Risky Business: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

He took a long pull from his beer. “As a lawyer, I suppose I’d be obliged to see they had their day in court. As a brother…” He trailed off and drank again. “We’ll have to see.”

“I don’t think you’re a very nice man, Mr. Sharpe.”

“I’m not.” He turned his head until his eyes locked on hers. “And I’m not harmless. Remember, if I make a pass, we’ll both take it seriously.”

She started to speak, then saw his line go taut. “You’ve got a fish, Mr. Sharpe,” she said dryly. “You’d better strap in or he’ll pull you overboard.”

Turning on her heel, she went back to the bridge, leaving Jonas to fend for himself.

3

It was sundown when Liz parked her bike under the lean-to beside her house. She was still laughing. However much trouble Jonas had caused her, however much he had annoyed her in three brief meetings, she had his two hundred dollars. And he had a thirty-pound marlin—whether he wanted it or not. We deliver, she thought as she jingled her keys.

Oh, it had been worth it, just to see his face when he’d found himself on the other end of the wire from a big, bad-tempered fish. Liz believed he’d have let it go if she hadn’t taken the time for one last smirk. Stubborn, she thought again. Yes, any other time she’d have admired it, and him.

Though she’d been wrong about his not being able to handle a rod, he’d looked so utterly perplexed with the fish lying at his feet on the deck that she’d nearly felt sorry for him. But his luck, or the lack of it, had helped her make an easy exit once they’d docked. With all the people crowding around to get a look at his catch and congratulate him, Jonas hadn’t been able to detain her.

Now she was ready for an early evening, she thought. And a rainy one if the clouds moving in from the east delivered. Liz let herself into the house, propping the door open to bring in the breeze that already tasted of rain. After the fans were whirling, she turned on the radio automatically. Hurricane season might be a few months off, but the quick tropical storms were unpredictable. She’d been through enough of them not to take them lightly.

In the bedroom she prepared to strip for the shower that would wash the day’s sweat and salt from her skin. Because it was twilight, she was already reaching for the light switch when a stray thought stopped her. Hadn’t she left the blinds up that morning? Liz stared at them, tugged snugly over the window-sill. Odd, she was sure she’d left them up, and why wasn’t the cord wrapped around its little hook? She was fanatical about that kind of detail, she supposed because ropes on a boat were always secured.

She hesitated, even after light spilled into the room. Then she shrugged. She must have been more distracted that morning than she’d realized. Jonas Sharpe, she decided, was taking up too much of her time, and too many of her thoughts. A man like him was bound to do so, even under different circumstances. But she’d long since passed the point in her life where a man could dominate it. He only worried her because he was interfering in her time, and her time was a precious commodity. Now that he’d had his way, and his talk, there should be no more visits. She remembered, uncomfortably, the way he’d smiled at her. It would be best, she decided, if he went back to where he’d come from and she got on with her own routine.

To satisfy herself, Liz walked over to the first shade and secured the cord. From the other room, the radio announced an evening shower before music kicked in. Humming along with it, she decided to toss together a chicken salad before she logged the day’s accounts.

As she straightened, the breath was knocked out of her by an arm closing tightly around her neck. The dying sun caught a flash of silver. Before she could react, she felt the quick prick of a knife blade at her throat.

“Where is it?”

The voice that hissed in her ear was Spanish. In reflex, she brought her hands to the arm around her neck. As her nails dug in, she felt hard flesh and a thin metal band. She gasped for air, but stopped struggling when the knife poked threateningly at her throat.

“What do you want?” In terror her mind skimmed forward. She had less than fifty dollars cash and no jewelry of value except a single strand of pearls left by her grandmother. “My purse is in on the table. You can take it.”

The vicious yank on her hair had her gasping in pain. “Where did he put it?”

“Who? I don’t know what you want.”

“Sharpe. Deal’s off, lady. If you want to live, you tell me where he put the money.”

“I don’t know.” The knife point pricked the vulnerable skin at her throat. She felt something warm trickle down her skin. Hysteria bubbled up behind it. “I never saw any money. You can look—there’s nothing here.”

“I’ve already looked.” He tightened his hold until her vision grayed from lack of air. “Sharpe died fast. You won’t be so lucky. Tell me where it is and nothing happens.”

He was going to kill her. The thought ran in her head. She was going to die for something she knew nothing about. Money…he wanted money and she only had fifty dollars. Faith. As she felt herself on the verge of unconsciousness, she thought of her daughter. Who would take care of her? Liz bit down on her lip until the pain cleared her mind. She couldn’t die.

“Please…” She let herself go limp in his arms. “I can’t tell you anything. I can’t breathe.”

His hold loosened just slightly. Liz slumped against him and when he shifted, she brought her elbow back with all her strength. She didn’t bother to turn around but ran blindly. A rug slid under her feet, but she stumbled ahead, too terrified to look back. She was already calling for help when she hit the front door.

Her closest neighbor was a hundred yards away. She vaulted the little fence that separated the yards and sprinted toward the house. She stumbled up the steps, sobbing. Even as the door opened, she heard the sound of a car squealing tires on the rough gravel road behind her.

