I sent a note up to Karen through a waiter. You want to leave?
She sent a note back. I can handle the disco brothel atmosphere. just concentrate on playing to win.
During the next round, one of the naked girls was sittin' on the side of the pool rubbin' her bare breasts with her hands. Then she wandered over and began rubbing my shoulders. I'd ditched my jacket, and she slid her hands along my shirt like a masseuse. I gave her a smile. "Thanks, baby, but I'm tryin' to concentrate. Go rub somebody else the right way."
"It's the house rules," she whispered. "Sorry, but all the players in the final rounds get shoulder rubs." Her breasts bounced against my back.
"Welcome to the championship arena, me buckos," Arn yelled, grinning. Naked girls had taken up position behind the other players, too. "You're a fine group of finalists. Now sit ye down and let's have at it. See if you can best Cap'n LaRoi, the best poker player on the Seven Seas."
The DJ started playin' hip hop music loud enough to split eardrums, and the naked girls sidled even closer. The good cap'n knew how to stack the deck in his favor. Especially since the girls weren't just naked, they were eying everybody's cards. Probably signaling him. The game was rigged.
I looked up at Karen. Her and Woodrow's wife eyed the scene like sharks sizing up swimmers.
The next time I looked up at the balcony, they were gone.
Trouble.
Kara
The DJ bent down to me and lifted one of his earphones. "Turn off that music," I ordered. "This is a poker tournament, not a CIA experiment in psychological warfare."
He laughed, pulled his headphones back into place, and turned his back. "Women," he said.
He didn't mean it in a good way.
I gestured to Bettie to follow me. We picked our way, barefoot, through a maze of cables and electrical lines. "Ahah," I mouthed, and picked up a main power chord. I followed it to an outlet box. I gave a jerk, and the pronged plug popped free.
The music died.
"Hey, girls, that isn't a joke," the DJ yelled. "Am wants the music loud."
"This," I replied. "Is an intervention." I sawed my jeweled facon across the power chord. The plug severed neatly from the cord.
Bettie chortled. As the DJ cursed and searched for a new power chord, we headed for the pool. Ain scowled. "What happened to my music? And my dancing wenches?"
The naked girls stood behind the players, looking awkward without the cocoon of a strong bass beat. I gestured at them curtly. "Time to get dressed, my friends. Get your hands off these men and your eyes off the cards they're holding."
"Are you accusing me of cheating?" Arn thundered.
Ben stood. His hand went to the gun in his pocket. "Watch how you talk to her."
"She's calling me a cheater."
"If the peg leg fits ..."
"How dare you, you ... cowboy!" He glared at me. "Why did you bring this untrusting wench to my event?"
"She's my bodyguard."
Arn pointed at me. "You don't trust me?"
I studied him for a moment. He obviously enjoyed his persona, and the drama of confrontation thrilled him. This performance was his tribal ritual. Rituals are delicate creatures, nurtured by superstition, tradition and pride. I would take his rituals seriously.
"You're a pirate," I said hotly. "Pirates are powerful and controlling. Cheating is your nature. It's not a fault. In the pirate world, it's an asset."
Bingo. He craned his head. His eyes flashed. He was empowered and therefore, appreciative. I had given him a way to save face. But the other players, not understanding the heady context of pirate provocation, merely looked unhappy. "I don't come here to get cheated," Woodrow said. "Bettie, are you my bodyguard?"
"Yes, honey, and it's time to kick some ass."
Arn scowled. "Woodrow, you'll play by my rules or not at all." He jabbed his hand at me. "And as for you-"
"I want these girls removed, Cap'n."
One of the naked girls, a leggy brunette, harrumphed loudly and put her hands on her hips. "What makes you think we'll take orders from you?"
"Bettie, hand me the shoes, please."
Bettie whipped a pair of high-heeled designer shoes from behind her back. I clasped them by their stiletto heels and aimed my knife at their pointed toes. "Do as I say," I ordered the girls, "or these Manolo Blahniks get cut."
The brunette shrieked. "Those cost four-hundred dollars."
"Then they'll make expensive confetti."
