Rum Runner
First Published by Ink Monster, LLC in 2017
Ink Monster, LLC
4470 W Sunset Blvd
Suite 145
Los Angeles, CA 90027
www.inkmonster.net
ISBN 9781943858231
Copyright © 2017 by Ink Monster LLC
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ALSO BY TRICIA LEEDOM
The Key West Escape Series
Rum Runner
Bahama Mama
To the memory of my grandmother who always had a romance novel within reach:
Catherine Skidmore
CONTENTS
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
Acknowledgements
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
London, England
A cold October rain pummeled the windshield as the wiper blades danced to the beat of the eighties synthpop classic on the radio. From the passenger seat, Sophie Davies-Stone reached over to turn the volume down. It was late and she felt a migraine coming on. Predictably, Andrew pressed a button on the steering wheel cranking the music back up. Annoyance bubbled inside of her, but she held her tongue and stared out the window at the rain-soaked night.
She was still disgusted with herself for having break-up sex with him. She’d insisted on separate hotel rooms in Paris, but then she’d stupidly accepted his invitation to go back to his suite for a nightcap. Of course, one thing led to another and—
Ugh!
She blamed the expensive French wine.
One would think having tepid break-up sex on an uncomfortable bed after imbibing a large bottle of vintage Bordeaux would be the most undignified way to end a four-and-a-half-year relationship. Not even close. Andrew had taken the regrettable situation to a whole other level when he waited until breakfast to break the news to her about the situation in Rome.
An invisible knife stabbed her just below the breastbone and twisted a little.
At least, it would make their breakup more definitive this time. She should be happy about that, but no woman wanted to hear the man she was supposed to marry was going to have a baby with somebody else.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they reached her West End neighborhood. The weather was more congruous with her mood than the upbeat Wham! song now blasting out of the car speakers several decibels too loud. Andrew tapped along on the steering wheel, oblivious to her discomfort.
The Aston Martin’s headlights bounced off a thick patch of fog as the car turned a corner. She lived in a flat on the fourth floor of a red brick Victorian mansion block building owned by her stepfather. Andrew parked illegally in the no parking zone by the front entrance and switched off the radio.
The soft patter of rain on the car’s roof filled the sudden silence.
“Right then,” Andrew said, turning toward her. “Shall I carry your suitcase up?”
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Listen, Soph, just because we’re no longer a couple doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. We’re bound to chance upon each other at family events.”
“I think that would be inappropriate considering the circumstances,” she said stiffly. Note to self: never get involved with anyone you’re related to by marriage.
“She’s only six weeks pregnant. No one else has to know about it for some time yet. Look at me.”
Raising her chin a notch, Sophie continued to stare straight ahead. Her voice was carefully devoid of emotion as she spelled out the problems with his logic. “I ended our engagement two months ago, but we never told anyone. Now people are going to think you cheated on me, or worse, that you dropped me for some Italian tart you met in Rome.” The invisible knife blade twisted a little more and she bit her bottom lip to counter the pain.
“She’s not a tart.”
Sophie snorted derisively. “You knew her for, what, two weeks before she got knocked up? And you say she has two children from two previous relationships. She’s a tart, and you’re an idiot for not using protection.”
“I did use protection.”
“Then perhaps you’re being duped. Did you ever think of that?” She finally looked at him. The street lamp they were parked beneath cast his handsome, aristocratic features in a golden glow. The citrus and leather notes of his cologne drifted toward her in the confined space. Not his usual brand. It was probably Italian.
He shook his head firmly and insisted, “Gabriella isn’t like that.”
Sometimes absence made the heart grow fonder and sometimes it brought clarity. Andrew had wanted to give Sophie space to rethink her decision to end their engagement. He’d been the one to suggest they take a break rather than break up entirely while he was away on business. The only reason she’d agreed was because her mother had begged her not to end the relationship. Their reunion this weekend in Paris had been a complete waste of time. Sophie’s feelings had not changed in the two months they were apart, and he’d made a reckless mistake that would humiliate both of them when word got out.
“Before this reaches the gossip pages,” she said, “please be smart and insist on a paternity test.”
Andrew slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “You are a snob and a hypocrite. You sit there on your high horse, judging others and worrying about protecting your precious image, while carefully hiding the salacious truth about your own paternity.”
His angry words brought a new kind of pain that detracted from the other. It was centered around her heart and squeezed like a vice. She cleared her throat to remove the sudden thickness there. “Please don’t bring my father into this,” she said quietly resisting the urge to reach for the medallion hanging from the silver chain around her neck.
