Orange Blossoms & Mayhem (Fantascapes) (27 page)

Grady squeezed my arm. From across the table, Mom and Candy gave me tremulous smiles. The lump in my throat was so big I could only nod my head and mumble my thanks. But beneath the warm fuzzy I felt a sharp pain. The inevitability of my farewell to Interpol. To Rhys. I could never leave the family. For better or for worse. I would be sitting here twenty years from now, holding on until the brothers’ children (as yet unborn) were old enough to fill our shoes.

The brothers’ children. But what about mine?

Dad left with Grady, who would accompany him down to his van in the parking lot. Not that Dad couldn’t do it by himself, but the elevator and transfers were easier with help, and he seemed to tolerate assistance from Grady better than from the rest of us.

“
The balloon ascent went off without a hitch,” Candy said, “soaring off on the early morning breeze. You would have loved it, Laine.”

“
All we could do was wave farewell,” Mom added. “There was only room enough for the bride and groom, the minister, and a witness, plus the operator, of course. But we all chased off to the landing site to greet the newlyweds.”

“
Mini hot air balloons on every table at the reception, larger ones in the corners.” Candy said. “It was glorious. A permanent addition to our event list.”

“
I’d like to go up sometime,” I said, before my smile faded as I recalled the view of Lyon from the top of the Meridien. A memory filled with joy . . . and pain.

“
Fortunately, you organized security for the Palmer wedding before you left,” Candy said, switching to tomorrow’s waterfront event at Crest House, “so that shouldn’t be a problem. Perhaps you should warn the Gerries they’ll likely be on call for next Saturday, too.”

“
More likely, Dad will get there before me.”

“
Yes,” my mother said, patting her sister’s hand, “do let Jordan take care of the extra security for the Kirichenko wedding.”

“
But I can’t believe we need it,” Candy wailed.

I leaned forward, arms crossed on the table’s shiny surface. “Two words, Candy.
Russian mafia
. Much as I hate to admit it, there’s reason to be cautious. We live every minute of this coming week with our eyes wide open, our
minds
wide open. Anything can happen.”

“
Karen,” my aunt declared as she stood up, “how did you ever get mixed up with Jordan Halliday? Men like that should have to wear warning signs. And now you’ve got a whole passel of children just like him.”

Mom, as always, just smiled. And gave me a wink as Aunt Candy swept toward the spiral staircase.

The next morning I stood, greeting wedding guests and discreetly directing traffic, on the dock at a large marina at the head of Golden Beach Bay. Fortunately, Aunt Candy didn’t believe in classic business wear. Weddings Extraordinaire had to uphold its reputation for the exotic, a touch of flamboyance without, we hoped, being vulgar. So I was wearing a lacy white cotton crochet top, discreetly peek-a-boo, over a turquoise silk camisole that matched my skirt, which consisted of two asymmetrical layers of gauze. My Peruvian turquoise earrings and necklace were set in gold, my three-inch heels white patent leather. After the month I’d had, knowing I looked better than good was a real boost to the ego.

When doing a wedding at Crest House, we have a card for the bride to include in her invitations, giving three options for transportation. The first is private transportation, with valet parking at the House, but we urge the use of our two Hummer limos or travel by a tour boat, whose services we reserve on wedding days. Both limos and boat leave from the marina, which has an unusually large parking lot, and where we pay a generous fee to cordon off a private area for our use. High school students—cheerful smiles required—direct car parking and point the guests toward the limos or the tour boat, as desired.

So far this morning, everything was going well. Two Gerries were overseeing the parking lot, two on the tour boat, and one on each limo. I was fixed at the head of the dock, where I could greet each guest personally and keep an eye on the smooth functioning of the parking lot. Frankly, from smiles and bright greetings to my words of welcome, it was all old hat. I was skimming on cruise control, while I tried to picture the guests arriving for Viktor’s wedding a week from today. All by private transpo. All under the gimlet eyes of big men in dark rumpled suits, some maybe even wearing fedoras. Now I was really getting fanciful. But that vision had come from somewhere . . .

