HardWind (7 page)

him on his knees before his captors and the intended emasculation had hurt Dáire

Cronin far more than the actual pain of his torture. Unable to do anything but crawl due

to the cuts and abrasions on his feet, he had spent many an agonizing moment in a

subservient position before his captors—a situation he had found nearly unbearable.

Seeing Jackson’s worried face on the day he’d been ransomed back to The Group had

been the happiest moment of Dáire’s life.

Sweeping Dáire up in his beefy arms, Jackson had carried his partner from the

prison and had not released his hold on Dáire even in the chopper that had spirited

them to the Philippines and the Lear that had been waiting to fly them to France. Only

when the medic had ordered Dáire laid on the gurney that would carry him into the jet

did Jackson let the emaciated, deathly ill man out of his grip.

“I’m here, buddy,” Jackson had said, tears running down his face. “I’m here.”

During the entire flight, Jackson had not once relinquished Dáire’s dirty hand. He

had sat beside the gurney—stroking the filthy flesh—and crying.

That was the bond the two men shared.

Opening his eyes, Dáire watched a seagull careening across the crisp blue sky,

thankful he had not been allowed to die in the unimaginable squalor of that cell and

that—to some extent—he was as free as the high-sailing gull.

Thirsty, he got up from the chaise and went inside, the coolness of the marble

against his bare feet soothing. The fridge had been stocked with plenty of orange juice,

beer and Bloody Mary mix. He swiped a can of pop before heading for a shower and a

change of clothing. It was nearing lunchtime for him and he found he was hungry.

A wicked smile spread over Dáire’s full lips. It was a Friday and Star would be at

the restaurant. He decided today was as good a time as any to begin winning her back.

That he could, he had no doubt. It was simply a matter of trying.

* * * * *

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

The restaurant had a line of people waiting to get inside when Dáire drove up in his

brand-new black Lexus L430 and handed his baby over to Raider, the valet who came

hurrying up.

“Man, neat wheels, Mr. C.,” Raider complimented.

“How long’s the wait do you think?” Dáire asked.

“For you?” Raider asked, his eyes wide. “Ain’t none. Deuce will let you right on in.

You know that.”

Dáire wasn’t so sure about his welcome, but when he caught the burly doorman’s

eye, Deuce motioned him on over.

“Long time, no see,” Deuce said, taking the hand Dáire always offered. “Jackson not

with you?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I don’t always need him to lead me around by the

hand,” Dáire joked. “Actually, I’ve now learned to walk and chew gum at the same time

too.”

“’Bout time,” Deuce commented. “Thought we were going to have to send you to

remedial chewing 101.”

The people standing in line gave Dáire some pretty odd looks but he ignored them

as he moved ahead of the waiting diners and into the cool sanctuary of the Corinth. He

smiled at Chelsea, the afternoon hostess.

“You get any lovelier and Star’s gonna have to issue shades to her customers,” he

quipped.

“You’re a bad man, Mr. C.,” Chelsea returned. She picked up a menu. “She’s not

here, but is her table okay?”

Some of the good feeling he’d been experiencing since his shower leached away at

the news Star wasn’t at the restaurant. “Sure. She gone already?”

“Never came in today,” Chelsea said as she led him to Star’s private table. “She

called to say she’d be out of town a few days.”

That information hit Dáire like a ton of bricks. “Do you have any idea where she

went?”

“Not a clue. She does that pretty often, though.”

“What? Leaves town?” he asked as he took his seat.

Chelsea nodded as she laid the menu before him. “And she’s gone every Sunday.

It’s been that way for quite some time.”

“And you don’t know where?”

The pretty woman shrugged. “Not a clue,” she repeated.

“He go with her on these mysterious jaunts of hers?” Dáire made himself ask.

“Not that I know of,” Chelsea answered. “Mr. B. called asking for her a little while

ago so I know he isn’t with her today.” She leaned down, putting her lush lips to his

ears. “I don’t like that man. Can you do something about him?” She straightened up.