Arn's security people eased toward Ben and me. Ben's hand slid closer to his hidden pistol. Woodrow put a hand inside his tux jacket. The security team saw that gesture and halted. I whispered to Bettie, "Is he carrying a gun?"
"No, that's where he keeps his asthma inhaler. But what a bluff!"
Arn jabbed his finger at me. "This is my island, my tournament, and my rules! You ungrateful siren of the seas! All right! State your demands. What do you want?"
"A fair game. No loud music. No naked dancers. Pure poker. So that Ben and Woodrow and the other gentlemen at the table aren't distracted."
"This is my pirate island and I-"
The brunette shrieked as I poked the tip of my sharp fctcon into the toe of her shoe. She held out her hands to Arn. "Arnie, baby, please. My Manolo Blahniks are at stake."
Stand-off Arn finally sagged. He frowned fiercely at Ben. "Where did you get her? Off a ship of female pirates?"
"Aye," Ben drawled. "They call her 'Cap'n Karen, of the Amazons."'
"All right. No more music. No more dancers. But you"-he pointed at me again-"are under house arrest from now until the last hand is played. And so are you, Bettie. Into the brig with you both!"
"Honey," Woodrow called. "It won't be long. Have another martini."
Bettie and I traded a look. We shrugged. I looked at Arn. "It's a deal, Cap'n. I thank you for your decision. But you'll forgive me if I don't take chances with a pirate." I waggled my knife at the shoes again.
He preened. I had him. "As well you shouldn't, Cap'n Karen."
"My Manolos," the brunette moaned.
I arched a brow at her. "You'll get them back when the tournament's over."
"Put on a shirt, you hoochie," Bettie yelled.
Bettie and I backed slowly indoors, trailed by Arn's security guards. I kept the knife on the Manolo Blahniks, holding them hostage.
I only had time for one last glance. I met Ben's eyes.
He had never looked prouder.
Bettie and I were held prisoner in the island's nautically themed kitchen. Arn's Jamaican chef forced me to help him fill in the blanks of his Sudoku puzzle book. Bettie entertained herself by guarding the Manolos.
"Eat, honey," Bettie urged, waving a lobster canape at me. "We may be prisoners of the evil Cap'n, but we don't have to starve."
I shook my head. My stomach was a cauldron of nerves. She didn't know what the jackpot meant to Ben, me, and everyone at the ranch. I looked at a clock. "It's nearly two a.m. How can they not be finished with the prize round?"
Suddenly, the kitchen's doors swung open. Ben stepped in. His face was neutral. He looked suave and cool in his tux. No sign of sweat. But no sign of success, either. My heart rose in my throat. I walked up to him. I searched his face. "It's all right," I said. "We'll find some other way to-"
"I won." A slow, rakish smile spread across his face. "Cap'n LaRoi's not real happy about it." Ben pulled a slip of paper from his jacket's inner breast pocket. "But he paid up. Sixty grand. The entry fee plus what we owe Shakey at the pawn shop. The cash will be waiting by the time we get back to the motel."
I squealed shamelessly and kissed him. He lifted me off my feet and kissed me back, while Bettie, the security guards, and even the Jamaican chef and his catering staff applauded.
We had successfully keelhauled the car-part king of the Caribbean pirates.
To ho.
Ben
There's nothing like drunken' rum on a moonlit beach with sixty grand stashed in your motel room and t
he woman you love smiling beside you on the sand. Karen sat cross-legged with the drop-dead-sexy red gown hiked up around her thighs. I'd chucked the niceties and wore just my black trousers and white undershirt.
"Arrrgh," I said like a pirate, and handed her the bottle again. Courtesy of Cap'n LaRoi.
She took another deep swig. "Arrrgh," she said.
"You and me, we beat the system. Together. We beat it."
"We certainly did. Arrrgh."
"That's the thing. Since you came into my life ... it feels like, with you and me together, there's a fightin' chance the system won't always win."
Karen's smile said I couldn't have told her anything better. Then it wavered a little. "You don't have to compliment me."
"Aw, come on. Who's always tellin' who to accept a compliment at face value?"
