Goodbye Arizona Read online

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2016 Claude Dancourt

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-897-3

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Carlene Flores

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  GOODBYE ARIZONA

  Claude Dancourt

  Copyright © 2016

  Chapter One

  Deb surveyed the corridor from her hiding spot in the alcove next to the vending machine. Laughs and noises of clinking glasses came from downstairs. The Ice Breaker Social held at the annual conference of the Romance Society of America—ROSA for short—was in full swing. She glanced at her watch, counting seconds along the second hand. After a full minute, she grabbed the ice bucket at her feet and filled it. “It’s now or never.”

  Bucket in hand, she strode down the empty corridor to the door marked 292. Nerves burned a hole in her stomach. Deb swept the borrowed card in the slit and entered the suite.

  The room was larger than hers. Past the little vestibule, there were a couple of tables sporting terracotta lamps. A cream striped sofa faced a mini-fridge. One of the two flat screens of the suite sat on the top of a dresser. The painting of Colorado’s canyons, which was the Arizona Paradise Hotel trademark, hung on the wall above a king bed that ate half the space. The office corner, complete with a desk, a minuscule filing cabinet, and a comfortable office chair, neighbored a small balcony. Unable to resist, Deb peeked at the view. The pretty terrace below glittered with spotlights and small torches. The vivid green of the golf course and the indigo of the mountains provided a breathtaking view.

  The dusk light was enough for her task, so she avoided the risk of switching on a lamp. Deb put the ice bucket away and focused on the desk. He already had set it to his taste, the laptop, pens, and papers—all blank, unfortunately—at the ready. A strand of curly walnut-hued hair fell over her eye while she examined the contents of the desk. She pushed the strand away absently.

  Apart from the typical ad pamphlets and service book, the drawers were empty. His laptop was off. She tapped the mouse, just in case, but nothing happened. It looked new. Deb wondered if he still used the same password. She doubted it. After last time…

  A glimpse at the clock beside the bed announced she only had seven minutes left to the timeframe she’d allowed herself for her search. She pocketed the Wi-Fi access sheet, just in case, and moved to the bedroom.

  The garment bag was empty, so she supposed he’d given his suit to the hotel for dry-cleaning and pressing. As usual, Marcus had only half-emptied his luggage, hanging shirts and pants but keeping socks, boxers, and a Hugo Boss tie bundled at the bottom of his carry-on. Deb resisted the urge to arrange the beautiful tie. “Sorry, Marcus, I can’t let you know I was here… But you have to give me something. You haven’t published anything in ages. What is a nice guy like you doing at the ROSA annual conference?”

  Still searching the suite and addressing its absent owner, she stepped inside the bathroom. At the same instant, voices erupted on the other side of the door, both angry, and both very well known. Deb jumped, and pricked up her ears.

  “No.”

  “Be reasonable, cher.” The Cajun drawl added a lilt to each word. “Why take such a risk? I’ll go on stage to receive the Suzanne Philipps Award if R.J. wins, and—”

  “No, Eden. The game is over. R.J. is about to make their first public appearance. I understand your concern, but I assure you, the shock is going to sell more books than your careful marketing plan.”

  “I—we’re going to lose everything.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Deb clamped her palm over her gaping mouth, eyes wide. She was right. The little prince of sci-fi thrillers had something up his sleeve. She. Was. Right! Deb almost made a happy dance in the middle of the bathroom. The enormous news made her head spin. Wow. Marcus James Turner was R.J. Flint, the new symbol of romantic suspense. And he was about to come out of the closet, here, in front of the ones who literally made romance. Wow. No wonder his agent was flippant. She had to be scared to death. Besides Nicholas Sparks and a handful of others, men rarely broke through the tight bastion of women’s fiction under their own name. This was the scoop of the year. Scratch that—the scoop of the decade! Even Nora Roberts had saluted Flint’s talent. Wait until the Traveler editor-in-chief reads my piece, Deb thought.

  Caught in her thoughts, Deb jolted when the brutish light of the ceiling fixtures fired up.

  The lights went out above her head, replaced by a softer glow from the main room. She was screwed either way. If Marcus found her in his suite… Crap, crap, crap, crap. Frozen in place like a deer in headlights, Deb heard the door close and footsteps going farther into the bedroom. Two soft thuds suggested he’d gotten rid of his shoes. She bit her bottom lip hard. The only way she would move would be if she were sure Marcus wouldn’t see her. She couldn’t dash for the door. Darn. I’m trapped. She had to hide. Yes. She needed a place to hide. Where?

  God, if he found her… He wouldn’t be lenient this time. He’d been clear enough about her intrusion, and now that she knew… Calm down, Deb. Calm down and think. The only place wide enough for her was the shower. Such a cliché. Too late anyway. She stepped into the tub and pulled the double curtain. Then she waited.

