Accidental Bodyguard. Sharon Hartley

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СКАЧАТЬ it,” Jack said. “Give me his address. I’ll meet the mistress and expedite her transition into the love shack.”

      “Thanks, Jack. Her name is Louise Clark.”

      After disconnecting, Jack donned his jacket and exited the office for a trip to the docks to give clearance for one Louise Clark, a lucky lady with a mega-rich sugar daddy. He could do that by phone, but wanted to introduce himself to his staff and make certain they alerted him when Ms. Clark boarded the ferry on the Miami side.

      He climbed into the golf cart with Security Director stenciled on the rear and turned a key conveniently in the lock, shaking his head. Weren’t many places in south Florida where you could leave a key in the ignition without worry of theft. The quiet electric motor ignited immediately, and he headed toward the dock. Not a speck of trash anywhere on the streets or the neatly mowed grass. Palms, oaks and other landscaping were trimmed to perfection. Gently cascading fountains sounded all around him, clear of any leaf debris because they were cleaned twice a day.

      Jack couldn’t imagine—but could easily find out—what the monthly maintenance fee was on Collins Island. Had to be astronomical because per square foot there weren’t that many residences. Only ten large villas on the eastern shore of the island—where Ms. Clark would soon take up residence—and forty town homes on the west housed in four three-story buildings.

      The graceful structures were constructed in a coordinated Mediterranean style with coral-color barrel-tile roofs, featuring arches and supporting decorative columns. Colorful ceramic tile mosaics detailed many of the architectural elements, including the addresses.

      Nobody out on this fine Monday morning, except a maid actually dressed in a starched gray uniform walking two French bulldogs. Jack nodded at her, and she responded with a shy smile.

      The 10:00 a.m. ferry, laden with only six vehicles, approached the dock when Jack arrived. He parked his cart by the guard shack—constructed in the same architectural style—and watched the dock personnel do their job. Tanned men and women in blue shorts and crisp white shirts efficiently tied the boat to the landing, secured the sturdy metal ramp and motioned for the cars to drive off in a particular order. Three walk-aboards also exited.

      The guard on duty, a uniformed twentyish black male, watched the process with alert attention. All clearance was completed on the Miami side, so all he had to do was make a head count, answer questions and direct approved visitors to their destination.

      When debarkation was complete, Jack approached the guard and shook his hand. “Jackson Richards.”

      “Ike Gamble. We were expecting you today, sir. Welcome to Collins Island.”

      “Thanks, Ike.” Jack crossed his arms to observe the ferry staff prepare for the next trip. “Everything go okay this morning?”

      Ike shrugged. “We seldom have any glitches, sir.”

      Jack winced at constantly being called sir. He was maybe five or six years older than this guy, but understood it was a matter of respect. “You can call me Jack.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      So much for informality. “I need to talk to the guards on the other side,” he told Ike.

      “Of course, sir.”

      Ike removed a walkie-talkie from his belt, contacted the Miami guards, who responded in seconds, and handed the device to Jack. Viewing the distant guardhouse across the channel, a shipping lane also used by enormous cruise ships, Jack explained about the new tenant and approved her to board the ferry.

      “Make sure you call the office when Ms. Clark shows. Leave word for the next shift if you go off duty before she arrives.”

      Confident his instructions would be followed, Jack returned to his cart. He sat for a moment, watching the ferry depart, wondering what the mistress looked like and when Mr. Santaluce would arrive. A clandestine love affair on an island this small would be hard to hide. A lot of people could be hurt. Jack’s thoughts drifted to his momma—which trashed his relaxed good mood.

      His divorced momma didn’t believe in the sanctity of marriage vows either, but her lover, a north Florida sheriff and his old boss, was nowhere near Collins Island rich. Did that make her indiscretions worse or better? He could hear Momma’s voice as she explained her lies, I’m in love, Jack. You don’t understand. You’ve never been in love.

      Considering what a fool Momma had made of herself over Chuck Wheeler, he seriously hoped he never fell in love. Who needed that shit?

      * * *

      CLAUDIA DRUMMED HER fingers on her steering wheel as the Collins Island ferry chugged across the narrow channel. Her windows were down, and a stiff ocean breeze flowed into the car, cooling her flushed face. She wished she could stand at the railing, but didn’t dare. Too exposed.

      She focused on the dock, watching it get closer and closer. Almost there. I’ve made it this far. I should be okay.

      Similar self-pep talks had helped her through each step of the journey. She’d checked in and out of a fleabag motel without getting blown to bits. She’d made it to the bank vault to retrieve her fake IDs and the Glock, and emerged still breathing. She’d even managed to purchase new clothes in a mall she never frequented. That was the most nerve-racking but couldn’t be helped because she’d left everything behind in her trashed apartment in case they’d put a tracking device somewhere. Better to be safe.

      And she’d made it out of the grocery store without a hitch. Could Carlos’s people hack into her credit card records? Probably, but she didn’t have to touch her maxed-out cards again. Once she got to this island with its legendary security, there was no way anyone could get to her.

      She’d crammed her car with enough groceries to last until Carlos’s trial. She would have loved to obtain a new vehicle, but lack of time and funds made that impossible.

      She’d be fine as long as she kept out of sight and remembered her new name. It’d been three days, and so far she’d stayed beneath their radar.

      The last and most difficult step was boarding this ferry. It was a wonder she hadn’t stroked out while the security guard checked for her name on his list. He’d frowned at her rusted twenty-year-old vehicle, scrutinized her fake driver’s license, then looked at her face for so long she thought he was trying to memorize her features. His gaze had shifted back to the license, then the car again to check out all the bags in the backseat.

      Finally, his jaw clenched in obvious disapproval, he scanned the license with a small device, made a note on his clipboard and motioned her aboard.

      She closed her eyes, remembering her near panic. God, what would she have done? Accept the US Attorney’s offer of a safe house? No way. Carlos had bragged that he’d bribed an employee, so that was a sure death sentence.

      Her ex had taught her to trust no one. The attorney she’d been working with on her testimony would worry when he couldn’t contact her, but she wanted her trail ice-cold. She’d reach out to him later.

      She felt a gentle bump and opened her eyes. Relief swamped her. They’d reached the other side. She was safe.

      The car in front of hers, a bright red sporty Mercedes, started its motor. Claudia turned her key to do the same and heard nothing but an empty click.

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