Player & the Game (14 page)

“W
here can a guy grab a bite to eat around here?” Keith asked as he stood at the motel counter.

The scrawny clerk stared up at him. “You didn't like our complimentary continental breakfast?”

Keith glanced across the vacant lobby at the white buffet table sitting in the corner. It was covered with platters of rock-hard muffins and biscuits, squishy grapes and slices of pineapple, and jars of jelly with a freshness date that was highly questionable. Only the coffee had seemed vaguely acceptable . . . until Keith had poured himself a cup, that is. He had set the coffee aside too after he sampled some.

“No offense, but I've had better,” Keith muttered.

“Well, there's a diner up the road,” the clerk drawled, handing him back his credit card and receipt. He pointed toward the window. “It's about five miles from here. They sell flapjacks, bacon, and eggs for three dollars and fifty cents.”

“Three-fifty, huh?” Keith tucked his credit card back into his wallet. “Maybe I'll go check it out. Thanks.”

The clerk nodded.

Keith turned and walked toward the glass door then let it slowly swing shut behind him. He strode across Starlight Motel's parking lot toward his Ford Explorer and glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after. Stephanie should be here by now. He had covered his hotel bill and told her to meet him at the car at 9 a.m.

“Typical,” he muttered. “Just typical.”

He should have known the pampered princess would have an issue with punctuality. She seemed to have an issue with everything else.

Stephanie had been in full diva mode since they arrived in South Carolina late last night. First, she had been appalled when she saw the state of their motel rooms.

“Oh my God,” she had sneered with a curl in her lip, “it's like I stepped into a time machine and got dumped back to 1973! Is that
shag carpet?
”

Then she complained about the lack of room service and other amenities. “What decent hotel doesn't have turn-down service? Will I have to wash my own towels and sheets too?”

Then she squawked about them having to leave bright and early at 9 a.m.

“How am I supposed to get my beauty sleep? I'm exhausted, Keith!”

But worse than her whining and complaining was the fact that Stephanie had kissed him. And heaven help him, he had almost kissed her back before he quickly got his wits about him. That woman was a temptress . . . a treacherous one! The longer she was around, the more and more he felt like he had made the wrong decision letting her come here with him. But he had been swept by her pleas and sad brown eyes. Now he knew for sure that if she was going to keep tagging along, he had to be sterner with her. He had to lay down the law. He couldn't have her messing up his schedule anymore or messing with his head and libido.

He tossed his duffel bag inside the car and glanced at his watch once more. He shook his head again, slammed his car door shut, and stalked across the parking lot to her motel room.

It was a small motel that sat on a hill not far from the highway. The yellow-and-black sign facing the roadway advertised hot tubs and new wireless access in all rooms. Keith admitted that the bland brown décor and cheap particle-board furniture left much to be desired as far as accommodations, but the motel had served its purpose while they were here. Now they were moving on and headed to meet Ms. Beaumont to find out more about Isaac.

That is if Stephanie ever manages to leave her damn room,
he thought with exasperation.

Her room was three doors down from his. He pounded on the door several times with his closed fist. He paused and waited for an answer. When he didn't hear one, he pounded again. After a couple of minutes, the door swung open.

“I heard you! I heard you!” she shouted. “Geez! Did you used to be a cop?”

He paused then nodded. “Yeah, why?”

“Because you've developed the art of banging on doors like one,” she muttered peevishly with her hand on her hip as she glowered at him. “I thought I was in a drug raid and someone was about to cart me off to jail!”

“I was banging on the door because you were supposed to meet me at the car at nine a.m. You were supposed to be ready to leave at that time.” He pointed down at his wristwatch then gazed at her. She was standing in the doorway in a pink satin robe and her hair was partially in curlers. “It is now nine-fifteen and you are obviously nowhere close to being ready.”

“Well aren't you just a big bottle of sunshine in the morning,” she muttered then waved her hand at him dismissively. She turned around. “It'll only take a few minutes to get ready.”

She sashayed across her motel room to the bathroom, pulling curlers from her hair as she went.

Keith told himself for the umpteenth time to count to ten. He then took a calming breath, stepped inside her room, and shut the door behind him.

He looked around and saw that piles of clothes were thrown all over her bed. The lid of her suitcase was open. Makeup and bottles of lotion were still on her dresser top. He closed his eyes.

“Stephanie, you are
not
going to be ready to go in a few minutes.”

“Yes, I am,” she sang through the cracked bathroom door. “You'll see!”

“It's impossible!” He opened his eyes and thought for a bit. “Look, why don't I do this? I'll head to breakfast and then come back to—”

“Oh, no!
You think I'm going to let you leave me here alone? How do I know you won't do your interview without me?”