  Deb barely dared breathing. She kept her eyes closed, even though the light from the bedroom was scarce. Her ears cocked to pick up the slightest noises. She heard a jingle, then silence. Had he put the TV on mute? A text message, maybe? She’d been so right to leave her smartphone in her room. Another cliché came to mind, the hidden victim betrayed by an ill-timed phone call…

  Her legs were stiffening, and she felt pins and needles travel up her ankles, but Deb feared to move and lose her footing in the pristine tub. Half-blind and deaf, she failed to guess her unsuspecting host’s actions. Why was he so quiet? It wasn’t like him. What are you doing, Marcus?

  When the cold water hit her square in the face, she screeched like a banshee.

  ****

  “That was mean, Marcus.”

  “You deserved it.”

  He scowled at the stunning woman seated on his bed, bundled in a terry-cloth bathrobe. She was drying unruly curls with a towel, at ease, and obviously unconcerned. Irritation made his voice growl. “What the f— what are you doing here? Searching and stealing my things again?”

  Deb dropped the towel and crossed her legs. He awarded himself ten points for keeping his stare on her cat-like face. The robe continued sliding to reveal a graceful thigh, miles of soft, sun-kissed skin… Make that twenty points. “After San Francisco, you promised never to do it again.”

  She stared at him from under her lashes, her aquamarine eyes as clear as the Caribbean Sea. He knew her too well to succumb to the coy act. God knew she’d used every page in that book before. Marcus turned away and started pacing, from the bed to the sofa, to the desk, and back. “This trick is not going to work, Deborah. Either explain or get out.”

  “Like this?”

  From the corner of his eyes, he saw the little she-devil stand, then smooth the immaculate, fluffy fabric down her hip. Marcus changed direction as he started a new circuit. No need to get too close to temptation. “You should have thought about it before breaking and entering my room. Again. I’m calling
you in.”

  Her shoulders stiffened imperceptibly. Ah! So he had a lever in this new round of their everlasting cat-and-mouse game. She narrowed her feline eyes on him. “I heard you and Eden talking in the corridor.”

  Marcus shrugged, not giving an inch. “Eden’s my agent. We are to talk from time to time.”

  “That’s bullshit, Marcus. I know why you haven’t published any new thriller material in two years. I know.” She stressed the last word.

  “New material would be an excellent reason to talk to my agent, don’t you think?”

  This time, she hesitated, her eyes downcast, cheeks flushing. Guilt tugged at his heart. Marcus set his jaw. She would play him like a violin if he let her. He’d be damned if he danced to that tune again, not after everything she’d put him through. He pressed his point instead. “We agreed that you would send an email, and not pop out unannounced.”

  So maybe ‘agree’ was a bit far-fetched. He remembered yelling and throwing her out of his place without really listening to her arguments.

  Marcus scowled while a small smile blossomed on those succulent lips. Annoyed, he passed by her to approach the bed table, and the phone. Deb’s head jerked up. “I’ll tell security you invited me in.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Her voice lowered by an octave, her laugh a siren song. “Oh, Marcus, does it look like you don’t want me … here?” The captivating pause fried some neurons—no more than a hundred, really. He flexed his fingers to ease the tautness. “I have an access card...”

  “Which you probably stole or finessed out of the clerk.”

  “There’s a full ice bucket on the table…”

  “That you brought.”

  Unfazed, she all but purred, “I’m half-naked...”

  She was close enough to smell the honeysuckle shampoo she had borrowed in the complimentary stash after he drenched her while fully clothed. Marcus grabbed her by the shoulders. She moved in his grasp and linked her arms around his neck. The robe shifted and revealed the delicious curve of her throat. His breath caught.

  He unhooked her fingers from his collar. “Stop that.”

  Her crystalline eyes sparkled with laughter. “But I’m not doing anything...”

  What she was doing was driving him crazy. She allured him, irritated him, intrigued him and challenged him—the perfect teenage—and adult— dream. He stopped counting how many times they’d bickered up, how many times they’d hooked up, how many times he had wished she would stop her wandering and settle down…

  Marcus took a step back. “I’m still waiting for an answer to my questions. Why are you in my room?”

  Deb wet her lips. “You mean besides for the pleasure of your company?”

  He nearly lost it. Lust only added to the aggravation. He wanted to wring her lovely neck with that stupid necklace she wore like a trophy. To throw her back on that bed and rehearse the best parts of Flint’s last bestseller. Marcus snarled, hands fisted so he wouldn’t reach for her and—

  “All right, all right. I’ll explain everything.” The beautiful eyes sobered up. She pulled the robe over her knees and patted the mattress beside her. “Please, sit. I don’t like it when you tower over me like an angry bear.”

  He chose the sofa on the other side of the room. Deb nodded, as if she were gathering her thoughts. “First, I must tell you that I’m covering for the Traveler. I had planned to come for a day, check the pulse, but they offered to pay for the full entry because of the poem.”

  “What poem?”

  “It started moving around a couple of weeks ago. Bloggers and some websites received a poem as a comment on their posts that announced the event, from an anonymous source. ROSA got its copy, too, on the conference’s site, as well as other specialized magazines, as far as I know. They deleted it of course, but the media was already hooked. Haven’t you noticed there are more journalists than usual?”

  He couldn’t say he had. He’d arrived late in the afternoon, and had had just enough time to settle down before joining the Ice Breaker. Moreover, people didn’t wear a sticker marked ‘press’ on their forehead, even if they were supposed to.

