Swindled in Paradise (34 page)

“You don’t have to worry about Striker showing back up. I sicced Spoon on the man.”

“Do you suppose Striker’s pushing up weeds somewhere?” Brad half-laughed, and I could see he liked the idea. “I did thank him but didn’t ask.”

“Spoon could be our stepdaddy one of these days.”

Brad groaned, “I think if the two of us cornered Mother together, maybe we could talk some sense into her.”

“Forget that. You’ll hurt her feelings. We don’t like her meddling in our sex lives, so we need to stay out of hers.”

Brad clamped his hands over his ears. “Don’t use that word again.”

“What word? Sex?” I laughed. “The bright side is that Mother’s really happy.”

“In the interest of maintaining my best-brother-ever status, I told Spoon to take Mother home, Creole to make up a work excuse, and Didier that he should say he had underwear to go model. Not only did I tell them to lie, but I had their excuses all ready for them.”

“Love you, bro.”

“Yeah, right back at you.”

Chapter 48

Creole and I spent three days ignoring the world, only leaving once to go to the nearby outdoor market and buy our favorite foods from the local vendors.

Each night, we worked side by side in the kitchen prepping dinner, with Creole doing the barbequing. I wasn't sure why I’d bothered to bring clothes, as I spent the entire time in one of his oversized shirts, changing only to go down to the beach. I’d found the shirts in the back of the closet and chosen a white one, buttoning only the middle buttons and rolling up the sleeves. All my worry about not asking if I could borrow one melted away when I came out of the bathroom and his eyes traveled over every inch, returning to my face with a look of lust. He smiled and yanked me into his arms.

On our last afternoon, I lay on the couch reading, Creole’s voice drifted through the patio door. I was unable to make out the words, but I couldn’t miss his serious tone. I crossed my fingers that the call wasn’t about work and that he wouldn’t be announcing he had to leave.

At the sound of his chair scraping across the concrete, I closed my eyes, warding off bad news.

"You're not asleep, you little faker," he chuckled. "Here," he said, handing me his phone. "Text message." He lifted my legs, sat, and put them on his lap.

The message from Fab read, “Turn on your damn phone.”

I made a face at the screen. "What's so urgent?"

"Didier and I planned dinner for the four of us at your house tonight," he informed me.

"Let's RSVP ’no thanks’ and stay here and you know..." I waggled my brows.

“We can’t do that. What kind of host would I be if I didn’t show?” Not waiting for an answer, he scooped me into his arms, walked to the bed, and dumped me in the middle. “Besides, we have time to do both.”

"No wonder Fab is texting. What are you two guys up to?"

He clasped his hands over his heart. "You wound me."

I wrapped my legs around his torso. "Please don't provoke her to shoot you. I don't want to have to audition a new boyfriend."

"I was a patient man, waiting for you to realize that we belonged together. You're all mine, and it's going to stay that way." The last came out as a sound between a growl and bark.

He was right, we were pretty much perfect together, and I wanted it to stay that way too, the few hiccups along the way and all.

* * *

"We're here," I yelled, waltzing by Creole, who held open the front door.

Fab, Didier, and Jazz lay on the daybed. I loved that when I wasn't here, my cat retained his status as a very spoiled animal.

"About time," Fab snarled.

Hands on my hips, I leaned forward. "We've been busy," I snarked. "Same as you two, I suspect."

Fab's cheeks pinked. "I suppose." She jumped up, grabbing my elbow. “Excuse us,” she said impatiently, then shoved me out the French doors and to the far side of the pool.

"Enough.” I pulled away from her. “Why did you and Didier plan this impromptu get-together? Creole and I don't have enough do-nothing time."

"Nothing?" She glowered at me like an inquisitive mother when her kid comes home late from a first date.

"You know what I mean.” I sank down on a chaise. “Did you two get bored with your sexy selves?"

"Hardly. I want to be engaging in the same kind of do-nothing as you, only more adventurous." She flounced down next to me. "But the guys planned this. They’re up to something."

"Don't you love the smell of the ocean air?" I inhaled, sucking in a lungful of air. "The fog’s rolling in."

Fab snapped her fingers in front of my face. "Focus. Look at them over there, huddled together."