“I wouldn't do that,” he answered tersely. “I promised that you could come along and I meant it. I'm a man of my word.”

“So take me at
my
word, Keith!” she yelled through the door crack. “I swear that all I need is another ten minutes. I'm almost done anyway. Stop being such a slave driver,” she mumbled under her breath.

Enough of this crap,
Keith thought with frustration. He strode toward the bathroom doorway. “Damn it! Why don't you just . . .”

His words faded.

He caught a glimpse of her reflection through the cracked doorway. She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, furiously running her fingers through her long hair, trying to comb out her nest of curls. She had taken off her satin robe and was now topless, revealing beautiful brown breasts that were a perfect handful and pointed dark areolas—little Hershey's Kisses that any man would be happy to nibble on. She also wore a black lace thong. She turned slightly and bent over, giving him a delectable view of her curvy bottom and sculpted thighs.

Keith's eyes raked over her. His mouth literally watered. He instantly became rock hard.

“Why don't I just what?” she snapped, completely oblivious to the fact that he was now ogling her naked body.

“Uh . . .” He loudly cleared his throat. “Uh, never . . . never mind. I'll . . . I'll wait for you at the car.”

She furrowed her brows. “Huh?”

He abruptly turned, walked across the room and out her doorway, shutting the door behind him.

He took several deep breaths as he walked across the mostly deserted parking lot toward his SUV. When he opened his car door and plopped onto the leather seat, his craving for Stephanie still hadn't subsided. His jean zipper felt like it was straining to hold in Mt. Kilimanjaro.

This woman was pushing him closer and closer to the edge and if he wasn't careful, she would push him right over. He could make a big mistake if he wasn't careful, like giving in to his desire for her. Even now, he was finding it hard to control the urge to go back to her motel room, push her against the bathroom wall, and show her just how much of a “slave driver” he really could be. If she let him, he could do things to her body that would leave her quivering in ecstasy and begging him not to stop. He'd make love to her until both of their bodies were sapped and spent.

But I'm not going to do that,
he resolved.

He was going to stay focused on this case and not get distracted by her, yet again. He decided then and there that after they spoke to Ms. Beaumont, he was sending Stephanie back to Virginia. If the trail following Isaac continued to another county or another state, it didn't matter. He was following the trail alone. He didn't care how much Stephanie pled or whined or argued this time. She had to go.

S
tephanie glanced at Keith as he drove, wondering why he was so quiet all of a sudden. He had barely spoken to her as they ate breakfast at the small diner that morning. He hadn't looked up from his plate of pancakes and bacon, even when she tried to talk to him about the case, even when she waved her hands in front of his face and asked him, “Cat got your tongue?” He had only shaken his head and mumbled something in response, irritating her even more. He had paid the bill, left a tip for the waitress, and silently got up and walked back to his car, leaving her sitting alone in the diner booth.

She was starting to wonder if his silence was supposed to be some kind of a punishment. So she was a little late getting ready this morning.
Big deal!
It didn't mean she deserved the silent treatment.

She stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest and glared out of the windshield, deciding to ignore him if he insisted on acting this way. Minutes later, they turned onto a long, winding road and finally pulled onto a gravel driveway bordered by cypress trees. When Stephanie saw the house sitting on the crest of the hill, she gaped in amazement.

Stephanie was accustomed to opulence. Her mother's mansion was one of the largest and most finely decorated in Chesterton and was only eclipsed in size by a few others, including the property owned by Stephanie's brother-in-law Crisanto Weaver. But the house in front of her looked like something straight out of
Gone with the Wind
. She was sure she had stepped out of the present day and landed smack into the antebellum South. Pretty soon Scarlett O'Hara was going to come rushing out the door to battle with the Yankees.

It was a plantation style house with six ionic columns holding up a white veranda. Green shutters were on every window. Brick steps led to the green French doors. The front porch was flanked by flowering rose bushes, and ivy climbed up the latticework along the sides of the mansion to the roof.

Two women stood on the front porch. Both were smiling. One was a middle-aged white woman in a gray maid's uniform, wearing a lace-edged apron. In her hands was a silver tray covered with a few glasses and a sweating pitcher of lemonade. Beside her was a white-haired, sepia-toned black woman who looked to be in her mid to late sixties, but she had the physique of someone much younger. Her flowing white hair was held back on one side by a black hair comb. She reminded Stephanie of her own deceased grandmother Althea. She was certainly wearing a dress that Althea would have worn herself, were she still alive. It was red and slightly low cut. The bodice was form-fitting, showing her small waist, but the skirt flared, ending at her brown calves. Her bare legs were nicely sculpted.

When the SUV pulled to a stop near the house's entrance, the black woman's smile instantly widened. She walked down the brick steps toward the Explorer with round hips swaying.

