Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4), John Cunningham [polar express read aloud .txt] 📗

left cheek and one on my right, then shut the door without meeting my eyes.

I stood there for a long moment, wondering if I should knock and come clean, but in the end I wandered up through the apple, mango, and papaya groves toward my Jeep. I stopped with my hand on the door, glanced back again, and took a deep breath. The sweet smell swirled through my nostrils, a combination of Nicole and her orchards that—

Focus, Reilly.

Back at the hotel I found Truck by the pool, flanked by his British lady friends, both topless.

“Hello, Buck!” the one on his left said.

The one on his right smiled. “We’re taking good care of Clarence.”

Truck wore a shit-eating grin.

“I’m afraid Clarence isn’t taking very good care of you,” I said. “Better add some sunscreen, ladies.” They glanced down and the one on the right giggled.

“Good point,” she said. Then, to Truck, “You have been derelict in your duties, my dear.”

I turned to walk away—

“Reilly?” Truck said.

I turned back.

“Did some checking on the tides and currents around Anse de Cayes. Pretty shifty there.”

“Nicole said it comes in hard from the east across the top of the island—”

“Yeah, but after the bay of St. Jean it comes head on with water from the west. Causes a lot of chop and bigger waves.”

“That explains the surfers,” I said.

“Point is there’s no guarantee the Jet Ski washed ashore from the east—could of just as easily come in from the other direction. You know what’s over that way?”

“Flamands, and Jerry’s house,” I said.

And Ile Chevreau.

The woman on the left grew tired of holding the bottle of sunscreen and finally began applying it to her pink chest. The distraction caused me to miss Truck’s question.

“Hey, Reilly! I said, did Gisele say anything about him stopping at home that day while he was out on the Jet Ski?”

Given the behind the scenes posturing over the pre-nup, it was a good question. Especially since, according to Jerry’s attorney, his death made it easier for Gisele to accomplish the goal she’d been pursuing since long before his demise.

“She didn’t say. I assumed he fell off before he reached Flamands, but that’s a good question.”

The woman on the left reached over Truck to hand the sunscreen to the woman on the right—his face was sandwiched between their breasts.

Truck giggled.

“Okay,” I said. “Gotta go.”

“Reilly?” He leaned forward, escaping the mammary assault. “Told the girls I needed to get back in the loop with you tonight!” His voice had turned to a shout as I walked away, waving without looking back.

Once inside the room, I sat to collect my thoughts. I hadn’t updated Lou Atlas today, but given my growing questions as to his motivation for sending me here, I was afraid diplomacy might be too much of a challenge. He viewed me as hired help anyway, not someone he’d share his knowledge with. But now that I felt I might have the missing pieces of the Concepcíon search, I needed Lou to keep the money flowing. I decided to send him a text.

That still took some effort, and I proofread it several times before pressing send.

Lou, bit of a mess down here, a lot of people sniffing around Jerry’s affairs. More violence from the Gamundi brothers from the DR. Still looking for answers. Any insights you might have would be helpful.

I hoped that would draw out some information. Had he known he was putting us in harm’s way? Did he care?

Still no word from Booth—the suspense was killing me. I was on my own and the clock was ticking. With Betty gone, there was little I could do to pursue the immunity Booth had offered—

The phone buzzed. I snatched it up.

It was a text, but not from Lou Atlas.

Meet me at Le Ti St. Barth tonight for dinner and celebration. I have news. Caterina. XO.

Was it just this morning we’d had coffee at l’Oubli? It felt like a week ago.

If she wanted to celebrate, she must have made some progress on the Cousteau angle.

The restaurant guide in the room said Le Ti St-Barth was a Caribbean tavern and mentioned BBQ. The logo caught my eye: an illustration of a gruff, scowling pirate. Le Ti was located in Pointe Milou, not far from our hotel, not close to Gustavia. Odd place for Caterina to suggest we meet, but if she had news about the Concepcíon, I’d be there.

And so would Truck.

A throbbing bass beat rattled my stomach as we parked in front of the valet. Torches and an arch marked the entrance to Le Ti, along with several beautiful women smoking cigarettes and chatting at a speed way beyond my ability to translate. Steps led down into a swarm of people.

“Not like no BBQ joint I been to.” Truck had to shout over the music and we weren’t even inside yet. He adjusted his arm sling.

A maître-d stopped us. I gave Caterina’s name, and he nodded and waved us past. Dark red curtains framed the door, but lights shot out from inside, along with boisterous laughter, loud dance music, and heat.

We stopped a few steps in.

A few people along the perimeter were eating at tables with candelabras while others were dancing on tables next to them. On a small stage to the left, three gorgeous women dressed in captain’s hats and sailor’s outfits with the shortest short-shorts I’d ever seen sang and spun to the deafening yet captivating dance beat.

The triptych of Marlene Dietrichs stepped off the stage and wove through the crowd, dancing with men and women as they passed, cigarettes held high.

A waitress shoved past us with a tray of drinks and pushed us inside the bacchanal. A glance at Truck revealed a toothy smile as a woman grabbed his good shoulder, pulled him close, and started dancing.

I felt a tug on my left arm and turned to find myself face to face with— Caterina. I’d suspected there was more to her than met