“What would you say if I told you I’m in love with Gabriella and plan to marry her?”
“I’d say you’re a fool.”
He nodded. “You would say that, wouldn’t you? That’s because you don’t know what love is. Or passion. Your heart is a block of ice. And you’re even more frigid in the sack.”
Sophie uncrossed her legs and reached for the door handle.
“You think the glitterati are your friends because you went to secondary school with most of them?” He sneered. “The only reason they accepted you was because of me.”
She stepped out of the car and steeled herself against the bitingly cold gust of wind that met her. She pulled the belt on her jacket tighter and readjusted the purse strap on her shoulder before she turned around to close the door.
Andrew exploded again. “Damn it, aren’t you going to say anything?”
Ignoring the puddle that was ruining her favorite Christian Louboutins, she said, “I think you’ve said enough for the both of us.”
Her mobile phone buzzed in her purse, alerting her to an incoming text. It was probably her mother. She ignored it.
Andrew pressed a button on the steering wheel and the boot of the car opened on a motorized hinge.
“Good-bye, Andrew,” she said and closed the car door. Mentally removing the knife blade from beneath her sternum, she dropped it like a hot mic before she fetched her suitcase from the back. The Aston Martin pulled away from the curb, splashed through a puddle, and honked at an oncoming car as it sped off, but she did not watch it go.
The smell of Indian takeaway greeted her when the lift doors parted on the fourth floor of her building. She suddenly had a fierce craving for The Curry Mart’s chicken tikka masala and wished she had eaten something at dinner instead of just pushing the food around on her plate.
When her mobile buzzed two more times, she sighed and stopped in the hall. On her way up, she had stopped at the wall of postboxes in the lobby to retrieve the small stack of letters and junk mail that were waiting for her. She fumbled with them now as she righted her tipping suitcase and reached for her purse.
If it was her mother texting to find out how the reunion went, she was changing her number.
It wasn’t. It was a number she didn’t recognize, but the words in the preview window made her grow very still. A tiny ball of nervous excitement curled in the pit of her stomach and her entire body flushed with heat. Hands trembling, she scrolled up to the first of the three texts and began reading.
Ladybug, it’s me. By now, you should have received the letter I sent you from Mexico City.
The second text: I need you to send the medallion to me as soon as possible. The address is at the bottom of the letter.
The third: Be careful, sweetheart. And don’t tell anyone I’ve been in contact with you. Delete these texts as soon as you read them. —M
The texts were from her biological father. A man she knew only through a series of letters he’d sent to her sporadically over the past twenty years. They were always from a different postmark. Always with no return address. Her mother Lillian said Mitch Thompson had been an American Navy SEAL when she met him on the Caribbean island of Tortola while she was on an extended holiday with her parents. He’d charmed twenty-year-old Lillian, got her pregnant, and then left her to a family who disowned her the moment they discovered her condition. Mitch had long since retired from the military to become a full-time treasure hunter. He was as undependable and capricious as his chosen profession, but that had never prevented Sophie from being curious about him.
Three months ago, Sophie received a small package postmarked from a village in Northern Peru. It contained an ornate Spanish medallion on a silver chain and a note from her father apologizing for not having written in a while. He congratulated her on her engagement, which he said he’d read about on the internet, before asking her for a favor. He wanted Sophie to keep the medallion safe for him until he sent for it. He claimed it was a precious Thompson family heirloom and said it was very important she not tell anyone she had it in her possession or that she had heard from him recently.
By “anyone,” she assumed he’d meant her mother, who would have likely told her to sell the thing on eBay. The only person she did tell was Andrew who seemed disinterested at first. However, later that night she’d found the medallion in the kitchen rubbish bin. When she confronted him about it, he feigned innocence, but she didn’t believe him. She fastened the medallion around her neck that night and had worn it every day since.
Staring at the texts from her father, it suddenly occurred to her she had his number. She could phone him and speak to him for the first time in her life. The combination of excitement and apprehension brought on by that realization made her shake so hard she nearly dropped her mobile. Forcing herself to be still, she took a deep breath and pressed the number to ring him back.
A long silence met her on the other end of the line. Then three high-pitched tones, followed by an automated American voice that said, “We’re sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”
Sophie pressed End. She stared blankly at the hall carpet and swallowed the thick lump in her throat. It settled heavily in her heart.
The silence in the hall was broken by a creaking door. The two doors to her right were still shut, as was the door on her left. The only door that remained was the door to her flat, which was around the corner and a few feet down the hall. The door to her flat, which should have been closed and locked.
