Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) (4 page)

She felt herself smiling and realized she had started leaning into his personal space without knowing it.
This is ridiculous,
she thought, straightening up
. First guy that hits on you in months and you’re going all teenager.
She knew it was stupid. So why was she still there?

“Jack, man, let’s go! Work—half an hour!” Mike hollered, motioning for Jack to come back as he moved towards the Jeep in the parking lot.

“I think your ride is leaving,” Chloe said, nodding in the friend’s direction.

With an aggravated swipe, Jack motioned for Mike to wait a minute. “How about it? Dinner? One drink? Just one. If you decide I’m creepy you can pretend you got an emergency text and bail, no questions asked.”

She’d sworn off men. She was still dealing with Tate. And this guy
lived
here for Pete’s sake. The island was only temporary for her.
But still
. . . In the next five seconds she carried out an entire argument with herself from start to finish.

No way, you don’t know him.

But he’s . . . interesting. It’s just one drink.

Serial killers can be interesting, too.

If he’s creepy, I’ll leave.

They aren’t creepy until it’s too late. Besides you don’t want
anybody around. That’s why you’re here.

But . . . I’m lonely.

And you’re even lonelier after they leave.

He’s cute.

Cute only means they leave sooner.

She cleared her throat. “Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah. Well, okay,” he said, sounding disappointed, then continued, “probably a smart move.” He winked and a butterfly or two actually took off in her stomach. “I guess that’s my cue. Sorry again about the football.”

“Forget the football—next time just ask a girl already,” she quipped lightly, unable to help herself.
Stop talking, you idiot, and let him walk away.

He grinned. “Anyway,” he said sucking in a breath, “nice to meet you, Chloe McConnaughey. Guess I’ll see you around.”

“You too,” she said as he turned and jogged off, football in hand.

She watched him fly down the golden stretch.
Good decision, McConnaughey. Would have been a total waste of time. This would have gone nowhere. Absolutely nowhere.

Then a burst of something that felt like recklessness propelled her down the beach after him.

“Jack!”

He turned, then stopped to wait for her to catch up.

“Okay,” she stammered as she drew close, “so . . . how about tonight?”

Tonight? What are you doing?
The warning bells in her head were deafening.

“Oh,” he said, clearly trying to hide his genuine surprise. “You serious?”

She wrinkled her nose warily. “Apparently.”

“Okay, then. Well, tonight’s great,” he said, taken aback but obviously pleased.

There was a lull as each waited for the other to speak. Finally Jack jumped in. “So, should I pick you up or . . .”

“Why don’t we meet somewhere?” 

“How about Mendoza’s on Pebble Avenue, the one by the—”

“I know it,” she interrupted a little brusquely, and tried to recover. “I did a shoot near there.”

“Good, so, say . . . seven?”

Chloe nodded. “Seven,” she answered, then turned and jogged away before he could see the panic start to set in.

* * * * *

Jack waited till she’d run back down the beach, then headed to the Jeep.

“So?” Mike asked, patting Zeus and tossing him half an uncooked hot dog.

Jack hopped in and threw the football in the back. “Knew I shouldn’t have listened to you,” he griped.

“What?”

Jack shook his head. “I looked like an idiot.”

“Well, it worked didn’t it? Now you’re in.”

Jack leaned back as they pulled out onto the road. “We’ll see,” he said skeptically, running a hand through his hair. “We’ll see.”

SIX

With tired eyes, Herb Rohrstadt, Esquire, peered over the papers heaped on his chiseled oak desk and wondered what had become of his little Miami law practice. The steady stream of work spawned by his ever-expanding client list had ballooned to a nearly unmanageable size for a solo practitioner. Years ago he had craved this kind of personal success after resigning his junior partnership at Hearns, Bates and Hughes. But in the end all he had really done was trade eighteen-hour workdays as slave for the law firm for eighteen-hour workdays as a slave to the rent, electric bill and staff salaries—and without the benefit of the firm’s expense account. He was making money, but he was working too hard for it. And with a fiftieth birthday around the corner and two ex-wives to support, that was not a good thing.

Venice had only made things worse. He’d tacked the weeklong holiday onto the end of two solid workweeks in Rome assisting in closing the sale of a leather handbag factory to one of his clients with European holdings. He had come home to find the place drowning in a deluge of files and folders, messages and manila envelopes, each one screaming for attention.

