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An Excerpt From:HARDWIND
© Copyright CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO, 2006.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave
“Screw you and your little dog too,” Jackson said, batting his nearly non-existent eyelashes.
Dáire shook his head. “You’re a disgrace to G-men everywhere with a potty mouth like that,” he said.
“Speaking of screwing,” Jackson said as he stumbled in the sand, “did you hear Star has a new boyfriend?"
Dáire frowned. “Who told you that?”
“Now and again we retired G-men learn a thing or two before you ultra-government spooks do,” Jackson quipped. “In this case, our boss informed me of the executive-type yuppie person Star’s been keeping time with since last you shared her bed.”
“When was this?”
“A few weeks ago when I came down to make sure your place was in order.” Jackson wagged a finger at Dáire. “See how I’m always thinking of your welfare, Dairy Crow?”
“That’s when you learned about this dude?”
“It surely was.”
“And he is…?” The question was asked in a cold, carefully modulated tone that was all the more lethal for its softness.
“You gonna to ask me to join you for supper?”
“You gonna go dressed like a colorblind refugee from a seventies disco?”
“Nah, I’ll dress up pretty for you, lover,” Jackson answered with a pucker of his lips. “Might even put on a tie if you really, really want me to, but I doubt it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Are you ready for this?” Jackson asked, his lips twitching. “He even has a yuppie moniker—Brighton Tyler Boyd III.”
“Bright Boy, huh?” Dáire asked, picking up on the possible insults he could aim the faceless intruder’s way.
“You’re a hoot,” Jackson said, annoyed that he hadn’t thought of the slight first.
They continued walking past families packing it in for the day, amused at men burdened down with vinyl floats, folding chairs, thermos jugs and picnic baskets while their wives yanked reluctant children in their wake, the youngest in their sunburned arms. The men gave Dáire the quick over—their mouths tight, their eyes wistful at his youth and sheer male beauty. The wives’ stares were longer, filled with lustful longing. Even the children stared at the tall, dark-haired man as though they knew he was something their fathers would never be.
“You make it a living hell for us mortal men,” Jackson mumbled.
“So get plastic surgery,” Dáire suggested.
Jackson snorted. “I’d need an extreme body makeover and it with another man’s body to look like you.” He fingered the love handles beneath the wild floral shirt he was wearing hanging over his beige safari shorts. “Make that two men’s bodies.”
“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”
Dáire Cronin owned a Gulf-side residence on the twenty-fourth floor of a luxury condominium resort though he rarely got a chance to enjoy it. The private, gated community had the most expensive address on the beach with a waiting list at least a mile long of the rich and famous wanting to own a slice of Farraige Port. When Jackson was in town, he had access to the sprawling two bedrooms, two bath suites—which included a heated rooftop pool, gym and theater. Cronin’s digs occupied one-half of the top floor of the resort. Star Kiernan owned the other half. The price tag for each suite had run in the low seven figures.
“So whatcha gonna do about it?” Jackson asked as Dáire slipped the keycard from the pocket of his jeans and swiped it down the entry box that operated the private elevator he and Star shared as owners of their rooftop abodes.
“Do about what?” Dáire asked as the sleek copper-faced doors slid open. He motioned Jackson inside the plush, mirrored elevator cage.
“Bright Boy,” Jackson replied.
To activate the elevator, it was necessary for a member of the two-woman cleaning staff or one of the three people who used the suites—at least at last count there were only three—to press his or her thumb into the biometric thumb print verifier on the control panel. Jackson did the honors this time around.
Silently the doors slid shut, and with only a modicum of a jolt, the cage began to raise, the muted numbers lighting up as each floor was passed pinged softly. No vibration marred the ride for a thick wool carpet covered the bottom of the elevator cage in lush jewel tones.
“If that’s what she wants,” Dáire said, “I won’t do anything about it.”
Jackson snorted. “Like hell you won’t,” he drawled. “You ever had a woman taken away from you before, stud?”
Dáire’s arms were crossed over his bare chest as he stared at his reflection in the sparkling mirrors on the doors. “You know for a fact he’s taken her away from me or is that something you’re just hoping for?” he countered.
“Fervently, fondly, feverishly and any other f-word that fits,” Jackson said with a grin.
The elevator came to a gentle stop and the doors slid soundlessly open on a large copper-veined travertine-floored entry hall paneled in rich oak. Overhead a spectacular bright copper triple-tier chandelier with curved arms and alabaster glass shades hung in the center of a radius dome skylight framed in shiny copper plate. The entry hall was trapezoid in shape with two eight-foot tall double radius-top oak doors with forged iron grillwork over Flemish glass sitting in the center of each shorter arm. Between them was a thirty-foot-wide wall of water rippling down from near the top of the twenty-foot-high ceiling to a bed of polished rocks in a large copper tub. Unseen, the melodic song of wind chimes in a deep basso profundo tone sent a soothing welcome. The combination of the cascading water and the wind chimes was comforting.
Dáire opened the door to his sanctuary and walked across the cool travertine floor, continuing on to the master bedroom at the far end of the suite. He knew Jackson would make them something to drink and have it ready for him when he came out of the shower. His jaw set and hard, he walked into the bathroom and tore open his jeans, shucking them off and kicking them aside before turning the water on in the shower. Stepping inside, six body-massage jets blasted at him from three sides and overhead, a large eighteen inch, circular shower nozzle sent hot warm cascading down upon him like summer rain. Bracing his hands on the sleek marble wall, he closed his eyes, lowered his head and let the water drum on his shoulders and neck.
“Damn you, Star,” he whispered as the water cascaded over his face, streaming off his nose and chin.
Dáire Cronin loved Star Kiernan as much as it was possible for him to love another human being. She was the one bright object in his otherwise shadowy world. They had been lovers for seven years, friends for longer than that, having met when they entered their bids for the suites as Farraige Port. Theirs had been a relationship that had survived months of being apart, the vagaries of Dáire’s profession and the hustle and bustle of hers.
Until now.
“Damn you,” he said again, clenching his fists.
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