Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) (7 page)

But
walking out with his lawyer was apparently allowed. They stopped at a desk in
the front room, where Solomon talked with Nolan for a few minutes. A clerk
quickly produced Ty’s duffel and laptop bag, and Ty listened as Nolan explained
that he should remain in town, that he was a person of interest and that the
investigation was ongoing. Nolan asked for Ty’s cell phone number, but Solomon
interrupted and told Nolan that all communications with Ty would pass through
Solomon.

Paperwork.
Bureaucracy. Affable chit-chat. Ty didn’t doubt that it was all essential, but
he was desperate to leave the building, to breathe some fresh air, to learn how
much Caleb Solomon’s representation was going to set him back. To find Monica
and thank her for not erasing the phone message he’d left her that afternoon
and acting as if their paths had never crossed.

He
didn’t have to look far to find her. As soon as he and the lawyer exited the
police station into the starlit evening, he spotted her sitting on the hood of
a car in the parking lot. She wore jeans and the zippered sweatshirt she’d had
on last night. The breeze gusting in from the ocean fluttered through her
straight, dark hair.

She
didn’t appear happy to see him. He couldn’t recall ever feeling as happy as he
felt to see her.

Exercising
more willpower than he knew he possessed, he resisted the urge to race across the
parking lot and sweep her into his arms. Instead, he remained at Solomon’s
side, the woven strap of his duffel digging into his shoulder, his hand fisted
around the handle of his laptop bag, and simply stared at her. She stared back,
her eyes chilly, her expression grim.

“So
here’s what happens next,” Solomon explained. “You come into my office first
thing tomorrow morning—” he handed Ty a business card “—and we work out a
strategy. In the meantime, I’ll research this Wayne MacArthur and review the
police files. It sounds like all they’ve got is some informer telling them
there’s a shipment of a heroin on that boat. They won’t even tell me the name
of the informer, although we’ll get that in discovery if it comes to that.
Which, I assume, it won’t, because as far as I can see, Nolan’s got nothing on
you other than the fact that you were hired to sail a boat. Last I heard,
that’s not a crime.”

“Okay.”
Ty took a deep breath. “How much do I owe you?”

“I’ll
send you a bill.” Solomon’s smile was better than a shot of bourbon. It warmed,
it soothed. “Ms. Reinhart said you could afford me.”

“I
can,” Ty assured him. “But my money is tied up in a trust fund. I can’t just
write a check.”

“Not
a problem. Let’s get this mess straightened out, and then you can raid your
trust fund.” He patted Ty’s shoulder and turned toward a sleek black Beemer
parked a few spots down from the car Monica was perched on. “I’ll be in my
office early tomorrow. Don’t sleep late. I expect to see you there by
nine-thirty.”

Ty
watched him stride across the lot to the Beemer, climb in, and rev the engine.
Only after he’d driven out of the small lot did Ty turn back to Monica.

She
hadn’t moved. She remained planted on the hood of the sturdy Subaru like a
gorgeous hood ornament, her feet propped on the bumper, her chin resting in her
hands as she watched him. He started across the lot and she remained where she
was. She wasn’t running toward him with arms outstretched, but she wasn’t
fleeing in the opposite direction, either.

A
few feet from her car, he halted. He didn’t want to impose on her any more than
he already had. “Thank you,” he said.

She
gave her head a slight shake, more in bewilderment than rejection. “I don’t
know what I’m doing here. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you’ve
done. I’m not like this, Ty. I don’t take risks—with people or anything else.”

He
wanted to tell her he posed no risk to her. But he knew damned well he did. “I
haven’t done anything,” he told her. “Except be in the wrong place at the wrong
time, I guess. Or on the wrong boat in the wrong marina. I don’t know why the
cops suspect me. I’m not even sure what they suspect me of. All I know is,
they’re wrong.”

“Ed
Nolan is a good man,” she said.

“Even
good men make mistakes.”

Her
gaze narrowed on him. Did she think he was speaking about himself, as well?
Hell, he’d made his share of mistakes over the years—and he wasn’t so sure he
was a good man. But he hadn’t made
this
mistake—whatever mistake Nolan
suspected him of.