A week later he was still struggling to surface and, sensing the ocean of paper rising over his head, wondered what was slipping through the cracks.
Or rather
, he corrected broodingly,
what else was slipping through
. He was still frustrated with Elena over that one. His secretary should have noticed the first time Tate McConnaughey failed to call the office to check in, but she didn’t. His subsequent failures to check in over the next weeks went unnoticed by her, too. It wasn’t until Rohrstadt returned to the States and McConnaughey missed the call scheduled for
that
week that Rohrstadt realized something might be wrong. When his phone calls to Tate McConnaughey went unanswered, a quick check of the Internet confirmed his death in a crash on I-95 weeks before.

At least it was a dead client and not a living one he’d failed. It wasn’t likely anybody was going to complain. Besides, technically he’d followed McConnaughey’s instructions, albeit a little late. He’d express-mailed the package yesterday. Hopefully whatever was in there wouldn’t be compromised by a couple weeks delay.

Truth was, he was glad to be rid of it. The whole undertaking had made him uncomfortable from the beginning. He’d been paid a lot of money to simply accept the client’s weekly calls, safeguard the package and promise to deliver it in the event of the client’s death. He wasn’t stupid. No doubt something wasn’t quite on the up and up about this one. But his role was definitely legal, and, after all, when your first kid from your first marriage is starting Brown University in the fall, you don’t turn down easy money. Even when the clients are a little weird, or a little paranoid, insisting that their file be locked in your very own
personal
safe. In the end he just hadn’t been able to come up with a good reason not to take the money.

Click-click.
The office was so quiet it wasn’t hard to hear Elena’s key turning in the front door. She had been coming in the last few Saturdays to help him get caught up. He’d offered her double-time, and with kids of her own in college, she was happy to do it.

“Elena, I’m back here,” he called out. “Hey, have you seen that Braxton contract? They called about it last night.” When silence followed, he frowned, then moved down the paneled hall into the outer office, talking as he went. “Don’t tell me you sent that out, because—”

He sucked back the rest of the sentence, startled to find himself squared off against two hulking men, their arms crossed resolutely.

“Um, I’m sorry. The office is closed now. Come back—”

“Herb Rohrstadt?” interrupted the particularly barrel-chested of the two.

Herb nodded. “Yeah, but I’m not technically working today. You’ll have to come back—”

“Tate McConnaughey says hello.”

They moved so swiftly that Herb didn’t even have time to react. As the butt of the man’s gun struck him, so did the panicked realization that there had been a very good reason not to take McConnaughey’s money after all.

SEVEN

The place looked like any number of seafood dives she’d scouted along the Florida panhandle. Plank floors grayed and worn from years of foot traffic. Fishnets and mounted swordfish, grouper and marlin dotted the dark paneled walls. The bar along one wall was completely packed, barstools squished together elbow to elbow. A steady buzz of chatter filled the room, interrupted by a whirring blender mixing up a batch of margaritas. The entire rear wall consisted of large rectangular windows, which presently had their shades rolled up and panes propped open, so that a warm, slightly sticky breeze rolled through. From where she stood, Chloe had a perfect view of the outdoor patio which sat on a short pier that ran along the back of the building, and beyond that, the cobalt water of New Compton Bay. And there on the patio sat Jack Collings.

He was staring out at the sea and hadn’t seen her yet.
There’s still time to chicken out,
she told herself. And she had come close several times already, vacillating between reminding herself that she’d sworn off men because her life was just too complicated right now, and countering with the argument that it would be refreshing to have a little non-committal companionship and a few hours of intelligent conversation with someone who didn’t know her baggage. As lovely as Ruby was, well . . . it just wasn’t enough.

She’d waffled for a good thirty minutes, even driving back to the cottage once after reaching the bottom of the hill. That last bit had made her late.
He probably already thinks I’ve stood him up.
But when he turned, and those green eyes lit up at the sight of her, Chloe suddenly knew she wasn’t going anywhere except out onto that patio.

She waved hello and walked through the little restaurant, the mouth-watering smells of cheeseburgers, grilled fish and everything fried floating around her. As she stepped through the screen door, the breeze caught the hem of her black sundress, twirling it in a little tarantella. She quickly grabbed it, hoping to avoid a Marilyn Monroe situation, and smiled sheepishly as she walked to the table where he had stood to meet her, his chair grating loudly against the floor.

“Hey, there,” he greeted, stepping to one side of the weathered table for two and pulling out her chair.

“Hey.” She said, taking a seat. She waited for him to sit, then said, “Sorry I’m a little late. Time just got away from me.”

He pushed the small hurricane lamp housing a single candle to one side of the table, then leaned forward on his arms. “Only by ten minutes.” He cocked his head to the side and looked at her appraisingly. “I’d say … second thoughts? Considered standing me up?”