She laughed a little but then got shy on me. She looked away, sipped from the bottle again, and shrugged. "I have trouble taking my own advice."
"I meant every word I said."
She looked at me, shyness gone, eyes glowing. "We can beat the system, together. I promise you."
Now I got a little shy, took the rum bottle, downed a swallow, then planted the bottle in the sand. My courage up, I looked her straight in the eye. "Did those naked girls make you jealous?"
"Let's just say this. If Arn had thrown one more naked girl your way, I'd have gutted him, her, and her Manolos."
"So, that's a `Yes.' A little jealous, were you?"
She got real quiet. So did I. "Very," she whispered.
"No need to be," I whispered back. "There's not a woman on this earth I'd rather look at more than you. Naked or otherwise. But ... you, naked, well, that would be good."
We bent our heads together. The sand was warm, the moon was bright, the salt air curled around us with a cool touch. She pulled back just enough to look at me with her blue eyes gone dark with need. "What happens here stays here," she said.
"Then come here," I whispered.
She did.
Our first time was wild and quick.
Our second time was slow and rich. Good love makes a stew of sugar and spice. Hard and soft. Wet and dirty. Look, yeah, that's not elegant to say it that way; I ain't a poet. But I've never known anything as good as Karen's hands stroking the insides of my thighs, I've never heard anything sweeter than my name on her lips, and I've never wanted anything more than to make her happy.
After the third time, we spooned on the sweat-soaked bed of the dark motel room. We could hear the surf and see the stars through an open window. "Stars over the ocean," she whispered as my fingers explored her. "How lovely. I feel so at home." Her back flexed against my chest. We tried to He still, but we couldn't.
After the fourth time, we slept a little, half-wakin' to touch and kiss. The only words we spoke were instructions and praises.
After the fifth time we fell sound asleep, tangled up in each other with her still half on top of me.
No need to talk about what it all meant. She didn't ask me if I loved her, but she had to know. Women feel those answers. They have intuitions. Right?
I can only say it this way: She made me feel like I was the king of the world, that anything was possible, and that, as long as we were together, Joey, the ranch, and every dream I'd ever loved would live forever.
Kara
He was everything. He was the most, the best, the sweetest, the most tender, the most amazing. He made me feel like the most irresistible woman who ever lived. We didn't talk about the wondrous world we created between us in bed. Too delicate. Too easy to break. Best left undiscussed.
The next morning we showered, dressed, and climbed back into Phil's seaplane with an unspoken understanding. The sexual genie was out of the bottle. We would deal with that genie privately, giving in whenever resistance became futile, without discussing the future.
"We'll stop by Orlando on the way home," Ben said.
I smiled. I liked the way he said "we," and "home."
I know that's foolish. Men don't necessarily care about the future. And women should not confuse sexual compatibility with love. Yes, yes, Mother, I hear your lectures on the cool preservation of sexual independence. Yes, Dad, I remember your elegant advice on the vagaries of men.
But now I heard Mac and Lily's voices, too.
Love. Trust. Believe.
Sometimes, our parents' lessons are shared waters from the same sweet fountain.
"Is this entry application a joke?" an overly Botoxed woman asked Ben and me in the executive office suites of The Groves. According to a sign on her desk, her official title was "Special Event Coordinator for J.T. Jackson Development."
It should have been Mistress Of Excessively T ght Sphincters. "I repeat, is this a joke?" the woman asked. "And who told you that you could land your ... your flying pontoon boat ... on the golf course's water hazard?"
Ben looked at me. "I'm gonna let you answer that. You got a way with words."
I smiled. "Our application for the Ride-Offis not a joke," I said to the woman, "except perhaps to someone who considers mauve Italian marble the height of sophistication."
Her eyes shot darts at me. The offices of J.T. Jackson Development were entirely done in mauve marble. She pointed to a World Sports Network poster advertising the barrel-racing event. "This is a pay-per-view cable broadcast sports competition for professional barrel racers. Meaning it's for world class barrel racing horses and riders. Not for"-she squinted at our entry form-"just anyone."
