Swindled in Paradise (17 page)

It surprised me when I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed a black sedan with blacked out windows. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but now it rapidly approached and practically rested on my back bumper.

“A-hole,” I murmured.

He probably would have gone around and left me in the dust, which I was used to, but a big rig took up several car lengths of the lane on my left. I had no room to maneuver. With one eye firmly glued to the rearview mirror, I sighed with relief when the sedan veered to the far left, attempting to blast around the truck into oncoming traffic, a terrible way to treat what appeared to be a new Chevrolet SS. My relief was short-lived when he turned the wheel hard back into my lane and began once again tailgating me. The driver played a game of speed up and slow down, each time getting closer to having a chat in the back seat.

Under pressure and already just over the speed limit, I stomped on the gas to try to clear the big rig, or at least give the car enough room to swing around me and be on its way. As I sped up, so did the other car. I knew that if I had to brake suddenly, it wouldn’t be pretty. A moment later, fear swept through me as I wondered if it was someone Fab or I had pissed off, who was orchestrating the right time to run me off the road.

My hands sweaty on the steering wheel, I stayed steady on the gas but knew I couldn’t keep up the high rate of speed. I lacked the nerve for fast driving. I reluctantly gave up on the hope that the SS would get bored with the game of intimidation and turn at one of the many signals we passed, make a U-turn…anything. I flung out my hand, slapping Fab on the arm.

Fab correctly diagnosed from my rigid posture and the fear on my face that I needed her help. She turned toward the back window, then ended her call on a seductive whisper. “What’s going on?” She continued to stare at the road behind us.

“Hell if I know,” I hissed, one eye on the rearview mirror, the other on the road.

“Wait until I tell you, then tap your brakes. Now!” she said. “Car’s dropped back an inch.”

“I have no room to maneuver. The shoulder’s too narrow, and it drops into a ditch.”

“Okay, then just ease your foot off the gas. The other car will probably go around. If it doesn’t, you can pull over.” She glanced out the side window. “And stay out of the ditch. Option two, I hang out the window and shoot out the tires.”

“Let’s leave door number two as a last resort.” I did as she instructed and sighed with relief when I felt the Hummer slowing, gradually getting back to the posted speed. I glanced in the rearview mirror and blinked. My mouth dropped open. Flashing lights inside the Chevy’s grill and windshield went on signaling—law enforcement.

“What the hell?” I spit out at the top of my lungs. The last thing I wanted to do was pull over on the shoulder and park the SUV taking up half the traffic lane. Up farther, I spotted a sign hanging by a thread in the distance, so I continued. When I didn’t immediately pull over, the driver began laying on the horn to accompany the siren.

I pulled into the driveway of what was once an old fast food restaurant. A half-dozen men loitered on the property, leaning against the boarded-up building. They looked up as I rumbled over the gravel and then scattered when the police car pulled in behind me. Every one of them disappeared before I even got the engine shut off.

“What did you do?” Fab asked as she handed me my wallet.

“No idea.” I put the window down, license in hand before he could ask.

The police officer’s face appeared in the window. He was in full uniform, and the patch on his shirt read Miami Police Department. I guessed him to be fortyish, but it was hard to tell with the reflector sunglasses covering most of his face. Instead of it being a comfort to find out he was law enforcement, it made me really mad. I sucked in a deep breath, struggling not to say anything stupid.

He took the license from my fingers. “Does this tank have registration and insurance?”

Fab had already retrieved them from the console box and handed them over.

“Do you know how fast you were going?”

I ground my teeth. “Fast enough to get away from you. You were speeding. You tailgated me. And you scared me witless.”

“Scared you?” He huffed a half-laugh.

“Your car’s not marked and looks like it belongs to a drug dealer.” Calm down, I coached myself.

“Don’t go anywhere.” He paused for a second and started back to his pimped-out car.

I stuck my head out the window and said, “Your erratic driving forced me to speed up to get away from you.”

He didn’t miss a step, not acknowledging that I’d said anything.

Fab started laughing. “Miss Slowpoke is going to get a ticket for speeding.” She slapped the armrest.

