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  “Yes, I will. You, too.”

  “Yeah.” It was hard keeping his hands off her, so he turned away and put the key in his door. “See you later?” he said.

  “Yes, probably.” She went in and closed the door. Without taking her bathing suit off she went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. She stripped out of her suit, then leaned against the shower wall and let the steaming water wash over her.

  “Fool,” she said aloud, not because she’d done a stupid thing by swimming alone on a day like this, but because she’d let Sam O’Shaughnessy see her fear. Because she’d thought that, like her father, he had meant to strike her. Would the fear always be there? Whenever a man made a sudden gesture toward her would she always recoil?

  When she felt the beginning of tears, she said, “No! I’m not going to cry. I won’t feel sorry for myself because my father was rattlesnake-mean or because my mother was too afraid or too weak to try to help me. He’ll never find me, but if he does—if he or anybody else ever tries to lay a hand on me again—I’ll chop it off.”

  That made her feel better. She got out of the shower, and when she had toweled her hair dry, she put on a terry-cloth robe and went into the other room. Five minutes later somebody knocked on her door and called, “Room service.”

  She opened it a crack. “I didn’t order anything,” she said to the waiter who stood there.

  “Mr. O’Shaughnessy did. This be your breakfast.”

  “Mr. O’Shaughnessy?” Lisa opened the door wider so the waiter could come in. He put the tray he carried on the table in front of the sliding glass door that led to the balcony and began to set the dishes out.

  “There be orange juice, papaya and mango and banana, ham and eggs and fried plantains.” He poured coffee into a cup, took a snifter of brandy from the tray and poured a small splash into it and handed the cup to her. “Mister say you need this.”

  Mister taking a lot on himself, she thought, but didn’t say it. And because the man was looking at her, waiting, she took a sip of the brandy-flavored coffee. It slid like a not-unpleasant fire down her throat, and she felt some of the cold seep out of her bones.

  “Yes?” the waiter said.

  “It’s very good.” She went to the dresser and took some money out of her purse, but he held his hands up as though to ward her off. “Bossman O’Shaughnessy take care of it,” he said. And with another wide smile, he hurried out of the room.

  Bossman O’Shaughnessy? A small smile curved her lips. She took another warming sip of the coffee, then sat down and picked up a piece of papaya. It was sweet and tasty. She took another bite and washed it down with the rest of the coffee in her cup.

  The rain came harder. Thunder rolled and the rain pelted down. But it didn’t matter. She was warm and safe in her room where nothing could touch her. Ohio was another lifetime away.

  She curled her feet up under her, took another sip of the brandy and tried not to think how deep and dark the sea had been. Or of what would have happened if Sam O’Shaughnessy hadn’t pulled her to safety.

  Chapter 4

  The phone call came at five that afternoon. “Hargreaves here,” Filoberto said in his clipped British accent when Sam answered. “I have a bit of news you might find interesting.”

  “What is it?” Sam hooked his leg around a chair, dragged it closer to the phone and straddled it.

  “We’ve gotten a lead on a dealer who we have reason to believe has a connection to Juan Montoya. They’ve worked together before and they were in prison in Cuba’s Isle of Pines at the same time a couple of years ago. The information our man has gathered confirms your suspicion that Montoya is in Jamaica working with a group that used to deal in ganja. They’re into stronger stuff now, something called splat. From the information we’ve been able to gather, it’s a cheaper, easier-to-produce form of heroin. It’s exactly the kind of thing our friend Montoya would be in on.”

  “How’d you get the info? How do you know it’s straight?”

  “One of our men has been working undercover with the group for over a year. A few days ago he found out that a connection in Miami is coming to Jamaica to expedite a shipment.”

  “From Miami?”