“Well,”
she finally said. “Whatever happened, it hasn’t killed you. You’re still
alive.”

There
was that. He allowed himself a smile. She smiled as well, tentatively, more a
glimmer in her large, dark eyes than a curve of her mouth. “I know it’s late,
but I’m hungry,” he said. “How about that dinner I promised you?”

Fifteen
minutes later, they were seated at a table at the Lobster Shack, a dock-side
eatery with the best seafood in town. The dining rooms at the Ocean Bluff Inn
won on ambience, but, disloyal though it was, Monica preferred the clam chowder
at the Lobster Shack.

Tonight
wasn’t a night for linen tablecloths, elegant china, and crystal stemware,
anyway. It was a night for rough-hewn wooden tables topped in brown butcher paper,
creased paper napkins in a chrome dispenser on the table, warm buttermilk rolls
heaped into a basket made of plastic strips woven to look like wicker, and the
thickest, creamiest, clammiest chowder on the North Shore.

The
message Ty had left on her voice mail had stolen what little appetite she’d had
left after he’d stood her up at the tavern. But the chowder tasted too good,
hot and rich, with just the slightest bite of black pepper transforming the
soup from comfort food to something special. She spooned some into her mouth,
savored the contrast of soft, bland cubes of potato and chewy, sweet clams, and
eyed Ty across the table.

He’d
insisted on heading straight for the rest room when they’d arrived. He’d left
his laptop bag at the table the waiter had led them to, but brought his canvas
duffel with him. When he’d rejoined her after a few minutes, he had on a fresh
button-front shirt and his beard was gone. Shaving in the restaurant’s bathroom
wasn’t exactly proper behavior, but obviously, he’d wanted to tidy himself up.

Without
the beard, he was even more handsome. His cheeks were lean and tan, his jawline
angular. The more of his face she could see, the happier she was.

Except
that she wasn’t happy at all. This man—this stranger—this
lover
—had
gotten himself tangled up with the law. On the drive to the Lobster Shack, he’d
told her he was under suspicion for bringing heroin into Brogan’s Point on the
boat he’d sailed up from Florida. He’d told her he was innocent, the police
hadn’t even found the heroin they claimed was on the boat, and they’d refused
to divulge the name of the asshole who’d informed them of this alleged heroin
shipment. He told her this was either a huge misunderstanding or someone had
set him up for some reason. He told her that he didn’t give a shit how good a
man Nolan was; the detective was wrong about Ty.

She
desperately wanted to believe everything Ty told her. But how could she? She
didn’t know him. They might have made love, but he was still a stranger.

The
chowder helped her to think, though. So did the glass of cold, crisp Chardonnay
she’d ordered. One more sip of each, and she said, “Tell me about yourself, Ty.
Tell me who you are.”

He
lowered his spoon, took a drink from the tall, sweating glass of beer beside
his bowl, and studied her. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

He
mulled that over and nodded. Evidently, he agreed she had a right to ask for
everything. “I grew up in the Los Angeles suburbs,” he said. “My dad was a
carpenter. He did construction on movie sets, which was cool. He taught me how
to build things, how to make them look right. My mom was from Kansas. She went
to L.A. as a graduation present when she finished high school, and she met my
father on a beach, and she never went back to Kansas. Love at first sight and
all that.”

That
he referred to his parents in the past tense sent a ripple of anxiety through
her. “What happened to them?”

“They
were killed in an auto accident when I was thirteen,” he told her. “Some crazy kid
buzzed out on meth rammed head-on into our car.” He ate a spoonful of chowder
and added, “I was in the back seat.”

She
visualized the tattoo on his shoulder:
LIVE
. When she’d asked him about
it, he’d said there had been a time when he should have died, but he hadn’t.
“Oh, Ty,” she murmured. “That’s horrible.”

He
shrugged.

“Were
you badly injured?”

“Among
other things, the accident broke my back. There was some concern about whether
I’d ever walk again. A body cast and a year in rehab, and I was walking.”

“But
you lost your parents.”