I glared at her and flung my head back against the seat. I hoped he’d let me go when he checked my record and saw no tickets or accidents. I watched the clock, tapping the steering wheel in a steady beat as the minutes ticked by. Ten minutes later, we were joined by three more patrol cars, one a K-9 unit.

“Get out your carry permit,” I said to Fab. I pulled my Glock from my waistband and dropped it in my purse. “I think we’re in big trouble.”

The original officer came back to the window. “Both of you need to get out and stand over there.” He pointed to where two officers stood staring. I handed over our concealed carry permits and told him the guns were in our bags. “Both of you, hands in the air.”

He walked us to the back of the Hummer, where we were joined by another officer, and they conducted a pat down. The officer in the K-9 car opened the door, and a German Shepherd jumped to the ground. He headed straight for the rear tire on the driver’s side and lifted his leg.

Fab poked me in the side.

The dog continued to sniff around the outside of the SUV. The officer opened the passenger door, and the dog jumped in and sniffed the interior. The officer was joined by another, who opened the back door. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see what they were doing.

An older officer, sixties and Cuban if I were to guess, stood less than a foot away. He flashed me a friendly smile.

“What’s going on?” I asked the man.

“They should be done in a minute. As long as everything checks out, you’ll be on your way.”

Fab bristled. “You’d think we were drug dealers.”

The original officer conferred with the K-9 officer, his jaw set with determination, then came over to us. “The dog scented on something. We’re going to transfer you to the women’s jail for a thorough pat down.”

Before I could say anything, Fab pinched my arm. “What is it you want to see?” She lifted her top and did a three-sixty.

“Fabiana.” I winced and exhaled a puff of air.

The officers were enjoying the show.

Fab motioned to me, so I followed her lead and said a thankful silent prayer that I’d outgrown my no-bra stage.

“That was cooperative of you.” He gave us an oily smile.

I asked the older officer, “Was this necessary?”

“You’d be surprised the things we find inside bras and taped underneath.”

The original officer, who’d disappeared for a moment after making a beeline for his car, was back, ticket book in hand. “For everyone’s safety, it would be prudent to follow the posted speed limit. By my calculation, you flew by at least three signs posting the maximum speed, which you ignored.” He shoved the annoying book at me. “Sign here.” He pointed. “You can avoid a trial by sending three hundred dollars to this address.”

“Three hundred dollars?” I gasped.

“I did you a favor and kept the miles per hour under the limit that would require a mandatory court appearance, more expense, and more points on your driver’s record.” Officer Watters, according to his name badge, acted like he wanted a thank you. He’d wait a damn long time.

“We’ll be seeing one another again.” I scribbled my name at the bottom. “I hope you’ll remember me when I show up in court to contest this ticket.”

“Go ahead. Boo hoo, you’re innocent. Judges hear it all the time. Whose word do you think carries more weight? Mine and my fellow officers’ or yours?”

“Officer Watters, is it?” I glanced again at his name tag.
That’s a name I’ll never forget,
I thought. “I’ll be bringing my own character witness—Chief Harder. He knows exactly how I drive.” I retrieved my license and handed back his book.

He shook his head and handed me a copy of the ticket. “This is what comes from being a nice guy. You’re free to go.”

Fab watched as the officers got back in their cars, pulling out one by one. Watters finally turned off his flashing lights. “That was nervy.”

“You’re driving.” I walked around to the passenger side. “What in the hell?” I shouted.

Poking my head inside, I saw that our bags had been turned upside down, the contents scattered on the floor. The change of clothing I’d insisted long ago that we both have was strewn across the entire back of the car, our changes of underwear on top.

My hands shook with the anger that rolled through me, and I tightened my grip until it subsided, willing myself to calm down.

“What did we do to piss him off? Are you calling the chief?

“No, but he doesn’t know that. I
will
be telling Creole all about Officer Watters.” I gathered our belongings together and comingled them in one bag. We could sort it out on the living room floor at home. I unscrewed the top of my water bottle and downed it. “
I am
going to court. I’ll have a talk with my hotshot lawyer. He’d never lower himself to go to traffic court, but he can give me pointers.”

