Blownup in Paradise Read online

  BLOWNUP

  IN

  PARADISE

  PARADISE SERIES

  BOOK 14

  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. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all materials in this book.

  This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  BLOWNUP IN PARADISE

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2018 Deborah Brown

  Kindle Edition

  Cover: Natasha Brown

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Contents

  BLOWNUP IN PARADISE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Books by Deborah Brown

  About the Author

  BLOWNUP IN PARADISE

  Chapter One

  “We’re being followed,” Fab said in a hushed tone as we headed down the Overseas Highway from the top of the Keys, her eyes alternating between the road in front of her and the Hummer’s side mirror.

  I turned in my seat. “The sports car?”

  “The Harley. It’s been moving up, then hanging back, and now it’s almost on my bumper.” Fab pulled her Walther out from under her skirt, where she had it holstered. “Madison, wait,” she exclaimed after a minute. “It’s not us… It’s the Ferrari the Harley is interested in.”

  I craned my neck around the back of the driver’s seat, in awe that she could identify the make of a car with a quick glance. “That’s Bordello!” I struggled to keep from shrieking. Now on my knees on the passenger seat, I kept a tight grip on my Glock, which I’d also had holstered under my skirt. “Mostly certain.” I climbed into the back seat to double check.

  James Bordello was a man with unsavory family connections, and I’d long suspected that he would stoop to violence to get what he wanted in a business deal but hadn’t been able to prove it. Much to my dismay and despite my attempts to talk my brother out of it, Brad had formed a real estate partnership with the man. To say Brad’s taste in women and business partners was terrible would be an understatement; they were invariably either crazy or criminal. But did he ever listen to his sister? Oh, heck no.

  “Don’t look now,” I instructed Fab, which she promptly ignored, turning her head towards the driver’s side window. “You don’t listen very well.”

  “What already?” Fab asked in exasperation.

  “Bordello just pulled up alongside us. Wonder where he’s going?” I scooted to the middle of the backseat on the off chance that he might see me. Probably not, since I’d chosen the darkest tint I could get for the windows.

  “It’s Bordello, all right,” Fab said, her disgust coming through loud and clear. “Judging by the way the Harley is dogging the Ferrari, plus the cannon tucked under that leather jacket, I’d say the rider likely gets a shot off and kills Bordello. Are we getting involved, or am I turning around and heading for my appointment? Your call. Personally, I vote for being do-gooder citizens, but only because I want to know what’s going down.”

  “Follow him.” It was probably a bad idea, but like Fab, I wanted to know what was going to happen next. “We have a few extra minutes before we need to hit the Turnpike to make your appointment on time.”

  The bike rider hunkered down and sped after the car, remaining a discreet distance behind, not ready to make it known that their only interest on the road was the Ferrari.

  “Maybe whoever it is has a good reason to want him dead,” I said, my face almost pressed to the glass.

  “I’m a bad influence.” Fab snorted. “That would be my rationale.”

  First, the Ferrari changed lanes, pulling in front of us. Next the bike slid in, cutting it close to the bumper and forcing Fab to hit the brakes.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “Get back up here,” Fab ordered. “Rider reaches for the gun, I’ll clip the back tire. Hopefully, their speed won’t get back up to what it was because this isn’t without a certain amount of risk. Might scratch up the Hummer.” She patted the dash.

  I sighed. The SUV was the coolest car I’d ever owned and an amazingly good deal, and I was tired of taking it to the auto body shop, hoping to get it back in near-new condition.

  “Do you think Bordello knows he’s being followed?” I asked, climbing back into the front.

  At that exact moment, Bordello pushed hard on the accelerator. The shiny silver sports car took off with a roar, speeding past the Tarpon Cove city limits as he rocketed down the highway heading south.

  “He knows now.” Fab eased down on the gas in hot pursuit of the two, but hung back, leaving plenty of room.

  The bike accelerated and was about to run up on the car’s back bumper, but several seconds later, the brake lights flashed and the motorcycle skidded, the back wheel swinging around ninety degrees. The rider hit the pavement and rolled, coming to a stop lying face down on the asphalt, not moving. The bike continued its skid, the crunch of the frame as it wrapped around a pole ensuring a mangled mess.

  I let out a loud groan.

  Fab slowed and pulled to the side of the highway, leaving a couple of car lengths between us and the accident. The two of us jumped out and ran to the rider.

  Struggling to move, the rider managed to turn over, grunting and groaning all the while.

  “I’m calling 911,” Fab said, just as the sound of screeching tires redirected our attention.

  Bordello had also pulled over and now put the Ferrari in reverse, backing up, blowing dust and dirt in our direction, and coming to a squealing stop. He barreled out of the car and raced the few feet to where we were. He did a double take at seeing Fab and I standing on the roadside and glared.