Ah, yes . . . one of Aunt Candy’s weddings in Connecticut. Way back in the days when she handled every detail herself and had asked Mom and me to help out. Maybe Candy had known it was a Mafia—the genuine, original Cosa Nostra—wedding, but Mom hadn’t, until she saw the men in dark suits and fedoras guarding the parking lot. No crew of high school kids working this wedding, but men right out of
The Godfather
. I remember Mom sucking in her breath, exchanging a look with Candy, her face settling into grim lines. Even at twelve, I had no trouble figuring out what was going on. Any child raised along the Connecticut shoreline knew the drill, including the law of
omerta
. My interest in the day perked up considerably. When inside the church, I studied every man there, wondering which ones held the power. It was the closest I’d ever come to organized crime . . . until maybe, perhaps, possibly . . . Viktor.

I greeted Sheriff Purvis and his wife, closely followed by the mayor of Sarasota and our district’s representative to the State Legislature, all three wives glowing in dresses and jewels suitable for their lofty positions. Our representative to Congress was of the wrong political persuasion for this wedding, and Senator Tyler would arrive at Crest House in his private limo, so, politically speaking, these were my biggest fish of the day. I did a quick glance around and noted with satisfaction that the Gerries had moved into highest-alert mode. Fantascapes was looking good.

Smug gets you dead
—isn’t that what Dad always said? But everything today was moving like clockwork. No kamikaze airplanes, no lethal cigarette boats speeding toward us, loaded with explosives. Not a glimpse of an AK-47 or an MP-5, although I knew each of the Gerries was armed with a semi-automatic pistol. Except one, who insisted on sticking with his trusty .38 revolver.

After the tour boat captain set off on his fourth round trip, I checked my guest list with those of the Hummer drivers. Definitely one of our good days—not a single guest missing. We could all relax. My job done, I could actually go home, relying on the Gerries to see that the guests’ return was as efficient as their departure. I could only pray next Saturday’s wedding would go as smoothly.

So easy to fall into complacency. To reject Interpol’s warnings as fanciful nonsense from men who were so far away they couldn’t possibly second guess what might happen in Florida.

Lainie Halliday, you know damn well Viktor Kirichenko is a mobster. Stubborn, thick-headed idiot that you are, you just won’t admit it.

So? He had a right to get married, didn’t he?

I pulled the Lexus into a parking space behind our building, slammed the door behind me, and stalked to the elevator. I’d been standing outside on three-inch heels with the thermometer at eighty-five for two solid hours, putting on my best Fantascapes show until my face felt cracked. I wasn’t usually so washed out after one of these events, but the inner conflict was beginning to get to me. I didn’t want to believe anything could go wrong with Viktor’s wedding, but I’d be a fool if it didn’t nag like a splinter in my foot that refused to be ousted.

I marched down the hall, stuck my key in the lock, kicked off my heels, and started for the bedroom to change into shorts and a comfortable tee-top.

“
Tough day?” said a sympathetic voice from the vicinity of my sofa. “Sorry to startle you, love, but I flashed my badge at your cousin, and he very kindly let me in.”

Chapter Sixteen

Rhys unfolded from my sofa, all lean six-feet of him, his dark hair gleaming in the brilliant Florida sunshine pouring through my southern windows. He was casually dressed, his short-sleeved shirt reflecting a hint of blue in gray eyes that were radiating almost scorching warmth. In short, a delicious yet masculine bon-bon, ripe for consumption, but the words that flew out of my mouth were, “What’re you doing here? Are you
crazy
?”

“
Well, bloody hell, Ms. Halliday. I had to toss my resignation on Peiper’s desk before he’d let me come, and
this
is the welcome I get.”

“
Rhys”—I faltered, tried again— “you didn’t . . . you couldn’t . . .”

Fists clenched, he glared at me. “I bloody well did, but Peiper wouldn’t accept it. Big conference, the upshot of which I was allowed to slip my leash, the consensus being that the worst had happened, you and I had compared notes, and the Bad Guys’ world was still intact. We weren’t the danger they thought we were, so they called off the dogs. Hence, Viktor’s enigmatic phone call to you in Paris.”

