Desire on Deadline Page 8

  “But in a good way.” They both laughed. “I’d better go into the office,” Roz said. “We’ve got to get pages to the printer this afternoon. And maybe I’ll look into the bomb angle.”

  “OK, sweetie. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Mom. Thanks.”

  At the office, in between meetings, freshening the boat story for print and approving pages for transmission to the printer, Roz did some online research about bombs in the gulf. The information was scattered at best, so instead, she searched for an academic and landed on the website of a retired professor and historian who lived in Naples and specialized in twentieth century Florida history. She shot him an email requesting an interview, then set about approving the last of the Gazette’s pages for Friday publication, wondering what kind of scoop Alden was getting now.

  ≈≈≈

  Alden was getting the scoop on the wedding of an apparent terrorist named Penny from the men who had just arrived at Casa Blanca to stand up for the groom. As he’d sunk deeper into a blissful bourbon haze, which had almost but not quite obliterated his obsessive replaying of this morning’s kiss, he’d learned that Penny’s bridesmaids had been here all week. The groomsmen, knowing Penny’s predilection for enlisting everyone into her Wedding Army, had put off their “relaxing vacation” until just before the wedding weekend.

  Once they got to Barefoot Bay, however, the men had been unable to escape on their planned fishing trip. The bride had declared that she didn’t want half of the wedding party at risk of exploding, no matter how far-fetched the possibility, so she’d forbidden the excursion.

  So the groomsmen, five guys in their early twenties who looked as if they’d escaped a high-end catalog, were devastating a bottle of Michter’s 10-year-old (and sharing, to Alden’s delight). They’d retreated to the bar after Penny had asked them to procure live flamingos to stroll around the beach during the ceremony. Apparently the on-premises wedding planning business had been unable to honor the last-minute request, and the guys weren’t planning to raid a zoo to help.

  Alden suspected they were about one drink away from doing it anyway.

  “You know, there’s this store in Naples where you can get flamingos,” Alden said to his new drinking buddies, who were only too happy to find fresh ears to hear their stories. Unfortunately, none of the tales had to do with Boyd Bellamy.

  “You mean you can just buy live flamingos here?” asked the blond best man, who, like the others, was from Connecticut. “That’s awesome.”

  “How about alligators?” his handsome, ebony-skinned friend asked conspiratorially. “That might work.”

  “They aren’t live. The flamingos, I mean,” Alden said. “But you can rent a flock of plastic pink flamingos.”

  The other guys, who’d been engaged in a sidebar about spring training prospects, turned at the words.

  “Pink flamingos?”

  “A flock of them? How many are in a flock?”

  “That would be perfect.”

  The best man was the only one who looked uncomfortable. “I don’t think Penny is going to like it.”

  “She’ll love it,” his closest buddy said. “You can’t get any more Florida than that.”

  “I don’t know . . . ”

  While they exhorted the best man, Alden poured himself another finger of their three-hundred-dollar whiskey.

  “Only if Ray agrees,” the best man finally said.

  “Ray is never going to agree,” said his buddy. “But he is going to love it. This can be our gift to him.”

  More cajoling, more laughter about jokes they’d played on each other in the past, and the best man caved. Before sobriety could make him change his mind, his buddy immediately called the shop (after getting the name from Alden) and reserved two dozen pink flamingos they could pick up tomorrow.

  “Penny is going to be pissed,” the ambivalent best man lamented.

  “You could prime the pump, as it were,” Alden then suggested.

  The other men snickered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do something in advance to soften her up, so she’ll dismiss your prank Saturday as boyish enthusiasm rather than malice.”

  “But what’s the fun in that?” another groomsman asked.

  “Tell me more,” said the best man, gesturing to the bartender for another bottle.

  Excellent, Alden thought. “I have it on good authority that the restaurant has in its possession a precious cupcake made with rare chocolate, vanilla and gold. It would make a beautiful gift for the bride.”

