Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [45]
Kate knew her partner meant it because she felt exactly the same way, but since she was the leader of this two-woman team, she had to act accordingly. She reached for a bright green and yellow beach towel and slung it over her shoulder. “By something happening, do you by chance mean your suggestion that we hike down the beach and invite our two male neighbors to a weenie roast? I said I’d go along with the idea if you really want to do it. Do you?” As a diversion it wasn’t much, but it would have to do for the moment.
Sandy reached for her own beach towel. “Well, yeah,” she drawled. “At least it’s something to do. By the way, do you see that boat that’s just sitting out there?”
“I’m one step ahead of you. The guy is fishing and reading a book. He’s probably some local who just wants to get away from his nagging wife, and he’s killing two birds with one stone. He’s fishing, which is what guys tell their wives, and he’s probably reading some horror novel about how to kill your pain-in-the-ass boss, who makes your life as miserable as your wife makes it. Anything else you want to know?” Kate asked sweetly.
“I think that about covers it, Ms. Rush. I’d race you to the water, but it’s just too damn hot. Listen, Kate, I am serious about leaving here. You know I’m no wuss, but this is beyond the call of duty, and we aren’t even getting paid.”
“I know, I know. We can fall back and regroup later when the sun goes down. I’m surprised we haven’t heard from Jelly today.”
Sandy bristled. “Think about it, Ms. Rush, why should he call us? We’re on the scene, nothing is going on except we’re slowly getting cooked to our bones, so why should he waste his time with a phone call just to hear us bitch and moan. Get real here. And another thing. You haven’t seen hide nor hair of Roy or Josh, have you?”
A moment later, she ran into the water and was lost to sight. She came up, and shouted, “I think my core temperature just dropped twenty degrees. This is heaven. I might never come out of the water. I might even sleep on the beach tonight and get bitten by sand fleas; and then I can legitimately pack in this gig and head back to civilization.”
Kate rolled over on her back and closed her eyes as she floated by Sandy. “Then we can’t have a weenie roast on the beach, and you won’t get to meet that redheaded guy.”
“Who said I wanted the redheaded guy?” Sandy asked lazily.
“I know you, Sandra Martin, and I know your taste in men, Sandra Martin,” Kate singsonged, before she rolled over to slip beneath the water. When she came up for air, she said, “The guy out there in the boat is watching us. No binoculars, but he’s staring right at you. Don’t even think about it, Sandy; it’s too far to swim out there.”
“There goes the Coast Guard on their daily patrol. Oh, look, they’re pulling up alongside that guy. If he’s still there after they leave, we’ll know he’s just another local or some dumb tourist thinking this is fun.”
In spite of herself, Kate laughed, the sound tinkling over the water. “If you want, I can recite a litany of mistakes the Coast Guard has made over the past five years. Remember Rule Number One, which is, ‘Nothing is what it seems.’ Always investigate.”
Sandy was now on her back as she stared at the two boats. “I like Rule Number Two, which is, ‘Ignore Rule Number One.’ What else should we make for our weenie roast? Maybe I should clarify that statement, and say, what should I think about preparing? We have some steaks in that thing that passes as a refrigerator. We could roast some potatoes. Doncha just love them when you pull them out, and they’re all black and crusty?”
“Why don’t you bake a pie. Men love pie. Ooops, that’s right, we don’t have a real stove, and no oven,” Kate added playfully.
Kate’s sarcasm did not go unnoticed by Sandy. “You are determined to rain on my parade, aren’t you?” Not bothering