Wish Upon a Christmas Star (8 page)

“Was the daughter ever found?” Logan asked.

“Yeah, the next morning.” Maria’s voice was steeped in sadness.
“Her car had crashed through a fence and ended up in a junkyard. Nobody realized
the car didn’t belong there until the owner was opening up and noticed her
slumped over the wheel. The impact might have killed her, but maybe not. Maybe
she would have been saved if we’d started looking for her when the mother asked
us to.”

Maria fell silent while Logan digested the story. It didn’t
take him long to figure out what the accident victim had to do with her becoming
a private eye.

“So now when someone asks you to take a case,” he said slowly,
“you don’t have to check with anyone else.”

“Exactly,” she said.

He already knew she’d been a private investigator almost as
long as she’d been divorced. Logan wondered if the two events were connected. He
wouldn’t ask, though.

“How about you?” she asked. “What’s life like in New York?”

“Busy,” he said.

She took another bite of her pie. “I bet you work all the
time.”

“Not all the time.” He managed to run in the park or get to the
gym some mornings before his workday started. A few nights a week, he shoehorned
drinks with friends or dinner with a revolving cast of women. He wasn’t about to
tell Maria he went into the office on Saturdays and the occasional Sunday.

“I bet your place is spectacular. Where do you live? A loft in
SoHo or Tribeca?” she asked, naming two of the most expensive neighborhoods in
the city.

“Neither. I like green space, so it’s Central Park for me.” His
one-bedroom apartment had a view of the park. The place was both expensive and
spectacular, thanks to the interior designer he’d hired.

“I’m sure Central Park is pretty,” she said, “but it can’t
compare to the bluegrass of Kentucky.”

“You’re right. You can’t compare the two places. They’re
entirely different, each with its positives and negatives.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, a challenge in her voice. “You used to
love Kentucky. What are its negatives?”

His mother had brought up the same subject at the airport,
complete with her theory that Logan wouldn’t have left the state if Maria hadn’t
married someone else.

“You can’t make as much in Kentucky as you can in New York.” He
immediately wished he could take back the words.

As he could have predicted, she pounced. “That’s what’s most
important to you, isn’t it? The almighty buck.”

He refused to rise to the bait. He’d watched his parents
struggle to make ends meet for so many years that there was no shame in wanting
something different for himself. “Making a good living is important to me. Not
so different from you, when you think about it.”

“My job doesn’t consume me,” she said.

“Neither does mine.”

“Oh, no?” She raised her eyebrows. “I remember how much you
loved being an artist, how happy it made you. Do you still paint?”

He hadn’t picked up a brush since he’d discovered she’d sent
some of his paintings to that art school in Louisville and the director had
invited him to apply. The only way Logan could get through to her that he’d
chosen a more stable career path was to stop painting. He’d never started
again.

“No?” she guessed. She shook her head as she studied him. “I
didn’t think so.”

“You can’t really want to talk about this,” he said.

She tilted her head, her expression closed. “Talk about
what?”

“The past and why we broke up,” he said. “What purpose would
that serve?”

“I don’t...” Her voice trailed off, her mouth hanging open, her
gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond his shoulder. “Oh, my God. There he
is.”

Logan turned around. A man about thirty years old, dressed in
worn jeans and a T-shirt, was walking into The Flying Monkey. He had straggly
black hair, a sinewy build and a pronounced limp. He was also carrying a
guitar.

* * *

M
ARIA
’
S
HEART
FELT
AS
IF
it was slamming against her chest. Her palms grew
damp and her head felt light.

Was the man with the guitar the brother she’d loved and lost?
Was she within moments of finding him again?

He passed through the open doorway and disappeared in the sea
of people inside the bar, but she’d seen enough to know why somebody had tipped
them off. The guy was the right height, the right age and had the right
coloring. The limp didn’t fit, but something could have happened to cause it in
the years that had passed.

“I’m going inside,” she told Logan.

She got up so fast she lost her balance. She swayed, bracing
herself with a hand on the table.

“Are you okay?” He rose, too, taking her gently by the
elbow.

“I need to see if that’s Mike.” She headed into the bar, and
Logan’s hand dropped away from her arm.

If the man was Mike, he’d have no trouble recognizing her. She
still wore her hair long and straight. People told her all the time she hadn’t
changed much since high school. A better question was whether Mike would be
pleased to see her.

Her stomach cramped. It seemed more likely he’d still hold
their last argument against her.

