Tropical Storm - DK1

Melissa Good

Yellow Rose Books

Nederland, Texas

ALSO BY MELISSA GOOD

Dar and Kerry Series

Tropical Storm

Hurricane Watch

Eye of the Storm

Red Sky At Morning

Thicker Than Water

Terrors of the High Seas

Copyright © 1999 by Melissa Good

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The characters, incidents and dialogue herein are fictional and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-932300-60-4

Third Edition

"author's cut" edition, revised, and expanded First Printing 2006

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design by Donna Pawlowski

Published by:

Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC

4700 Highway 365, Suite A

PMB 210

Port Arthur, Texas 77642

Find us on the World Wide Web at

http://www.regalcrest.biz

Printed in the United States of America

THE ALARM BURRED softly, nudging the somnolent figure sprawled over the waterbed toward wakefulness. One long arm reached over and slapped the snooze bar, then moved back to its resting place, even though the pre-dawn gloom reflected off pale eyes that were already open, and gazing at the dull white of the ceiling.

Tiny clicks and hisses of the ice machine in the kitchen and the soft hum of the central air cycling were the only sounds that stirred the darkness, save for the soft breathing of the occupant of the bed. Finally, that breathing expanded into a sigh, and the waveless mattress rustled as the tall figure rolled up out of bed, and padded across polished teak wood floors into a pale salmon, marble-floored bathroom. The light flicked on, causing an audible groan, then the water ran in the marble sink, splashing loudly as it hit warm skin.

The reluctant riser finished wiping off the excess water with a soft towel, then faced its reflection. “Morning.” Pale blue eyes set in an angular, high-cheekboned face looked back, framed in dark, shoulder-length hair that just now was lying in disordered layers above a high, strong forehead. The voice was a warm contralto, slightly hoarse from sleep, and the lips that formed the word quirked into an ironic smile as they got no answer.

The light from the bathroom streamed across the wooden floor, guiding the tall woman’s way as she moved through the bedroom and into the living room beyond. She stepped barefoot across the soft Berber rugs scattered over the warm ceramic tiles and ended up in the kitchen.

Another flick and the recessed lighting came on, bringing the rich blue and white room to life, gleaming dully off the royal blue tile countertops and the rippled surface of the white appliances. Only the refrigerator was out of scheme—it was stainless steel, as befitted its commercial origins.

On the countertop, next to a sleek coffee machine and a well-used blender, was a computer terminal, dark except for a blinking box in the lower right corner. “On,” she told it. “Mail.”

“Mail,” it obediently responded. “Dar Roberts, six messages, two urgent.”

“Read.” She yawned, and moved to the coffee machine, punching the On button and watching as the slow stream of water impacted the grounds she’d prepared the night before. In the background, the computer patiently read her messages.

2
Melissa Good
Urgent

Sent by: John Dierhdoh

Subject: Associated Synergenics

Time: 4:32 AM.

Hey, Dar, the Associated Synergenics deal went

through. They passed diligence late last night, so we need to get a pirate squad in there. Lucky for me it’s in your neck of the woods. Let me know how the raping and pillaging goes, all right?

John D.

“Mmm.” Dar turned around, and leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not bad...not bad. Next.”

Urgent

Sent by: Lou Draefus

Subject: Preliminary Budgets

Time: 2:53 AM.

Dar—

The preliminary budgets are in. We’re counting on

your talents to make them fit. Call me when you get in the office.

Duks.

“Damn.” Dar sighed. “Dukky, you know I hate budgets. Just give me a damn number, and I’ll fit it in. Don’t make me argue all morning over how many pencils to allocate to the damn SBU.”

“Do you wish to send reply?” the computer inquired, having caught her preprogrammed keyword “Dukky.”

Dar checked the transcript of what it had just recorded. “Send.”

“Thank you,” the computer replied. “Next message…” It continued, going over more ordinary matters while she grabbed a bowl and poured cereal into it, then opened the refrigerator and held the bowl under a milk dispenser, listening to the pleasant crackle as the liquid infiltrated between the dry flakes. She applied a spoon to her breakfast and leaned back against the counter again as the messages finished playing. “Only six. Not bad.”

The computer chimed. “Incoming meeting request: Video, Alastair M.”

Dar silently cursed under her breath, then sighed. “Go.” A light popped on the small egg-shaped camera on the top of the monitor, and a picture window opened up on the screen, displaying a cherubic, round-faced man in his mid-fifties, dressed immaculately in gray pinstripe with a dark blue tie perfectly knotted around his thick neck. His hands were folded on the mahogany desk in front of him. When his eyes shifted to his own screen and saw her, a smile edged onto his fatherly features.

“Now that’s the way I like to start
my
morning. Dar Roberts in her underwear,” the Chairman of the Board chortled.

Dar continued to eat, merely giving him a look. “You just broke EEOC, Alastair. We’re gonna have to do something about you someday.” It was a
Tropical Storm
3

joke and they both knew it. EEOC was strictly adhered to in the company, up to a certain level. Once employees got beyond that, they became “one of the boys” and were expected to develop a thick skin along with it. Dar, as a corporate vice president, was beyond that level, and so had to put up with remarks about her looks from the upper echelon all the time.
Fortunately
, she considered,
at least they’re compliments
. She’d heard the cruel remarks directed towards a few of the other senior women execs, especially Ellen Evans in Finance, who was battling a weight problem among other things.

Alastair chuckled. “You can do anything you like to me, sweetheart, anytime. Just call Bea and have her schedule you up here, all right?”