Chloe’s eyes widened with embarrassment. A few awkward seconds passed before she managed a non-committal, “Ummm . . .”

A look of uncomfortable realization blossomed on Jack’s face. “Oh,” he said through a half-grimace. “Sorry, I was just . . .” His words trailed off, then, recovering, he brushed off the discomfort with a shake of his head and leaned back.

“Well,” he started, “if you
weren’t
thinking of standing me up before, I’ll bet you are now.” A subtle grin replaced the grimace, and Chloe felt the corner of her own mouth twitch. “You know, actually I can’t hold it against you. Give any sensible girl an entire afternoon to rethink a blind date with a perfect stranger, and she’s bound to have her doubts.” He glanced down at his fork, feigning distraction, and began twiddling with it. “I’d say it’s pretty much a fifty-fifty proposition even on the best day.” He looked up at her again, an impish glint in his eye. “But we know that going in.”

“
We
who?” she asked, playing along.

“Those of us brave enough to risk getting shot down.” 

“So you’d call what you did out there today, brave?”

“Absolutely,” he said, then leaned in a bit closer. Something that smelled like sandalwood drifted across the table. “Given today’s odds.”

Chloe grinned amusedly. “You gave me odds?”

Jack nodded. “Eleven to one. Would’ve been twelve but you seemed to warm up to Zeus, so I had that going for me.”

She actually laughed out loud before asking, “So if I was such a long shot, why risk it?”

“The long shots are the only ones worth it.” He let that sit for a second before nonchalantly taking a sip of water.

“I’ll bet that line works better than the football every time.”

He snorted, half choking on the water just as the waiter approached the table.

They ordered calamari for an appetizer and, for dinner, grilled grouper and twice-baked potatoes. Out in the harbor, waves rippled away from the hazy horizon, where half a dozen sailboats outlined in festive strands of white lights bobbed towards the rosy sunset. Squawking gulls sounded their evening cries, and a nervous fish leapt and spun once before plunging again. As she took it in, Chloe unconsciously wrapped and re-wrapped a stray curl around her finger, the last of the sun streaming through her hair and turning the chestnut strands golden.

“This place is really beautiful,” she offered.

“Well, I’m glad it’s okay. I was trying for comfortable casual, but obviously I screwed up the ‘comfortable’ part in the first five minutes.”

Chloe reached for her water glass. “Well, here’s to second chances.”

His eyes met hers as their glasses clinked. “I really am glad you decided to come tonight.”

The comment was genuine, without a trace of flirtation. It caught her off guard, and she wondered, just as the waiter returned with their drinks, whether she was blushing.

“So aren’t you curious?” he asked.

Chloe eyed him with uncertainty. “About?”

“This absolute stranger you had the poor judgment to go to dinner with despite knowing nothing about him.”

“Not
nothing
,” Chloe protested and swallowed a bite of warm bread drenched in butter. “I know you’re Jack Collings. You’re a beach concierge, whatever that is. And your friend is an idiot.”

He chuckled. “So far, so good. What else.”

“Hmmm.” Chloe thought for a moment, looking him up and down for telltale clues. “Can’t place the accent. Sounds a little southern, with something else thrown in.”

“Not bad. Not bad. Born in Birmingham, bounced around, finally ended up in Manhattan when I got my first real job.”

“Which was?”

“College professor.”

Chloe sat back in her chair and cocked her head in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

“That’s not interesting enough to joke about.”

“It’s just,” she hesitated, “well, it’s not what I’d have guessed. You don’t look like any college professor I ever had.”

Instead of being deterred, he seemed amused. “Really? And what would you have guessed?”

She offered him the breadbasket and he took it. “Let’s just say not a professor and leave it at that,” she said, skirting the issue. “So where did you teach? What subject?”

“NYU. English,” he answered, buttering a roll.

“NYU. Impressive.”

“Stifling, more like.”

“So is tonight going to end with you quoting some fancy British poet, or whatever?”

“Absolutely not,” he said determinedly, pulling off a piece of bread.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he started, popping the bread in his mouth and swallowing, “that would be cheesy and stupid and worse than throwing a football at a girl’s head to get her attention.”

“
Almost
as bad,” she chuckled. “I was never very good in English class,” Chloe continued, jabbing her fork into her salad. “At least not the literature part—all the old writings, British Lit, Early American Lit, you know? Kind of funny that half my job is writing for a living.” She paused for a moment, waiting for him to offer something more, but he didn’t. “So how does an NYU professor end up a beach concierge on St. Gideon?”

