Give Him the Slip

Maddie Kincaid was in trouble. Again.

Trouble caused by a man. Again.

Maybe she should reconsider the convent idea after all.

"There's the sign, Oscar," she said to the fat goldfish
swimming in the clear glass fishbowl belted into the mini-van's passenger seat
to her right. "The Caddo Bayou Marina. We made it."

The goldfish didn't answer, although the way her world had changed
in the last twenty-four hours, Maddie wouldn't have been surprised if Oscar had
leapt from the water and belted out "The Yellow Rose of Texas."

Approaching the marina entrance, Maddie gently applied the brakes
and flicked her left-turn indicator. Since beginning this long, meandering trip
to southwestern Louisiana fourteen hours ago, she'd taken extra care to obey
all traffic laws.

It wouldn't do to get pulled over by the highway patrol, not when
she had four million dollars' worth of an illegal substance stacked between her
dry cleaning and a new sponge mop.

Gravel crunched beneath the minivan's tires as she drove across
the lot and claimed a spot between a Dodge pickup and a Chevy Suburban. After
shifting into park, she took a deep, calming breath and twisted the ignition
key. The engine sputtered and then died. In the sudden quiet, Maddie let out a
soft, semihysterical laugh.
Better it than me.

She sat without moving for a full minute. Her mouth was dry, her
pulse rapid. She needed to use the facilities. "Okay," she murmured.
"We made it. We handled the crisis. Got here in one piece. We did good.
Now we'll have help."

Help. From the DEA. "I must be out of my ever-lovin'
mind."

Maddie opened her car door and stepped outside. The summer morning
air was hot, heavy, and thick with moisture. She glanced toward the boat slips,
then back at the marina's ship store and restaurant. "I'll be right
back," she said to Oscar as she grabbed her purse before shutting the
door. Then, noting the heat and imagining boiled goldfish, she reconsidered.
Moments later, fishbowl cradled in one arm, purse hanging from the other, she
headed for the store and its bathroom.

As she walked toward the building, movement at the gas dock out on
the water caught her notice. Three pontoon boats filled with people dressed in
swim trunks and brightly colored clothing motored slowly away from the dock.
Must be one of the swamp tours she'd seen advertised on a billboard on the way
in, Maddie surmised. Her gaze drifted over the crowd before it snagged on the
man standing at the stern of the trailing boat as he stripped off a
sweat-stained T-shirt and tossed it away. He lifted his arm above his head to
take a minnow bucket off a hook, and Maddie sucked in a breath.

My, oh my, oh my.

She may be tired, scared, hungry, thirsty, and ready to wet her
pants, but abs like those deserved a second look—even if she had sworn off
studly men forever.

He wore a battered straw cowboy hat, low-riding Hawaiian-print
swim trunks, and grungy deck shoes. Sunglasses hung from a cord around his
neck, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his deeply tanned skin. His body looked
lean and hard, with long legs and broad shoulders that indicated athlete rather
than gym rat.

Yum.

Her appreciative gaze lingered until a good look at his face made
her forget about his form. Even from a distance, she could see devastation
etched in his expression. Empathy melted through her. Poor man. She wondered
what had happened to him.

Then, as if he tangibly felt her gaze, he jerked his stare away
from the minnow bucket dangling from his hand and met her gaze head-on. His
eyes narrowed, his jaw hardened. He straightened, squared his shoulders, and
widened his stance, his aggressive posture a challenge to her for catching him
in a private moment.

Whoa.
Maddie gave a tentative smile and took a step back. In another moment,
he'd be baring his teeth like a wolf, she thought.

A wolf in low-riding swim trunks.

"Oh, for crying out loud," she muttered, deliberately
turning away, shifting the fishbowl from one arm to the other. What was wrong
with her, ogling a bayou boy when she should be looking over her shoulder for
drug-dealing killers? Had she totally lost her mind?

Yes, she was afraid so. This was what an overload of stress and
lack of sleep did to a girl.

Dismissing the party barges, Maddie redirected her attention toward
the ship store. The place appeared deserted. In fact, other than the pontoon
boats now disappearing from view, the only signs of life around the entire
marina were a pair of big black grackles pecking at the ground near a lidded
metal Dumpster.

Cautious in ways she'd never been before, Maddie slowed her steps
and took a second look around.

On the murky water of the bayou, dozens of boats floated beneath
the shelter of covered docks. Both the gas pump on the water and the one near
the cement launch ramp remained unmanned. She spied an open tackle box and two
fishing poles propped against a silver propane tank, but the fishermen
themselves were nowhere to be found.

Curious. On a Saturday morning, she'd expect the marina to be
bustling, especially on a warm, windless day. Apprehensive now, Maddie advanced
toward the ship store's door.

A handwritten sign was taped to the glass at eye level.
"Closed for funeral," she read aloud. "Reopen at 1:00 p.m."

