HardWind (2 page)

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

Dáire Cronin owned a Gulf-side residence on the twenty-fourth floor of a luxury

condominium resort, though he rarely got a chance to enjoy it. The private, gated

community had the most expensive address on the beach with a waiting list at least a

mile long of the rich and famous wanting to own a slice of Farraige Port. When Jackson

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

was in town, he had access to the sprawling two-bedroom, two-bath suite—which

included a heated rooftop pool, gym and theater. Cronin’s digs occupied one-half of the

top floor of the resort. Star Kiernan owned the other half. The price tag for each suite

had run in the low seven figures.

“So whatcha gonna do about it?” Jackson asked as Dáire slipped the keycard from

the pocket of his jeans and swiped it down the entry box that operated the private

elevator he and Star shared as owners of their rooftop abodes.

“Do about what?” Dáire asked as the sleek copper-faced doors slid open. He

motioned Jackson inside the plush, mirrored elevator cage.

“Bright Boy,” Jackson replied.

To activate the elevator, it was necessary for a member of the two-woman cleaning

staff or one of the three people who used the suites—at least at last count there were

only three—to press his or her thumb into the biometric thumb print verifier on the

control panel. Jackson did the honors this time around.

Silently the doors slid shut, and with only a modicum of a jolt, the cage began to

rise, the muted numbers lighting up as each floor was passed and pinged softly. No

vibration marred the ride for a thick wool carpet covered the bottom of the elevator

cage in lush jewel tones.

“If that’s what she wants,” Dáire said, “I won’t do anything about it.”

Jackson snorted. “Like hell you won’t,” he drawled. “You ever had a woman taken

away from you before, stud?”

Dáire’s arms were crossed over his bare chest as he stared at his reflection in the

sparkling mirrors on the doors. “You know for a fact he’s taken her away from me or is

that something you’re just hoping for?” he countered.

“Fervently, fondly, feverishly and any other f-word that fits,” Jackson said with a

grin.

The elevator came to a gentle stop and the doors slid soundlessly open on a large

copper-veined, travertine-floored entry hall paneled in rich oak. Overhead a spectacular

bright copper, triple-tier chandelier with curved arms and alabaster glass shades hung

in the center of a radius dome skylight framed in shiny copper plate. The entry hall was

trapezoid in shape with two eight-feet-tall, double radius-top oak doors with forged

iron grillwork over Flemish glass sitting in the center of each shorter arm. Between

them was a thirty-foot-wide wall of water rippling down from near the top of the

twenty-foot-high ceiling to a bed of polished rocks in a large copper tub. Unseen, the

melodic song of wind chimes in a deep basso profundo tone sent a soothing welcome.

The combination of the cascading water and the wind chimes were comforting.

Dáire opened the door to his sanctuary and walked across the cool travertine floor,

continuing on to the master bedroom at the far end of the suite. He knew Jackson would

make them something to drink and have it ready for him when he came out of the

shower. His jaw set and hard, he walked into the bathroom and tore open his jeans,

shucking them off and kicking them aside before turning the water on in the shower.

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HardWind

Stepping inside, six body-massage jets blasted at him from three sides and overhead, a

large eighteen-inch, circular shower nozzle sent hot warmth cascading down upon him

like summer rain. Bracing his hands on the sleek marble wall, he closed his eyes,

lowered his head and let the water drum on his shoulders and neck.

“Damn you, Star,” he whispered as the water cascaded over his face, streaming off

his nose and chin.

Dáire Cronin loved Star Kiernan as much as it was possible for him to love another

human being. She was the one bright object in his otherwise shadowy world. They had

been lovers for seven years, friends for longer than that, having met when they entered

their bids for the suites at Farraige Port. Theirs had been a relationship that had

survived months of being apart, the vagaries of Dáire’s profession and the hustle and

bustle of hers.

Until now.

“Damn you,” he said again, clenching his fists.

When had it happened? He asked himself. Opening his eyes to watch the water

swirling down the drain at his feet, he thought of the last conversation he’d had with

her and a feeling of remorse dredged through his soul…

“We need to talk. Can’t you give me at least half an hour?” she pleaded.

“I have to go, Star. We’ll talk about this when I get back,” he said. “I might be able to

change a few things and…”

“But
you
aren’t going to change, Dáire,” Star accused. “You’ll always be at some

mysterious group’s beck and call. Whenever they crook a finger, you will go running.”

“It’s what I do,” Dáire reminded her. “It’s how I make my living.”

“Yes, and I don’t see you for months at a stretch because of your job,” she complained. “I

never know from one assignment to the next if you’ll be alive when you come home or if Jackson

will bring you back to me in an urn!”

There had been tears, angry words, recriminations from Star and a whole lot of

cursing on his part before he’d slammed out of her suite and taken a midnight flight to

New York aboard the private jet The Cumberland Group had sent to pick him up. As

rain lashed against the windows of the Gulfstream V-SP, he stared out into the darkness

and replayed the conversation over and over again. By the time the jet landed, he was

sorry he hadn’t stayed in Florida and hashed things out. A call to Star had gone

unanswered, not even her machine had picked up. Six more phone calls the next day

had likewise failed to reach her and he’d gone on to Tokyo with a heavy heart and a

premonition that he’d wrecked the only happiness he was ever likely to have. Before

beginning his assignment he’d tried one last time, but Star had changed her telephone

number and had taken an extended leave of absence from the restaurant. Not a single

one of his contacts could provide him with her new telephone number.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The night he’d left for Borneo, he’d tried one last time to reach her but couldn’t.

He’d spent the next eleven months in a filthy cell delirious from psychotropic drugs

and suffering from beatings that had nearly cost him his life. Every waking moment—

and most of his hallucinating ones—had centered around Star and the love they had

shared. Thoughts of her were the only things that kept him sane and alive.

