Second Chance Gold (Buck Reilly Adventure Series Book 4) by John Cunningham (tohfa e dulha read online TXT) 📗

Cap Juluca? There were no hotels with that name on St. Barths.

“St. Martin?” I said.

“Anguilla.” Her brow furrowed and she shook her head. “West End.” She hurried over and untied my right wrist, then jumped toward the foot of the bed. “I’m leaving now, then you can untie your own feet.”

“Wait!”

She took three large steps toward the door.

“You see my clothes anywhere?”

Broom back in hand, she paused at the door to glance around the room, then met my eyes.

“Nope, nothing.”

Crap!

I pleaded with her to check around outside. She left, grumbling under her breath, then came back and said if she found any stray clothes she’d knock and leave them by the door.

I untied my ankles and swung my legs off the side of the bed. I was completely naked and felt as if I’d been beaten with sticks and rolled over hot coals. My steps were unsteady, but I made it to the bathroom and guzzled water straight from the tap.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Find anything?” I shouted so she could hear me from the bathroom.

“They was in the trash by the beach.” Her voice was muffled, but she’d emphasized beach, no doubt thinking I’d got drunk and into some kinky sex. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Wrapped in a towel, I took the clothing, thanked her, then checked my pockets. My wallet was there, but the Visa Black card was gone, along with all my cash. My phone was missing too.

Fucking Jack.

Once dressed, I sat back on the bed. The alarm clock said it was 4:35. I rubbed my eyes and tried to recall friends or former contacts on Anguilla, but I couldn’t think of any. Understandable since I’d never been here before. But Jerry Atlas had, and one of his best friends was here.

I picked up my Top Siders and pulled out the insole on the right shoe. Thank God—my emergency hundred-dollar bill was still there.

I followed a landscaped path to the beach. Floury white sand sank beneath my feet, and crystalline water lapped the shore. I plodded toward the center of what was clearly a high-end resort and spotted the lobby. Huge Arabian-looking bulbous bronze lights hung from the domed canvas ceiling.

Inside, I approached the concierge desk with a confidence I didn’t feel.

“Can I help you, sir?” The young woman with light brown eyes asked.

I glanced around the vast lobby as well-dressed vacationers moved through, their flip-flops and sandals slapping against the marble floor.

“Yes, you can.” I knew how awful I looked, but the young concierge’s smile never faltered. “I’m hoping to find Bankie Banx, the musician.”

Bankie, she said, could be found at the Dune Preserve, where he not only performed but also owned what she described as one of the top beach bars in the Caribbean.

“It’s on Rendezvous Bay,” she said, “not far from here.”

I thanked her and found my way to the front door, where the doorman hailed me a taxi. Once in the cab I leaned back and contemplated a future of fighting to stay out of jail. I’d have to sell the Beast to finance the court case.

Then the passing landscape grabbed my attention, partly because it was so different from St. Barths. Anguilla is largely flat, and a lot of what I saw reminded me of the Bahamas. During the short ride we saw no towns. This was a green island, not littered with resorts though I assumed there must be others like Cap Juluca tucked away.

Did they have an extradition agreement with the U.S. here? Maybe I should just stay.

When we came to a sign for the Cuisinart Golf Club and Resort, the driver turned onto a small pot-holed road that passed attractive buildings and led us to a small sign for the Dune Preserve. We pulled up to what I realized was an old beached yacht hull converted to a stage, along with a collection of open-air huts nestled on the edge of the water by a brilliant white beach. Fancy resorts with high-end restaurants had their place, but ever since e-Antiquity crashed I felt more comfortable at places like this. I wished I was coming here to while away the afternoon drinking Pain Killers and enjoying the atmosphere.

After paying the taxi, I had $82.00 left. I slipped my change back in my pocket—

Shit! My passport was on St. Barths.

How the hell would I get back there?

The late afternoon crowd at the Dune Preserve was exactly as I’d expected: bikinis, shorts, flip-flops—and laughter. I thought back to La Plage, then the Beach Bar on St. John, the Bomba Shack on Tortola, Foxy’s, Soggy Dollar, and Schooner Wharf on Key West—all great waterfront bars, and the Dune Preserve fit right in. So did I as far as attire went, though my mindset was anything but chilled out.

The strong, soulful voice of a female singer rang out over the crowd. I could see her on the stage in the distance, accompanied by a tall, beautiful blonde and a guitar player.

There was a slight roll of the eyes when I asked the pretty young bartender if Bankie Banx was here. Given his celebrity, it was a question the staff must field a hundred times a day.

“I’m a friend of the Atlas family,” I said. “I know Bankie and Jerry were—”

“Good friends, yeah, mon.” The woman’s eyes lit briefly then turned toward the floor. “Bankie’s in the office. Be right back.” I watched her leave the bar and turn a corner.

The singer started a familiar song—Jimmy Buffett’s “Creola.” My mouth dropped open as I finally recognized who was on stage: Nadirah Shakoor and Tina Gullickson, long time Coral Reeferettes, the harmony behind Buffett’s band. I’d met them at a charity concert on Jost Van Dyke in the BVI last year—hell, they even sang backup on Matt Hoggatt’s ballad that came out of that mess, but they wouldn’t recognize me, nor did I want them to. I stood