  “Really?” the best man said. “A cupcake? That doesn’t seem very impressive. Penny is hard to impress.”

  “It costs about as much as your bar bill, as it currently stands,” Alden said, gesturing to the newly opened bottle that had been placed before them.

  The blond man’s eyebrows shot up. “Then it just might work. I want to see it first, though.”

  He waved over the bartender, who then waved over the maitre d’, who disappeared into the kitchen. Several minutes later, Chef Ian himself emerged with an elegant bell jar on a silver pedestal. Under the glass was the cupcake, glinting with gold sprinkles, resting in an elaborate blown sugar bowl. Sculpted sugar bubbles dusted with gold swirled upward in a spiral from its chocolate-frosted top.

  “Wow,” the drunk guys said as Ian smiled and set it on the bar.

  Alden raised his phone and casually snapped a photo.

  “We have to buy this fucking cupcake,” the best man said, and the other guys heartily agreed.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Alden finished off his glass, left a tip for the bartender and strolled unsteadily out of the restaurant.

  He’d been productive before the groomsmen had arrived. He’d used his airline sources to confirm that Mysty Wellington had traveled to Florida last weekend, then used one of his L.A. sources to find the name she used when she checked into hotels. Alden had called every hotel in the area, including this one, asking to speak to her alias. He finally found an upscale boutique hotel in Naples that said she’d been there earlier in the week but had already checked out. That was enough to convince Alden that Boyd’s date had been none other than his tempestuous ex.

  He eased himself out to the beach, sat on the sand and dialed the office. It was just after 6, and the sky shifted into shades of rose as the sun sank low, painting the smattering of clouds with coral light. He could get used to these Barefoot Bay sunsets.

  Alden got Julia on the phone and dictated a short story about Boyd’s planned but tragically canceled romantic balloon ride, with ample use of words like “seems” and “suggest” and “sources” to imply that the actor’s most likely date was Mysty Wellington, right down to the cupcake. And that Mysty was likely to inherit Boyd’s estate, based on his legal tipster.

  “I’m emailing you the cupcake photo now,” he said. “Get it up with the story as soon as you can.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Julia asked.

  “Absolutely. This is what I do best. At the worst, we’ve said definitively that Mysty likes really expensive cupcakes. The rest is sourced speculation. It’ll be fine.”

  “OK if I combine this with what we have scheduled for the front page on the boat and Boyd? I don’t think it’s too late to swap out the story for print.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  “Send me the photo,” Julia said, “and give it ten minutes for the online story to pop up.”

  “Thanks,” Alden replied. “I’ll come in and make sure everything looks good for tomorrow.”

  “John and I will take care of it. Most of the pages are already gone. You should go home.”

  “You know I like to read the proofs. It makes me feel old-school. You should go home. You work too much.”

  She laughed. “And you drink too much.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Just don’t drive, OK?”

  “OK. See ya.” He hung up and shot her the photo, then stood unstea
dily. And saw his favorite maid plodding up the path. “Miss Poppy, isn’t it?” he called. “How nice to see you again.”

  She approached him and sniffed. “What are you up to?”

  “I had a lovely afternoon in your bar,” Alden said. “And now I’m going home.”

  “You’re not driving.”

  “You sure are bossy,” he said, lurching a bit to the left before gaining an upright position.

  “I look after our guests,” she said with proud authority.

  “Tell me something.” Alden leaned closer, and she backed away from his bourbon breath. “Do you ever actually clean anything?”

  Her face broke into a broad smile, and she let out a contagious laugh. “I’m cleaning you, aren’t I? Go on up to the front. We’ll get you a ride.”

  “I’ve got Uber. I’m good.” But she watched over his shoulder to make sure he booked the amateur cabbie before she left him alone.

  Fifteen minutes later, with his intoxication fading, he was heading south in the Toyota Corolla of what might be Mimosa Key’s only Uber driver, a young man named Tony, rolling through the tropical twilight toward town and his office.

