After Hours. Karen Kendall

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      THE NEXT MORNING Troy awoke in his bed with a numb arm, a migraine and a persistent hard-on. Visions of the pissed-off redhead had flitted through his head all night, and in a lot of them she wore nothing but that lab coat, unbuttoned.

      He’d been wasting his time the night before. He wished he’d gone to bed around the same time he’d forced Derek to do so. Besides the drinks and the weird late-night schedule, After Hours wasn’t conducting any out-of-the-ordinary business, and he’d come close to being arrested for stalking. Damn it.

      He focused on the extremely ugly brown-paneled wall of the furnished hovel he’d just purchased. The place dated from the early sixties and hadn’t been remodeled since then. The scent of its elderly former resident, now dead, still hung in the air: a peculiar essence of Listerine, moth balls, old grease and musty carpet.

      Troy swung his legs over the side of his bed and eyed the malfunctioning window-unit air conditioner sourly. Until he got this wreck of a place gutted and fixed up, he might be better off sleeping in his car.

      The house had been the only halfway decent buy left in Miami’s Coral Gables, and it was going to take a year of his time, a hundred contractors and a miracle of God to make it livable.

      Troy shook his dead arm—it used to take a woman sleeping on it to make that happen—and made coffee one-handed as what felt like an army of ants ran from his wrist to his bicep. He yawned while something tickled at his barely functional brain.

      Oh, right. Alcohol permit. He needed to check on that. If the tenants at the spa could be kicked out for something that simple, he’d be a happy guy.

      He felt a little guilty as he drank coffee—black with one sugar—and did some research on the Internet to look into the laws. They’d all seemed so happy and energetic last night as he’d sat in the dark like a vulture, plotting to yank their storefront out from under them. A really nice guy, he was.

      Hey, it’s nothing personal. Just business.

      Unfortunately, the Internet informed him that yes, indeed, After Hours could legally serve beer and wine as long as they weren’t selling it. Liquor required a license, but he’d seen no signs of them serving hard liquor.

      Great. Since when had salons and spas turned into lightweight bars? He was obviously getting old.

      Troy logged off gloomily and fried two eggs and three strips of bacon. He made toast. He regained use of his arm. And after a shower he drove back over to the strip mall to think about the problem in the light of day.

      He parked the Lotus on the other side of the lot and walked by casually, peering in the door. Nobody was visible yet, but the salon would open in a few minutes. It looked spotless inside, and unfortunately there were no degenerates passed out on the floor after a night of partying. He frowned at the smaller gold letters on the door.

      We’re All About You!

      Not, thought Troy. If you were all about me, you and your male manicurist and your pampered princess clients would be outta here. My new sporting goods store would occupy that prime retail space. And you wouldn’t be getting away with murder on the rent.

      What had Newt been thinking, when he’d signed all the tenants to bargain-basement rents and ten-year leases? Ten years! For chrissakes.

      But Troy couldn’t evict any of these people without cause, and he didn’t particularly want to evict the ones in the smaller storefronts. Well, except maybe the nut bags in the Arrowroot Café, where they served chai or green tea instead of a decent cup of coffee and wouldn’t make anything using dairy products, meat or wheat. Soy milk—ugh!

      Wasn’t it time to take back the planet from tree huggers and vegetarians? Was it too much to ask for a real cup of joe in the morning, a BLT for lunch and a steak after a long, hard day?

      His gaze rested with more approval on the other restaurant in the strip mall. Benito’s Bistro, an Italian place, seemed to be popular, judging by the constant stream of customers. So what if the owner shared his name with Mussolini—at least he wasn’t a granola head.

      Other businesses in the place included a mail and copy center, a dry cleaner, a gift shop and a small pharmacy. They were fine as far as Troy was concerned. He’d thought briefly about knocking out a wall between a couple of them and using the larger СКАЧАТЬ