“Mr. Hendricks, I presume,” she drawled as Keith threw open his car door. She extended her slender, well-manicured hand.

“Ms. Beaumont.” He nodded and took her hand in his own. He shook it.

“Please,” she said, giving him a wink, “call me Myra. Any time someone calls me ‘Ms. Beaumont,' I feel like an old schoolmarm.” She laughed and placed her hand over his and squeezed. She then let her dark eyes trail over him slowly. She licked her red-painted lips. “My, my, my! I didn't expect you to be quite so handsome, Mr. Hendricks! I was expecting a—”

She paused when Stephanie opened the car's passenger-side door and climbed out of the SUV.

“Well, who is this?” Myra released Keith's hand. She narrowed her eyes at the younger woman, looking annoyed. “I don't remember you saying you were bringing a guest with you, Mr. Hendricks.”

He sighed. “I didn't.”

Myra cocked an eyebrow in confusion. “I'm sorry. So who is she?”

Stephanie shut the car door and quickly stepped forward. She extended her hand. “Hello, Ms. Beaumont. My name is Stephanie Gibbons. It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.”

Myra stared at Stephanie's hand warily for several seconds before finally taking it. When she did shake it, she did it as if it pained her. “Pleased to meet you too, Miss Gibbons,” she said flatly. “Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you. You have a very beautiful home, ma'am.”

“Nice of you to say.” Myra pursed her lips. “So you are Mr. Hendricks's companion. Are you also a detective?”

Stephanie shook her head. “No, I'm—”

“She's my assistant,” Keith interjected. “She's just . . . tagging along.”

“Oh, how nice!” the older woman exclaimed, eyeing Stephanie again. “Isn't that charming? Does your assistant always ‘tag along' with you, Mr. Hendricks?”

“Only when she refuses to be left behind,” he muttered, making the older woman throw back her head and laugh.

Stephanie put her hands on her hips, not amused at being the butt of his joke. She knew why Keith was irritated with her, but she had done nothing to earn this woman's disdain. Obviously, this hot-to-trot old biddy thought she would have Keith—a strapping young buck—all to herself.

Hate to disappoint, lady, but I'm not going anywhere,
she thought.

“Well, come on inside,” Myra said, waving them forward. She walked back up the stairs to the French doors, but paused to stand in front of the maid. “Would you like some lemonade?” She held up the ice-cold pitcher and gazed at Keith adoringly.

“Yes, I would love some,” Stephanie said politely.

Myra dropped the pitcher back to the tray with a
clink
. “Then Helda can pour you some.”

Stephanie quietly seethed in frustration and glanced up at Keith. She could see him fighting back a smile. The maid handed each of them glasses of lemonade and a minute later they walked through the French doors into the foyer that smelled like hyacinth and lemons.

Stephanie gazed around her in wonder. A winding mahogany staircase led to the second floor. A sitting room with French country wallpaper and Queen Anne furniture was to her right and the dining room with a table that looked like it could seat a dozen people was to her left. An awe-inspiring glass chandelier hung overhead in the center of the foyer. There were several paintings on the wall, mostly in rococo style.

This lady certainly doesn't believe in skimping,
she thought grudgingly.

“So,” Myra began as she ushered them into her brightly-lit sitting room, “you wish to find out about Isaac.” She turned and waved her hand toward a pale yellow satin sofa, gesturing for them to take a seat. “Or at least that's what he's calling himself now.”

“Yes,” Keith said, sitting down. “You said you two knew each other.”

Stephanie took the seat beside him.

“Oh, we knew each other
very
well!” Myra gave a thoughtful nod. “I've known him since he was nineteen years old. I was the one who taught him everything he knows.”

Keith leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

Myra paused. She crossed her brown legs and tilted her head. “How candid can I be with you, Mr. Hendricks?”

“As candid as you'd like.”

“I mean, sir, that I want to know whether I have to worry about you blabbing to the authorities and telling them what I am about to tell you. If that is the case, then we can end this conversation right now.”

Stephanie raised her eyebrows, taking a sip from her glass. She wondered how Keith would handle this one.

“If it's anything pertaining to the case I'm now investigating, I have to tell them,” Keith said. “But if it's anything related to any other crimes, I will use my own discretion.”

“Uh-huh,” Myra said. “That's a very diplomatic but honest answer, Mr. Hendricks.”

“You don't want me to lie to you, do you?”

“I suppose not.” She waved her slender hand. “Well, what I'm about to say doesn't paint me in the best light. Thank God for the statute of limitations or I could face jail time for half the things I've done in my life!” She cleared her throat. “But I will tell you anyway.”

“Why?” Stephanie asked.

