Private Dancer (18 page)

“We’re in a stairw-way,” she said. “Anyone could walk in on us.”

“I don’t care where we are.” He bent his head, heard her soft, torn moan, and felt his guts turning into mush. He’d barely touched her parted lips when the paralyzing sensation hit him again, so unexpectedly that for a moment he couldn’t breathe. What in the hell?

A wave of warmth washed over him, deepening the pounding of his heart, which seemed about to leap out of his chest. He felt as though he were sinking in quicksand. What was going on? He pushed back abruptly, and stared at her.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing.” He was having a heart attack, that was what was wrong. She was turning him into a cardiac case. Five more minutes of this and he’d be on the floor. “What are you doing to me?” he said, searching her face.

“I’m not doing anything, Sam. I’m not even touching you. You look pale,” she pressed. “What is it?”

“I don’t feel ... right.” There were things going on inside him he’d never experienced before. His stomach had turned into a carnival ride. He had to get some air to breathe, some space. He had to find some solid ground to stand on.

“Sam, where are you going? Let me help—”

“No, don’t help me,” he said, waving her away as he backed down the stairway. “Don’t even think about helping me.” When he reached the door at the bottom, he glanced up dizzily at her dumbfounded expression. “You get near me again and I’m a dead man.”

“‘P
UT IT IN YOUR BRA
’?” Bev grumbled aloud as she fiddled with the surveillance microphone Sam had given her moments earlier. He’d jury-rigged the tiny device so that she could conceal it under her strapless dress, and then he’d made a quick exit, refusing to have anything to do with her efforts to get it attached. “Sure, like it was easy or something,” she said, trying to fasten delicate wires to sheer black lace.

She was beginning to feel like a typhoid carrier, the way Sam was acting. They may have agreed to stay away from each other, but he was being ridiculous. He’d moved his things out of the cabin, saying only that he was sleeping in a storage room somewhere. She’d insisted it was unnecessary, arguing that they were both adults and could control their biological urges. He’d told her to speak for her own urges.

After another moment or two of maneuvering, Bev had the microphone attached. She checked herself out in the mirror and nodded approvingly. Arthur would be too distracted by the slinky black strapless dress she’d borrowed from Tina to notice a minute bubble in the clingy fabric of the bodice.

She glanced at her watch. “Five minutes to zero hour.”

She was meeting Arthur in moments, and that night was terribly important. The ship was docked in Nassau for the last evening of the cruise, and Arthur had invited her ashore for dinner. Instead of a restaurant, he’d made arrangements for the meal to be served in the penthouse apartment of a luxury hotel so they could have privacy. He’d told her at lunch, very mysteriously, that he had something important to discuss with her, a proposal that would affect both their futures.

Sam was sure Arthur had taken the bait and was going to try to entice Bev into an investment scam. If he did, Bev was supposed to express strong interest, and then suggest that Arthur return to the States with her, where she would withdraw the necessary cash from a trust account. Lydia Covington would be waiting in her Key West villa for word of her runaway husband’s return.

As she locked the cabin door behind her, she felt triumphant in having Arthur so close to where they wanted him. It still amazed her that such a sweet, sensitive man was a con artist. He certainly knew how to use his poetic nature to his advantage. If she hadn’t known all about him, she would have eagerly swallowed all his flattery. Unlike some men, Arthur understood how to make a woman feel totally appreciated for her feminine qualities.

“He could give Sam Nichols a few lessons in how to treat a woman,” she said, a taut sigh in her voice. She fingered the tiny device in her bodice and a pensive smile flickered on her lips. She was wearing a wire. Sam would be listening to the whole thing.

“‘She walks in beauty, like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies ...’”

Bev set down her champagne flute as Arthur let the words trail off. “Shelley?” she asked.

“Byron.”

“Oh, yes, of course. How could I have forgotten? It’s one of his most popular poems.” Arthur had been quoting poetry and sending Bev adoring smiles across the dinner table all evening. He was building to a proposal, all right, but she doubted it had anything to do with her finances. She glanced at the concealed microphone in her dress, wondering if Sam was listening.

“‘And all that’s best of dark and bright/Meet in her aspect and her eyes ...’”

Bev’s fingernails did a nervous tap dance against the rim of the glass as Arthur droned on. She loved romantic poetry as well as the next person, but he was showing no signs of letting up. Somehow she had to get him off Byron and onto the mysterious reason he’d invited her.

