Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles by Frost, J (reading eggs books TXT) 📗

Her husband protests. “I have never dragged you to a club in L.A.”

“True. I usually drag you,” Teresa admits with a grin. “But if you did, Master Miki would still be better. Admit it, darling, your taste is dated. Music ended for you in the eighties.”

Dr. Lehmann holds up his hands. “Music ended for everyone in the eighties. There’s been absolutely nothing worth listening to since Lennon died.”

I glance at Logan and giggle. He gives me an indulgent smile and waves off the waiter who is taking dessert and drinks orders. I finish my water and fold up my napkin so Logan knows I’m ready to leave whenever he is.

“Looks like you’re staging a retreat, Mr. Logan,” the snide man, Dan Reyes, says from across the table, and it’s definitely not a question. He hasn’t been obtrusive about it, but he’s been watching Logan and me while we listened to the Lehmanns’ stories.

“East Coast time,” Logan says easily. “Besides, I need to be well rested for tomorrow. I don’t want to miss a thing.”

Teresa starts to say something about the activities on the boat during sea days, but I tune her out as I feel the tension between Logan and Dan Reyes rise. It’s snapping, electric. Like the air before a dog fight.

“Not worth your time, son,” Chief License murmurs to Logan.

Logan claps him on the shoulder. “A cigar? I’d love one.”

“Cuban?” The chief’s blue irises disappear in his squint.

“Sounds good to me,” Logan says. He rises and extends his hand to me. I take it and he holds my chair as I rise, before he turns to Captain Lopez. “Captain, thank you so much for having us.”

She turns from her conversation with the gay couple across the table. “Logan and Emily, such a pleasure, I hope you enjoy your cruise and don’t be strangers. I have a captain’s lunch after the shore-day in Cabo. I’d be delighted if you both joined me.”

“Thank you, ma’am, we’ll see you there,” Logan says. I smile at the captain. She’s not a friend-in-the-making like Vashi and Teresa, but I like her unassuming authority a great deal.

As Logan collects his jacket from the back of his chair, I squeeze his hand. “Sir, may I see if Teresa’s free tomorrow?”

Logan chuckles. “Am I arranging another girly date, baby doll?”

“Please, Sir.”

“Teresa, Michael, if you’re not doing anything for lunch tomorrow, we’ll be at the two o’clock seating and would love to see you,” he says to them.

Dr. Lehmann, who is still watching Dan Reyes as though he expects the man to leap out of his chair and lunge at Logan, nods. “See you then. Enjoy your evening.”

I smile at them and Teresa gives me a broad smile back as Logan leads me away.

Chief License falls in on my other side as we cross the dining room. “May she?” he asks Logan, holding his elbow out for me.

Logan nods and I take the chief’s arm. He’s not as big as Logan, but he’s probably six feet and not too far off Logan’s weight, although some of it has settled around his middle. Even in my platform sandals, I’m a head shorter than the two men, and feel like a Skipper doll sandwiched between two G.I. Joes.

It’s not the worst feeling.

They escort me out to the deck. I’m surprised to see the ocean all around us, instead of the busy port. The boat’s gotten underway without me even noticing. There’s none of the rocking I associated with being out at sea; in fact, I wouldn’t know we were moving if it wasn’t for the breeze and the swishy sound of the waves against the hull. People stroll past us, enjoying the balmy breeze and azure sky. They’re all wearing clothes. I guess we’re not in international waters yet. Or maybe it’s too cool with the breeze to streak outside.

The men stop at the ship’s polished wooden rail. Logan reaches into his breast pocket and takes out a silver case. When he pops it open, there are four cigars nestled within, along with a funny little metal thing that looks like could be used for cutting off toes, and a box of wooden matches.

Fascinated, I watch Logan prepare the cigar. I’ve read about cigar smoking, of course, because it was an obsession for eighteenth-century gentlemen. But I’ve never seen it done. Logan cuts off the end with the toe-cutter-thingy, then offers the cut cigar to Chief License, who takes it with a smile, puts it to his mouth and holds it, not in the classic cigarette pose, but between his thumb and second finger. I wish I had a notebook with me; there’s so much about tonight I want to remember in detail.

Logan cuts his own cigar, then lights a match, and holds it first to the chief’s cigar, until the tip glows red and he puffs out a breath of blue smoke. Logan lights his own cigar before he tosses the match overboard, tucks the silver case away and gestures to me.

I go to him. He twirls his finger in the air. I turn around and when he murmurs “wrists,” cross my wrists in the small of my back. Even before he touches me, I feel the pulsing low in my belly, the dreamy calm fuzzing my thoughts. His fingers close around my wrists, restraining me firmly. I relax my shoulders and when he tucks me against his side, lean into his warmth.

“La Corona,” Chief License says, his tone appreciative. His words wash over me like the lapping of the water against the boat’s sides.

“Uh-huh,” Logan responds. “I went to Havana last year on vacation and brought back as many cigars as I could stuff into my luggage. But I’m already halfway through them. They’re too tempting. Congress really needs to end the embargo.”

The chief chuckles. “While you’re in Mexico, give Te Amo a try. I know it has a bad reputation, but it’s actually a very