Myra turned her gaze to her. “Because Isaac betrayed me, and the first rule I've ever taught him is that you do not betray your teacher. Now he has to pay the price for what he's done and the price he pays could be a hefty one, but so be it. He brought it on himself.” She sat back in her chair. “When I met Isaac, he was a little street thug from a small town in Florida. He was what you young men call today a booster, I believe.”

Keith nodded. “He stole cars.”

“Yes, indeed, honey! He was working for some backwater kingpin named Big Red.” She pinched her lips. “He was still wet behind the ears back then. He thought he knew more about the world than he really did, but I could see that young man had potential. He was good lookin'—
very
good lookin'—and he had a natural charm to him. I decided to take him under my wing. I refined him. I taught him how to seduce and how to turn up the charm. I taught him how to run a con. He excelled at every lesson that I threw at him. He took to being a conman like a fish would take to water.”

“Why'd you go out of your way to teach him these things?” Keith asked, taking a drink of lemonade. “You didn't do it out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Of course not! Honey, I was forty-five and Isaac was nineteen. I've always liked my men young and virile. They're the only ones that can keep up with me! And that boy was as good in bed as he was pretty! He certainly had no problem with stamina.” She gave Keith another long, assessing gaze. “You know, you remind me a lot of what Isaac was like back then—very tough, very manly. You grew up in a rough neighborhood too, didn't you?”

Keith glanced at Stephanie and nodded. “East Baltimore.”

When their eyes met, he looked away again. Stephanie suddenly wondered what the childhood version of Keith was like. Did he put up the same walls that the adult Keith often did?

“Uh-huh,” Myra said with a nod. “I thought so. It's just something about you boys. The hardness doesn't go away. I like a tough man though, honey! Oh, the things I could have taught you . . .” She slowly shook her head and clucked her tongue. “. . . You couldn't imagine.”

Stephanie nearly choked on her lemonade. She started to cough. Keith bit back his laughter.

“Well,” Myra said, getting back to the subject at hand, “every bird leaves the nest eventually. Isaac started to work his own cons, but he would always come back to visit every once and a while. He'd spend a few nights with me, then head on his way.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Keith asked.

“About three months ago, before he headed to Virginia. That's when I found out he had stolen money from me.” She slowly shook her head. “
Me!
Of all people! How could he do that? I was practically like a mother to him!”

Stephanie raised an eyebrow.
I'm pretty sure most men don't get lessons in the bedroom from their mothers,
she thought dryly, but kept that opinion to herself.

“I swear the old saying holds true . . . there is no honor among thieves!” Myra continued. “If he comes back this time, he is not welcome. I told him never to darken my doorstep again.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Keith asked.

“Oh, a few weeks ago.” She tilted her head. “He tried to smooth talk his way into my good graces. Whenever he finishes a con, he has to go into hiding for awhile. He wanted to come here but I told him no. He told me he had just swindled some silly real estate agent who thought he was going to marry her.” She chuckled. “Marry her!
Can you believe that?
Honestly, I swear some of these women are so gullible! They make cons so easy!”

Stephanie instantly stiffened. Her hold around her glass of lemonade tightened to the point that she thought it would shatter in her hand.

Keith glanced at her anxiously and cleared his throat. He then returned his attention to Myra. “Did Isaac say where he was going? Where else does he go when he wants to lie low for awhile?”

Myra took a deep breath and thought for a bit. “If he doesn't come here, he usually goes to his hometown in Florida. Something with the word ‘swamp' in it. It's not far from Pensacola.” She sneered. “I tried my best to get him to leave that Podunk town behind. I especially wanted him to lose contact with that fat thug Big Red because that man is nothing by a liability, but it didn't work. Old roots run deep, I guess.”

Keith nodded. “So if I want to find Isaac, I need to head to Florida then.”

“I guess so, Mr. Hendricks.”

“Can I count on your silence, Myra?” Keith asked, gazing into the older woman's eyes. “You aren't going to suddenly forgive Isaac and give him the heads-up . . . tell him that we're looking for him?”

She rose from her chair. “Trust me. You don't have to worry about me telling him anything. He crossed me and I'm not one to forgive and forget. He knows that.” Her face suddenly brightened. “How long do you plan to stay in our fair town before you leave for Florida, Mr. Hendricks?”

He shrugged and stood from the sofa. “Not long.”

Stephanie followed suit and stood with the rest of them. She guessed that was the end of the interview.

“Hopefully, for one more night, at least. You know, you're welcome to stay here, if you wish. My home has plenty of rooms!”

Stephanie noticed that she hadn't been offered a similar invitation. She watched as Myra took a step toward Keith. The older woman lowered her thick, dark lashes.