  ≈≈≈

  Roz had finished reading and approving the proofs and had started planning next week’s edition when her phone buzzed with a text alert from the Times. She’d signed up for its alerts as soon as she came back to town, but she’d never worried about the gossip rag, as she liked to think of it, scooping her before recently.

  Before Alden.

  “Damn him to hell,” she said, clicking over to the website to read his story about the balloon ride and the cupcake. Her sick feeling lessened only slightly as she noted the article contained virtually no confirmed facts but a hell of a lot of circumstantial evidence and unnamed sources.

  She’d worked a scant mention of the canceled balloon ride into her print story; it was practically Alden’s entire tale. And, she had to admit, it was fascinating.

  This, she thought, is why the Gazette is doomed.

  Perhaps even more annoying than the dubious story was that it left no doubt that Alden was not just clever; he could write.

  And he could set her body thrumming, damn it, when he was the last thing she should want.

  Mostly, right now, she wanted to smack him.

  Roz clutched her head and closed her eyes. She was still exhausted after this morning’s ordeal, and now she was hungry. She could tackle the story again tomorrow. She’d managed to set up an interview with the historian at 11 a.m.; she’d meet him in Naples and take herself out to lunch afterward. For now, she would go home and have a nice dinner of cheese and fruit and wine. Definitely wine.

  It was very close to dark, and she’d sent everyone else home — though they were likely having a few margaritas at the S.O.B., which was kind of a tradition after they put the paper to bed. Normally she’d join them, but tonight, she just didn’t have the energy.

  As she packed up her bag, Roz contemplated the office, with its years of historic front pages on the walls and desks piled with the comforting clutter peculiar to newspapers. Everywhere was paper, and everywhere were words. Ideas. Stories. And in those stories were people, events, the benchmarks of time, or, as her dad used to say, the first draft of history. That’s what they were writing. She wanted to do it well.

  It would be sad to sell this old place, but it was time. Wasn’t it? The world had changed. The world wanted entertainment and gossip and colorful lies and bombastic politicians. There wasn’t much room for meticulous storytelling, complexity and the elusive truth.

  The thought depressed her a little as she locked up the office and stepped onto the sidewalk outside the Gazette. The pretty streetlights here didn’t cast much of a glow, but she thought she saw movement across the street. She narrowed her eyes and made out a figure standing in the shadows, under a palm tree, watching her.

  Could it be — Alden? She wanted to frown, but an unbidden smile crept over her face.

  And then came squealing tires from out of the alley by her building, and a blur of motion and pain, and everything went dark.

  ≈≈≈

  Alden didn’t know why he lingered after the Uber driver dropped him off near his office.

  OK, he did know. The lights were still on at the Gazette, even though it looked empty, and that meant someone was still working. And who else would be the last one to leave but a dedicated, old-school newspaperman in a young woman’s body?

  A body he suddenly, in his still-tipsy state, wanted to see again.

  He leaned against a tree and played with his phone for a few minutes, checking his story, before he sensed a change in the light. He pocketed his phone and looked up. The Gazette’s lights had been turned out, and Roz was locking the door. And to his surprise and, he admitted, delight, she swiveled and peered across the street in his direction. He took a tiny step forward.

  She smiled.

  And then a black SUV roared out of the alley next to the newspaper’s squat building and screeched to a halt between them.

  He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was in trouble. The blast of adrenaline sobered him instantly.

  Alden sprinted across the street, running toward the vehicle, hoping she was OK on the other side. In those few seconds, he heard the sounds of a struggle and a man’s voice yelling, “Hurry!”

  He hurtled around the back of the car and came across a man entirely in black trying to drag Roz into the SUV’s open back door.

  “Get away from her!” Alden yelled, leaping forward and punching the masked man in the chin.

  Surprised, the guy staggered back, dropping Roz, mumbling “Fuck” in a peculiar gravelly voice, as another shadowed man inside the car said: “Forget it! Come on!”