I glanced toward the barbeque. "We're huddled over here." I thought she was overreacting until they both waved at the same time. "So what's up? We can't be in trouble; we haven't left their sides in days. Or did you sneak off somewhere?"

She ignored me and asked, "What about Balcazar?"

"It's hardly our fault Didier got ‘napped. By
his
friend, not ours. Okay, I shot the guy, but he's not dead."

"I smell a trap.”

"You got a plan?"

"We stick together,” Fab whispered conspiratorially. “I give you the look, you follow my lead."

"Which look? You need to show me."

Fab rubbed her temples. "You give me a headache sometimes.” Didier wiggled his finger at her. "We can take them," she said over her shoulder as she walked away.

Creole took her place on the chaise. "It makes my neck hairs stand on end to see the two of you plotting. Do you have an unpleasant surprise planned for Didier and me?" He pulled me into his arms.

"Two minutes with her, and you’re suspicious?"

He silenced further talk with a kiss.

They are up to something,
I thought.

Chapter 49

Didier commandeered the kitchen island, a black bib apron tied around his bathing trunks. Spread out before him was an array of freshly washed vegetables that needed chopping. Fab took a butcher knife to a head of lettuce, slaughtering it, bits of green flying everywhere, until Didier took it away from her and ordered us out of the kitchen.

Creole stuffed a dish towel into each side of his trunks, twirling and bowing, making me laugh. I offered to pour dressing out of a bottle into a gravy boat and got an index finger in the direction of the patio door for my gracious offer.

“Help me set the table?” I asked Fab, waiting for her to throw something in my direction.

She stalked to a drawer at the outside countertop, yanked out a handful of utensils, and dumped them in the middle of the tablecloth.

“Do you even know how to set a table? When you lived on your own, did you eat off paper and plastic?”

Fab turned up her nose. “I can set a table for fifty with the finest china, silver and crystal. It was a requirement for graduating from Miss Marchand’s etiquette classes along with the rest of the simps.”

I clucked and pulled out a chair. “Sit–” I pointed. “–and tell me what’s got you agitated.”

“Did you know that a lady, when she sits, crosses her ankles ever so slightly? No crossing the legs, and certainly no manspread.”

Laughing, I said, “I figured the latter out without having to be told.”

“They’re up to something.” Her gaze flicked to Didier, who set a tray down next to the barbeque.

“What’s the worst? They’re not going to hurt us. I mean, maybe Creole might inflict bodily harm on you, but I’m safe.”

She exhaled a long, breathy sigh.

The enticing smells from the barbeque made my stomach growl.

I pulled out the shell-embossed plates, setting them down, and Fab reached across and rearranged each one. She snapped her fingers, pointing at the small candle lanterns that she’d spotted in the seashell store she abhorred, but went to with me anyway. I put three down the middle of the table, flicking on the battery strands of lights inside each one.

Creole winked, setting a platter of salmon and grilled asparagus on the table. Didier served the mixed salad; he’d outdone himself, whisking together a homemade Greek dressing. He presented a bottle of white wine from some French vineyard where he knew the owner.

I prevented myself from responding, “It's okay; where’s the tequila?” when asked what I thought of the wine. I wanted to mention the bouquet, but decided this wasn't the time to make a complete ass of myself.

Fab kicked me under the table, a hint of a smirk brushed across her lips.

The dinner was delicious, the small talk kept to a minimum. Trying to read Fab’s thoughts made my eyes squinch. I looked away and picked through the salad, eating the good parts—the Greek olives and tomatoes—and wishing I had a dog for the croutons.

Finishing off my salmon, I leaned back in my chair, banging my spoon on the table. "What's for dessert?"

"Sorbet.” Fab tried to hold back the laughter. “Didier picked it up at that trendy market that just opened."

I stuck my tongue out at him. "That's not even real ice cream. I’ll have another glass of wine."

Creole laughed in my ear. “That’s not nice.”

Fab grabbed my arm. "Do not get drunk.” She glared at me. If you looked carefully, you could see the gears turning. After a moment’s hesitation, she changed her mind, "Go ahead. Drink up.” She handed me the wine bottle. “Refill my glass."