Ben said in a low voice, "Ma'am, our mare is from native stock, a breed older than any breed of horse from here to California. And this rider"-he pointed at me-"can hold her own against any pro worth a prize buckle."
Mistress Sphincter continued to stare at our application. "Wait a minute. Thocco? You're Ben Thocco?"
"The one and only."
She punched a button on her phone. "Security, please." Then another button. "Mr. Jackson's office, please."
Ben frowned. "If you're about to kick us out, ma'am-"
"You won't be kicked out. Just escorted."
"Then our next stop will be the Jacksonville Florida TimesUnion," I said calmly. "And then the local television stations. Also CNN and other cable news networks. And then we'll stop by our lawyer's office to plan how best to sue World Sports Network and J.T. Jackson Development for unfairly excluding us. Then, we'll start contacting all the corporate sponsors of the Ride-Off, and, of course, the governor's office, our U.S. Senators, local congressmen and congresswomen, and oh, yes, officials of the major barrel-racing associations, and the breeders' association for Cracker horses-in short, we'll make certain a lot of people know that a valid application for this event was rejected because of Mr. Jackson's personal vendetta based on conflicts arising from his and his daughter's refusal to obey the law regarding handicapped parking spaces, and his bigotry toward a Native American ranch owner, also his rank disrespect for an indigenous breed of horse, and his total disregard for fairness and sportsmanship, with just the right dollop of elitist disdain for working-class people-and horses-everywhere."
She stared at me. "Calm down."
Ben shook his head with melodramatic style. "Ma'am, for her, this is calm."
"I'll present your application to the event committee. That's all I'll promise you."
"Good enough."
"But I'll need a certified check for the entry fee. Nothing less."
Ben laid a check on her desk. "Here you go."
Security men arrived at that point. They were none too happy with the seaplane sitting on the golf course's lake.
We took our receipt and left. By the time we-and our security escorts-got back to the plane, about a hundred people had gathered on the balcony of the course's imposing and pretentiously grand club house, which overlooked the lake beside the eighteenth hole, where the seaplane was moored to the pilings of a lakeside gazebo.
Suddenly a golf cart came flying across the manicured grass. It jerked to a halt. J.T. Jackson barreled o
ut, yelling at us. No need to report the lurid details. Let me just say that the language was vile, the intent quite hostile, and the basic message supremely simple.
We would never be allowed to sully his promotional event. Us or the horse we intended to ride in on. Et cetera.
His screaming fit was foul and yet strangely entertaining. Even the spectators in his own clubhouse began laughing.
"Did you get all that, darlin'?" Ben asked.
"Most of it." I closed my cell phone. "Enough to share with the media."
We grinned at each other, got back in the seaplane, and left in winged style.
The afterglow of giddy, incredible sex wipes out all other concerns. It is a sweet drug, filled with life and intimacy and hope. We reveled in it.
Chapter 22
Kara
"What happened between you and Ben down in the Keys?" Miriam asked. I rode Estrela around the ring in the late-afternoon, hundred-degree shade. She rested her jowly chin on her red-nailed hands. "And don't pretend it wasn't something."
"We bested Cap'n LaRoi."
"Hah. You bested each other."
"It was something, yes."
"You love him."
"Yes."
"He loves you."
"He loves women."
"He loves you."
"He hasn't made any overtures about the future."
'What are you, blind? He's made more overtures than the National Enquirer waitin' for Brittany Spears to go back into rehab."
The future. I was trying to think about one day at a time. Events were unfolding at a pace that made autumn-and my promise to Sedge that I would leave the ranch in time to represent Mother and Dad at the Nobel ceremony-seem far too close.
"We're in the papers," Lily yelled. She limped hurriedly to the ring, waving the Jacksonville Florida Times-Union. "We're in the papers!" The rest of the crew trailed her, yelling and waving copies of the paper, too. She couldn't move fast enough so Mac picked her up and carried her. Bigfoot pushed Joey's wheelchair and Mr. Darcy squawked excitedly atop Joey's shoulder. Roy, Dale, Cheech and even Possum were nearly dancing.