“I like this tough-girl side of you.”

“I’m not paying a ticket I don’t deserve,” I seethed.

Fab sat behind the wheel, watching out her side mirror, until Officer Watters pulled back out onto the highway. Then she pulled out, turning onto the highway. Fab stayed under the speed limit and hooked a turn in the opposite direction at the first opportunity.

“In the future, you need to learn to have phone sex and drive at the same time. I suggest getting an earpiece.”

Fab kept to the posted speed until we got to the freeway on-ramp. She broke the silence to say, “Let me know when the court date is. I’m coming to watch you in action. Your almost-lawyer bartender could give you tips.”

“You know, I gave serious thought to going to law school. My problem was I lacked the discipline three more years of school would require. Instead, I went into business, found out that I was good at it, and never regretted my choice. I don’t think I could sleep at night if a client I thought wasn’t guilty went to jail. What were your career dreams?”

“I was raised to be an ornament: a wife, a mother, an asset on a man’s arm. I’m well-educated and speak three languages, yet was expected to defer to my father or husband. Then I met my ex-husband, Gabriel, and he introduced me to pure excitement, the thrill of living on the edge, the rush… He was the complete package—wicked smart, breathtakingly handsome and, of course, a criminal.” She half-laughed.

I knew a lot of her memories weren’t pleasant.

“I didn’t know what I wanted,” she said. “At the time, I only wanted someone that my parents would hate. But now—I have more than I ever thought possible: a man that I love, a best friend, and a family that doesn’t seem to care that I’m flawed.”

Chapter 24

Fab expertly parked the Hummer next to her Mercedes. We’d both seen Didier’s car parked in front, and before she could run into the house, I hugged her. “Mother and I both love you,” I whispered in her ear.

Fab silently hugged me back.

“We’re home,” I yelled as we came through the front door. I flew up the stairs and packed a bag in record time, then showered, lathering up with Creole’s favorite body wash, and pulled on a wildly printed mid-thigh dress with a deep slit and a little surprise underneath. I came back down to find Fab and Didier snuggling on the couch.

Fab pointed to my bag on the floor. “Didier and I sorted everything out.”

I smiled at her. “If Creole stops by and asks where I’m at, tell the detective to come find me.”

Didier chuckled. “I bet he finds you at his first stop.”

“I hope so. Tell him I
hate
to be kept waiting.”

Before heading to Creole’s hideaway, I stopped at the local market and bought a piece of fresh grouper and an array of fresh vegetables. Since no dinner is complete without dessert, I grabbed some praline ice cream.

I seldom made the trip down the Keys by myself. Usually the big man swept me off my feet, tossed me in his truck, and drove me to his house.

It felt good to use my own door key, to slip inside, kick off my flip-flops, and spread the groceries out on the counter to prep for dinner. To go with the food, I picked out a bottle of cabernet from a California winery that Creole liked. I slid open the pocket doors to the patio, welcoming in the fresh air. After cleaning and cutting up the vegetables, I tossed a small salad and whisked up a marinade for the fish, then went out to the deck and set the small round table for two that overlooked the pool and the beach below. Long ago, I’d surprised him by putting together a set of dishes in the tropical colors he liked: green, tangerine, and yellow. I’d bypassed stores that sold complete sets and instead scoured the dishware outlets and flea markets.

Creole’s job would be to get the barbeque fired up and grill the grouper.

A nagging voice asked,
What if he doesn’t show?

Then I’ll wrap the food in foil and eat the ice cream.

* * *

I curled up on one of the deck chaises and watched the waves ripple onto the white sandy beach until I fell asleep. My eyes flew open when I felt hard lips on mine.

Creole’s face hovered over mine, his blue eyes dark with amusement. “I found you,” he whispered. He lowered his head and his mouth came down on top of mine again, hot and intense and every bit as good as I’d daydreamed on the drive to his house. Finally, he sat down next to me and pulled me into his arms. He had changed into shorts, but he wore no shirt and his shoulder-length dark hair was wet at the ends.