I tipped the bottle, and a trickle dribbled out. “We’re cut off.” I put the bottle back on the table. “Since you two cooked, we’ll clean up, won’t we?” I looked at Fab and, to my surprise, didn’t get a word of complaint. She jumped up and collected her and Didier’s plates, and we escaped to the kitchen.

“See that stainless square right there?” I pointed. “That’s a dishwasher. Would you like a quick explanation of how it works?”

Fab snorted and leaned across the sink, checking out the driveway.

“Any prowlers today?”

“Didier told me Nado’s working a deal; everything he knows about the Balcazars in exchange for a shorter sentence.”

“Creole says he’s a professional criminal. I hope they think about the fact that if you hadn’t snuck up on him, three people would be dead.”

It wasn’t long before we finished cleaning everything up. “What else needs to be done?”

Fab’s answer was a non-committal shrug. There were no leftovers, and we’d put the plates in the dishwasher and cleaned the island. Mostly, Fab had supervised.

“You worry too much,” I said.

"When do I do that?” she asked with a huff. “This party stays outside! If things go south, I’ll push you in the pool.”

I smoothed my short white skirt and cobalt sleeveless top with a deep V-neck. I’d worn the new lacy underwear that curved up over my cheeks with thoughts of flashing Creole when no one was looking, certain he'd go all caveman and drag me back to his hideaway. “You’ll owe me.”

Creole and Didier filled the doorway of the patio.

"We're moving inside," Creole said.

"Why?" I moaned. "It's a beautiful night outside. The lights just came on." If I didn’t think it would look like a circus tent, I’d hang them everywhere.

"No more wine for you." Creole shook his finger at me.

"In that case…" I picked up my glass, downed the last few sips, and handed it to him. Fab had found an open bottle with enough in it for two half-glasses. "I hate to be wasteful."

"Do we have assigned seating?" Fab mocked.

Didier swept her off her feet and sat on the couch, deftly pulling her into his lap. "Yes we do."

I stretched out on the daybed, shoving pillows under my head, one leg hooked over the back. I hung my head over the side and waved at Fab.

Creole pulled me into a sitting position up against his chest.

“Dinner was delicious.” I wiggled, and Creole’s hold tightened.

Fab leapt up, or tried to anyway. Didier caught her and hauled her back into his lap.

Creole cleared his throat. “I’ve got several updates on the case, none of them good.”

I wanted to cover my ears, but I wouldn’t be able to stand not knowing.

“Tina Balcazar died this morning. Harder called with the grim news, and his only comment was ‘saves taxpayers the cost of a trial.’”

Fab wrapped her arms around Didier’s neck. I wasn’t sure how the news was received by everyone else, as no one said anything.

“Balcazar’s locked up. The Feds swept in and relieved Miami PD of the case with no explanation, which ticked the boss off. No arraignment as of yet.”

“I haven’t had a single call from a prosecutor. I’ll testify. I don’t want him ever getting out of jail,” Didier said adamantly.

“Your friend Watters…” Creole blew out a frustrated breath. “He retired. Must have gotten wind that they were going to investigate him and his ties to Balcazar. Left Florida and directed all inquiries to his lawyer.”

“Good riddance,” Fab said, then changed the subject. “Dinner was great.” She tried to stand, but Didier didn’t relinquish his hold.

“Creole and I wanted to have a discussion with the two of you.” Didier gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A few ideas that would make living together go smoother.”

"You lied," I grouched at Creole. "Apparently you drew the short straw," I said, pointing at Didier. "There's nothing wrong with our relationship; we get along, never fight, why mess that up? You French ever hear about not fixing the broken wheel?"

"You got that all messed up." Fab rolled her eyes. "Besides, we're too sophisticated for such nonsense."

Creole stood and deposited me on the daybed before pounding his fist on the wall. "This come-to-Jesus meeting is called to order. I'll do the talking. Understand?"

Fab gave him the finger. "Ass...."

Didier, expecting that reaction, clamped his hand over her mouth. "Oww!" He jerked it back. Fab had sunk her teeth into one of his fingers.

Hard as I tried to contain it, the laughter escaped.

"We will be instituting rules that all of us—” Creole pointed at each of us. “—agree to.”

"Rules?" Fab snorted, flashing her middle finger again.

I was the only one, who noticed, thoroughly enjoying her histrionics. I raised my hand.