Shell Game (8 page)

Waiting for the elevator, they stood in silence. Once or twice Sharla glanced in his direction and offered a polite smile. Tight, almost nervous.

When the doors opened, the people in the already crowded space pressed back to make room for them. A little boy about waist high, staring at the floor, turned and looked up at his mother. “Who changes the floor?”

“Who what?” she asked.

The kid pointed to the letters on the carpet. “Yesterday it said Thursday. Now it says Friday. Who changes that?”

All eyes in the elevator dropped to read the day in the middle of the floor.

“I don’t know, sweetie.” Mom returned her gaze to the panel of escalating numbers.

“Can I stay up and watch?”

“Watch what?”

“When the day changes.”

Oh, this kid had the exasperated-with-his-parents eye roll down pat. He was going to be one heck of a teenager.

Without glancing away from her focus on the elevator’s progress, the mother shook her head. “No, Brandon. That’s past your bedtime.”

Brandon stared at the floor until the elevator reached the next stop. Everyone shifted to let some passengers off and other passengers on. Brandon continued to stare at the floor even with the repositioning of people in the confined glass box. The next
ding
announced the arrival to the pool deck. Brandon’s mom took hold of his hand, and the two walked into the hallway, the kid’s neck craned to keep an eye on the elevator floor.

The doors slid shut, the elevator bounced upward, and Luke leaned against Sharla. “Bet you ten to one, if we ride this elevator at midnight tonight, little Brandon will be here too, waiting to unleash the magic of the changing days.”

Just then the elevator opened one floor up on the top deck, and Sharla let out a muffled chuckle. “I don’t take a sucker’s bet.”

He resisted the urge to give her the slightest peck on her cheek. Instead he lifted his shoulder and flashed her that I-gave-it-my-best-shot smile that could usually melt the ice around any woman’s heart. When Sharla did a double step, almost tripping off the elevator, his pride hoped his smile had the same effect on her that she was having on him.

The jogging path consisted of a yellow swath painted on the deck in a figure eight overlooking the pool area the next deck down. Restless last night, he’d scoped out the ship and the deck, and had decided his morning run would be more productive in the gym than out here. Especially faced with the risk of running over some well-meaning granny out for her morning constitution. “Three times around is a mile. You up for it?”

“As long as this isn’t a race, I’m up for it.”

He glanced down at her feet. No flimsy flip-flops or fancy sandals. Practical loafers. Then his gaze traveled up slim ankles to well-shaped calves, and he dragged his focus back to her face before she hauled off and hit him for checking her out that way. “Agreed. No racing.”

A few feet onto the path her shoulders relaxed, and he heard her suck in a deep breath and slowly release it, followed by the tiniest hint of a sincere smile. “I would have thought the wind would be stronger.”

“It will be when we turn around the bow.”

“Bow?”

“Forward part of the ship. The wind is so mild tonight, it probably won’t be any stronger than riding in the front seat of a convertible.”

“I love the feel of the wind on my face.” Sharla tipped her chin upward.

The moonlight shone on her face so he could see every dip and contour, and Luke almost swallowed his tongue. My God, she was beautiful.

“My husband had a motorcycle. An old Honda 750. Whenever we could, we’d steal away for a few hours and just ride.”

Something inside him tightened up at the word
husband
. He’d already assumed from the rings on her right hand that there had to have been a husband at some time, but he didn’t think she was still married. At least he’d hoped not. And yet the far-off look in her eyes, someplace happy, made him wish she were still that happy, even if it meant being married to another man. “You don’t ride anymore?”

The light in her eyes vanished as quickly as it had appeared. She shook her head. “No. Not anymore.”

Her pace seemed to slow as they came across the first turn around the bow, and he found himself overwhelmed with the need to reach out and fold her hand in his.

“This really is nice.” The tension in her stance slipped away. “The air is so fresh and the sound of the waves lapping against the boat so calming.”

“It can get in your blood if you’re not careful.”

“Cruising?”

“Sailing of any kind.”

“You sail often?”

This time he shook his head and, in a very unmilitarylike manner, shoved his hands in his pockets to avoid reaching over and grabbing her hand. “Not anymore. But this is my first pleasure cruise.”

“And you’re alone?”

He bobbed his head. “Do you and your grandmother cruise a lot?”

“God, no.” They circled around the edge. The wind blew at their backs, and she fought a futile battle, fingering her hair away from her eyes. “I wouldn’t even be here now if my cousin hadn’t had an emergency C-section. Nana was supposed to sail with my great-aunt Leticia. Instead she’s with her daughter. Leticia was the youngest of the sisters and had my cousin Nelda rather late in life for her generation. In contrast, not so unusual for today, my cousin is having her first child at thirty-eight.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Mother and child are fine. But Great-Aunt Leticia didn’t want to leave. Her first and possibly only grandchild, and all that.”

“So you stepped in.”

“I did.”

“And what does your husband say about that?” The way her grin slipped and her gaze fell, he wished he could take back the words.

“Danny died three years ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” He’d said that too many times in the line of duty. So many wives, husbands, mothers, fathers, children left behind. And the words could do so little. “His health or an accident?”

“Murder.”

Luke almost lost his footing.

“Danny was a policeman. Vice squad. Wrong place, wrong time.”

How many times could he and any other military man say the same? Again, too many. Now he understood the bitter reactions at the mention of a corrections officer. Another potentially dangerous job. He searched for new words. Some way to make it better. To wipe away the hurt. Pushing aside the time-worn platitudes, all he was left with was the need to pull her into his arms and protect her from any more pain. Not an option. Yet.

“We had three good years. You hear of wives always worrying about their husbands not coming home. That, when he walks out the door, you might not see him again. I was convinced I didn’t have to.” The tautness in her face gave way to a strained smile. “I told him I loved him when he left that morning. At least I’d done that much. Some people’s last words aren’t kind. I was lucky.”

