Chapter 8
“See it for yourself,” Carlotta said and, pulling a magnifying glass from her bag, handed it to Gabe’s sister. It had taken Shep a quarter of an hour to convince her to return to the office for Kelsey’s opinion.
The redhead frowned as she studied the postcard. “Those four letters do seem to be larger than the others.”
“Sí!” Carlotta agreed. “That is what I say. It is a cry for the help. So she is not in New Orleans.”
“Oh for—“ Shep began, but Kelsey interrupted him.
“She could be right.”
“What?” Shep rasped.
Kelsey shrugged. “Corporal Larry Pine deserted his unit overseas four years ago. Since then, he’s sent postcards to his girl back home from a dozen different states. A hundred different cities. As far as Uncle Sam can determine, he hasn’t visited a single one of them. Pine still hasn’t been located.”
A moan trickled from Carlotta’s lips. They turned to her in tandem.
“I must go,” she said.
“I didn’t mean to imply you’ll have that trouble with your sister,” Kelsey said.
“What is the fast way to the nearest airport?”
“Just… Slow down,” Shep said.
She turned toward him, all eyes and breathy hopefulness. “You said you will help me.”
“I will. But I can’t just—“
“Then I go alone,” she vowed.
And that was how Shep found his bushel-sized body shoved into a pint-sized seat on a 737 heading south. Two cramped hours later, it was nearly time to disembark.
Beside him, Carlotta stared at the postcard in question as they began their descent. She turned it over for the hundredth time as the jet’s wheels hit the tarmac.
The passenger in the window seat had already been asleep when they boarded, but he woke now, flexed his neck with groggy slowness, then turned toward Carlotta and straightened with a snap. Shep had known enough nervous travelers to recognize a pre-flight binge when he saw one. But this dude seemed oblivious to his impending headache. Smoothing out his salon-streaked hair, he crafted an unctuous smile. “Hello.”
“Hola.” Carlotta’s tone was distracted, borderline rude. Salon-Hair seemed to neither notice nor care.
“You couldn’t get a seat in first class either, I take it?” He was fortyish, tanned to an apricot hue, and wore a suit coat that probably cost more than Shep made in a month.
“Raymond Everson…the second,” he added and offered Carlotta his hand. His fingernails were buffed, his wristwatch expensive. “You been to Miami before?”
“No,” she said.
“I come quite often…for the courses.”
“Courses?”
“Golf.” He smiled, flashing a mouthful of well-groomed teeth and unfortunate breath. “Seven-point-four handicap. You play?”
“No.”
“Too bad. How about your”—he glanced quizzically in Shep’s direction—“husband?”
Carlotta made a noise that suggested she was either asthmatic or found his assumption astronomically ridiculous. “This is not my husband.”
“Oh?” Interest fueled by hope flared in Everson’s eyes. “My apologies. Boyfriend?”
She snorted.
Shepherd ground his teeth and lifted his lips into a hungry-wolf kind of smile. “Lotta and I are friends.” He reached across her sumptuous body for their introduction. “Good friends.”
“Ahh… Well, my dear,” he said, leering at Carlotta even as his hand met Shep’s, “you must visit the Virtuoso while in town.” Everson’s palm was as soft as a bunny’s behind. “Their entrees are rather uninspired, but they serve quite a nice Kahlua martini that... ”
“What of los postres?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?” he said, wincing painfully as he withdrew his hand from Shep’s.
“Key lime pie? Do they serve it there?”
“I’m uncertain.” He gave her a preening smile. “An athlete and well-known financier such as I is wise to avoid high-calorie treats. But I have a friend…I mustn’t reveal her name, who very much enjoys the desserts at Decadence. When she’s between photo shoots and not on the runway in Paris or London she absolutely reveres their tiramisu. But you know these supermodels…always starving or binging or who knows what.” He chuckled as if they shared some little-known secret and let his gaze drop a few inches below Carlotta’s chin where a large, tear-shaped emerald was nestled between the soft globes of her breasts. “Honestly, I prefer a woman with a few more—“
“This Decadence? Do they serve the pie of lime?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I was a bit too involved with Gigi to— Oh, my mistake, I didn’t mean to talk out of school. The paparazzi would kill to learn—“
“What of gardens?” Carlotta rolled over his intentional slip like an armored tank charging downhill.
“Gardens?” He was beginning to look a bit peeved but rallied, hope—and hormones—springing eternal.
“Flowers, trees.” She fluttered her hands, tacitly indicating that he might be an idiot. Shep couldn’t have agreed more. “Do they have the gardens?”
“Ahh. Not attached to the eating establishment, I don’t believe. But there are several parks close to hand. Gigi and I have strolled there on occasion…when we didn’t have anything more”—he raised his brows suggestively—“exciting to do. But I must admit, that is a rare occur—“
“Where is this restaurant?”
“Not so very far.” Irritation was beginning to creep into his tone. Apparently, old Raymond Everson II didn’t care to be interrupted even when he was drunk off his ass and dumber than a poleaxed coon. “It’s a bit tricky to find. However, I’d be happy to assist, should you need an escort.”
Carlotta raised her brows, showing the first spark of interest. “That would be—“
“Unnecessary,” Shep said.
Challenge shone in Everson’s blurry eyes as he shifted his attention back to Carlotta. “It would be no trouble. And it would free your friend up for…” He skimmed his gaze over Shep’s pearl-snapped shirt and silver belt buckle. “Wrangling steers or…whatever it is he does.”
She smiled. “How nice this is of you.”
The plane was slowing now. Their fellow passengers beginning to rise, stretch, reach for luggage in the overhead bins. Except for Everson, who was tipping ever closer to Carlotta’s cleavage.
“Listen, I know a great little beach. Tres secluded. We could do some snorkeling…or other sports.” Everson leaned even closer.
“Do they have the pie there?” she asked.
“On the beach?” He chuckled. “I don’t believe—“
“Bon Ventre,” said a fat man who turned to speak over the back of his seat.
“¿Le ruego me disculpe?”
“The Bon Ventre. Just a small café in a middling inn, but they make a pretty fair key lime pie.”
Shep could hear Carlotta sharp inhalation. “What of jardines? Does it have the jardines?”
“Sorry,” he said and patted his belly. “I’m a foody first and foremost, but I’d be happy to introduce you to some of Miami’s little-known eateries.”
Really? Every male who’s his
Pampers is hitting on her? Shep thought and rose to his feet with a gritted smile. “Hey, Lotta, remember that fella in Nashville who got fresh durin’ line-dancin’?” he asked congenially and, grabbing the nearest carry-on from above, swished it past the fat man’s face to thump it into Everson’s lap. “I wonder if they’ve ever found his other hand?”