  “That’s right. The man from Miami, or possibly a woman, may have already arrived. We’d thought before that Kingston was the center of their operations, but now we believe it’s on the north coast, somewhere around Ocho Rios. The Poinciana is a popular hotel, so there’s a possibility that whoever it is we’re looking for will stay there. Keep an eye on any new arrivals and let me know. We’ll check them out with Miami PD from here.”

  “You have any idea where Montoya is holed up?”

  “Possibly in the area around Port Antonio, but of course he could be anywhere, even in Ocho Rios.”

  “Montoya might be here?” Sam stood and shoved the chair back. “If he is I’ll...” He stopped, swung around and saw Lisa standing at the open balcony door of his room.

  Without taking his gaze from hers, he said into the phone, “I’ll call you back,” and hung up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were on the phone. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  How long had she been standing there? How much had she heard? He took a shot at looking casual and said, “It’s okay.”

  She was holding a tray with two planter’s punches and a bowl of fried banana chips.

  “I thought you might like a drink. The sun, if there had been any sun today, would have been over the yardarm by now.”

  It seemed like a nice gesture and maybe that’s what it was. Maybe.

  He took the tray from her and put it on the table by the open door. “Nice idea,” he said.

  “I wanted to say thank you for what you did this morning.”

  Like hell, he thought. “No need, but thanks.” He pulled out the other chair.

  “You’re sure I’m not intruding?”

  “Of course not.” He took a long swallow of the drink and reached for a handful of chips. Hargreaves had said someone was going to arrive, or had already arrived, from Miami. A man, possibly a woman. But Lisa Collier?

  She looked out toward the sea and he gave her the once-over. In white shorts and a red knit shirt, barefoot with no makeup and her hair soft around her face, she looked like the girl next door. Fresh as a daisy, innocent as a lamb. But was she as innocent as she looked or was that part of her cover?

  He tightened his hand around the glass and took another swallow. If Lisa Collier was involved, if she had any connection to Montoya, he’d bring her down along with the drug king.

  He leaned back in his chair. “You said you’re a commercial artist. Tell me more about yourself,” he said. “What do you do in Miami, I mean besides being married to...what’s his name?”

  “Philip Matthews.”

  Matthews. He’d check it out. See if there really was a Philip Matthews or if she was making it up. He sat forward, pretending to look interested.

  “I freelance for a few Miami ad agencies,” she said.

  “Where’d you go to school? Miami?”

  She bit into a banana chip and nodded.

  “You from there originally?”

  “No, I’m from Ohio.”

  “Oh, where?”

  “Tipp City. It’s a small town near Dayton. What about you?”

  “Chicago, Detroit, then New York.”

  She took a sip of her drink. “I’ve never been to any of those places. I wanted to travel—before I married Philip, I mean. He went to New York several times a year, but he never took me with him. Maybe now that I’m free I’ll do some traveling.”

  “When you get to New York, look me up,” he said. “I’ll show you the sights.” And if you’re working with Montoya, it might be a lot sooner than you think, dollface. He studied her with different eyes now, trying to see behind the innocent goody-two-shoes mien, trying to figure out who and what she really was.

  Sensing the intensity of his gaze
, she moved a little in her chair. He caught a glimpse of smooth, tanned thigh, and an unexpected heat zinged through his belly and sizzled downward. He looked away and gulped the last of his drink. “Want another?” he asked her.

  “None for me, but you go ahead.”

  “Maybe later.” He was still trying to figure her out, trying to see behind what she looked like to who she really was. He had to get closer to her, had to find out.

  She finished her drink and stood. “I’ve intruded enough,” she said.

  “How about dinner?” And before she could refuse, he said, “There’s a place a few miles out of town I think you’d like. I haven’t been there for a couple of years, but I remember that the food was pretty good.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Seven okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Great. Come over when you’re ready.”

  She reached for the tray, but he said, “Leave it. I’ll have somebody pick it up later.” He walked her out onto the balcony, took her hand to help her over the wall and stood on his side until she went into her room and slid her door shut. Then he went back inside and closed his own door.