Rhys’s rigid stance softened into a tight conciliatory smile. “I’m here to visit a friend,” he said. “And maybe have a word or two with the police, just in case. That’s mostly all Interpol does, Laine—pass along information. We know your Viktor is Aleksei Tatarkin—the prints you got confirmed it—yet no country has accumulated enough evidence to ask for his arrest. Our hands are tied, but”—I could see Rhys’s anger draining away as he glanced down, uncomfortable with admitting his emotions. “I have a bad feeling about the wedding, Laine. I had to be here. For you.”

For all of two seconds I tried to tell myself Rhys was only here because he owed me far more than money. But my toes curled, my body flashed fire, his aristocratic Brit face wavered before my eyes, and I swear I heard full choir and orchestra belting out the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

I don’t think I leaped over the coffee table, but I might have. Somehow we were teetering together in the narrow few inches between couch and table, bodies writhing, elbows flying as we tore at each other’s clothes. Rhys won, but I was way past caring. Gloriously, triumphantly naked, I grabbed his briefs, stripped them down around his ankles. Obligingly, he kicked them off, and I was free to work my way back up. But foreplay lasted about as long as a drop of water in a hot skillet. Suddenly, I was in his lap, and he was inside me, our arms wrapped around each other like mating boa constrictors. Churning hips, a few good thrusts, and we exploded into oblivion, finally toppling over with Rhys underneath and me sprawled over him, my head sagging onto his heaving chest.

“
Good God, woman,” he murmured, “no wonder so many die young from heart attacks. Sex like that is a lethal weapon.”

“
I think we’re going to have to spend the night here. I can’t move.”

And, naturally, while lying there skin to skin with Rhys, with even my bones softened to jelly, I realized I was in serious trouble. I’d been in lust before, and whatever I had going with Rhys didn’t qualify. And yet . . . was my role as Rhys’s protector coloring my vision, telling me our relationship was something more than hot sex?

Did it matter?
Enjoy the here and now, Laine. Revel in it while it lasts.

I snuggled into Rhys’s chest, floating in some perfect place where nothing could ever go wrong. Eventually, we made it as far as the bedroom, where we settled down to making love with considerably more finesse and attention to details. We ordered Chinese, flipping a coin to see who had to put on enough clothes to answer the door. We told each other we’d talk seriously later, but it didn’t happen. At what was seven in the morning Lyon time, I finally let him sleep. And just before I joined him, I wondered what the family was going to think when I brought my man from Interpol to Sunday night supper.

We were, at least, spared Doug at the Halliday table, as he and his team were tied up providing security for some Brazilian tycoon and his family on a tour of the Disney theme parks and Universal Studios, a task that stretched his small security company’s resources to the limit.

“
I liked your brother Logan,” Rhys said when I explained why I’d issued a whoosh of relief as I ended the phone call to Mom, warning her to set an extra place. “So what’s the problem with Doug?”

“
Nothing. It’s just that Dad, Jeff, and Doug all at once might be enough to intimidate even an arrogant Brit like you.”

“
Laine, I’ve spent the last twelve years of my life surrounded by cops. I’m used to it.”

Uh-huh. I made some sort of skeptical grunt and let it go. Since it was unlikely the Slavic American Club would be open on a Sunday, Rhys and I spent the afternoon on a lazy tour of Golden Beach, from sandy beaches to broad sheltered harbor, from an introduction to Bella at the airport to the idiosyncracies of drawbridges. We even spent some time gazing at the twelve-foot alligator who likes to sun himself not more than thirty feet off the Tamiami Trail, stretched out on the bank of the aptly named Alligator Creek.

Late in the afternoon, we drove back to my place to get cleaned up for supper, only, well, the rush of shower water acted like an aphrodisiac. One thing led to another and we were twenty minutes late to Sunday night supper. With the entire family zeroing in as we entered, devouring Rhys with their eyes, undoubtedly thinking,
We know what you’ve been doing.