Peta chose not to argue. “I’m told he will be going out early tomorrow morning. I must see him before then.”
“If you will do me the honor of dining with me, I will promise to wake you before he leaves.”
And then we arm-wrestle, Peta thought wryly. “Dinner sounds fine,” she said. “But first I’d like to take a shower.”
“Allow me to show you to your room.” Blaine picked up her duffel.
“How many rooms do you have?”
“Four.”
“In that case”—she took her duffel from him—“the key will do.”
“I will bring the key to you in the bar,” he said. “It is in the office. Please order what you wish, compliments of Eduardo Blaine.”
Peta barely kept herself from laughing out loud. She went over to the bar, which proved not to be in Blaine’s office, seated herself on a stool, and ordered and received a Carib and a pack of 555s. The pretty young barmaid in a floral dress and bare feet looked as if she was Blaine’s daughter.
For some reason, the thought of the Venezuelan having a daughter intrigued her. With a mixture of amusement and guilt, she realized that she was feeling horny about the man. His Antonio Banderas looks and overly florid South American manners were not usually the sorts of things that attracted her. She remembered the sight of Arthur splattered across the bathroom at Danny’s, and her guilt won out.
Deciding that this would be a good time to check on McKendry, Peta retrieved her cell phone from her handbag and dialed the hospital. She could hear a faint voice at the other end, but static on the line made it impossible to converse.
“Is there a telephone around here? I’ll use a credit card.” Peta lit her first 555 in three years, savored the familiar flavor, made herself the same old promise.
The girl took an old-fashioned rotary dial phone from under the counter and pushed it shyly toward Peta, who lifted the receiver.
“…care of her.” Frik’s voice.
“That won’t be a chore.” Blaine. “She is most beautiful.”
Peta covered the mouthpiece with her hand and blessed the inefficiencies of a telephone system which so consistently crossed wires that the idea of privacy was a joke. Even if the two men had heard background noises, they would take no notice of them.
“I have given you my word that I will take care of her,” the Venezuelan continued.
“You do that, Mr. Blaine,” Frik said. “Or I will be forced to take care of you.”
As the line went dead, Peta softly replaced the receiver in its cradle.
Two possibilities raced through her mind: either Frik wanted her protected, or Frik wanted her eliminated. All she had to do was make sure that she stayed alive until she could figure out which one it was.
23
The night air was humid and still. The only thing moving in the room was Peta. She stirred, vaguely awake. From somewhere she heard voices.
She turned over, kicking off the clinging sheet. The voices kept up a steady racket, and she realized they must be coming up from the street below her window. She wished she had earplugs. Somehow she needed to get back to sleep, get some rest. God only knew what tomorrow would bring.
The voices outside weren’t all that was keeping her awake, though. Since Arthur’s death, Peta had sublimated any thoughts of men; none could ever take his place. When her mentor and lover had been alive, she’d had a healthy libido and often found herself aroused by some passing man’s firm ass, or long fingers, or broad shoulders. Now those feelings brought only guilt.
She also considered herself pretty immune to charm, especially when she knew intellectually that it was a con. But Blaine’s eyes, his ready smile, his—for lack of a better word—charisma, had burned a neat little picture in her mind. It made her squirm with competing emotions of desire and embarrassment.
She turned onto the other side.
Sleep, damn it, she thought. Stop thinking.
The unseen strangers below her window laughed as a bottle shattered.
She flipped onto her stomach, tucked her head more firmly into the pillow, and stretched out on the sagging mattress. The air was close, the voices echoing eerily. Not very patiently she waited for sleep to return….
A grinding noise broke through the fog in her brain. A buzzing. Can’t they stop with that racket? she thought sleepily.
She rolled over and opened her eyes. It was morning, bright morning; the type of brilliant sunlight that said dawn had passed hours ago. While her eyes adjusted, her mind identified the sound she’d been hearing: an inboard motor.
She swung her legs off the bed and rushed to the window, trying her best to ignore the rough, splintery feel of the wood floor. Pushing aside the sheer curtain, she looked out to see a boat emblazoned with the Oilstar logo moving at top speed toward the mouth of the harbor, out to the open sea. Simon’s boat.
“Shit.” As Peta stepped away from the window, a splinter penetrated the soft skin of her arch. On her other foot, she hopped to one of the chairs and yanked out the splinter. She grabbed her jeans from the other chair and pulled them on. The fading watery growl of the engine reminded her that with every passing second Simon moved farther out to sea and, she thought, to a dive that was likely to kill him.
Hurrying, she picked up her T-shirt from the floor. An inch-long roach tumbled out of it, another resident of this fleabag hotel having his early-morning sleep disturbed.
She was tempted to step on it, bare feet or no. After all, she thought wryly, she was paying to have the room to herself. Instead she pulled on the T-shirt without checking for any more residents, and looked around the floor for her sandals.
As she put them on she wondered why Blaine hadn’t kept his promise to awaken her.
She remembered her thoughts during the evening. What the hell was wrong with her? Trust wasn’t something she gave out that often—now the right pairing of eyes and smile and she acted like a lovesick lamb.
She opened her door and almost tripped over someone who lay snoring, slumped over only a few feet from her room. It was as if he had fallen asleep on guard duty, she thought. Frikkie’s words echoed in her head:Take care of her, or—
Another roach to squash, she thought. When she had time. Right now what she had to do was catch up with Simon. For that, she’d need a boat. Diving gear.
She charged downstairs to the front desk, where a sleepy-eyed Trini woman in a simple dress stretched to its size limits looked at her as though she were crazy.
“Eduardo Blaine. Which is his room?”
The woman looked confused.
“Señor Blaine?” Peta repeated.
“Ah, sí.” The woman nodded and pointed with her thumb along the hallway beside the stairs. “Room two. End of the hall on the left.” She smiled conspiratorially, as if she thought Peta was going to sneak into Blaine’s room and give him an early-morning quickie.
“Gracias,” Peta called out as she ran down the hallway to the door marked with a gold-plated number 2 hung at a drunken angle. Banging loudly, she yelled, “Blaine? You there? Blaine, wake up!”
She stood there, waiting, the time slipping away. Simon’s boat was now well out of the bay for sure, bouncing over the water.
The bolt clicked open.
“You said you’d wake me. You said that you’d be up, and wake me before Simon could leave.”
Blaine—in white Jockeys, no shirt, and looking more asleep than awake—held the door open wide and backed up to let her in. He raised his left arm as if to check a watch that wasn’t there.
“What time is—God, my alarm. I must have…Maybe Simon hasn’t left—”
“I just saw his boat heading out of the harbor. Thanks for the help.”
“Okay, okay! Relax. Let me get dressed. I got a boat. We’ll catch him.”