Swindled in Paradise Read online

  SWINDLED

  IN

  PARADISE

  PARADISE SERIES

  BOOK 8

  DEBORAH BROWN

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted, materials.

  SWINDLED IN PARADISE

  Copyright @ 2015 Deborah Brown

  Cover: Natasha Brown

  PARADISE BOOKS

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Paradise Series Novels

  About the Author

  SWINDLED IN PARADISE

  Chapter 1

  Automatic gunfire flew into the restaurant from the street, ricocheting off the walls. A steady stream of bullets wreaked havoc everywhere, beginning in the bar, where anything glass shattered and expensive bottles of liquor exploded, sending liquid and shards flying in all directions. Screams echoed throughout the building; hopefully people weren’t injured, just scared out of their wits. Furniture overturned as people hit the ground, scrambling in blind fear. The staccato sound went on and on for what seemed like an hour, but it was over in less than a minute, as the destruction moved at a steady pace through the main entrance, into the dining room, and completed its assault on the far end of the wrap patio. Squealing tires signaled the end of the chaos.

  * * *

  We sat under an umbrella on the patio of an upscale restaurant called B’s, the current “in” place, complete with prime people-watching from sidewalk seats. Its Ocean Boulevard location in Miami Beach was in the middle of the Art Deco Historic District, which continued along the water to the southernmost end of the main barrier island.

  I sat across the table from my best friend and roommate, Fabiana Merceau, in a midriff top and a flirty above-the-knee tropical print skirt in greens and oranges. I sighed at having to leave my flip-flops in the SUV and change into persimmon color slides. I looked like the girl next door except for the red hair and the whispers of “crazy” everywhere I went.

  Fab wore a full short skirt that just begged to twirl and a black halter-neck top, adorned with columns of sparkling crystals at the neckline, that showed off her sculpted, tanned arms. Her feet loved the four-inch designer heels. No one did sexy like this golden-brown-haired, blue-eyed Frenchwoman. The only downside to her outfit? No place to carry her Walther, so she tucked it in her black envelope purse.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  “The owner, my newest client, wants me to work here.” Her eyes scanned the interior of the restaurant.

  I whined when Fab said we couldn’t sit outside and moved to seats just inside the sliding doors that ran around the perimeter of the restaurant. A warm breeze blew in from the Atlantic Ocean across the street, but it wasn’t nearly as invigorating as if we’d stayed at the sidewalk table.

  I arched my brows. This wasn’t the dress-up girlfriends lunch Fab had sold; this was a job. “Doing what?” Customer service wasn’t Fab’s strong point; she had no patience. One snotty comment and the patron would end up wearing their food.

  I asked her several times where were we going, complaining loudly and questioning why I had to wear uncomfortable shoes. This was another one of her crap surprises, but we never said no to one another.

  “Madison…” she began.

  The sound of gunfire interrupted her.

  Fab and I hit the floor and rolled into an alcove, both of us drawing our weapons. Judging by the sound of the gunshots, which quickly melted into the distance and ceased, it had been a drive-by shooting.

  “You listen to me,” I barked. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re never working here.”

  “I hate it when you sound like your mother.” She grabbed my hand. “Let’s get the hell out of here before Miami’s finest show up.”

  We could hear the sirens rapidly approaching. This would be headline news, and we weren’t going to be part of the story.

  She peered around our upturned table. “Now.”

  We raced out a side door, across the corner of the patio to the sidewalk, and blended in with the gaping crowd that had started to gather.

  “Should we cut across to the beach?” I looked across the street. The waves breaking on the sugar-white sand had a calming effect.

  “We need to get back to the SUV and out of the area before they start cordoning off streets and we’re stuck here. If we hang around, someone might recognize us, and the questions will be endless.”

  I kicked off my shoes; Fab looked disgusted. “Your feet will get dirty.”

  “That’s what your overpriced French shower gel is for.”

  She took off her shoes, and we ran for the parking garage.

  When we got there, Fab slid behind the wheel of my black convertible Hummer. It was the best deal I ever got on a car though I rarely got to drive it. I’d been banned from driving my own vehicle, the common complaint being that I drove too slow. I looked forward to the day when driving the speed limit didn’t garner evil looks.

  “Start talking about the job duties for this new employment you’re forbidden to take.”

  “Calm down. We got away uninjured.”

  I glared at her.

  “B’s is running private poker games in the back room. The owner wants me to check the security, sit in as a player, make sure the games stay friendly, and run checks on the high-rollers and employees.”

  “First off, gambling is illegal in this state.”

