Navajo Echoes

“I hardly notice the bump on your head. You look almost normal.”

“So glad that I’m not too freakishly grotesque.”

Saying she looked “good” wasn’t a compliment on her appearance; he was merely assessing her condition.

“We should join the beach party,” he suggested. “Do some mingling. See if we can pick up any leads.”

“Like finding out who wants to kill us?”

“Could be useful information.”

Though she wasn’t in a party mood, mingling sounded better than spending the next two-and-a-half hours alone with John, imagining what he’d look like in that cheesy red-curtained bed. “I’m ready if you are.”

When they got off the elevator in the hotel lobby, her senses went on high alert. In her prior bodyguard assignments, she’d learned observation techniques, which meant keeping her gaze mobile and watching for anything out of the ordinary. She linked her arm with John’s and turned her head toward the right. The hotel shop where she’d bought their clothing was closed, but the drugstore was still open. A bored-looking clerk rang up a sale and handed a pack of chewing gum to a husky tourist in baggy shorts and a Hawaiian-print shirt. He ran a hand through his short-cropped brown hair. The back of his thick neck was sunburned a dark red.

Even from the back, Lily noticed something familiar about that guy. His posture? The gesture of massaging his scalp? He reminded her of someone she knew in Denver, but she couldn’t quite place him.

She heard a crash from the opposite direction and turned to see a waiter scrambling to pick up the scattered remnants from a room service tray. The reservation clerk at the front desk snapped angrily at the clumsy young man, and he responded with an insult about the clerk’s mother.

When she looked back toward the shop, the husky tourist was gone.

TED HAWLEY PEEKED OUT FROM behind the rack of magazines in the hotel drugstore where he’d taken cover when Lily had glanced in his direction. He was pretty sure that she hadn’t recognized him.

As she strolled out the door, arm-in-arm with that tall Navajo, she made some comment and laughed. If he hadn’t known better, he would have believed that they were lovers on vacation instead of interfering agents of PPS.

It was his job to make sure they didn’t hook up with Robert Prescott—his real target. Prescott needed to die here on Cuerva. The killing of Lily and her boyfriend was a bonus. When he saw them with the Rasta pilot, he came up with a quick way to handle this assignment. Sabotage the plane. It was easy—too easy. They’d survived.

Cute, spunky little Lily Clark led a charmed life, always came out on top. Sure, she was a pretty little thing with her high breasts and her round ass. She’d even looked good in a cop uniform. Not many women could pull that off.

But he knew she wasn’t so sweet and innocent. She’d humiliated him, made him a laughingstock at the precinct. He knew her for the gold-plated bitch she really was.

He was almost glad she’d gotten out of the plane crash alive. He wanted her death to be more personal. He smiled as he adjusted the collar on his black-and-yellow patterned shirt. There were so many slow, painful ways she could die.

Chapter Three

After his years as a bodyguard for celebrities, captains of industry and politicians, John was accustomed to finding himself in spectacular surroundings. Fancy-dress balls. The ski resorts in Aspen. Yachts the size of cruise ships. Custom-designed jets with full bedrooms.

He had trained himself to ignore the ambiance and concentrate on watching and listening for signs of trouble. With Lily at his side, he circled the lit swimming pool on the patio and descended a few stairs to the beach—a long stretch of white sand bordered by silver thatch palms, leafy shrubs and a profusion of exotic flowers that, even in the moonlight, were colorful.

Near the bar, dozens of tourists had gathered. Mostly couples, they danced to the lazy calypso beat. John should have been studying these people, some of whom might want him dead. He should have been looking for hidden weapons, furtive glances and other subtle signals of guilt. Instead, his gaze drifted toward the luminescent waves. The sea breeze kissed his skin, and the exhaustion he should have been experiencing faded away. The music of the steel drums and stringed instruments made him want to dance. He wanted to order a sweet rum drink with an umbrella from the bar in a tiki shack, to kick back and revel in this Caribbean night.

Beside him, Lily’s wispy blond hair framed her upturned face. She’d been angry at him before, but now her smile seemed friendly. Or maybe she was a good actress playing her part as his lover.

“I know we shouldn’t dance,” she said.

She was right. One of the keys to keeping visual surveillance was to avoid participating in distracting activities. They should be standing to the side and observing the crowd. But sometimes a man had to go with his instincts. “One dance won’t hurt.”

When he grasped her small hand and pulled her toward the other couples who were barefoot on the sand, she frowned. “Are you sure about this?”

“When is the next time I’m going to be on a Caribbean island with a beautiful woman?”

She slipped off her sandals, and he did the same. The sand was soft beneath his feet. It had been a long time since he’d been dancing and that had been in a country-western bar with boot heels stomping on a hardwood floor. This exotic calypso music was different, more sensual. He allowed the drum beat to resonate inside him, stirring his blood.

Lily’s movements were supple and graceful. A ripple started at her hips and rose through her torso and shoulders. Definitely sensual.

When the guitar player took over with a slow ballad, Lily drifted into John’s arms. Her upturned face in the glow of moonlight and tiki torches was ethereal. The face of an angel.

“One more dance?” she asked.

“At least one more.”

Her body molded against him. Despite the thirteen-inch difference in their heights, they fit together well. Her head rested below his shoulder. Her breasts rubbed against him. As they shuffled together in the sand, her thighs touched his, and he felt himself becoming aroused. Not the reaction he wanted, but he couldn’t help it. She was too enticing, too delicious.

He tried to concentrate on other things, mentally dissecting the music into individual numeric tones, trying to remember the names of the surrounding flora. Orchid. Hibiscus. Periwinkle.

But Lily was pressing more tightly against him. No matter how much he wanted to control himself, it wasn’t going to happen. He was erect and hard as stone.

Leaning back in his arms, she gave him a sly smile and lifted one eyebrow. She knew exactly what kind of effect her nearness was having on him. “Payback,” she said.

“For what?”

“Your little striptease in the honeymoon suite.”

But he hadn’t been trying to seduce her. All he wanted was to wash off the sea scum. So what was her message? If anybody was going to be sexually intimidating, it was her? “I don’t want to play this game.”

“Do I win?” she asked.

“Hell, no.”

“Game on.”

When the ballad ended, they separated. Trying to regain his composure, John scanned the crowd. A group of new arrivals seemed out of place. They were dressed in silk business suits instead of casual beach clothes, and they didn’t look like they’d come to party. The tallest was a heavyset black man with a goatee, clearly the leader. His gaze focused on John. When their eyes met, he didn’t look away.

Beside him, Lily was alert to the potential threat. In a whisper, she asked, “Do you recognize him?”

John leaned down, pretending to kiss her ear. “He sure as hell seems to know me.”

As they danced closer to the well-dressed group, John overheard an introduction. The tall, barrel-chested man was the appointed governor of Cuerva, Ramon St. George.

Edgar had warned them about the governor’s possible involvement in smuggling and money-laundering through the offshore banks. He and his entourage of four—two who were obviously body-guards—seemed to be at this party to meet and greet, encouraging the tourist trade.

John approached the group. He introduced himself and Lily. “Cuerva is a beautiful island. We’re going to tell all our friends to come here.”

Ramon’s lips spread wide in a voracious smile. “John Pinto is an unusual name. May I ask your heritage?”

“I’m Navajo. I grew up on the reservation in Arizona.”

“An American Indian.” His accent was part British and part local, and he sounded thrilled, as though John had told him that he’d arrived from Mars. “Well, John Pinto, you might be the first Navajo to visit our little island. Do you still live in Arizona?”