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“That’s the plan, sweetie,” Dáire told her.

“Good,” Chelsea said. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. C.”

He ordered four dozen boiled shrimp, a tossed salad with blue cheese dressing and

extra sourdough rolls. Along with a tall glass of sweetened ice tea—Deep South style

with lemon—he was set to enjoy his lunch.

Until Brighton Boyd came strutting in and right up to the table, eyes flaring.

“Who gave you permission to sit here?” Boyd demanded.

Dáire Cronin was six feet two inches of prime muscle. He knew how to use those

muscles. He had dark brown eyes that could blaze with fury in the snap of a finger or

chill with the alacrity of a blizzard. At that moment—when he looked up at Bright

Boy—his eyes were filled with a warning that Boyd was either too stupid or too reckless

to heed.

“I asked you a question, fool!”

As Jackson—had he been there—could have told Boyd, you don’t call a man trained

to kill with his bare hands such a name and walk away unscathed.

One moment Boyd was standing erect and the next he was on his knees beside

Dáire’s chair, his arm twisted up and behind his back in such a way extreme pain

registered on the man’s smarmy face.

“Obviously,” Dáire said in a pleasant voice, “you don’t have any manners. Let’s

teach you some.” He pulled Boyd’s arm higher until the groaning man came partially

off his knees. “Get the hell out of here before I lose my temper and break your scrawny

arm.”

Business taken care of, Dáire let go of Bright Boy’s arm and commenced to eating

the salad the sweet-faced little waitress had slipped in front of him during the

confrontation.

“You’ll hear from my attorney!” Boyd promised. His face was infused with a deep

red coloring and he was cradling his arm close to his chest.

“I live next door to Star so he can serve the papers there,” Dáire said.

Boyd’s red face blanched of color. “Y-you are Cronin?” he asked, his eyes darting

around the room.

“In the very annoyed flesh,” Dáire replied. He smiled, but that smile was deadly.

“You still want to call your little lawyer?”

Boyd took a step back—nearly collided with a waiter—then turned and hurried off.

As though nothing of consequence had taken place, Dáire delved into the icy-cold

shrimp, dredging them through an even colder bowl of horseradish-saturated seafood

sauce before popping them into his mouth with relish.

“Well done, Mr. C.,” Chelsea complimented as she strolled by.

“My pleasure.”

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Though he stayed far longer than he normally would have, Star never showed up.

After prolonging his meal—almost wishing some rat-faced summons server would pop

up—Dáire got up and sauntered out, leaving a large tip behind with his bill.

He strolled down the Miracle Strip and did a bit of sightseeing. He bought a couple

of pairs of jeans, a new beach towel, a couple of paperback books, some small bags of

candy and soda pop. For two hours he ambled along watching the summer vacationers

with their sunburns, flip-flops and garish shirts. Twice he walked back by the Corinth

and twice Deuce shook his head to indicate Star had not come in. Finally, he decided to

retrieve his car and go back to the Farraige. The pool was beckoning and he needed a

workout.

Sitting stretched out on his stomach later that afternoon, he dozed, letting the sun

bake his back and legs. Now and again he’d turn over, read a chapter or two of one of

his new books, munch a few pieces of candy then dive into the pool and do a few laps.

By the time the sun began to lower across the Gulf, he’d read half of one of the

paperbacks, consumed all his candy and polished off one entire bottle of Bloody Mary

mix—which he drank straight and without benefit of liquor.

Hunger rumbled in his stomach despite the junk food binge so he took one last dip

in the pool, went in and showered, dressed in slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, and called

the Corinth for a reservation.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. C., but we’re booked solid,” Phaedra, the night hostess informed

him.

“Is she there?”

There was a slight pause. “Yes, sir, but she’s dining with Mr. Boyd and she isn’t in a

good mood this evening.”