Another
shrug. His words remained measured and stoical, but his eyes flashed with pain
and regret. “My dad’s dad lived in Los Angeles, but he was in no position to
take on a teenage kid in need of intensive physical therapy. So everyone
decided the best thing would be for me to move in with my grandparents in
Kansas.” A wry laugh escaped him. “It wasn’t the best thing. They meant well,
but we had different world views. They were very conservative, very religious.
I could understand why my mom ran off to California and never went back. My
grandparents and I fought all the time. They made rules, and I broke them.”

Wild
Thing
, Monica
thought. The opening chords of the old rock-and-roll song crashed through her
head.

“And
there was no ocean in Kansas,” he continued. “I needed the ocean. Land-locked
doesn’t work for me.”

Monica
could relate to that. She’d never lived anywhere farther than a short drive
from the shore. Brogan’s Point and her four years of college in Boston, with
its beautiful harbor—like Ty, she was happiest when in close proximity to a
vast expanse of water and the salty fragrance of sea breezes flavoring the air.

“As
soon as I finished school, I did what my mother did and went back to
California. I lived with my grandfather there for a while, but he’s kind of a
crazy dude. An old surfer. He lives in a tiny house that’s held together with
spit and duct tape, and he sells surfing gear in a shop in Venice. He taught me
how to surf, how to wind-surf. Then I headed up the coast to Whidbey Island,
near Seattle, where my father’s mother lived. Her husband taught me how to
sail. I moved to Vancouver and learned how to ski. I moved to New Orleans and
learned how to drink bourbon. I moved to Charleston, South Carolina and learned
how to restore mansions. I moved to Chicago. No ocean, but Lake Michigan is
almost big enough to qualify. I moved to Miami.” Another shrug.

He’d
told her he moved around a lot. He hadn’t been kidding. “Don’t you ever want to
settle down somewhere and plant roots?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too
conventional—although if she did, she did. She was a conventional woman, after
all. Except for those four years of college, she’d never lived anywhere other
than Brogan’s Point, and never wanted to do anything other than help her
parents run their resort.

He
tilted his bowl to capture the last of the chowder with his spoon. “I guess if
I found a place that made me want to settle down, I’d settle down.”

And
he hadn’t found that place, at least not yet. Surely Brogan’s Point wasn’t the
place. Not that Monica expected him to settle down here. Not that she could
possibly have any hold on him. Not that she was even sure she
wanted
to
have a hold on him. What he’d told her about himself was both tragic and
intriguing, and yet… She still wasn’t sure she knew who he was.

“How
do you support yourself, moving around the way you do?” Another conventional
question, she acknowledged. If he decided that she was square and boring like
his Kansas grandparents, so be it.

He
smiled crookedly. “I do carpentry. Restorations on buildings and boats. My
father taught me a lot. I learned more on my own. There’s always work at
marinas for someone who knows what he’s doing.” Another eloquent shrug. “The
father of the kid who killed my parents was a wealthy power player in
Hollywood. He was able to pull a lot of strings to keep his son out of jail.
But he knew that if I sued his kid, the publicity would suck. Or—I don’t know,
maybe he just felt guilty that his kid had destroyed my family. Anyway, he set
up a trust fund for me. Hush money or whatever. I tap into it whenever I have
to.” He sighed. “Like when I need to hire an expensive lawyer. This Solomon
dude is expensive, isn’t he.”

It
wasn’t a question, but Monica replied anyway. “I’m sure he isn’t cheap. But the
attorney who handles the inn’s business affairs said he was the best criminal
attorney on the North Shore. One of the top in the Boston area. You’ll get your
money’s worth.”

“I
hope so.” Ty set down his spoon, then surprised her by reaching across the
table and capturing her hand in his. “I didn’t do it,” he said, his tone low
and earnest. “Whatever that good man Nolan thinks I did, I didn’t do it.”

Monica
nodded uncertainly.

“You
don’t believe me.”

“I…don’t
know.”

He
sighed again, and released her hand. Her fingers felt icy and forlorn when he
did. Whether or not she believed him, she wanted him. There was no getting
around that. For as long as Ty was with her, until he wandered off to some
other seaside town or landed in prison, she wanted him.

