Eyes Of Fire

“Thanks, but I really want to bathe and change first. You go on in. I’ll join you soon.”

Still feeling like a fool, Sam waved Jerry inside and started walking quickly away once again.

In a pleasant room inside the lodge, a phone rang.

He quickly picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

“You’ve got company.”

“O’Connor?”

“Yes.”

“I know. He’s already arrived.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“He came in on the afternoon mail boat right when the dive party was returning.”

“Hmm. Did he say why he was on the island?”

“A dive vacation.”

“Right. What else?” There was a moment’s silence. “What was Miss Carlyle’s reaction to his appearance?”

“No reaction.”

“She was polite?”

“She pretended not to know him.”

“O’Connor is never anywhere unless something is going on. The stakes have just doubled. You’ll have to keep your eyes wide open. What did he bring with him?”

“Not much. A duffel bag.”

“No electronic equipment?”

“Not so far as I could see.”

“Check it out.”

“Sure. I like grabbing a tiger by the tail.”

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid?”

“Let’s say I have a healthy respect for the man.”

“Healthy respect or—”

“Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

“He’s one man. He can’t be everywhere at once.” Again there was a brief silence. “Remember that. He’s just one man. Human. Things happen. And when they don’t, people make them happen. Do you know what I mean?”

“You’re suggesting something could happen to O’Connor?” There was a note of derision in the question. “He’s one of the best divers in the world.”

“Justin Carlyle was one of the finest divers in the world, too. The sea ate him up. It can happen to anyone. Bear that in mind.”

“Justin Carlyle was a marine biologist who loved the sea. O’Connor has been both a Navy and a police diver. He’s here with his guard up, you mark my word.”

“You mark my word. No man is invulnerable. Especially when you go through a woman to reach his Achilles’ heel. You stay awake there, you hear?”

“Yeah. Who is O’Connor working for?”

“It’s the damnedest thing—I don’t know. Not yet, anyway.”

“Great.”

“Give me time. I’ll find out.”

The receiver went dead.

He replaced it slowly, then stood and walked into the bathroom, dropping his clothing as he went. He paused before the mirror, pleased with what he saw. Naked, he shoved aside the toiletries in his overnight bag until he revealed a dark velvet bag that might have carried men’s cologne or talc. But it didn’t. He ran his hand carefully over the outline of his specialty custom-made thirty-two-caliber pistol, a small weapon, easily concealed, but one that packed a deadly punch nevertheless.

Assured, he locked the door to the bath, his overnight bag on the commode, within arm’s reach of the shower. He started the water and swore vociferously as it shot out at him, steaming. He adjusted the temperature, still swearing.

Well, hell, that was just it, wasn’t it? They were all getting into hot water now.

But didn’t they always tempt the devil?

For big payoffs, you had to take big risks.

He began to lay his plans as he quickly showered.

Don’t think about him, Sam warned herself. Humph. Might as well tell herself to quit breathing. Not that it meant anything. She was hardened. Older. Mature.

Burned.

But she still wanted to know….

What the hell was Adam doing here? Go with the obvious, she advised herself. He was after someone or something—he was not on a pleasure trip, that was certain. He’d been with the Metropolitan Dade County Police the first time he’d come here, searching for a drug runner out of Coconut Grove reported to have gone down about two miles off the island. He’d found the sunken speedboat—and arrested the two men who were pretending to be sports fishermen while visiting the island in their attempt to recover their lost treasure. In the meantime, he’d made a conquest on the island—her.

Sam didn’t head straight for her refuge. She walked quickly along the concrete path, skirting the front of the lodge, still feeling like a fool. Anything could have been on that damned path. Anything. It led from the docks, first skirting the white sand of the beach area on the northward slope of the island, then winding through the manicured lawns toward the lodge itself.

Hibiscus grew along the path in flowering beauty, while palms lent shade, and crotons and wild orchids added deep slashes of color along the way.

With Jerry having disappeared into the lodge, Sam paused in the center of an orchid-covered gazebo near the far corner of the lodge, catching her breath and looking at the inn.

The main lodge itself was Victorian. It had been built by Sam’s great-grandfather in 1880. Cosmetic touches and several major additions had been built on over the intervening years, but every member of the family since her great-grandfather’s day had remained true to the integrity of the Victorian era. The lodge house was painted a soft coral with white balconies, porches and gingerbreading. It was encircled by a magnificent broad porch and sat atop a small knoll. She loved the house, and she loved the island, just as she loved the water and the breezes, the boating, the diving. It was a fantasy life—hard work, but a fantasy. She enjoyed living it and working it. This had been her home as long as she could remember, except for the three years she had spent at St. Anne’s Fine Arts College for Women.