Vacation to Die For (10 page)

“No prob, boss lady!” Arnie says. He and Emma high five each other. At least it’s not a chest bump.

Jack turns to me. “I’d appreciate a second pair of eyes for this reconnaissance mission. If you’re free tomorrow, Donna, I can pass you off as—well, as my date.” 

If I’m free? 

Heck yeah, I’m free. For tomorrow, and the rest of my life.

If this is Jack’s way of calling a truce, I’m all for it. Nonchalantly I say, “With Emma moving here to Eden Key, I’ll certainly make the time.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. The Boarke Buggy will be at your tiki door promptly at ten in the morning.”

As everyone files out, I place my hand on Jack’s arm. “Thank you for your input tonight. I want to do my best to succeed on this mission. I never want Ryan to doubt his trust in me.”

“Ryan is quite aware of all you have to offer. You’d never let him down. He knows it”—Jack pauses—“and I know it, too.”

“Oh!...Well, thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“I’m not talking about the mission, Donna. I’m talking about us.”

Ah. Even better.

As with everything in life, actions speak louder than words. To that end, the tenderness with which Jack takes me in his arms speaks volumes regarding his feelings for me.

As does the gentle way in which his lips fall onto mine.

As well as the way his mouth hungers for my own.

I hate it when we’re at war. I love it when we make love. I am 
such
 a hippy that way. 

The buttons on Jack's tuxedo shirt are hidden behind a pleat. Still, it doesn’t slow down my game plan to strip him out of it—

But the lipstick on his collar sure as hell stops me cold.

When I point to it, the anticipation goes out of his face. “So…um…you know how to get rid of that, right?”

I think for a moment. “Sure no problem. A bullet hole will do the trick. Stand still for a second while I get my Glock.” 

He must be afraid I’ll make good on this threat because he holds tight to my hands and looks me in the eye. “Nothing happened. 
Nothing
.” 

“Sure, okay. Nothing.” I shrug him off and head back to the mirror. Suddenly I feel claustrophobic in this room. It’s much too small. 

Or maybe the bed is much too big. Not to mention heart-shaped.

And empty.

What a damn waste.

Not that I’ll let him in on that secret. Instead, I reach for my mascara wand and work on making my lashes long and lush, just like the packaging promises. I force myself to sound cheerful when I say, “I look forward finally to meeting Mr. Boarke. I’ll do my best to be utterly charming.”

“Unfortunately, he won’t be with us. His assistant, Julie, will be showing us around.” Jack hesitates then adds, “In fact, I’m meeting her when I leave here.” 

“If that’s the case, then don’t let me keep you any longer.”

He waits a moment, but I don’t turn around. 

There is nothing he can do but leave. The door closes silently behind him. 

This mascara also claims to be waterproof. I can tell you first hand that it is not.

Chapter 7

Cruisin’ for a Bruisin’

Everyone should take at least one Mexican cruise in their lifetime.

In fact, one cruise is the most many of us can stomach. Perhaps the term “stomach” is wrong, considering the amount of food you’ll find on a cruise buffet, not to mention the effect of ocean waves on your stomach.

This brings us to six things you should never do on a cruise:

Thing #1: Overeat. Why? Because the more food in your belly, the more likely you’ll barf it over the rail in a storm. And yes, there is always a storm. 

Thing #2: Don’t drink too much. See Thing #1. Add to it a hangover.

Thing #3: Boast that you’re “worth millions” when you’re drunk. Why? Because (here’s a shocker) dineros, the Mexican currency, aren’t a one-to-one match with the US dollar. Then again, none of your newfound cruisin’ buds know that you’re talking in dineros as opposed to dollars.

Thing #4: Have sex with a stranger. Thrilling? Depends on how fast you can run when his wife catches you together. Suggestion: Before your cruise, make sure you’re slim enough to climb through a porthole. Second suggestion: Forego the cruise buffet, in case you need to be slim enough to climb through that porthole.

Thing #5: Marry a stranger at sea. Certainly not anyone you met while you were drunk. Or one who is already married. Most marriages are recognized in international waters as well as on land.

Thing #6: Fall overboard. By that I mean, get pushed. Hey, it happens—especially after impetuous weddings at sea to strangers who hear you boast about your bank account and presume you’re talking dollars, as opposed to dineros. 

“Hit me again, Battoo.” I’m a glutton for punishment.

And for a good vodka martini.

Battoo makes them mean and dirty. He’s my kind of guy.

And right now, he’s the only guy in my life, since I chased off the love of my life.

All because I wanted to impress an indiscriminate man-ho.

No amount of vodka, vermouth, olive juice, and olives can wash away my stupidity, but I’m sure as heck going to give it a try.

“I should cut you off, Red. You know that.”  Battoo smiles as he pours my drink. 

It should bother the spy side of me that Battoo has lost his Polynesian-French accent, but it doesn’t. More disconcerting is how comfortable I feel with him—and not just because he’s the only bartender I’ve ever seen who walks 
on
 the bar when he hands over your drink.