  Roz was lying on the sidewalk, not moving. Panting, furious, Alden stood between her and her attacker, who apparently thought better of whatever he was trying to do and jumped into the car, slamming the door as it squealed away. The tinted windows revealed nothing more, and Alden caught only the first few letters of the license plate.

  “Shit,” he said, dropping to his knees and putting a finger to Roz’s neck. She had a pulse. She was breathing. “Roz,” he said, squeezing her shoulders, lifting her to cradle her head in his lap. “Roz, can you hear me? Oh, God, Roz, wake up. Wake up!” He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, getting ready to call 9-1-1, when she shifted against him and groaned.

  “What happened?” she muttered, and her eyes drifted open, at first sleepy and confused, then wide and terrified. “Alden?”

  “Someone attacked you. Do you know what they did to you? Did they stick a needle into you or anything?”

  She palmed her temple. “I think they hit me in the head. Are they gone?”

  “They’re gone. I interrupted them. I guess they didn’t want to deal with you and a drunk, pissed off reporter.”

  Roz coughed out a chuckle. “Yeah. You might interview them to death.”

  He cracked a smile despite his worry and looked around. The street was quiet, for now. “I need to get you out of here, in case they come back. But I should probably call an ambulance.”

  “Don’t,” Roz croaked, sitting up. “Ouch,” she said, touching her head again.

  “You could have a concussion or worse.”

  “I’m fine. I think it was the shock of it more than anything. I just want to go home.”

  “I’m not leaving you alone,” Alden said. “I’ll take you home with me. If you’re the target, they won’t go after you at my place.”

  “Target for what? This makes no sense.”

  “Yeah, it’s made no sense twice today.”

  “You smell like booze,” Roz said, wrinkling her nose. “You can’t drive.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a guy,” Alden said, tapping his phone, summoning the driver who’d just dropped him off. Roz closed her eyes again, then let him lift her to her feet. He clutched her arms, holding her steady, noting her weary look, her disheveled hair. “You sure
you’re OK?”

  “Just completely freaked out. Where’s my bag?”

  Alden looked around. “Is this it?” he asked, picking up the leather satchel that rested against the wall.

  “Yes, thanks,” she said, taking it from him and holding it tight, as if it were a security blanket.

  “Here’s Tony,” Alden said as the Corolla pulled up. He helped her in the back seat, slid in next to her and gave the driver his address. He wrapped an arm around Roz, and she rested her head against his shoulder. Her easy acquiescence worried him more than anything. It was as if all the fight had gone out of her. And he liked her full of fight. “We can go right across the causeway to the E.R. if you want,” he said softly.

  “No, goddamnit, I’m fine,” she said.

  He smiled, holding her a little more closely. “What about the police?”

  She looked up at Alden and then glanced at the driver, and he got the message. Not now.

  When they got to his place, he held her arm as they went up the stairs, just in case she felt woozy, and got her inside.

  It was an airy little apartment, with lots of windows and a kitchen that opened into the living space, but “little” was the operative word. Alden guided Roz to the couch. She shrugged off his arm and sank into the cushions with a sigh, closing her eyes again.

  “Last call for a doctor,” he said.

  “Unless someone attacks us again.”

  “Hope they wait till tomorrow. Can I get you something?”

  “Any kind of soda with real sugar would be good,” she said. “I need fizz.”

  “Root beer, coming right up.”

  Alden retrieved two IBCs out of the fridge, handed her one and took a sip from the other as he sat next to her. She took a long swallow, and he told himself he shouldn’t be thinking what he was thinking as she gripped the neck, her eyes closed, her lips red on the mouth of the brown bottle as she swallowed the cold, sweet brew.

  Roz sighed as she lowered the bottle. He let out a long breath, tearing his eyes away from her mouth. Get a grip, Alden.

  “Should I call the police?” he asked her after a moment.