  “Your mother uses the back room at Jake’s for the same illicit operation.” She smirked.

  “Don’t bring Mother into this. Jake’s has never been riddled with bullet holes.
” She gave me a look. “Okay, I admit to the occasional gunshot inside the bar. Anyway, her games are invitation-only to a select few, doctor, lawyer, CPA, all friends of the family.”

  Jake’s was a tropical-themed dive bar I owned in Tarpon Cove, frequented by locals who liked cheap drinks and the best Mexican food at the top of the Keys. I couldn’t wait to get back to the Cove; I was tired of overly-impressed-with-itself Miami. Besides, shouldn’t you check out the people involved before dealing the cards or hiring them?”

  “When there’s big money on the table, sometimes rules get bent.”

  One thing about Fab, she knew when to keep a low profile, when not to play chicken at yellow lights or incite a smoking-hot male driver into a game of chase, only to laugh and disappear on them, always ending the game on her own rules.

  “Let me guess, your new client screwed someone and got served up some payback. If this was meant to scare him, I’d say mission accomplished unless he’s completely stupid. Does this client have a name?”

  “Patino,” Fab murmured. “It did appear as though the shooter aimed high.” She stared at the roadway, lost in thought. “He’s probably going to want me to investigate.”

  “N-O! This Patino person already knows the answers to all his questions, and I bet you he’s on a first-name basis with whoever ordered the shooting.” I shook my finger at her. “Don’t think I won’t stoop to telling on you.”

  “You wouldn’t.” She frowned.

  “I love you. You’re the sister I never had. Are you crazy enough to think you can be replaced? We don’t allow just anyone into the Westin family.”

  “Women are having babies later in life; maybe your mother will get preggo by Spoon.”

  I gasped. “Don’t you repeat that to anyone. Brad would have a stroke.”

  My brother, was coming around slowly to Mother’s reformed badass boyfriend, Jimmy Spoon. He liked the man, but wanted Mother to hook up with a stable, less fun, older gentleman, not a younger one with whom she shared cigars and Tennessee whiskey straight up. But babies….

  Chapter 2

  Fab maneuvered the Hummer onto the Overseas Highway, an exotic road that ran through the lush tropical landscape between Miami and Key West. A colorful Florida scenic highway sign confirmed that home was closer than ever. Tarpon Cove was the first exit at the top of the Keys, a small beach town that housed more full-time residents than flighty tourist traffic. Cars generally passed up the Cove in a cloud of sand, heading to the ultimate playground at the southernmost tip—Key West.

  “What are you doing?” Fab snarked.

  I had reached over the seat and grabbed the carry bag that I’d left on the floor. “Since I’m not driving, I can change my clothes.” I smoothed my hands over my skirt. “You’d owe me a new one if this had gotten covered with blood stains. What the hell happened back there?” and pitched my shoes over the seat, not caring where they landed.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Fab grabbed her cellphone and dialed it one-handed without taking her eyes off the road. After a minute, she made a face and ended the call. “Went to voicemail,” she said, tossing her phone back on the console. “I’ll call Patino later, and when I do, I bet his answers to my questions will be vague.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, an intense look on her face.

  “And this is the conversation where you’ll be giving your notice, effective immediately? Don’t think you’re going to pull one over on me.” I stripped down to my black lace bra and lace-trimmed hipster underwear. They were a little fancy for the black sweatpants I pulled over my hips, rolling the legs to mid-calf. I grabbed my cropped black sweatshirt with the State of Florida seal embossed on it in a deep silver.

  “Yes, Mother.” Fab glanced at the pile of clothes between my feet. “Don’t forget to pick up your clothes.”

  I ignored her. “We need to stop by The Cottages, make sure they’re still standing.”

  “More problems?” She snickered. “You wouldn’t have so many problems if you stuck to your hard-and-fast rule: no renting to locals.”

  I pulled my red hair up into a messy upsweep and forced it between the teeth of a clip. “I’m hiring you as the Director of Security. Evict the lot of them and call me when it’s done. You’re perfect for the job; you never have sympathy for anyone’s sob story.”

  “What’s the pay?” From the look on her face, she was giving serious thought to my impromptu idea. “It better be extra if I have to listen to a single problem.” She smiled evilly. “Do I get to charge by the person? Just so you understand that I only relocate as far as the curb.”

  “Best friends don’t charge; they offer up their services for free and skip the ‘tudiness,” I sniffed.

  She made a face.

  “I saw that.” I bent over, sliding my feet into black flip-flops, another new pair. I couldn’t resist the crystals on the straps.

  * * *

  “Slow the hell down, that’s a horse,” I yelled and shoved my hands against the dash.