He’s been handing out a lot of them, and not just to me, either. Turns out Merritt is a sad drunk. She carries a sack of quarters in her Dolce bucket bag in order to feed the lounge’s juke box, just so she can croon along with Carrie Underwood covers of Patsy Cline’s classics.

To the shock and dismay of everyone in the bar, all it took was two drinks for Tuggle to channel her Coyote Ugly—and I’m sorry folks, but it just ain’t pretty.  I don’t think the bar’s patrons appreciate an interpretive dance which melds classical Russian ballet with the Charleston and the Funky Chicken.

Certainly not when bumps and grinds are eagerly anticipated.

“Not bad looking. But maybe it would help if she had a pole,” mourns one of the bar’s patrons, a cop who took one of his two weeks of vacation in the hope of finding women willing to open their hearts, minds, and legs.

“Forget that. Maybe if they’d put a burlap bag over her head,” mutters his buddy, a firefighter. “But no, that wouldn’t cover up the parts that jiggle when they shouldn’t.”

I’m just about to offer to cut off the jiggly bit nearest and dearest to him when Battoo murmurs, “Where’s your other friend? You know, Tall, Blonde and Naked?”

Good question. I shrug. “Who, Angie? Ha! Hadn’t noticed. Maybe she got lucky. She gets that—
a lot
.”

“Having  the Biter know which room is yours isn’t ‘lucky.’ More like creepy.” He shudders as he grabs a bottle of Oval Swarovski Crystal Vodka from the bar only a nanosecond before Tuggle kicks it into the fireman’s lap.

I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid. “Battoo, are you trying to tell me something?”

He nods. “Ah, but you are a perceptive one! Here’s the thing: Boss Man wants to sell out. Therefore Boss Man can’t afford a scandal that has the lovely ladies fearing for their lives. So Boss Man can’t let people know there’s a serial killer on the loose, tying up our female guests and eating them—with his own special barbecue sauce, if you catch my drift.”

Of course, I do.

If there was ever a reason to sober up, I guess saving a new pal from a cannibal is as good as any. I shove my martini glass back in his direction. “You really do know everything that happens in this joint, don’t you, Battoo?”

He nods, but he doesn’t smile. “When you’re my size, it’s easy to be overlooked. For the most part, I consider that a blessing. Times like this, I realize it’s also a curse.”

“Not when you can save a life.” I grab a pen from my purse and scribble on the napkin under my drink then slip them back his way. “If I don’t come back in twenty minutes, send in the Cavalry. Even without Boarke’s permission, one way or another, this is one problem that’s got to go away.”

He takes my information. Then he turns his back to me.

But the folding knife he uses to slice lemons and limes is left on the counter.

I may not need it, but I pocket it anyway. Better I should have it than for Tuggle to slice open her foot while attempting a split.

Whereas my tiki hut sits on a boardwalk over the sand and surf, Angie’s vacation abode is one of the staggered duplex tree houses. If I’m to sneak up on Hannibal, I’ll have to avoid crunching palm fronds underfoot.  

I solve this problem by tiptoeing onto her neighbor's deck, then leaping from it onto her bedroom balcony.

 I can peek in. I don’t like what I see. Angie is tied down, spread-eagled, on her bed. Her breasts are drenched in a dark liquid. 

I guess it’s the barbecue sauce that Battoo warned me about.

At least she is still alive. I know this by the look of terror on her face.

I try the French door that opens from the living room balcony. Thank goodness it isn’t locked. I enter the dark room, and feel my way toward the bedroom, but unfortunately I bump into the coffee table. Angie must have left her bangles on it, because they clink together.

I freeze.

Apparently, so does Hannibal. 

But only for a moment. When the door opens from the bedroom, I duck behind a chair. Did he see me? 

I certainly see him—all of him. He is buck naked as he walks slowly through the room. In a singsong voice, he murmurs, “Here, pussy, pussy, pussy. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I’m sorry, but likening a woman—or any part of her—to a helpless animal pisses me off. When he’s just a foot away from me, I stab his calf with the knife.

He hollers like a banshee as he goes down on one knee.

I get up before he does, and I slam my knee into his face. Then I jab a bent elbow into the back of his neck. When he’s flat on the floor, I kick his kidneys—first the left one, then the right. 

If he asks why I did this, I’ll tell him it makes them tender. He should appreciate that.

I leave him on the floor, moaning, as I run into the bedroom. 

Tears stream down Angie’s face as I loosen the bindings on her feet. She’s choking on her gag as she tries to thank me—

No, I guess she was trying to warn me. I only realize this when Hannibal smacks me solidly on the head with a picture frame.

I fall onto the floor. Before I have a chance to get on my feet, he grabs me by the hair and slams the back of my head into the wall.

Just before everything goes black, I hear him say, “You’ve got more meat on your bones than I usually like. But what the hell, who diets when they’re on vacation?”

Those last eight pounds always get me in trouble.

“Hey, do you like liver? You know it is nature’s most potent super food.” Hannibal lifts my head by the roots of my hair. “No joke. There are at least ten—if not a hundred—more nutrients in liver, than any other organ.”