The Sometime Sister by Katherine Nichols (e novels for free .TXT) 📗

“Justin told me about the break-in,” Harry said. “I believe we should rethink your meeting. If he stole the letters, it means he suspects something. Even with the wire, we might have a problem getting to you.”

I was adamant we stick to the plan. So what if Ben took them? He couldn’t be sure how much I’d read. And once I got him talking, I was certain he’d be so eager to prove his innocence, I could easily manipulate him. Men with egos his size often let their big mouths get the best of them.

Over breakfast, they continued to point out potential problems with the plan. What if Ben was threatened by my questions? What if he got angry or abusive? Didn’t we suspect him of hurting Stella? What made me think he would have a problem harming me?

I brushed off their concerns and told them I had never been afraid of him and would not start now. They weren’t happy but agreed we would pick up a rental car for me, and they would follow in the Bronco. Harry came up with a safe word for me to use if things got weird. He suggested I say vase if anything spooked me. I laughed at the image of being in the middle of a dangerous situation and coming up with ways to work vase into the conversation. I could croon “what a lovely vase” or ask “did you get that vase as a wedding present?” or announce “I’m going to hit you over the head with that vase.” Neither of the men thought I was funny.

Harry explained the drive to Montañita was a little less than two-and-a-half hours. But we were traveling during the busy season. Scores of surfers flooded the area, chasing waves often as high as twenty feet. Sun-worshipers and partygoers thronged the beaches.

Despite our expectations of heavy traffic, we made good time getting out of the city and, except for two llamas crossing the curvy road and one donkey watching as we passed, the drive was as familiar as any coastal trip. As soon as I saw the bright blue of the ocean, I opened my window, closed my eyes, and stuck my head out, the way Stella and I used to do on our way to the beach. The wind whipped my hair across my face as I breathed in the salty air.

“Hey, Grace, maybe put that up a little.” Justin protested from the backseat. “I’m getting blasted back here.”

I shut it partway and ran my fingers through my tangled curls. “So, this is Montañita.”

What the travel brochure described as a “vast expanse of golden sand” was vast all right, but more dirty beige than golden. Tiny thatch-topped huts, bright beach umbrellas, restaurants, and bars dotted the landscape. Surfers bobbed in and out of foamy waves, and everywhere young people strolled along the water’s edge. Despite the clutter of commerce and humanity, the ocean retained its power. Stretching until the horizon melted into the water, it reminded me of my insignificance.

Harry pulled off the main highway and turned onto a paved two-lane road. It wound upward until we reached a clearing where a sign announced we had arrived at El Parasio. He parked, and we walked down a stone pathway lined with palm trees. A fat iguana blocked our way. He paused for a few seconds, gave us the lizard eye, then sauntered into the thick ground cover.

Management had painted the entryway to the hotel office in dazzling tropical colors, outlined in startling neon green. A thatch-covered roof erupted in gables just over the entrance and seduced guests with the illusion they were walking into a nature-made palace. Pink and green tiles led us to the front desk where a very tan man sat with his feet propped up, reading Transworld Surf, the swimsuit edition. His bleached-tipped blonde hair reminded me of the lead singer in one of Stella’s favorite boy bands.

He looked at us and flashed a hundred-watt smile. When his eyes met mine, the wattage dimmed, and his gaze flickered. He regained his beach-boy poise so quickly I wondered if I imagined it.

“Greetings, fellow travelers. I’m Preston Allen, but you can call me Prez. You guys must be, like, the Davenport party.”

“We aren’t just like the Davenport party,” Harry said. “We are the Davenport party.”

Our greeter seemed puzzled, then connected the dots. “Right, I get it, dude. That’s funny.”

The sixties-seventies vibe of the lobby suggested we might have slipped into a time warp. The skunky-sweet smell of marijuana completed the aura.

Prez checked us in, handed Justin the room keys, and pointed toward our villa. He added that they set up for happy hour daily from four to six at the Cabana Bar. Although it was only a little after ten, I suspected he had already started his happy hour. Or was every hour happy in Montañita?

Our unit was clean and well-lit, my two main requirements for lodging. The men gave me the room with the queen-size bed and private bath. They took the singles and shared a bathroom. The living area was furnished with a jungle-patterned sofa and plush recliners trimmed in wicker. Since my meeting wasn’t until one-thirty, the plan was to let me freshen up while Harry and Justin made a reconnaissance trip to Ben and Stella’s house. They would decide the best vantage points, pick up the rental car, then return to base camp to wire me up.

I was disappointed to discover the devise was only a tiny transmitter that I slipped into the lining of my bra, not the dramatic body-taped affairs they wear in the movies. I cheered up, though, when Harry gave me a can of military strength Mace to put in my purse.

While the men were on their surveillance mission, I checked out my wardrobe. I wanted to go with something subdued but sexy. I laid out my outfits and realized I needed someone else’s wardrobe. I decided on a short floral skirt