Although the peevish little imp who resided on Dáire’s shoulder did a mean little

hop then kicked his cheek with a pointed-toe little boot, Dáire shrugged away the desire

for another confrontation—this time with Star in attendance.

“That’s okay, Phae. Thanks anyway. I’ll eat somewhere else tonight.”

After thumbing through the restaurant guide in his desk, Daire decided to order a

pizza and call it a night. He called his favorite pizza place Pepper Ronie’s and ordered a

pie with everything except anchovies and pineapple, a tossed salad and a six-pack of

the pop.

After a barefoot trip downstairs to give the concierge the money for the pizza as

well as a large tip for the driver, he gave the man behind the desk five dollars to bring

the food up to his condo. As he was waiting for the elevator to open, he closed his eyes

for the delicious scent of gardenias came suddenly wafting to him and he knew Star

had just come into the lobby. Turning, he saw her looking at him as she approached.

“Wanna lift, little lady?” he inquired.

Star didn’t reply. She came to stand beside him and when the doors opened,

walked past him and entered the cage. The two rode up to the top floor in silence. Like

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the gentleman he was, he allowed her to leave the cage first. She surprised him by

turning to face him.

“I need to speak to you,” she said quietly.

He thought he knew about what. “Look, I didn’t do the man any damage, Star. I—”

She shook her head. “It’s not about that,” she said.

He hesitated then asked if she wanted to come into his home.

“Yes,” she replied.

Some strange thing wriggled down his spine as he moved toward his door. Star’s

face was drawn and she looked as though she’d been crying. She was nervously

twisting her fingers together as she waited for him to unlock his door, and before she

entered the foyer, took a deep breath—as though about to go to her execution.

“I don’t bite,” he said, following her inside.

“Not too viciously anyway,” she responded. She looked back at him with a ghost of

a smile on her pretty mouth. “Have you had this year’s rabies vax?”

“Distemper too,” he assured her.

Instead of going into the great room, she turned right then left and went into his

kitchen. It was there they’d always held any solemn conversations, sitting at the glass

octagonal dinette table in front of a sweeping view of his lap pool. Frivolous

conversation had always been reserved for curling up on his sectional sofa in the great

room.

“Is it that serious?” he inquired as she pulled out a chair and sat down.

She didn’t answer for a moment. She was staring at the sparkling blue waters of the

lap pool, the ten-feet-high fieldstone wall that ran beside, bisecting their two properties.

“Want something to drink?” he asked, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of

orange juice.

“No, thank you,” she answered, and turned to face him.

He perched on a barstool at the peninsula, tipping back on the two rear legs, his

right instep on the bar rail, took a sip of the beverage then rested the container on his

thigh. “What’s up, Starlight?” he asked.

She took another deep breath as though fortifying herself then looked him in the

eye. “I need your help.”

He nodded. “Okay. Who do you want me to kill?” It was asked in a solemn voice.

That ghost of a smile hovered on her lips for a moment then slipped away as she

broke eye contact and looked down at her hands. She was back to twisting her fingers

together, this time on the thick glass top of the dinette table.

“First,” she said, not looking at him, “I need to explain something to you.”

“All right. ’S’plain away, Lucy,” he said in his best imitation of the actor Desi

Arnez.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

She looked up. “This is serious, Dáire,” she said. His name on her lips never failed

to touch him. She pronounced it the Celtic way—deh ruh—and it always made his

heart ache.

He took another sip of the juice then set it on the bar. “Just tell me,” he said, lacing

his fingers together in his lap.

Once more she looked out at the pool—seemingly unable to meet his eyes. When

she spoke, her voice was pitched lower, softer than usual, and he had to strain to hear

her.

“Before you left that night, I had something important to tell you, but you didn’t

have time to listen,” she said.

He made no comment, knowing that to dredge up their last conversation would be

to start the fight all over again.

She closed her eyes, lowered her head, as a single tear slid slowly down her cheek.