She
shouldn’t. But she did.

***

She
looked concerned.

No,
she didn’t. She looked stricken and shocked, like she was fighting the urge to
cry. He almost wished he hadn’t told her his story. He didn’t usually discuss
it. He didn’t dwell on the past. He’d lived it, he’d survived it, and now he
embraced every day the way anyone grateful to be alive would. He wasn’t
hideously scarred. He didn’t limp. He missed his parents and the happy childhood
that had been stolen from him, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.
You had to adjust your sails to capture the wind, whatever direction it was
blowing.

But
Monica had asked him to share his story with her, and he owed her that much.
The truth was, he owed her a hell of a lot more. She’d found him a lawyer. More
importantly, she’d answered his desperate plea for help.

He
gazed across the table at her. Her fingers, wrapped around the stem of her wine
glass, were pale and slender, her nails painted a muted coral shade that
reminded him of the color clouds sometimes turned during a vivid sunset. He
watched her sip her wine. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“I’ve
made you uncomfortable,” he apologized.

“No.
It’s okay. I’m just so sorry you had to live through such a horrible tragedy.”

“I
lived through it,” he reminded her. “I’m okay. Sometimes—” and this was
something he definitely didn’t share with people “—I feel immortal. If I could
survive that wreck—” and if he could survive that ghastly year in rehab, and
the stifling, smothering years with his grandparents in Kansas, who had never
forgiven their daughter for running off to California, marrying Ty’s father,
and not living the life they’d wished for her, and who had tried to force Ty
into their proper, stultifying life “—I can survive anything.”

Monica
gave him a watery smile.

“I’ve
bungee-jumped. I’ve sky-dived. I’ve climbed sheer rock cliffs. I’ve
scuba-dived. I’ve tried hang-gliding. I ride motorcycles. I’ve sailed from San
Diego to Honolulu—and from Key Biscayne to New England, but you already knew
that. What’s the point of being scared? If your number is up, it’s up. May as
well go all out, right?”

“May
as well
live
,” she murmured. At his questioning look, she nodded toward
his shoulder. “Your tattoo.”

“Yeah.”
He’d gotten his tat as soon as he’d returned to California. It had been a
celebration of all he’d survived, all the odds he’d beaten. He’d escaped
physical death in the crash and spiritual death in his grandparents’ custody.
He’d survived losing his parents.

“So
I guess sailing a boat all by yourself from Florida to Massachusetts is the
sort of thing a person does when he’s fearless.”

“It’s
not that dangerous if you know what you’re doing. I hugged the coastline the
whole way. I was never in international waters. The Coast Guard could have
found me.”

“It’s
still dangerous,” she argued quietly.

He
conceded with a shrug.

“More
dangerous if you’re carrying a cargo of illegal drugs.”

All
right. She still didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him. He couldn’t really blame
her. Who was he, after all, but a footloose stranger who’d literally sailed
into town and bedded her on an impulse.

No,
he hadn’t bedded her. He’d made love to her. It had been more than sex. And it
hadn’t been on an impulse. It had been because of that song he’d heard in the
bar. The jukebox had been playing, and he’d been enjoying his drink and the
come-ons of that stacked woman on the bar stool next to him, and suddenly that
song had started playing.
Wild Thing
. His eyes had met Monica’s, and
he’d felt as if their minds had met, too. Their hearts. Their souls.

He’d
done crazier things in his life than make love to a beautiful woman whose name
he didn’t even know. But he’d always kind of recognized that they were crazy
while he was doing them. The craziness had been part of their appeal.

When
he’d kissed Monica last night, when he’d stripped naked and pulled her onto
him, and come deep inside her while she’d come around him, he’d believed it was
the sanest thing he’d ever done.

Quite
possibly, the craziest thing he’d ever done was to trust Wayne MacArthur. If
the guy had heroin stashed on his boat, Ty was going to have a hell of a time
proving he didn’t know about it. He’d also have a hell of a time convincing
Monica of his innocence.