The tall, dark-haired woman crossed her legs. “Careful, Alastair. At your age, you gotta watch your heart. I don’t think you could handle me.” This kind of verbal sparring was something she frequently enjoyed with the CEO, and she suspected he did as well.

The chairman grinned. “Don’t you worry, I’ll have a Viagra milkshake beforehand.” Then he cleared his throat. “All right, enough fun, though I’m enjoying both the view and the conversation. That Associated deal.” Now his hazel eyes went serious, almost predatory. “I need it in at fifty percent, Dar.”

Dar stopped chewing for a minute, and stared at him. “Fifty? Do you want to also continue to do business, or just scrap them?”

The company acquired accounts by offering to outsource their business at a lesser cost. When they took over, it was up to Dar, and other execs at her level, to scour the resources they took over and find a way to meet that cost, the usual method being to cut staff, which was always the biggest expense in the IT field. Ten to twenty percent was their average cost reduction, though Dar was famous for pushing the line, and had achieved thirty-five percent in her last two accounts. “If it’s scrap, I’ll just turn it over to Duk’s folks, and forget about it,” she said, “ I’m not going to waste my time counting pennies out there.”

Alastair shook his gray head. “I need it, Dar. We’ve got the stockholders meeting coming up in two months, and I have to post third quarter before that. With the budget the way it is, and that fiasco with United Telecom, either you give me Associated at fifty percent, or we’re not going to show double-digit growth, and you know what that means.” He gave her a smile. “C’mon, I know you can do it. And when you do, I’ve got a little surprise for you.”

Dar sighed. “No more surprises, Alastair, huh? The last time you almost killed me when you made me drive that damn Lincoln down here.”

“Tch tch...grumpy this morning, aren’t we?” The CEO laughed. “No. It’s better than that, I promise.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dar promised grudgingly.

“Atta girl. You know, Dar, you set such a good example for everyone else.” Alastair leaned back and regarded her. “What a poster child you are—

beautiful, healthy, crunching on your granola there.”

Dar glanced up at the blue cereal box, with the lurid tiger waving a spoon at her, and smiled. “Oh yeah.”

“You have to come out to Houston one of these days and teach my wife some of your tricks.”

“I hate Houston, Alastair,” Dar commented, finishing up her bowl and 4
Melissa Good
setting it into the stainless steel sink, then turning and grabbing a cup for her coffee.

The CEO grinned. “I’ll forgive you for saying that, just for that nice view, Dar,” he teased, “One of the perks of my job, I tell ya.”

Dar lifted her cup and gave him a wry look. “Nice seeing you too, Alastair.”

“Fifty percent, Dar,” the older man stated with a wave. “See ya.” The screen went dark.

“End meeting.” She sighed and watched the computer close the session down. “Happy Monday,” she muttered, as she took her cup and opened the sliding glass door that led out to her second-story balcony. The wind was coming in from the east, blowing back her hair and pressing her T-shirt against her body. She set her cup down on the small stone table and went to the railing, leaning on it and looking out over the rock-filled jetty to the endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.

The air was full of salt and thick with moisture, and she breathed it in, letting the familiarity soothe her as she listened to the rhythmic sound of the surf against the coral rocks that made up the base of the island on which she lived. In the east, the horizon displayed a gray, cloud-studded line over the still darkened sea, and it was so quiet she could hear the soft clanging of boat tie downs from the nearby marina. A gull swooped overhead, its feathers whipping the thick air as it soared along the coral, searching for food.

Dar reached behind her and picked up her mug, curling her hands around the ceramic surface and taking a sip of the flavored, pungent beverage.

She enjoyed the peace of early morning, and if she didn’t turn her head to see the long Miami Beach skyline rising to her left, she could imagine she was out in the Caribbean somewhere, viewing the sunrise.

Her condominium was a split-level townhouse, sharing a cluster with four other residents here on the outer eastern shore of the small island. The outer walls were reinforced steel and concrete, neatly designed and landscaped to simulate quaint adobe, but meeting current hurricane codes as was mandatory in Dade County.

That meant low, sloping roofs and all-concrete block construction, and a challenge for high-class architects to make buildings look less like bunkers, but Dar had spent one Category Five hurricane in the place, and she was glad to skip on the glamour in trade for having the walls stay put around her.

Fisher Island was an exclusive community, offering large oceanfront residences for those who could afford to pay unbelievable prices for them. Dar was thankful that she had inherited hers. She had seen the price tags for them, and found it hard to believe someone would spend five million dollars for what amounted to an apartment. Even a really, really nice apartment, with five bedrooms and three bathrooms, and a gorgeous kitchen, which she seldom used.

She could afford it. Being the VP Ops of the largest computer services company in the world garnered her a very healthy paycheck, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Thanks, Aunt May.” She toasted her departed, much-beloved aunt with her coffee. May Roberts had been something of a sensation in the family,
Tropical Storm
5

marrying four men and burying them all, all the while adding to her considerable bank balance. She’d bought the condo as an investment and occasionally rented it out, but had willed it to her niece on her death, correctly figuring it was better for Dar to live here than in “that horrible Grove.”

The little place among the jasmine and ficus was far more Dar’s style: a studio, with a hot plate and huge bay windows, and worn real wood floors that had fifty years of dogs’ nail marks in them. She’d been able to walk to the waterside and wander through the area’s sometimes oddball residents and not feel out of place in her hiking sandals and cutoffs.

No one had to know she was a corporate big shot. She liked it that way.