, Jackson,” she said. She came around the side of the table and bent down to kiss

the retired Fibber’s cheek. “You need to treat that sunburn, sweetie, or you’ll peel.”

“Do you know where the Cold Desert Wind is, Star?” he asked, his face turning

redder beneath the sunburn.

Star pursed her mouth and before she could answer, Boyd spoke up. “That’s one of

those places you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in,” he said with a curl of his lip.

“It’s a strip joint,” Star said, her face tight.

Boyd gave Jackson directions to the nightspot.

“You seem to know right where it is,” Jackson accused. “How is that?”

“Brighton is a real-estate developer,” Star explained. “He knows just about every

establishment in Panama City.”

“Huh,” Jackson commented. He pushed his chair back and got up.

“Dinner’s on me,” Star said.

“Thanks, doll, but—”

“It’s our pleasure,” Boyd cut in. “Perhaps next time you can join us at our table.”

Jackson met Star’s eyes and he knew a brief moment of triumph when she lowered

her lashes to hide the obvious embarrassment that riddled her green gaze. “Yeah,

maybe I’ll do that,” Jackson mumbled.

“How long are you going to be in town this time?” Star asked.

“We’re meeting with the boss in the morning,” Jackson said. “Don’t have a clue

after that.”

“Well, if you get the chance, please come back by,” Star said. “Or just come over

and knock on the door.”

Boyd’s mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed at the invitation, but thankfully, he

kept his comment to himself, though he slipped a possessive arm around Star’s waist

and pulled her to him.

“If I don’t see you again, be happy, Star,” Jackson said. “That’s all I want for you.”

He cast Boyd a steely look then turned on his heel and left.

“Man, what an uptight fellow,” Boyd exclaimed.

Star eased out of Boyd’s embrace and put a few feet between them. “Don’t you ever

do that again, Brighton,” she said, flinging her waist-length dark brown braid over her

shoulder.

Boyd blinked. “Do what?”

“Put your brand on me in such a public way,” she said in a low voice. Her green

eyes blazed with anger. “You know I don’t like it when you do that.”

“Afraid Jackson will report to the ex?” he asked, and stood up a bit taller. “I’m not

afraid of your old boyfriend, Star.”

“You should be,” she said. Before Boyd could respond to her assertion, she walked

off.

16

HardWind

* * * * *

“According to the owner, he did roughly four hundred dollars worth of damage

before he passed out,” the man reported. He shook Jackson’s hand. “Nate Gibson. I

work out of the Pensacola office. I’ve been shadowing your boy all evening. I was told

not to interfere but to report to the ship.”

Jackson looked at the broken barstools, the scattered glass, the splintered table, and

let out a long breath. “Where is he now?”

“Sleeping it off in one of the dressing rooms,” Gibson replied. “Gentry told me to

call you instead of handling it myself.”

“What started the fight?” Jackson inquired.

“Somebody said something he didn’t like. Man, he blew up like a pound of plastic

explosives. Nobody got hurt but him.”

“Everybody else was keeping the hell out of his way,” the bartender grumbled,

surveying the destruction. “Who’s gonna pay for this shit? I had to close down for the

night with all this mess.”

“Send the bill to the Farraige in care of Cronin. He’ll get it,” Jackson replied.

“Where did he get hurt?”

“Knuckles look like he put them through a meat grinder,” the investigator

answered. “He got a nick or two from some broken glass on his face but nothing that

would mar those pretty-boy looks.”

“He’ll be glad to know that,” Jackson said dryly.

“Got a cut on his arm too,” the bartender added. “Darnelle patched that up,

though.”

“Darnelle?” Jackson asked.

“One of the
entertainers
here,” Gibson said, making made the word sound dirty. He

hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s in her dressing room—if you can call that

pigsty by such a fancy name.”

“I’ve got it from here unless Gentry ordered you to hang around.”

Gibson shook his head. “Nope. I’m outta here now that you’ve got things under

control.”

Jackson thanked Gibson, gave the bartender the address of the Farraige then

strolled back behind the miniscule stage with its shiny steel pole upon which one of the

girls was practicing gyrating. She gave him an air kiss as he passed by.

The small hallway behind the stage smelled of body fluids Jackson had no difficulty

in recognizing. The stench made him sick to his stomach and the salmon that had gone

down his gullet so lovingly at the Corinth was threatening to swim back up.

“You looking for Prince Charming?” someone asked from the darker shadows of

the hallway.

“Yeah,” Jackson said.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

A blowsy woman with a tuft of orange hair moved out of the gloom. She pulled a

garish silk wrapper around her enormous bust. “He’s in here. Darnelle just finished

sewing him up.”

Jackson’s eyebrows shot into his non-descript salt and pepper hair and his gray