The Flying Monkey was more crowded than it had been an hour
ago. Maria threaded past tall tables and small groups of people trying to
converse above the noise of the jukebox.

She looked wildly around for the man with the guitar and
spotted him up ahead through the crowd. He was behind some people seated at bar
stools, perhaps waiting to ask the owner if he could play a few songs.

Maria made a beeline for him, her heart beating harder with
each step she took. Around the bar, the press of people raised the temperature
to an uncomfortable level. Suddenly it was hard to breathe.

She kept advancing until she was directly behind him. Drawing
in a ragged breath, she lifted her hand and tapped him on the shoulder.

The man turned, an expectant look on his face. His nose was
long and straight like Mike’s. He even had the square chin that had lent her
brother an air of ruggedness.

But it wasn’t Mike.

Her knees felt weak as she stared at him. His mouth was wider
than her brother’s, his lips thinner, his eyes closer together. It was hard to
tell in the dim light of the bar, but she was pretty sure his eyes were brown
instead of blue like hers.

“Did you want something?” The man’s mouth was different, too.
With his overbite, he probably should have worn braces as a child.

“Sorry. I made a mistake.” She whirled, took a step and bumped
straight into Logan.

“Whoa, there.” He took her by the shoulders to steady her.
“What happened?”

“It’s not Mike,” she said.

Logan put a protective arm around her and led her away from the
people crowding the bar, not stopping until they had some space.

“It’s not Mike,” she said again.

“Did you really expect it to be?” he asked gently.

She had, she realized. She’d gotten her hopes ridiculously
high, all because some postal worker knew of a man who bore a slight resemblance
to her brother. But what if the man she’d accosted wasn’t the right one? There
were lots of musicians in Key West.

“Maybe it’s the wrong guy,” Maria said. “Maybe the postal
worker meant somebody else.”

“It’s the right guy,” Logan stated. “Did you notice his limp?
The postal worker mentioned that.”

“Lots of people have limps,” she said.

Logan gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “Maria, it’s a dead
end. Maybe it’s time to concentrate harder on Mike’s friends. He must have given
that photo of Caroline to one of them. Somebody has to have a Key West
connection.”

She felt her back stiffen. She still couldn’t imagine Mike
passing on a naked photo of Caroline. And why couldn’t Logan understand that she
had to exhaust the possibility that Mike was on the island before taking the
investigation in another direction?

“I’m going to do things my way.” She wrenched away from him and
walked back through the crowd, heading for the exit.

He caught up to her easily. “Where are you going?”

She might as well tell him. He was getting harder and harder to
shake off. “Kayla told me about a local bar that’s not far from here. I’m going
to show the age progression around.”

The bar was on a quiet lane three or four blocks removed from
the activity of Duval Street, tucked between a coin Laundromat and an optician’s
office. Patrons jammed the place, watching basketball games on overhead
televisions, playing pool, drinking beer at mismatched tables and chairs that
could have been picked up at a yard sale. Christmas decorations were
nonexistent. Nobody there knew Mike, either.

“Let’s get out of here,” Logan said after about an hour. “You
look dead on your feet.”

“I’m not ready to leave yet,” she said.

Coming into the bar was a guy with bleached blond hair and a
deep tan, wearing baggy shorts that extended below his knees and a T-shirt
decorated with a skull and crossbones. Maria marched straight up to him, the
photo in hand, ignoring the up and down glance he gave her and the smell of
alcohol that emanated from him.

“Excuse me,” she said, “can you tell me if you’ve ever seen
this man?”

He barely glanced at the picture, his bleary gaze focused
squarely on her breasts. “Lesh get some beers and discush it.”

“I’d like to discuss it now,” Maria said, holding her ground.
“Have you seen him or not?”

“Don’t be that way, shweetheart.” He reached for her, his beefy
hand clamping on her arm. “Come with me.”

“Let me go this instant,” she hissed at him, “or you’ll regret
it.”

Before the bleached blond could process her words, Logan came
up behind him and yanked his arm so he had to release her. The blond whirled,
closing his fist and swinging wildly. His punch connected with Logan’s left eye.
Logan staggered backward, crashing into a table and knocking over an empty
chair. The blond swung again and hit air.

“Stop it!” Maria yelled.

The drunk guy kept advancing. Logan regained his balance and
brought up his fists, warding off another blow. He bounced on the balls of his
feet like a professional boxer and threw a punch of his own that caught the
other man on his jaw. The drunk went down in a heap, moaning and rubbing his
face.

