Hot For It. Melissa MacNeal
cigarettes now when I didn’t before?
Spike chortled. That’s how I share my charming self when I wanna get your attention. Had plenty of time for a smoke and a couple cold ones, waiting for you to get down the concourse.
With a disgusted sigh, she stuffed her laptop under the seat in front of her. All these years she’d wanted to believe she had a guardian angel, and now he turned out to be a rude, crude—
Don’t forget lewd! Love the way those knit slacks hug your ass when you bend over, baby.
The heat rose to her cheeks as she sat bolt upright and glared at the empty seat between her and the aisle.
“Something to drink, miss? Coffee, or perhaps some wine or a cocktail?”
Cat looked up, her face aflame. The uniformed steward had leaned over his rolling refreshment cart to speak to her in an exotic accent that crossed Bob Marley with Ricardo Montalban. His sexy, sun-kissed face belonged on the cover of GQ magazine, and his twinkly blue eyes suggested something much more addictive than liquor.
“Not here on the plane. Everyone will want to watch,” she quipped.
Then she felt stupid and crude: he was simply doing his job, and she’d come on like a shameless hussy—or like Spike had put such words in her mouth.
The corners of those eyes crinkled. “Too bad I have to work the return run,” he replied with a quiet laugh. “I could show you all the hot spots and private island playgrounds. I grew up on St. Lucia.”
Cat grabbed her tote bag. Maybe there was something to this angelic intervention thing! “Do you know about this island that’s for sale? It’s a gorgeous estate—amenities out the wazoo,” she gushed, “but I’ve never found out why it’s on the market. Who would want to move away from here?”
When she showed him the photo and online fact sheet she’d printed out, his face softened in recognition.
“You are looking at Porto Di Angelo? You will find it a lovely, gracious hideaway—just as these photos suggest,” he murmured. The steward glanced around and then sat down in the empty seat so the other passengers couldn’t hear. “It’s for sale because the Contessa—Valenzia Borgia—disappeared. It remains one of the unsolved mysteries of the Caribbean.”
“The Contessa? Valenzia Borgia?” A shiver of intrigue went down her spine. “That would explain the grandeur of the estate. But why didn’t the Web listing mention this?”
The steward placed his lips near the rim of her ear. “Pirates,” he whispered. “We suspect they kidnapped her—held her for ransom. She’s not been seen for perhaps two years now.”
Cat listened with wide eyes, wanting to giggle—yet sensing this man was deadly serious. It was more than the warm tickle of his breath against her neck that had her squirming in her seat. Weren’t the Borgias known for poisoning people? “And no one put up the money to—”
“She had no family. Only her devoted staff, who—the way I heard it—put the island up for sale out of desperation,” he replied softly. He reached into his shirt pocket. “With no authority to access her accounts, they had no way to offer the ransom, you see. No way to maintain the Contessa’s home, much less pay a detective to look for her. It’s all very sad. And very strange.
“Be careful, Ms. Gamble,” he added, gazing pointedly into her eyes. “A beautiful woman like yourself…unaccompanied…might give those pirates reason to strike again.”
Pirates! Why did the image of Johnny Depp in beads and eyeliner ambush all rational thought when the sexy steward said that word? He sounded totally sincere—
And as Cat read the card he left beneath the mimosa he didn’t charge her for, she didn’t know whether to laugh—or go straight home. ARIEL GAETANO, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS, it said above his phone number.
At first she was flattered. Then reality set in.
Now, how can an airline employee be doing investigations, huh? Your mind’s running away with that Contessa story—already planning to pump the staff as research for a book! she warned herself. Never mind that he might be associated with those pirates.
Hey, doll, you shouldn’t believe anything a good-lookin’ guy tells you—except me, of course. They’re only after one thing, ya know.
She could imagine Grant or Trevor ranting at her that way, too. And they’d be right. Life in the single lane was different from holing up with her computer, and she’d better shift into a higher gear pronto.
She glanced at the steward, who was now at the front of the cabin. He was pouring juice, chatting up another passenger in a language she didn’t recognize—but then his gaze flickered back to meet hers.
Cat held his eyes for a moment and then focused on the stack of printouts in her lap. Not even on the island, and already she was embroiled in something suspicious the Escape Artist site hadn’t mentioned. Like she should trust anything from a site with that name!
What have I done here? Why didn’t I listen to Grant’s practicality and Trevor’s protective questions? She gazed out the window at a sea of sparkling turquoise. Not a speck of land in sight. And why didn’t you warn me about this situation, Spike?
You didn’t ask. You were wishing for true love, remember?
The air from the overhead blower suddenly smelled cool and fresh. Her guardian angel had vanished, just when he could’ve given her information that might prove important. Useful, even.
But it was too late for second-guessing: the popping of her ears signaled the little jet’s descent, and fifteen minutes later they landed at the airport near Castries, St. Lucia’s capital city. Cat smiled flirtatiously at the steward and then trotted across the tarmac toward a relic of a terminal, too excited and nervous to wonder if everything here was so far behind the times. She was to look for a uniformed driver with a sign—the man who’d be taking her to her future home, if all went well!
She followed the other passengers to the creaking baggage carousel and nearly peed her pants.
There was no missing the sign that proclaimed MS. GAMBLE in bold black letters—and it was held be a very tall, very black man who sported a diabolical goatee and had a braided pigtail hanging from the back of his head. He had the longest fingers she’d ever seen.
Is it my imagination, or are his thumbnails filed to a point?
She tried to smile. It wasn’t like three other blondes named Cat Gamble were going to rush over and claim a ride with this man. And it wasn’t like this stuffy, antiquated airport had a phone bank where she could summon another driver—even if she could tell him where to take her.
The man’s predatory smile told her he knew exactly who she was and what she was thinking. He was watching her sweat, and enjoying it.
She saw her cranberry suitcase chugging by on the conveyor belt and lunged for it, just as Mr. Sinister did.
“Allow me, madam.”
Who was she to argue? That voice belonged to Barry White and the moves were Shaquille O’Neal—and had Cat tried swinging the huge suitcase by its handle that way, she’d have shot-putted herself across the terminal. Or at least pulled her arm out of its socket.
“Thanks, but—I’m not a madam—I mean—I’m not married—anymore, anyway—and I—”
Her mouth froze, open, when he stooped slightly and suavely extended his hand. He was wearing a pinstripe suit with a crisp white shirt and a colorful paisley tie—better dressed than most American men she’d met lately. Cat shook his hand, afraid not to.
“Cat Gamble,” she rasped as his large, dark fingers swallowed her tiny white ones.
“And I am Ramon,” he crooned, rolling that R in a chocolate-sauce voice spiked with island spices. “Leilani and I are so very happy to have you, pretty princess. You’ll make a fine new mistress