  “What does it say?”

  “I have it on my email. If I can borrow your laptop, I’ll show you.”

  “Nice try, Deb.” He overlooked her huff. “Give me the broad lines. Why is there so much ado about that stuff?”

  “Fine. The poem is about four lines, built out of R.J. Flint’s titles. And it promised a bad outcome to the other nominees for the Sue.”

  Chapter Two

  Deb twisted the tips of her belt between her fingers, waiting for the news to sink in. Marcus had done his best to sidestep when she’d probed, but surely he wouldn’t avoid a death threat. Would he?

  He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees, his feet slightly apart. His chiseled chin rested on his joined hands. She couldn’t see his eyes but his posture suggested their shade had deepened to the deep gray of hematite.

  He’d cut his hair. The short Caesar style looked good on him. Gone were the sunny streaks and with them the dreamer/poet look. She liked it better this way. It fit with the strong shoulders and strong back he’d developed working the orchards in the Valley along with his siblings. They had sold most of the apple orchard, she knew, but he’d kept the large, stone house he had received in the settlement after his mother’s death and enough acres so that it still felt like home. Deb hadn’t been there in a while. Hadn’t dared meeting him on his turf.

  Marcus straightened up. The brilliant hematite tore her train of thought apart. “I don’t see what those alleged nameless threats have to do with me.” He stretched his arms on the back of the sofa. “It’s certainly not the first time the organizers received this kind of attention, and it’s certainly not given you the right to—”

  “Damn it, Marcus!” Deb said. She’d tried to play nice, but God, could this man be stubborn. A mule would be easier to move. “You know why it concerns you!”

  “It concerns Flint. Or rather, Flint’s fellow—”

  “It concerns you!”

  She sprang to her feet to pace, unable to stay still when he was being so frustratingly uncooperative. Marcus caught her belt in passing, so she had no choice but to face him once more. He said, “You didn’t know that when you came here.”

  Deb released her breath. His gentle tone pointed toward another topic, one they would have to explore, eventually. She freed herself from his hold and moved to the window, winning precious seconds to realign her thoughts. Dusk had completely invaded the Arizona sky.

  “I saw your name on the pamphlet. I haven’t seen you since—” She swallowed back San Francisco and the memory of her mistake. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I was wondering why sci-fi golden boy would brush elbows with romance.” She grinned, nudging his side. “I didn’t know it was your thing.”

  He shrugged a second time. His reply came out flat, without a hint that he’d acknowledged her attempt to alleviate the tone of their exchange. “ROSA inquired about Flint for their keynote speech before the creative writing class for suspense/thriller authors. Eden manipulated things so that I gave it instead. That’s why I’m here.”

  “And to receive the Suzanne Philipps Award,” she countered, just to make sure he didn’t weasel his way out of his previous avowal.

  Marcus scowled. “You can’t publish a word about that until tomorrow.”

  “But it’s the scoop of the year! I—”

  A hiss interrupted her, followed by a bang. She jumped, then laughed at herself as a white and pinkish red twinkled above her head. She beamed at him above her shoulder. “They’ve started the fireworks.”

  The night filled with scintillating flowers in a succession of exploding lights. Marcus came to stand behind her. “That’s strange. I thought they were saving those for the casino gala on Saturday.”

  “Does it matter? It’s beautiful!”

  “Sparks and sparkles…” Marcus paraphrased. She stuck her
tongue at his reflection in the window. “All right. Yes, it’s beautiful.”

  They fell silent, caught between the joyful glitter outside and the proverbial elephant in the room. With little more than a foot between them, his body chanted the same old troubling song to entice and torment her. Deb longed for the kiss he’d denied her earlier.

  The fireworks died out. She wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “Cold?”

  “No. I’m fine.” She obliged herself to move, to break the web his charm slowly trod around her. The forced grin almost hurt. “I’m famished. What about dinner?”

  His blank expression morphed into a grimace. “I’m not going downstairs. Fans organized some Vampirella versus Cruella de Vil contest. It’s scary.”

  Deb laughed. “Poor Marcus.” She imagined very well the horde of frenzied, intoxicated women cornering her handsome companion. He didn’t stand a chance. “Why don’t you call room service? I’ll get dressed.”

  His mouth twitched. “Your clothes are probably still damp.”

  “Oh.” His left hand hooked in her belt again. Deb let herself be dragged forward. “I have to keep the robe, then.”

  “Not necessarily…”

  Marcus fisted her hair. He yanked her head backward, rubbed his mouth against her. The brief contact left her breathless. “I don’t understand how I can want you that bad when you exasperate me so much.” His voice rasped with raw emotions.

  Deb rose to her toes, seeking another kiss.

  He complied like a starving man. His tongue pushed between her lips. When he entered her mouth, her pulse skyrocketed. Delicious shivers shook her to the core. White dots branded her lids, like the fireworks they had admired minutes—ages—ago. Deb tried to steady herself, to give back each possessive stroke, and fell short. Her skin caught fire. She danced happily through the brazier.