his sunglasses back up his nose and folded his arms over his chest.
She was still staring down at him. He sighed and looked up at her impatiently.
“So what is it now? I can’t help you. Can’t you leave me alone anyway? See something you like? Hey, kid, have you changed, too? Just like Sheila? Do you want to…catch up on old times?”
Her composure was amazing. She took her time answering him.
“Do I see something I like? No, not at all. In fact, I’m amazed by how much I see I dislike.”
“Well, then, you have changed, honey. So…you’re not into the muscle-bound beach type anymore, huh?”
“I’m just not into assholes like you. Available? You must be joking.”
He looked up at her blandly. “Is that all?”
“All? No, not quite.”
She spoke softly, and, with an economy of motion, she twisted her wrist. The fruity drink fell over his chest like a rain of sticky slime. He almost jumped up to grab her. Instinct again.
He managed to keep his place on the lounge chair. It was important that she keep thinking of him as an asshole.
Strange, he hadn’t seen her in years. But still…she was a Keys kid from way back. Joe’s little sister.
No, Kelsey was a hell of a lot more than that, he reminded himself. But any fleeting memory of what might have been an inescapable bond in the past was quickly doused by the lethal trauma of the present.
Even more than he had feared when he first saw her, he realized that she was trouble. Real trouble.
And he sure as hell didn’t want her…
Dear God, he didn’t want her going the route Sheila had gone.
Still staring down at him, she shook her head with revulsion. “An asshole and a drunk,” she said. “You’re covered in liquor and you don’t even move.”
“I imagine it’s good booze. I’ll just lick myself all over,” he said. “Want to help?”
With one last look of disgust, she turned on her perfect little sandal-heels and started to walk away.
“Kelsey!”
Despite himself, he got to his feet, every muscle in his body quickening with tension.
“Go to the cops, Kelsey, then get the hell out of the Keys, do you hear? Go back to your hot job and your condo on the bay. Do you understand?”
She paused for a moment, then told him what he could do with himself.
“Whatever you want, Kelsey. But I mean it. Tell the cops anything you think they ought to know. Then go home.”
“This is my home—as much as it’s yours.”
“The hell it is. Your home now is a cute little condo in a ritzy section of Miami, with a gate and a security guard. Now go away.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” she asked. She didn’t expect an answer, but he gave her one anyway.
“I’m the man telling you that you don’t belong here anymore,” he said. Especially not running around asking questions about Sheila.
“Like I said, Dane. This is my home just as much as it’s yours. And I will find Sheila.”
She started walking away again, taking a circuitous route past the tables. He was tempted to go after her, shake her, tell her to get her nose out of the entire thing. FedEx her back to Miami.
Except that he would wind up getting arrested if he tried that. He was certain that if he so much as put a hand on her, she would call the cops for sure.
So he watched as she walked away through the back door of the Sea Shanty. He had to convince her to go back to Miami and get her the hell out of this. How, he wasn’t sure yet.
But he would. He swore to himself with a vengeance that he would get her out of here if it was the last thing he did.
When she was gone, he clenched his teeth and shook his head, suddenly glad the beer hadn’t kicked in. He walked down the sand-and shrub-covered path to the small spit of salt beach off the back of the Sea Shanty and just kept going until he was immersed. It was the quickest way he could think of to remove the drink she’d spilled on him. And the cool water was good for his head.
He’d wanted to behave completely normally after what had happened. But Kelsey arriving like a cyclone had changed all that.
Now the police were about to get involved, and sooner or later they would find Sheila Warren.
Jesus.
He had to find her first.
Kelsey walked into the right side of the duplex just off US1 in absolute disgust. She threw her purse across the small living room, watched as it landed in a wicker chair, then indulged in a moment’s delicious relief as the air-conditioning surrounded her. Sea breezes be damned. It was hot as hell outside.
Pausing by the door for a moment, she let out a breath of aggravation.
“Well, that went well,” she said, murmuring wryly aloud to herself. Her fault, maybe. Okay, her fault definitely. She could have started out with a, Hi, Dane, how are you? Wow, it’s been ages….
But he had looked like such a beach bum lying there. And Nate, the owner of the Sea Shanty who she was actually married to for a very brief time when they were young, had said he had been drinking all afternoon. And that he’d been seeing Sheila. That they had argued. And that Dane had been strange ever since he’d moved back down from St. Augustine. That he’d taken on a case up there and someone had died strangely and…Nate hadn’t really known all the particulars because Dane hadn’t wanted to talk about them. So something not great had happened, and he’d come home to drink himself to death. Sheila had told her, too, that Dane had been strange. Like a guy ready to throw his life away.
When they were kids, Dane had been like the Rock of Gibraltar. He and Joe had been the leaders of the pack. Even when she had wanted to run away from life and—more than anything in the world—from Dane, she had wanted things to go well for him. It had been upsetting to hear that he had fallen into being little more than a beach bum, with no care for the world, no ambition, no concern for anyone at all—even old friends.
Sheila had been concerned about him.
But it seemed that Dane didn’t give a damn about her.
Kelsey kicked off her shoes and walked into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door, thanking God that she’d taken the time that morning to do a little shopping for herself. Juice, soda, beer and wine. She had a choice.
The heat she’d come from made her opt for a beer. She hesitated, her fingers curling around a bottle, remembering that she’d found Dane swilling the stuff. She moved her hand, choosing a bottle of cranberry-raspberry cocktail instead. No. She wanted a beer, and