  “Don’t touch her,” he bellowed at the two of us.

  I stood, having already bent down to offer assistance until an ambulance arrived with the hope that once Fab
got an operator on the phone, they’d tell us what to do.

  Bordello threw himself down next to the rider, unbuckled the helmet and slipped it off gently, cradling her head in his lap. “I’ll take care of this,” he snapped. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, punched in 911, and reported an “accident,” telling the operator an ambulance was needed. All the while, he ran his hand over her long blonde hair, which had tumbled out and over her shoulders.

  The woman blinked several times in an attempt to focus. A long-legged, willowy blonde, her bright blue eyes brimmed with pain as she drifted in and out, her fingers clawing at the dirt. The woman made an effort to sit up, but didn’t get far before Bordello eased her gently against his chest.

  “Just relax. Help is on the way,” he said softly.

  I wasn’t sure what the heck I was witnessing, and Fab appeared to share my sentiments as we stood rooted on the side of the road. Bordello was practically cooing at the injured woman; the only tones I’d ever heard him use were sarcastic and demanding.

  Bordello’s brown eyes, now black pin dots, turned on Fab and me. “If it isn’t Madison Westin and Fabiana Merceau. What the hell are you two doing here? F’ing following me?” he ground out. He’d recovered from his brief brush with being nice and his true self was back—arrogant and full of himself.

  “Apparently you know this damsel in distress.” I glanced down at the woman. “Did you know she planned to shoot you?” I cut my eyes to the pavement a few feet away, where the Smith & Wesson lay.

  He ignored me, focusing on comforting the woman, murmuring words neither Fab nor I could hear. Fab had the nerve to step closer.

  “You two need to get the hell out of here,” he ordered, a snap of his fingers in his tone, along with the expectation that we would obey without question. “I’ll handle this. The only recitation of the facts the cops need to hear is mine.”

  “A thank you would be nice,” Fab huffed. “Instead of you comforting your shooter, you could be getting dragged out of your car and bagged off to the coroner about now.”

  “I told you to leave. I’m not telling you again.”

  Fab’s Walther made its second appearance of the day, and she aimed it between his eyes. “If I don’t, what are you going to do about it?”

  I smiled when he flinched, but I grabbed hold of Fab’s arm and gave it a gentle tug. “Next time we see one another, let’s pretend that we’ve never met—ever.” I nudged Fab toward the car.

  Bordello’s glaring eyes followed us as we got back in the car.

  Fab put the car in gear, and we both watched as Bordello leaned over and picked up the woman’s gun, shoving it down the back of his pants. As Fab pulled out onto the highway, flashing lights could be seen approaching in the distance, and by the time we made a U-turn at the next exit, a cop car and ambulance had pulled into the space we vacated. We slowed for the drivers in front of us, most with their necks craned out the windows to get a glimpse of the accident.

  “What just happened?” I asked in sheer confusion as Fab sped by the lookie-loos and back up to the posted speed limit.

  “As long as that woman’s face doesn’t appear in the weekly with the word ‘dead’ in the headline, I’m erasing this from my memory.”

  “Bordello knows I’d never keep my mouth shut if that happened.”

  “I’d sure like to know what that was about. Don’t suppose we’ll ever find out.” Fab handed me her phone. “Call the client and make some excuse to reschedule for tomorrow.”

  “You’re the owner of the company; that’s your responsibility.”

  “I’m delegating.”

  “How does a flat tire sound?” I caught her eye roll. “The truth would also sound made up.”

  Chapter Two

  It was early morning, and I was the last to come downstairs and join my two roommates and boyfriend for coffee. I’d inherited the two-story Key West-style house from my aunt and became friends with Fab not long after. One day, I came home to Fab’s announcement that she’d moved in. Not long after that, she met her boyfriend, Didier. It wasn’t long before, unbeknownst to him, she packed his belongings and moved him in, too. Now that Fab and Didier were engaged, they’d probably want their own house, and I hadn’t spoken up about how much I hated the idea that they’d move. There was a certain chaos that came from living with three, sometimes four high-energy adults under one roof. To me, it had become the norm, and I wasn’t looking for a change.

  My boyfriend, Creole, turned at the tapping of my heels on the floor as I crossed the entry and went into the kitchen. Six foot and muscled, he leaned back on his stool, cobalt eyes locked on mine before slowly perusing me. I could almost feel the warmth of them as they traveled up my bare legs and over my short turquoise dress. While out shopping, Fab had tried to steer me to the same dress in black, and I’d had to remind her that I wasn’t the one afraid of color in my wardrobe. Now I was happy that I did.