They’d made a third turn around, and, when she kept walking, so did he.

“What about you?” She briefly turned toward him, her smile a bit more genuine, less forced.

“Never married.” Odds of success were worse than low in his line of work.

“Tempted?”

“To tie the knot?” He chuckled. “No.”

“Ah. A staunch bachelor.”

“Absolutely.” Even though his work these last two years hadn’t allowed for much time to keep company with the ladies, under normal circumstances he enjoyed women. Especially those with feminine curves. Someplace with a little lush padding to put his hands.

“Workaholic too?”

“That’s what my boss says. Which is why I’m here. Two years’ accumulated vacation time.” Mentioning the near loss of his life in the mother of all shoot-outs, culminating in a hand-to-hand tumble with the last asshole on his hit list, would not, under the circumstances, be well received.

“Me too. Use them or lose them. My boss wouldn’t even consider letting me lose them, so here I am. Well, I had planned to spend it at home catching up on my to-do list and my to-be-read pile, but you’ve already heard the part about Great-Aunt Leticia.” Again she looked up at him. “I get the no-wife thing, but why are you here alone? Surely there’s a girl somewhere?”

“No.” Thanks to his recent stint fighting bad guys, his proverbial little black book was pathetically out of date. “What about a pretty girl like you? You must have men standing in line to court you.”

“
Court me
. Very old-fashioned words from such a modern man.”

“I’m a very old-fashioned bachelor.”

“Which is probably why you’re still a bachelor. I can see it now. You’re going to be another Warren Beatty. Turn forty and realize all you’ve missed in life. Marry a beautiful woman and crank out five beautiful children and live a beautiful—and charmed—life.”

“Beautiful
and
charmed?” He loved how easily she made him laugh. Simple, honest, no ulterior motives, no games. “So who will your Prince Charming be?”

“Oh, that’s easy. An ordinary man. Someone with a nine-to-five job. No doctors. No late-night emergency calls. No missing soccer games for patients.”

“Sounds like the voice of experience.”

She nodded. “I’m an ER nurse at County Medical. The only women who want to marry doctors have never worked with them.”

“Got it. No doctors.”

“And no heroes. No firemen or policemen. And absolutely no soldiers. If I ever have another relationship, it is going to be as normal as can be.”

“Right up to the dog and two-point-five children?”

“
Abso-lute-ly
,” she emphasized.

And wasn’t that the shame of it. He’d been around the block enough times to recognize which women would be fun, which would be trouble, and which were off-limits. Everything about Sharla shouted home and hearth. Her dedication to her grandmother was proof enough his instincts were right. She was definitely something special. But if he’d harbored even the slightest inkling to test the waters, she’d just slammed the hatch shut on him.

Navy SEAL was most likely high on her Do-Not-Associate-With list. CIA undercover agent would be number one, and flagged in red with skulls and crossbones doodled all around. Which was fine, since he wasn’t looking for a relationship. All he had wanted from this vacation was a little fun. And Sharla wasn’t the sort for a tryst. No matter what, she would have to remain “hands off”. Even if everything about her felt like coming home.

Chapter Nine

At almost ten o’clock the Windward Lounge was packed.

Luke scanned the front of the room for Sophia and Herbie. Sure enough, front row, center court, Sophia sat sipping a tall drink with a fruit slice perched on the rim but no sign of Herbie. Just as Luke was about to mindlessly set his hand around the small of Sharla’s back to direct her toward her grandmother, she nudged him gently with her elbow, pointed to the front and maneuvered her way through the crowded lounge.

Sophia promptly introduced Luke and Sharla to the passengers at either table beside them.

The woman had been busy. “Where’s Herbie?” he asked.

Jutting out her chin as though just noticing he wasn’t here, Sophia frowned. “He went to the men’s room, but that was a while ago.” Her mouth briefly twisted to one side, and then her expression eased back into a smile. “I bet he took a detour by the slots. He loves those nickel machines.”

The Gender Game wasn’t set to start for fifteen more minutes. Luke took in another fast survey of the room and decided he had time to make a quick run to the casino to check on Herbie. Not that the older man could get himself into very much trouble playing nickel slots, but Luke’s gut was rumbling, and he’d learned long ago never to disregard his gut when it chose to speak up. “I’ll be right back.”

Already engrossed in conversation with the two couples to their left, Sharla merely nodded, but Sophia shot him an impish grin. “Go get him, tiger.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” With a casual salute, Luke did a military spin and, keeping a lookout for Herbie, headed for the casino.

As Sophia had predicted, Herbie was in the casino but not playing the slots. More like hiding behind them. It only took a few seconds for Luke to see why. Herbie was watching George at the bar with another man. Being too far away to hear what was said, Luke was sure Herbie most likely could. Every so often Herbie would scribble something on a small spiral notepad that fit in his breast pocket.

Sliding behind a slot machine himself, Luke watched Herbie watching George talking up the guy beside him. When the two men finally separated, Herbie stood and, rather than follow George, followed the man George had been talking with to the Leeward Lounge.

Having settled in a dark corner, continuing to watch Herbie and his target, Luke would have been more entertained watching paint dry. Not much seemed to be happening. Until the wife of the man under surveillance joined him. A waiter took the couple’s order, and, at the same moment when the waiter had reached the bar, Herbie sidled up beside him and handed the bartender an empty glass. While the waiter and barman were busy behind the counter, Herbie slipped his hand over the keycard still resting on the round tray, flipped his palm to read the card, then returned it and pulled out the notebook from his pocket. When the bartender handed him a replenished drink, he smiled, uttering what was most likely a thank-you, slipped him a bill and walked away.