  He called Hargreaves.

  “What happened?” the Jamaican asked. “You hung up quite abruptly.”

  “Somebody at my door.” He knew he had to find out about her, but still he hesitated. This was a woman he’d danced with, a woman whose life he’d probably saved. A woman he had kissed. Checking her out was distasteful, but if she wasn’t who she seemed, he’d be a fool not to.

  “I want you to check on somebody,” he said into the phone. “A woman. Her name is Lisa Collier. Until a week ago she was Lisa Collier Matthews. Ex-husband is a Miami art critic named Philip Matthews. She’s from Ohio, a small town near Dayton. That’s D-A-Y-T-O-N. The town is Tipp City. Got it?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Find out if she’s got any kind of a record, either in Ohio or Florida. See if she’s ever been to Cuba.”

  Hargreaves whistled. “The lady a friend of yours?”

  “Maybe,” Sam said. “Maybe not.”

  “If she is—a friend of yours, I mean—what happens if you find out she’s connected to Montoya?”

  Sam’s expression hardened. “She goes down right along with him.”

  He’d said it; he meant it. If Lisa Collier had any connection to Montoya or anyone like him, he’d bring her down. But first he had to make sure who she really was.

  * * *

  She found herself humming along with the radio while she showered and dressed. She’d been a little shy about accepting Sam’s dinner invitation, but now she was glad she had. It was time she got over her irrational fear of a man just because he was as big as her father.

  At the university, when she’d been asked out on dates by football-type jocks, she’d always turned them down. The two friends she’d shared an apartment with, Marian Jones and Betty Kendall, had thought she was crazy. “Half the women here would give their teeth for a date with any one of the guys you turn down,” they’d said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “They’re not my type,” Lisa always answered.

  Because that type of man reminded her of her father. Because she was terrified of big, brawny men.

  She’d never told anybody how she felt, not even Philip during the years she was married to him. God knows Philip had his faults, but at least she hadn’t been afraid of him.

  She didn’t think, after this morning, that she was afraid of Sam. He’d saved her life. He’d taken her from the frightening power of the waves and brought her to the safety of the shore. He had been brave and decent and gentle. He wasn’t like her father.

  She took extra care with her makeup and her hair and decided to wear the new, pale green, summery dress she’d bought at an expensive boutique in Bal Harbour the day after the divorce. It wasn’t the kind of thing she usually wore—it plunged too low in front and the skirt was shorter than she was used to. But because she needed cheering and because she felt adventurous, she’d bought it.

  But now she looked at herself in the mirror. Was the dress too daring? Would it be all right or should she change? No, she decided, this is my vacation. It’s time I was a little daring.

  She put a dab of perfume behind her ears, at her wrists and between her breasts, and pearl earrings, an anniversary present from Philip, in her ears.

  It was five after seven when she took a last look at herself in the mirror and wondered why she felt excited at the prospect of having dinner with Sam when she’d seen him only a little while before. Then, with a smile, she went out and closed her door.

  When Sam answered her knock he took one look at her and decided they’d better not take the motorcycle. She looked like a wood nymph in a green dress the same color as her eyes. She wore high heels and her hair was fluffed out in a golden halo around her face. He had a sudden almost irresistible urge to cup her face between his hands and say, “Tell me you’re not a part of this drug thing. Tell me you’re as innocent as you look, that you’d never be mixed up in anything as dirty as the drug trade.”

  The thought that she might be roughened his voice when he said, “Since you’re all dressed up, I guess we’d better take a taxi.”

  The restaurant was up in the mountains, away from the beach. A low, white building set back among a stand of West Indian cedar, it looked homey and inviting.

  At the door they were greeted by a tall, handsome man who sported a wild Afro, one gold earring and a devilish smile.

  “A romantic table for two,” he said in a wonderfully musical Jamaican dialect, and he led them past other diners to a secluded table set in an alcove bower of ferns and orchids.