  Creole had been a proud detective for the Miami police department until an undercover sting erupted into gunfire, leaving him shot and his partner dead. Since that day, he’d been on medical leave, undergoing a long recovery. During that time, the two of us had spent the majority of our time at my house. Now that he was back in fighting shape, I suspected that his status might change after his meeting with the chief today.

  Jazz and Snow made their way single file into the kitchen, meowing that it was time for something better than the dry food that filled their bowl. You’d think that the two oversized felines hadn’t had a meal in forever. Didier opened the refrigerator, handing Creole a can of gourmet something. He had the food dished out and sitting on the floor in moments, bringing the howling to a stop.

  “Another meeting?” Didier asked, running a finger down Fab’s cheek. His blue eyes twinkled as he checked her out from head to toe. “You both look très belle.” In her black suit, Fab looked professional, not a hair of her brown, almost waist-length hair out of place.

  Beautiful, that’s what a woman likes to hear. I nodded and smiled at him.

  “You didn’t say how yesterday’s meeting went.” Creole’s eyes shifted between Fab and me. “You get a new client?”

  Fab arched her brow at me, as if to say, You tell them.

  “Neither of you asked,” I weaseled. That was the wrong tactic. Creole’s easygoing smile disappeared and both men began frowning, alternating between Fab and I. “We… well, I… as part of my new duties, I called and rescheduled that meeting for today.”

  “You might want to get to the point,” Fab directed, a slight smirk on her lips.

  “We got delayed… sidetracked, might be a better word.” At the sound of both men growling, I blurted, “We were doing our civic duty. Helping our fellow man.”

  The second round of growling was much louder and had me stepping back, but I didn’t get far, as Creole hauled me to his chest and raised my chin. “You okay?”

  “We both are.” I pushed a lock of his black hair that had fallen forward back behind his ear.

  “I’ll tell them,” Fab said with a shake of her head. She hit the highlights, leaving out Bordello’s oddly tender behavior toward his would-be killer—not that I blamed her; after all, who’d believe that anyway?—and ended with, “What do you suppose Bordello’s motive was for keeping his potential killer out of jail?”

  “He doesn’t want the publicity,” Creole said. “He does a good job of staying out of the public eye and wants to keep it that way.”

  “What if the woman ends up dead?” Didier asked.

  “Then he’s going to jail. No matter how connected he thinks he is,” Creole said with the authority of a man that had dealt with the worst kinds of criminals.

  “What are your plans for the day?” I eyed Didier’s tousled dark hair and his Euro casual attire: dress pants and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  Each of the men in this house used just one name. “Creole” was my boyfriend’s undercover moniker, and I hadn’t heard any mention of him going
back to his birth name should he decide to leave the department. And then there was Didier, the ex-model turned real estate developer.

  “Meeting the architect down on the docks to go over plans for the new development.”

  I’d brought Didier and a longtime Tarpon Cove resident, Butch “Corndog” Randall, together for a real estate deal. Corndog owned dock-front property and was being pressured to sell. Having no desire to do so, he eventually decided that he wanted to develop it himself and needed a partner. Didier hadn’t been looking for a big project, but after his initial meeting with Corndog, they’d hit it off and agreed on a few ideas for the historical area… which didn’t include razed and rebuilt.

  All of it made possible by Bordello, who had first approached Corndog about buying out his interests, with plans to demo the area and replace it with a large glass-and-steel office building in homage to himself. After rejecting the deal, Corndog was beaten up and ended up in the hospital. And then several fires were started on his properties. That was how I ended up meeting the man. He hired me to run a background check on Bordello, so he’d know what he was dealing with. Unfortunately, it revealed nothing more than that the man had a clean background. Most of what was known about the man’s unsavory side was whispered about under the protection of anonymity.

  Under Corndog and Didier’s partnership agreement, I was offered a small piece of the action, and in return, I’d handle public relations, which was code for problems. I’d already hooked them up with a friend of my aunt’s from the building department, who was helping to coordinate interactions and approval from several different agencies. Thus far, he’d been invaluable in wading through the many regulations that had to be addressed so that the project went smoothly. I’d put in a request for a small corner retail location, which they both agreed to after I pitched my plan for an upscale dive bar to be named “Tropics.”

  To my knowledge, neither Bordello nor my brother knew that the partnership had been inked, and I didn’t look forward to the day they found out that Corndog had not just refused to sell the property but was moving forward with plans of his own. Another surprise that awaited them was our purchase of another building in that same area. They had put in a bid on it, but Fab snagged it for her private investigation firm and Didier’s real estate office. She’d offered Creole and I space, but we’d turned it down, as neither of us had any use for a large office. I told her that, on the few times I came to the office, I’d find my own space, even if it meant using the conference table or sharing her desk, which would be more to my liking.