“Hey, no fighting in here!” A thickset man at least six feet
four barreled up to them, scowling and getting between the two. He pointed to
Logan. “You need to leave!”

Logan’s hand went to his eye. “He threw the first punch.”

“I think he broke my face!” the drunk guy wailed from the
floor, where he was writhing in seeming agony.

“Want me to call the cops?” the big man barked, advancing on
Logan.

Logan didn’t budge. His gaze hardened and he lifted his
chin.

“No, we don’t,” Maria answered. She crossed to his side,
captured his hand and tugged. He didn’t move. “We’re leaving. Aren’t we,
Logan?”

He glared at the big man, who glowered back. Maria could almost
smell the testosterone in the air.

She yanked harder on Logan’s hand. He felt like an unmovable
object, giving her no choice but to try to be an irresistible force. “Please,”
she pleaded.

That simple word seemed to finally get through to him. He
blinked, meeting her eyes and nodding once. As soon as they were outside in the
night air, she dropped his hand.

“Are you okay?” Logan asked, his gaze running over her.

“I’m
fine,
” she retorted. “What was
all that about? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I wanted him to get his hands off you,” Logan
said.

She was about to tell him she didn’t need him to come to her
rescue, that she was trained as a police officer. But then one of the
streetlights caught him in its glow. Blood trickled from a cut above his eye,
which was already starting to swell.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

“Yeah.” Logan touched the injured area, then looked down at his
hand. “He must have been wearing a ring.”

The heat went out of Maria’s temper.

“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s get you back to the hotel so I can do
something about that cut.”

CHAPTER SIX

L
OGAN
TRIED
NOT
TO
WINCE
as Maria dabbed
at the cut above his eye with the antiseptic they’d bought at a twenty-four-hour
drugstore. He was sitting on the edge of her hotel-room bed beside the bedside
table, where the light was brightest.

She unwrapped one of the bandages she’d had in her toiletry
bag, biting her lower lip as she focused on the task. “Hold still.”

After smoothing the bandage over his skin with gentle fingers,
she stepped back and examined her handiwork. “There. Now for the ice.”

She went into the bathroom, where she’d left the ice bucket
she’d filled from the dispenser down the hall. Taking some cubes, she wrapped
them in a washcloth and seconds later was back at his side, handing him the cold
compress.

“The ice will reduce the swelling, but you’ll still have a bit
of a shiner,” she said. “Keep the ice on for twenty minutes and off for twenty
and it won’t be too bad.”

“That means you’re stuck with me for the next twenty minutes,”
he said.

“Only because you insisted on coming here instead of going to
your own hotel.”

“I didn’t want you walking back by yourself,” he said.

She crossed her arms over her chest and considered him. “I used
to be a cop. I can take care of myself. If you’d remembered that in the bar, you
wouldn’t have a black eye.”

“I did remember it,” he said. “It didn’t help.”

“Do you get into a lot of fights?” She reached out, traced his
not-quite-straight nose with a finger and then pulled her arm back. He resisted
capturing her hand so they’d still have a physical connection. “It looks like
your nose was broken.”

“Not in a fight, in a racquetball game. The other guy swung his
racket and my face was in the way.”

“Ouch,” she said.

“Yeah.” Logan rubbed his nose, remembering the blast of pain.
“My last fight was in high school.”

“You mean the time you decked Bobby Jones in the school parking
lot?”

“Yep,” he said. That had been over Maria, too, although he’d
never shared the particulars with her. She thought Bobby had started the fight
because he was jealous that Logan had beaten him out as starting shortstop on
the baseball team. In reality, Logan had hit Bobby for making a lewd comment
about Maria.

She shook her head. “You’ll have to come up with a story for
when you get back to New York. Telling clients you were in a bar fight won’t go
over well.”

“Don’t be so sure about that,” he said. “Don’t women like their
financial planners with a dash of danger?”

“Ha!” she said, smiling. “That’s the last thing women look for
in their financial advisors.”

“How about you?” He met and held her gaze. “What do you look
for in a man?”

The mood in the room seemed to change, becoming more charged
and reminding him of the lateness of the hour. Once upon a time, she’d told him
he was everything she could ever want.

She wet her lips, bringing his gaze to her mouth. “Somebody who
knows to duck when a punch is thrown,” she said, breaking the invisible thread
of tension between them.

He laughed. “Smart aleck.”

“Your turn,” she said. “What do you look for in a woman?”