Well, that explained the quiet, and all the vehicles in the lot
probably belonged to the swamp-tour people. It didn't solve her need for a
bathroom, however, so Maddie turned toward the boat slips in search of the
Miss
Behavin' II.

The woman she'd come to see lived on a houseboat moored at this
marina. It shouldn't be difficult to find. If Terri Winston wasn't aboard, then
Maddie would backtrack to the fast-food restaurant she'd passed on the
interstate. She hoped it didn't come to that. She felt safer here in this
out-of-the-way spot than she did in a town or on the highway.

It had occurred to her as she drove through central Texas at three
o'clock in the morning that the Brazos Bend police could have issued a BOLO for
her van. From that moment on, she'd lived in fear of seeing the red-and-blue
flash of a highway patrol car.

Maddie noted two normal-sized houseboats and one huge houseboat
that brought the
Queen Mary
to mind among the twenty or so boats berthed
in the slips. Since the mansion-boat didn't seem like something a federal agent
would own, she made her way toward the smaller vessels.

The name painted across the stern of the first read
Playtime.
Maddie's
stomach knotted with tension as she approached the second. It'd be just her
luck for Ms. Winston to have up and moved her boat.

"Bayou Queen,"
she read aloud, grimacing.
Damn. Maddie blew out a heavy sigh, then gazed at the floating palace. It had
to be eighty feet long, with front and rear decks, outdoor ceiling fans, and a
spiral staircase to the roof with its fiberglass flybridge and swim slide. A
boat like that would be called
Bellagio
or
Shangri-la.
Not
Miss
Behavin'.

Since she was out of other options, she decided to be thorough. To
her shock and relief, the sign hanging from the rear deck of the mansion-boat
displayed the words she prayed she'd see.

However, the
Miss Behavin' II
appeared as deserted as the
rest of the marina.

"Hello?" Maddie called. "Ms. Winston? Is anybody
home?"

She heard nothing but the squeak of a rubber boat fender against
the wooden dock in reply.

Maddie grimaced. Where could the agent be this time of day? At the
funeral? A quick check of her watch left Maddie moaning. If Terri Winston was
at the funeral and the funeral lasted all morning, it didn't bode well for
Maddie's bladder.

Her teeth tugged at her lower lip and she groaned aloud. Had she
made one more mistake in a long line of them by putting her life in the hands
of a stranger based solely on the advice of that septuagenarian meddler Branch
Callahan? So what if Branch insisted that Terri Winston was a stand-up woman
who'd listen to Maddie's story without immediately snapping on the handcuffs?
Recent events suggested that Brazos Bend's leading citizen wasn't as
knowledgeable as he claimed.

Branch hadn't known about the drug ring operating right under his
nose, had he?

Maddie let out a long, shaky sigh. She may well have made a
serious mistake, but what other choice had she had? Despite her vow of
self-sufficiency in the wake of the disaster that had been her love life, she'd
needed help. When she'd swallowed her pride and reached out to her father, he'd
been off indulging in one of his new hobbies-wildlife photography in the
Alaskan wilderness. According to his latest assistant—his latest
twenty-year-old, starry-eyed bed partner, no doubt—he'd be beyond cell phone
reach for another week—an eternity to someone in Maddie's predicament.

A predicament growing more dire by the second. She needed a
bathroom
now.
Raising her voice, she tried again. "Hello? Ms.
Winston?"

Nothing.

Maddie glanced from the houseboat to her van, then back to the floating
manse. It was a long way back to that fastfood place. Not a soul was in sight.
Even if she tripped an alarm, she'd probably have time to visit the restroom
and make herself scarce before anyone showed up to investigate.
"Ordinarily I wouldn't think of trespassing," she told Oscar.
"But these are no ordinary times."

Besides, Ms. Winston was a woman. She'd understand.

Maddie wiped her sweaty hands on her shorts and then stepped onto
the boat and tried the sliding glass door. It slid open easily, and when no
alarm sounded, she stuck her head inside, gazing with interest at the luxurious
features and furnishings. She hadn't seen a boat this tricked out since she
visited her father for a week aboard a Greek tycoon's yacht. "Ms.
Winston?" she called. "Terri?"

No response.

Maddie stepped inside. An overstuffed couch and two plump easy
chairs faced a plasma TV hanging on a wood-paneled wall finished with crown
molding. A wraparound bar separated the main living area from a kitchen
complete with granite countertops and a Sub-Zero refrigerator. She spied
recessed lighting, brass hardware on the cabinets, and roman shades and padded
cornice boards on the windows.

"Wouldn't Daddy love to have one of these," she
murmured.

Maddie set Oscar and her purse atop a stylish iron and glass
dining table, then made a beeline for the bathroom. With personal business out
of the way and fully intending to return to the dock to wait for Terri Winston
like a polite uninvited guest, she nevertheless paused when she passed the refrigerator.