Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 06 - Revenge in Paradise Read Online Free Page A

Fab teased me that mine was nothing more than colored water as compared to hers that guaranteed to grow hair on your chest after half a cup. I slid onto a stool at the large island across from Fab. All important conversations took place in the kitchen.
    “We need to talk,” Fab said as she pulled her long brown hair off her neck and secured it with the clip that she held between her lips. “Now that you’re becoming a real estate mogul, where does that leave our partnership?”
    “Still partners is where it leaves us. While I was out of town, were you perhaps auditioning a replacement?”
    Fab laughed. “I need you tonight for a Brick job, and as you pointed out, they can go south in a second. I’d like backup. I’m to show up at Miami International dressed in something skimpy, sexy and pick up three businessmen and deliver them to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.”
    “Who’s loading the suitcases?” I flexed my arm, tapping my bicep.
    “If you’d work out more, I’d let you do it.”
    Jazz sauntered in, meowing. Fab scooped him up and reached into the refrigerator for some butcher-paper-wrapped treats. To my surprise, she bypassed the counter and slid down to the floor to feed him.
    I watched as he gobbled up the turkey; he had trained everyone in the family to spoil him.
    “In the meantime, I’ve got to check on my mini empire. You driving?” I tossed her the keys.
     
    * * *
     
    Fab rocketed around the corner using the brake sparingly in my shiny black convertible Hummer. I’d gotten an excellent deal from Brick after reminding him several times that it had a lot of mileage, which made it a used car. He finally caved when his nephew boosted it and used it as a cheap motel room.
    Fab squealed into a parking space in front of the office at The Cottages, a ten-unit property of small individual houses, steps from the Gulf of Mexico. I had inherited the property from my aunt Elizabeth.
    We catered primarily to European tourists, recently getting a slew of reservations from Scotland. I looked forward to the first good-looking Scot to show up in a skirt. That would have the crazy women of the neighborhood converging. I had several year-round tenants and a firm rule––that got broken with regularity––not to rent to locals. I recently removed the welcome mat for the occasional murderer, drug dealer, and just plain riff-raff.
    “Who’s that?” I pointed to a man, seat back, lying down behind the wheel of a banged up Chevy Vega, gunning his engine at the curb, desperately in need of a muffler.
    “Why are you asking me?” Fab grumbled. “I don’t know the people in this neighborhood. That would be you. Go make friends with him and I’m sure he’ll tell you his life story. I’ll wait inside.”
    I turned up my nose. “You need to get some social skills.” Fab was right. I’m not sure why, but I could be minding my own business and a random person would spill intimate details of their life into my ear.
    Fab kicked the office door open. “Feet off the desk, that’s not professional,” she barked at Mac Lane, the manager.
    Mac, a curvy middle-aged woman, had on her favorite light-up tennis shoes and was dressed in an unfashionable pair of culottes and a wife-beater shirt. Energy drink-addicted, she noisily slurped every last drop and threw the can across the room into the trash. I never regretted hiring her. She was tough, ballsy, and not afraid to use her Beretta to rid the property of undesirables.
    “Just filled the refrigerator.” She put a fresh piece of bubble gum into her mouth, flinging the paper wrap in the direction of the trash, though it missed by a mile. “How was the bogus wedding trip?”
    “Toe-curling, excruciatingly amazing,” I sighed. “And if you tell anyone, you’re fired.”
    I plopped down onto a chair in front of the desk. Fab claimed the couch, stretching out and shoving pillows under her head. I redecorated the office tropical island style—rattan furniture covered in