“Somebody like you.” He hadn’t thought before he spoke.

“Yeah, right.”

“It’s true,” he said. For years, his friends had been teasing
him that he dated only tall women who wore their dark hair long and straight.
“That’s probably why none of my relationships last.”

“Because the women get on your nerves?” she quipped.

“Because what I feel for them doesn’t compare to what I felt
for you,” he said.

The words hung between them, and just like that the tension was
back in the room. She gazed at him, her blue eyes huge in her pale face, her
lips slightly parted.

He stood up abruptly, cleared his throat and lowered the
washcloth from his eye. “It’s late. I should get going.”

“It hasn’t been twenty minutes yet,” she protested.

“I can’t last that long without doing something stupid,” he
said, moving past her to drop the ice in the sink. When he came out of the
bathroom, she was facing him.

“What if I want you to do something stupid?” she whispered,
closing the distance between them until he could smell her light, flowery scent.
She anchored her hands on his chest, stood on her tiptoes and put her mouth on
his.

He didn’t try to resist her. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted
to. It had been almost a dozen years since they’d kissed, yet she tasted
familiar. Their lips molded as though they’d never been apart. It didn’t take
much coaxing for her to open her mouth so he could deepen the kiss. He gathered
her close against him as their tongues began a sensual duel. And then they were
kissing in earnest.

The old sensations swirled through him, even more powerful than
he remembered. He was instantly hard, the same response she’d elicited in him
years ago when he’d been a teenager. In the past, he’d always been the one to
break off the kiss. If not for the control that almost killed him, he would have
taken her virginity long before she was ready to lose it.

She wasn’t a virgin now. They were consenting adults who wanted
each other as desperately as they had then. Maybe more so. In the years after
he’d lost her, he’d dreamed of making love to her, never knowing whether the
reality would have been better than his imagination.

He could find out now, but what if making love to her was
everything he’d ever thought it would be? What then? He’d still need to be back
in Manhattan, and the life he’d made for himself by the weekend.

He lifted his mouth and moved her away from him with gentle
hands. Her jaw dropped and the corners of her eyes scrunched up. She didn’t
understand; that was clear. But if he stayed in her hotel room even as long as
it would take to explain, he might still be here in the morning.

With her fingertips, he touched the lips he’d just kissed. Even
that contact sent desire shooting through him.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

Then he turned and left. He didn’t dare glance back.

* * *

K
AYLA
HAD
THOUGHT
OF
almost everything
when she’d set out to make sure nobody messed with Santa.

She’d snagged a prime parking spot on Duval Street that
provided a view of the intersection where the statue loomed. Then she’d settled
into the front passenger seat for the long night ahead, a pair of binoculars and
a thermos of coffee at the ready.

She had absolutely no doubt she could stay up all night. What
she hadn’t counted on was the need to pace herself with the coffee. It wasn’t
yet 2:00 a.m., the thermos was empty and she was in desperate need of a
restroom.

As the hour grew later, she saw fewer cars and people. Across
the street from the statue, one of the welcome centers that sold trolley rides
of the island sights had closed hours ago. Pedestrians still walked by, though,
many of them unsteady on their feet after a night of drinking.

Kayla squeezed her legs together. She’d had too much to drink,
too, damn it.

There was a hotel down the block where she could probably talk
her way into using the restroom. But what if somebody defaced Santa in the
interim? How could she ever convince Uncle Carl she could be a good detective if
she couldn’t handle a simple surveillance?

Tomorrow night she wouldn’t have this problem. She’d taken
Maria DiMarco’s advice and put a rush order on a wireless security camera that
would free her from the front seat of her car. Kayla didn’t have that luxury
tonight.

She slumped back against the seat, trying not to think about
anything involving water, pretty hard when she was parked beside a bathing suit
shop.

Drops of rain appeared on the windshield and she gazed skyward
through the glass. “Somebody up there hates me.”

She trained her binoculars on the lonely statue and then swept
them right and left, her vision helped by the businesses and residences that had
opted to leave their Christmas lights on all night. Since nobody was coming, she
might be able to chance running to the restroom. But, no, off in the distance,
heading her way from the direction of Old Town, was a lone figure. A man with
his shoulders hunched against the light rain. She’d have to stay put until he
was past.

Kayla started to drop the binoculars when something about the
man’s walk rang a bell. He moved fluidly with a long gait, just like Alex
Suarez. She zeroed in on his face. It was Alex!