“‘Thus mellow’d to that tender light/Which heaven to gaudy day deni—’”

“Arthur.” She smiled apologetically and softened her tone as he stopped short, open-mouthed. “Arthur, wasn’t there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Talk? Oh, I—” He blushed to the roots of his silver hair, and Bev felt frustrated. She’d embarrassed him again. Even an offhand smile could embarrass Arthur, and then he’d stumble and bumble forever, helpless to recover his composure.

“It’s all right,” she said quickly. “We don’t have to talk if you’d rather not. Here, have some more champagne.” She sprang up and walked around the table, plucking the magnum from its bucket and splashing some bubbly into Arthur’s glass.

“No! I do, I mean I want to t-talk.” Arthur nearly tipped his chair over as he rose and picked up his champagne glass. “Toast?” he said.

“Toast? Oh ... toast. Sure.” Bev hurried to get her glass, filling it as she walked back to him. “That’s a lovely idea. Let’s have a toast.”

Their glasses hit with a clink loud enough to crack the crystal. “Oops,” Arthur said, his eyes lighting up with startled laughter. “Don’t know my own strength.”

Bev was laughing too as she tipped the brimming glass to her lips. Champagne bubbled up and spilled over, running down her neck in rivulets that made a beeline for her cleavage.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Arthur gasped.

“It was me,” Bev assured him. “I’m jinxed when it comes to alcohol.” She took the napkin he thrust at her, still laughing softly as she daubed at herself.

“Bev ... ?”

“Yes?” Still daubing, she looked up and saw the horrified expression on Arthur’s face.

“What is that?” He was pointing at her chest.

A black spidery thing had attached itself to Bev’s napkin. She let out a shriek and flipped the napkin onto the table.

“I’ve got it!” Arthur grabbed his coffee cup and heroically stomped the grotesque insect.

“Arthur!” Bev had never seen him so dynamic and forceful. She was about to congratulate him, when a high-pitched tone pierced her ears. “What’s that noise?” she said, looking around. Static crackled and popped, drawing her back to the squashed bug on the table. She gaped at it, giving out another soft shriek as she realized what it was. Her surveillance microphone!

Somehow the device must have gotten hooked on the napkin and she’d pulled it out of her bra! Worse, it was shorting out!

Arthur was staring at the device suspiciously. “Bev? What is this thing?” He poked at it with his dinner fork, and finally he scooped it up in his palm for a closer look. “It’s a microphone, isn’t it?” he said, looking up at her. “A bug?” His expression was that of a confused, wounded child.

Bev sighed. “It was a microphone.”

“You were recording our conversation?”

“Oh, Arthur ... I can explain.”

Fifteen minutes later, seated on the penthouse’s living room couch with Arthur, Bev had told him pretty much the whole story, including the fact that she was a private detective. She was sure she was violating every precious tenet of Sam’s standard operating procedure, but there was no way to get out of it. If Arthur decided to threaten her, she could hold him at bay until Sam came. And she hoped he would soon. He’d probably guessed something was wrong as soon as her microphone went dead, and even if he had avoided her lately, he would come to her rescue. Wouldn’t he?

“A private detective, really?” Arthur said amazed. “You’re very good.”

“Do you think so?” If she kept him talking, she might be able to make him confess. And timid soul that he was, she might even be able to convince him to return to the United States.

“Oh, yes,” Arthur said, absolutely sincere. “I would never have guessed you for a flatfoot. And I can usually tell.” He scratched his head, and smiled at her, perplexed. “The problem now is what to do with you. I don’t think I’ve ever been in this predicament before.”

“Arthur,” Bev said with a motherly pat to his hand. “That’s sweet, but you shouldn’t be worrying about me right now. You need to concentrate on resolving the situation with Lydia. I want you to think seriously about meeting with her, Arthur. She’s promised not to prosecute if you return the money.”

“Oh, I couldn’t go back.”

“Arthur, now, listen to me. If you don’t go back, she’s going to notify the police, and you know how they are. They’ll drag in the F.B.I. There’ll be machine guns and S.W.A.T. teams—”

“No, you don’t understand, Bev,” he said. “I
can’t
go back. I don’t have the money. I really did invest it. I wasn’t trying to hurt Lydia, I love Lydia. I love all rich women. I was only trying to make her richer.” He raised his hands helplessly.