She considered knocking on her neighbor’s door, but it was nearly midnight and the people on her floor tended to keep to themselves. Sophie thought about calling the police but decided she should make sure her imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her first.
She took a step toward the short hallway that led to her flat. Then another. She was nearly to the corner when the squeaky door groaned again, louder this time.
She froze and held her breath. Should she warn the intruder she was coming? Surprising whomever it was could get her knifed, or worse. She decided to take her chances. Raising her mobile above her head like a weapon, she turned the corner. Something screeched and lunged at her, and she screamed bloody murder.
Her neighbor’s door flew open, and Hugh Oliver, a serious young barrister who worked long hours and was rarely at home, found her shrieking like a lunatic, holding her equally frightened cat in her arms.
“Are you all right?” he said.
“Yes. No!” Pointing to her door, which was gaping open, she said, “I think someone broke into my flat.”
“Hang on.” He disappeared inside his own flat and came back a moment later carrying a cricket bat. “Where’s the light switch?”
“Just inside the door to the left.”
“Okay, then. Stand back.” He rushed into the apartment, flipping the switch as he went, and promptly tripped over an overturned end table.
Sophie peeked around the open door, and her breath caught in her throat. Her apartment was in shambles. Overturned furniture, gaping drawers, papers strewn all about. She hugged the orange and white spotted cat closer and said to him, “Oh, Romeo, what happened here?”
Hugh answered as he climbed to his feet. “I’m no expert, but it looks as if someone was searching for something.”
“What could someone want so badly they would do this?”
He shrugged. “Money. Electronics. Jewelry. Anything of value really.”
At the mention of “jewelry,” she touched the medallion hanging from the chain around her neck. Realizing the barrister’s gaze had followed the direction of her hand, she quickly lowered it.
“I’ll check the rest of the flat to make certain the person who did this is gone,” he said. “You should phone the police.”
In a daze, Sophie nodded and dialed 999 on her mobile.
The police took their time getting there. She waited a good forty-five minutes for them, but they made short work of their investigation. After determining nothing of value had been taken, they blamed the break-in on “teenage pranksters” and advised Sophie to install a stronger lock on her door.
Now, she sat alone on a chair in the center of her ruined living room, cuddling her cat. “Why would someone do this, Romeo?” she muttered into the top of the feline’s soft, furry head.
Hugh knocked lightly on the opened door making her jump. Romeo leaped out of her arms and dove under the still-upturned couch.
“Sorry for startling you,” he said. “I fetched your things from the hall.”
“Thank you.” Sophie rose to take the stack of letters and the luggage from him. She gestured toward the chair. “You’re welcome to sit.”
“No, thanks. I have an early day tomorrow.”
“Oh, I
’m sorry for keeping you up.”
“It’s not your fault. I’m glad I could help. The police were right, though. You should improve your locks. It appears someone managed to pick this one easily enough.” He wiggled the knob. “Bolt it from the inside before you go to sleep.”
Sophie wrapped her arms around herself and shivered at the thought of trying to sleep alone after all of this.
“Is there someone you could call to stay with you?”
She thought of Andrew and then immediately dismissed the idea. “No. I’ll be fine. Thank you again, Hugh.”
He grinned and nodded once. “Right. Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
After bolting the door behind him, Sophie sat down to flip through the post. A big yawn stretched her mouth to its limits, but she didn’t bother to cover it. One envelope caught her eye and she stopped on it. She knew her father’s sloppy, slanted handwriting well. The letter was postmarked from Mexico City. In all the excitement, she had nearly forgotten about the texts.
The back flap of the letter was unsealed, as if it hadn’t been fastened securely in the first place. Eager to read the letter, she dismissed the unusualness of this.
Hiya Ladybug,
I need you to send that family heirloom to me at the address below ASAP. I can’t stress enough how important it is that you not tell anybody about this. In fact, destroy this letter as soon as you FedEx the medallion to me. Sorry for all of this cloak-and-dagger stuff, sweetheart, but the medallion is an extremely valuable artifact.
Hey, sorry to hear your engagement was called off. He wasn’t good enough for you anyway. As your father, I might be biased, though.
Hugs and kisses,
Mitch
The address listed at the bottom of the page was for a resort hotel in Miami, Florida. She was to mail the medallion to a guest at the hotel by the name of S. Davies.
As your father, I might be biased… That phrase raised her hackles. As her father? What did he know about being her father? Nothing. He certainly knew nothing about Andrew, who was more than good enough for her. His idiotic mistake notwithstanding. If anything, she wasn’t good enough for him, but he’d wanted her anyway. Unlike her father, who’d wanted as little to do with her as possible.