She grabbed her keys and jumped out of the car, barely
remembering to shut the door. She was glad she’d thought to wear tennis shoes
instead of her signature high-heeled sandals. They helped her run faster.

“Alex!” she called when he was within earshot. “Can you keep an
eye on Santa for five minutes?”

He stopped, his head tilting curiously. “Kayla? What’s going
on?”

“No time to explain. Catch!” She threw him her keys on the way
past, and he snatched them out of the air. “Wait for me in the gray Civic.”

Kayla broke speed records getting to the small hotel a half
block up the street. She’d noticed it earlier because its exterior and the palm
trees flanking its entrance were done up in multicolored Christmas lights. The
sleepy employee at the desk tried to tell her the facilities were for guests
only.

“I really have to go!” she shouted.

He directed her to the restroom off the lobby, where she
finally found relief. After thanking the desk clerk, Kayla jogged up the
now-deserted sidewalk through the light rain and past the Santa statue to her
Civic.

Alex was leaning against the passenger side, his legs crossed
at the ankles, her keys dangling from his fingertips. The rain had turned his
shirt a darker shade of red and dampened his hair, calling into prominence his
olive skin and chiseled features. Even wet, the man looked fine.

“Now will you tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

The skies opened up with fat, drenching drops.

“Let’s get in the car!” Kayla called over the pounding
rain.

They entered from opposite sides, slamming the doors at the
same time.

Kayla’s hair felt plastered to her head. She nearly groaned.
Here she was, in close confines with Alex Suarez, and she probably looked like a
drowned rat.

“I think I’ve got a beach towel.” At least she hoped she did.
She’d gone swimming at a friend’s pool last week, and tidying up after herself
wasn’t her strong suit. She reached into the backseat, feeling around for the
fluffy towel. “Here it is.”

She mopped her face and hair before handing it to Alex.

“Thanks.” He wiped himself off, starting with his face and
hair, then running the towel over his arms. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled
up, revealing the ripple of his forearms. She wondered if he lifted weights.

“So?” he asked.

Yikes. Had he caught her staring? Probably. She doubted she’d
been subtle about it. “So, what?” she asked slowly.

He laughed. “So, why did you run past me and throw me your
keys?”

“Oh, that.” She picked up the empty thermos from the cup
holder. “When I started the surveillance, this was full. The coffee ran right
through me. I’m starting to wonder if other private investigators bring a jar
with them.”

“You’ll say anything, won’t you?” he asked, laughing again.

“Sorry.” She felt her face reddening. “I try to think before I
speak, but it doesn’t usually work.”

“I think it’s refreshing,” he said.

“You’re only saying that to be nice,” she told him.

“I’m not that nice.”

“Yeah, you are,” she said. “What about that time at Mallory
Square when you helped the old lady who fell down? You stayed with her until the
paramedics came.”

“You remember that?” he asked. “Wait a minute. How do you even
know about that?”

She sucked in a breath. She’d done it again—run off at the
mouth before engaging her brain.

The rain was coming down pretty hard, pounding on the roof of
the car, so she could possibly get away with pretending she hadn’t heard
him.

“What about you?” she asked, raising her voice like someone
hard of hearing. “What are you doing on Duval Street at two in the morning?
Especially since it doesn’t seem like you’ve been drinking.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though he hadn’t
expected the question. No wonder. He must have anticipated she’d answer the
question he posed.

“I was practicing for the Christmas dart tournament tomorrow
night at Estrada’s Pub,” he said. “On the walk home, I decided to take a detour
and check on you.”

“Really?” If Alex had been thinking about her today even half
as much as she’d been thinking about him, things were looking up. Her heart beat
faster. “How did you know I was here?”

“You hire a private eye to look out for Santa, you figure
that’s what she’ll do,” he said. “Have you got an update for me? Noticed anybody
strange hanging around the statue?”

Disappointment cut through her. Alex had stopped by not to see
her but to get the latest on the case.

“This is Key West,” she said. “I noticed lots of strange people
but nobody in particular.”

“You’ve got a point there,” he admitted. “Getting back to that
old woman you mentioned, how did you know I helped her?”

Kayla would have to answer, after all. For once, however, she
wouldn’t say what popped into her brain:
I’ve been watching
you for years.

“I’ve seen you sometimes at the sunset celebrations,” she said.
“I used to help my mother make and sell bottle art.”

If Kayla didn’t crack this case, she’d be going back into
business with her mom. That wasn’t the kind of thing you said to a client,
however, even when you did have a big mouth.