Now—fourteen months after that last conversation with Star—he was back in

Panama City. When he’d called the restaurant to make that night’s reservations he had

failed to make contact with her still again, having been told she was unavailable.

“Unavailable to me you mean?” he’d snarled at the hostess.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cronin.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.”

And his keycard had not worked at her front door. His knocks had gone

unanswered, though instinct told him she was inside.

“You gonna stay in there all night?” Jackson asked. “You can’t be that damned

dirty, Dairy Crow.” The retired Fibber stared at him through the shower door. “Has

your prick always been that small or did they shrink it while you were in Borneo?”

“Go fuck yourself, Jack Off,” Dáire told him in a tired voice. Not for the first time

did he regret having a shower with two see-through glass walls.

“Thanks, but I already did. Hope I mixed my jizz good enough so there ain’t no

slimy wads in your Bloody Maria.”

Dáire winced at the disgusting image Jackson’s words painted in his mind. He

turned his head to see his old friend leaving the bathroom and knew Jackson had left a

drink for him on the vanity. Sighing, he reached for the soap and quickly lathered up,

knowing full well Jackson would come back to annoy him again if he didn’t get a move

on.

Showered but unshaved, dressed in a pair of black slacks and a white long-sleeve

silk shirt, Dáire padded barefoot into the great room, his expensive Italian loafers and

socks in one hand, Bloody Maria in the other. He was surprised to see Jackson already

dressed and dressed rather nattily.

“Who the hell are you trying to impress?” Dáire snarled as he sat down on the sofa

to pull on his socks.

“Temper, temper,” Jackson said as he polished off his Bloody Maria. He chomped

on a mouthful of ice, grinning. “Causes wrinkles you know.”

Socks and loafers on, Dáire leaned back on the sofa and took a healthy sip of his

drink. “Getting sunburned causes skin cancer too,” he remarked.

Jackson shrugged. He was already beginning to feel the effects of falling asleep

beside Dáire’s pool. “Gotta go some way,” he stated.

“Did you take a shower?”

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HardWind

“I most certainly did,” Jackson said as though highly offended by the question.

“Although I didn’t need to stand beneath it wasting precious water like you did.” He

wagged his brows. “Or were you whacking off?”

“One more insult and you can find your own dinner reservation.”

Jackson sighed. “You ‘bout ready, then?”

Dáire finished his drink and got up to take both their glasses to the kitchen. “You go

on. I’m not hungry.”

Jackson nodded slowly. “Figured as much.” He heaved himself from the oversized

chair in which he’d been reclining. “Anything you want me to tell her if I see her?”

Dáire just stared at his friend. When Jackson headed for the door, he walked behind

him.

“Where you gonna be?” Jackson asked as he opened the entry door.

“Wherever I end up,” Dáire replied. “Don’t wait up for me, Mom. I’m a big boy

now.”

Jackson turned and locked eyes with his friend. “I really don’t want to have to come

down to some sleazy bar and pick your ass up tonight. Okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

The retired Fibber started to say something else, thought better of it and continued

on to the elevator. He cast a quick look to Star’s door as he pushed the button for the

lift. “You reckon she’s in there?” he asked.

“Why don’t you do the neighborly thing and go on over and knock?” Dáire

countered as the doors to the elevator opened and he stepped around Jackson to enter

the cage.

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t like being caught in the middle of this, Dairy

Crow.” He stepped onto the elevator. “You’re both friends of mine and this sucks.”

Dáire shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers and remained silent. His

gaze was on the light panel above the door.

“It
really
sucks,” Jackson emphasized.

When the doors opened, Dáire pushed past his friend and was walking briskly

across the lobby before Jackson exited the cage.

“Really sucks,” Jackson repeated.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Chapter Two

The Corinth was a high-end restaurant that catered to a casually elegant crowd.

Menu prices were extravagantly high, but to the savvy clientele who patronized the

eatery, the food was worth every penny. From the valet service to the washroom

attendants to the busboys, the staff was friendly, movie-star pretty and extremely

efficient.

Jackson was greeted by name by the lovely hostess who was without doubt one of

the most beautiful women the middle-aged man had ever seen.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Jackson,” the hostess said with a sensual smile.

“It’s nice to be seen again, Phaedra,” Jackson said, swallowing the lump in his

throat the woman’s extraordinary beauty always caused.

“Miss Kiernan is entertaining this evening so I have assigned you another table.”

She smiled apologetically, her lush red lips thrust out in a little pout. “I hope that’s all

right.”

Jackson could only nod his head like a bobble doll.

“Will you be dining alone or will Mr. Cronin be joining you?”

“Alone,” Jackson managed to squeak. Beautiful women never failed to intimidate

him and Phaedra Pappas was perhaps the loveliest he’d ever seen.

“Then let me show you to your table,” Phaedra said softly.

Walking behind the statuesque redhead, Jackson felt like an errant schoolboy being

led to the principal’s office. He cast a sidelong glance to Star’s private table set well back

from the others where he and Dáire usually dined and frowned when he saw Star

seated beside a man who could only be—in Jackson’s estimation—the dastardly,

girlfriend-stealing Brighton Tyler Boyd III.

“Is this all right with you?” Phaedra asked, indicating a table from which Jackson

could no longer view Star and the interloper.

“Sure,” Jackson agreed.

“I’ll send Colton over for your drink order,” Phaedra told him.

“Is that Boyd with Miss Kiernan?” Jackson heard himself ask, and winced at the

tone he’d used.

Phaedra nodded elegantly. “Yes, sir, it is.”

Jackson took his seat and barely had time to get settled before Colton Hayes, the

wine steward, appeared at his side. “The usual, Mr. Jackson?” he inquired.