“He tried to kill me,” she managed, then fainted.

“There is no further information I can give you, Mr. Sharpe.” Moralas sat in his neat office facing the waterfront. The file on his desk wasn’t as thick as he would have liked. Nothing in his investigation had turned up a reason for Jerry Sharpe’s murder. The man who sat across from him stared straight ahead. Moralas had a photo of the victim in the file, and a mirror image a few feet away. “I wonder, Mr. Sharpe, if your brother’s death was a result of something that happened before his coming to Cozumel.”

“Jerry wasn’t running when he came here.”

Moralas tidied his papers. “Still, we have asked for the cooperation of the New Orleans authorities. That was your brother’s last known address.”

“He never had an address,” Jonas murmured. Or a conventional job, a steady woman. Jerry had been a comet, always refusing to burn itself out. “I’ve told you what Miss Palmer said. Jerry was cooking up a deal, and he was cooking it up in Cozumel.”

“Yes, having to do with diving.” Always patient, Moralas drew out a thin cigar. “Though we’ve already spoken with Miss Palmer, I appreciate your bringing me the information.”

“But you don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

Moralas flicked on his lighter, smiling at Jonas over the flame. “You’re blunt. I’ll be blunt as well. If there was a trail to follow to your brother’s murder, it’s cold. Every day it grows colder. There were no fingerprints, no murder weapon, no witnesses.” He picked up the file, gesturing with it. “That doesn’t mean I intend to toss this in a drawer and forget about it. If there is a murderer on my island, I intend to find him. At the moment, I believe the murderer is miles away, perhaps in your own country. Procedure now is to backtrack on your brother’s activities until we find something. To be frank, Mr. Sharpe, you’re not doing yourself or me any good by being here.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“That is, of course, your privilege—unless you interfere with police procedure.” At the sound of the buzzer on his desk, Moralas tipped his ash and picked up the phone.

“Moralas.” There was a pause. Jonas saw the captain’s thick, dark brows draw together. “Yes, put her on. Miss Palmer, this is Captain Moralas.”

Jonas stopped in the act of lighting a cigarette and waited. Liz Palmer was the key, he thought again. He had only to find what lock she fit.

“When? Are you injured? No, please stay where you are, I’ll come to you.” Moralas was rising as he hung up the phone. “Miss Palmer has been attacked.”

Jonas was at the door first. “I’m coming with you.”

His muscles ached with tension as the police car raced out of town toward the shore. He asked no questions. In his mind, Jonas could see Liz as she’d been on the bridge hours before— tanned, slim, a bit defiant. He remembered the self-satisfied smirk she’d given him when he’d found himself in a tug-of-war with a thirty-pound fish. And how neatly she’d skipped out on him the moment they’d docked.

She’d been attacked. Why? Was it because she knew more than she’d been willing to tell him? He wondered if she were a liar, an opportunist or a coward. Then he wondered how badly she’d been hurt.

As they pulled down the narrow drive, Jonas glanced toward Liz’s house. The door was open, the shades drawn. She lived there alone, he thought, vulnerable and unprotected. Then he turned his attention to the little stucco building next door. A woman in a cotton dress and apron came onto the porch. She carried a baseball bat.

“You are the police.” She nodded, satisfied, when Moralas showed his identification. “I am Señora Alderez. She’s inside. I thank the Virgin we were home when she came to us.”

“Thank you.”

Jonas stepped inside with Moralas and saw her. She was sitting on a patched sofa, huddled forward with a glass of wine in both hands. Jonas saw the liquid shiver back and forth as her hands trembled. She looked up slowly when they came in, her gaze passing over Moralas to lock on Jonas. She stared, with no expression in those deep, dark eyes. Just as slowly, she looked back at her glass.

“Miss Palmer.” With his voice very gentle, Moralas sat down beside her. “Can you tell me what happened?”

She took the smallest of drinks, pressed her lips together briefly, then began as though she were reciting. “I came home at sunset. I didn’t close the front door or lock it. I went straight into the bedroom. The shades were down, and I thought I’d left them up that morning. The cord wasn’t secured, so I went over and fixed it. That’s when he grabbed me—from behind. He had his arm around my neck and a knife. He cut me a little.” In reflex, she reached up to touch the inch-long scratch her neighbor had already cleaned and fussed over. “I didn’t fight because he had the knife at my throat and I thought he would kill me. He was going to kill me.” She brought her head up to look directly into Moralas’s eyes. “I could hear it in his voice.”

“What did he say to you, Miss Palmer?”

“He said, ‘Where is it?’ I didn’t know what he wanted. I told him he could take my purse. He was choking me and he said, ‘Where did he put it?’ He said Sharpe.” This time she looked at Jonas. When she lifted her head, he saw that bruises were already forming on her throat. “He said the deal was off and he wanted the money. If I didn’t tell him where it was he’d kill me, and I wouldn’t die quickly, the way Jerry had. He didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know anything.” She spoke directly to Jonas. As she stared at him he felt the guilt rise.