  “You be having drinks? A love potion made with good Jamaican rum to warm the blood and stir the passions? A wildly exotic drink for the beautiful lady, something hot like love for the mon?”

  “How about a couple of planter’s punches?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Or would you prefer something wildly exotic, Lisa?”

  “I’ll stick with a planter’s punch.” Lisa grinned up at the Jamaican. “With a bit of wildly exotic on the side.”

  He grinned back at her. “My name be Deuteronomy. It is my extrafine pleasure to serve you. I will return with your drinks with the speed of a number-five hurricane.”

  “Nice man,” Lisa said when he walked away.

  “He’s flirting with you.”

  She looked surprised and, with a shake of her head, said, “He was only being friendly.”

  Sam gave an ungentlemanly snort. “Friendly, hell.” And once again he wondered if the innocence she projected was real or a put-on for his benefit. He decided then that before the evening ended he’d make a stab at finding out.

  Deuteronomy brought their drinks along with a bowl of banana chips and a gardenia for Lisa. With a flourish he placed the flower next to her drink.

  Lisa picked it up and brushed the cool white petals against her cheek. “Thank you, Deuteronomy. It’s lovely.”

  “As you are, my lady.”

  Sam growled, an actual low-in-the-throat growl of a wolf about to spring. Deuteronomy’s eyes rolled. He backed up a step, said a hasty, “I be going now,” and hurried away as though the winds of an actual hurricane were nipping at his coattails.

  Lisa grinned, and when Sam said, “I don’t think it’s funny,” she laughed out loud. It was a good sound.

  They chatted while they sipped their drinks. When they’d finished, Sam signaled to a different waiter, and without asking Lisa, ordered two more.

  The planter’s punches were good—smooth, not too sweet, not too sour. They went down easily.

  Sam drew her out, asking questions about her work, about where she’d lived with Philip and where she planned to live now that she was divorced.

  “We had a house in Miami Shores,” she said. “Philip paid me what my share was worth and he kept the house. I found an apartment on the beach before I left.”

  She seemed open about her lif
e in Miami, but when he asked her about Ohio, she clammed up.

  “What’s it like growing up in a small town?” he asked.

  “I don’t know—well, not really. My father...” He saw her hands tighten around her glass. “We had a farm,” she said.

  “Near town?”

  She shook her head. “Twenty miles away.”

  “Different from big-city life, I guess.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it like? Growing up there, I mean.”

  “It—it was all right.” She looked down at her drink. A thin film of perspiration made a sheen on her forehead. She picked the drink up and drained it.

  Why was she suddenly so nervous? he wondered. Because she was lying? Because she wasn’t from Ohio and she’d never even seen a farm? He’d find out. Maybe her name wasn’t really Collier; maybe there had never been a Philip Matthews. He wouldn’t be snookered by green eyes deep enough for a man to drown in, or a fine little body he had a yen to cradle in his arms. Her looks wouldn’t matter if she was tied up in any way with Juan Montoya. If she was, he’d personally see that she got everything coming to her.

  They had shrimp-and-crab gumbo, a spinach salad, then scampi for Lisa, a blood-rare steak for Sam.

  The food was good and the drinks were delicious. Maybe too delicious. Sam had ordered a third when their entrées came. She hadn’t meant to drink it, hadn’t realized she had until she looked and saw that her glass was empty.

  Sam was talking about his early days with the New York police, and she’d gotten so interested she’d sipped the drink but barely touched her shrimp. It was all right, though—she wasn’t in the least tipsy. She felt a little warm, maybe, but nice, more relaxed than she’d been in years.

  When a small band began to play at one end of the room, Sam asked her to dance. She tucked the gardenia Deuteronomy had given her behind her right ear and let Sam lead her onto the dance floor.

  He enfolded her hand up against his chest the way he had the night before. She leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed.

  A woman with a soft Jamaican voice began to sing.