  Fab jammed on the brakes, screeching to a halt in the entrance to the driveway of The Cottages. “What’s that doing here?” She swerved around its rear-end and parked in the visitor space in front of the office.

  I had inherited the ten-unit beach-front property from my Aunt Elizabeth. The individual units were painted in an array of the famously bright South Florida colors. The place had always attracted colorful tenants, but during my tenure, I’d managed to rid the place of felons, drunks, and drug addicts. I’d like to say none of their ilk had managed to sneak back in, but that would be a lie. Since I couldn’t shoot them all, I had an A-1 eviction service, courtesy of Mother’s badass boyfriend.

  Mac Lane strolled out of the office as though it was just another day. She’d shown up one day and talked herself into the job of office manager in a matter of minutes. If I had my way, she would never quit. The thought of handling tenant problems gave me a headache.

  She was an ample-sized, middle-aged woman who handled everything with patience and calm. When that failed, she also packed a handgun under her clothing. Her style could easily be categorized as bohemian: today, she sported a multi-color checked long skirt gathered together and tied into a knot between her calves to show her legs and ankles. I knew her well enough to know that underneath all that material, she had donned a pair of electric-colored bicycle shorts or obscenely short shorts. Her tops came in one size––too small. Today’s shirt had ‘Yee Haw’ written on the front.

  I jumped out of the SUV. “You’re fired,” I told Mac, pointing to the horse.

  “I’ve been trying to call you to ask what you want me to do with our newest guest. He won’t fit through any of the cottage doors.” Mac blew a kiss at the chestnut brown, full-grown horse.

  “She’s been mean to me,” Fab whined to Mac as she walked up behind me.

  “I…” I stuttered, “I didn’t get lunch. And I’m hungry.”

  Mac tapped her foot, waiting to see if, just this once, we’d get into a hair-pulling, roll-on-the-ground brawl. I knew that if one erupted, every tenant in the place would put their money on Fab.

  “Focus.” I snapped my fingers at Fab. “Part of your new security detail is getting rid of the horse.”

  Mac laughed. “I called animal control, and the woman hung up on me after telling me to call back when I sobered up and saying that hopefully then I’d make sense.”

  “It just wandered up?” I looked up and down the street; not a single person or car in sight. “In a residential neighborhood?” The area was zoned for single and multi-family homes with no exemptions for livestock.

  “Miss January ‘found it’—” Mac made air quotes. “—and walked it home. It took Score longer than usual to sleep off his drunk, so she went for a walk alone. You know she shouldn’t be allowed off the property by herself.”

  “Can you hurry the story along?” Fab elbowed Mac in the back. “I’m hungry too.”

  Miss January is/was an original tenant
who’d been handed down by my aunt, who’d inherited her from the first owner. She looked eighty but was actually half that age. A tear-jerking life did that to the woman, helped along by being an alcoholic with cancer. The doctors had given her a date with death, but she’d failed to RSVP.

  Her boyfriend, Score, also a drunk, actually looked his age: a few years short of ninety. He was another “find” of Miss January, who brought him home one day from a walk on the beach.

  She’d whispered to me, “We’re perfect for one another—we like to drink and have sex.”

  To my credit, I managed to make some appropriate noise; it was one of those times I was at a loss for a more fitting response.

  I surveyed the property. The cottages reserved for tourists were once again filled, each with a rental car parked in its assigned space. All was calm, which could be very deceiving. Two drunks getting in a fight over which one would get the last swig of the bottle could break out in a hot second, as past experience had proven. Not a single head pushed between the wooden blinds that covered the windows, so the horse had thus far gone unnoticed.

  “Miss January strolled up the driveway and tossed me the reins, telling me she needed a cigarette.” Mac inclined her head towards the porch, where Miss January lay slumped in a chair. “She had one in her mouth but had forgotten to light it. The horse and I followed her to the door, where she sat down and fell asleep. I took the smoke from her mouth and put it in her pocket, and fished out the matches and kept them for myself. I figured when she sobered up some, she’d have to find another pack of matches, lessening the chances of something accidentally catching on fire, like her muumuu.”

  “I suggest you get rid of it.” Fab nudged me and pointed to the horse. “Before it uses your property as a bathroom. One other thing, I quit. The pay sucks, and I don’t have animal skills except for my cat.”

  “That’s my cat,” I said.

  The four of us turned at the sound of a car taking the corner too fast and bouncing into the driveway. The horse had come up behind Mac and nudged her shoulder; she reached up and patted his mane. Another qualification for her resume––horse rapport.