“Oh ... dear.” Bev rose from the couch and walked to the penthouse windows, wondering where Sam was. “I’m sorry,” she said, staring out at the lights of Nassau, “but it looks like you’re going to have to go back and face this thing, Arthur. I don’t see any other way. Life isn’t a cruise ship cocktail lounge. You can’t run a tab forever.”

She turned back, determined to persuade him.

“Arthur?”

He was holding a gun on her, a very large gun!

He looked like a repentant puppy dog, all sad eyes and imploring shrugs. “I’m sorry too, Bev. I feel just terrible about this, but I’m going to have to tie you up.”

In a room below the penthouse, Sam was checking out the deafening static on his receiver. He’d just upgraded his equipment, it was state of the art technology, and he was seriously ticked off that it wasn’t working.

“Hell with it,” he muttered finally. He would have to do his eavesdropping first-hand.

He ran up the stairs and walked quietly down the hallway to the penthouse door. He picked the lock and crept into the living room just in time to hear Bev tell Arthur what a wonderful guy he was and begging him not to waste himself. Arthur humbly protested, insisting that Bev was the one who was wonderful. Sam rolled his eyes. They had a real mutual admiration society going. Bev was coming off like a self-esteem counselor. It was a novel approach to dealing with a four-flushing chiseler.

“I like you, Bev,” Arthur said, his voice raspy with emotion. “Very much. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I wish we’d met under other circumstances. I wish—”

“Oh, Arthur—”

The room went silent, and Sam’s senses went on alert. What was going on in there? He inched forward, heard a funny, breathy sound, like a sigh, and his imagination caught fire. What was that poetry-puking little bastard doing? Kissing her?

Sam swung into the room, his fists clenched. He hesitated, confused at the sight of Bev standing across the room by the couch. She was alone. Where was Arthur?

“Bad timing, Sam,” Bev said, indicating that someone was behind him. Sam whirled and came face-to-face with the barrel of a 9mm Beretta. He raised his hands slowly. Suckered by Arthur Blankenship? He really was losing it.

“Boy, what a mess, huh?” Arthur shrugged apologetically. “Now I’m going to have to tie you up too.”

Sam’s upper lip curled, a predatory snarl. “Never gonna happen.”

“Sam,” Bev pointed out hastily, “Arthur does have a gun.”

Arthur stepped back, aiming the barrel at a very vulnerable part of Sam’s body. “Stay where you are,” he warned, squinting at Sam’s surly features. “Say ... aren’t you the waiter?”

“Actually, he’s—” Bev started.

“I’m her partner,” Sam cut in. “And if you try any more of that touchy-feely stuff with her, you’re a dead con man.”

Arthur blanched. “Bev,” he said, “do as I tell you. Quickly. Take the cord from the drapes and use it to tie Sam’s hands and feet.”

Sam moved imperceptibly, looking for an opening. Arthur frantically released the gun’s safety, shrieking as a crack of light and sound exploded. A bullet hit the wall unit behind Sam.

“My God, it went off!” Arthur breathed.

“I hate it when that happens,” Sam growled, ducking as Arthur looked up. “Hey! Watch where you’re pointing that thing!”

Fifteen minutes later Sam Nichols was lying on the penthouse floor, bound and trussed like a rodeo steer. Bev, having done most of the binding and trussing, had returned to the sofa. Her ears were still burning from Sam’s profane mutterings. “Nice work, Bev,” Arthur said, checking Sam’s knots. “I’m afraid it’s your turn now. I’d like you to lie down, facing Sam, your hands behind your back.”

A gasp caught in Bev’s throat. “Arthur, please! You’re not going to tie me to him?” In her panic she recklessly considered rushing Arthur and trying to disarm him.

Bev was praying for a catastrophic act of nature by the time Arthur got done lashing her to Sam Nichols. Sam was grimly silent through the whole thing. And Arthur, sensitive to Bev’s distress, apologized repeatedly for any inconvenience he was causing her.

“I’m going to put out the Do Not Disturb sign,” Arthur told them moments later as he was preparing to leave. “But don’t worry. Someone will come up to investigate when you don’t check out tomorrow at noon.” He smiled hopefully, indicating the suite. “It’s a beautiful suite, isn’t it? I guess if you have to be tied up somewhere, it might as well be the penthouse.”

With one last contrite farewell, Arthur left.