“Well, frankly, I don’t like to talk about the professor thing because it doesn’t jive with the whole beach bum vibe I’ve got going on here which, by the way, really impresses the ladies.”

“Mmmm.”

“Plus, once I spill the beans women usually run as fast as they can the other way.” He said it lightheartedly, but a little too rehearsed, as if maybe there was more truth than joke to it.

“Try me. I promise not to get any emergency texts when you’re done.”

The corner of his mouth turned up, and he held his hands out in surrender. “I got divorced,” he said, and despite the smile, Chloe thought his voice sounded pinched.

“Sorry, Jack. I . . . I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s a fair question. It’s just that I like to get to know a woman a little better, say through dessert, before laying that out there.” He grinned. “Gives me better odds. I mean, it’s been two years since Lila and I were together, but women still see a big, red warning sign on my head, ‘Divorcee seeking rebound girl. BEWARE! BEWARE! BAGGAGE!’”

Wonder what you’d think of the Samsonite I’m lugging around,
Chloe thought sympathetically.
“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” she replied encouragingly. “At least not till after dessert, anyway.”

He chuckled and after a few bites of salad, continued. “You know we weren’t together that long, Lila and me. We dated and got married in just eight weeks.” He noted Chloe’s skeptical expression. “Yeah, I know. Should’ve been my first clue. Eighteen months later she left me for her ‘soul mate,’” he said, rolling his eyes, “who turned out to be some artist in the Village. The decent thing would’ve been for her to just walk out, but she was greedy, and the thing’s been in court for the last two years. When the judge finally signed off six months ago I’d had enough of the real world. Hopped right on a plane and came here.”

“Well, I can definitely appreciate the benefits of a break from reality.”

“Good,” he said resolutely. “We’re off me and on to you. So what would have someone like you wanting a break from reality?”

Chloe’s heart skipped at the thought of talking about herself. Scrambling mentally, she started back in on him. “No, no, no. You can’t change the subject that easily. You’ve still got work to do. Jury’s still out on whether you’re creepy or not.” She winked, hoping it would help. “So, what do you do when you’re not trolling for women on the beaches of St. Gideon?”

He smiled as if he knew exactly what she was doing. But he answered anyway. “Mostly diving. Sailing. Sometimes taking the tourists out for a spin.” His eyes sparkled. “Still trolling, just a different venue.” He leaned forward and tilted his beer mug toward her. “But you’re not getting off that easy either. What should I know about you besides the fact that you struggle with punctuality?”

So there it was. She wasn’t going to get around it. She was either going to have to answer, or she would have to leave. And, really, what had she expected? Who goes to dinner thinking that they won’t have to talk about themselves?
I could lie. Make it all up. I could be Izzie. He’d never know. Then I could stay. Then I could . . .
what exactly? Enjoy the night as someone else—be free to leave with no strings attached?
And then it hit her. She didn’t want to leave.

So she started with the harmless subject of work and the book of photographs she was doing on the island, hoping she’d get by without delving into her demons. But by the time dinner arrived, his follow-up questions took a more personal turn, and there was no avoiding it. So she told him about the bad break-ups, about Tate, about dropping everything to stay on St. Gideon indefinitely while she tried to run away from life and figure it out all at the same time.

“So,” she said smiling faintly, “the way I see it, my baggage trumps yours any day.”

“Chloe, I am so sorry. If I’d known . . .”

“Hey. It’s a fair question,” she said, parroting his earlier reply as she smiled warmly, hoping to put him at ease. But he looked sad, and pity was the last thing she’d come there for. She breathed in deeply, exhaling a tired sigh. “The thing is, Jack, I can tell by the look on your face that it wasn’t fair of me to come. Cocktails with someone drowning in her own sorrows isn’t exactly what you were expecting.”

“And you were expecting a recently divorced Manhattan escapee?”

“Still, I’d totally understand if you’d rather just call it a night.”

Jack sighed melodramatically. “Well,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers as he swirled the liquid gold in his glass, “first of all, we’ve ordered key lime pie, and we are not letting it go to waste. And secondly,” he said, unleashing another smile, “I look too good to go home early. So you’re stuck with me—at least through dessert anyway.” 

The rest of their conversation pointedly avoided the personal, and they bounced seamlessly from painless topic to painless topic, interrupted only by their laughter and the waiter tending to their table. By the time coffee came, darkness engulfed them, and the stars had spilled gloriously onto the pitch of sky. As Chloe leaned over her steaming cup, blowing into it, Jack tapped the handle of his black coffee and eyed the silver bauble dangling from Chloe’s neck that she fingered mindlessly.