around to watch him as he bathed. She enjoyed looking at
his taut, well-developed muscles and as he soaped himself down, she felt another
stirring of lust pool in her body.
“I’m going to go back to my place and pack a few days’ worth of clothing,” she
called out to him, knowing if she stayed, she’d jump him as soon as he came out of his
bath. “See you in about thirty minutes?”
“Okay,” he said, pouring shampoo into his cupped palm. “I’ve got to pack too so
make it forty-five minutes.”
“Sure thing.”
As soon as he washed the suds from his hair, Dáire hurriedly finished his shower.
He had a phone call to make and very little time in which to get it done if he wanted to
speak with Gentry without Star there to listen in.
56
HardWind
The connection went through on the very first ring and he had an uneasy feeling
she’d been waiting for the call, sitting there in expectation of hearing from him.
“So what’s it to be, Cronin?” were the first words out of Gentry’s mouth.
“We’re back together again,” he told her.
“Figures.” The word sounded like a curse on the older woman’s lips.
“How’s Jackson?” he asked in a bid to change the subject.
“Since you are going to be out of commission for at least six weeks, there is nothing
to be gained by giving you any information regarding Jackson,” Gentry snapped.
“What do you mean?” Dáire asked.
“Do you really think I don’t know about the child’s problem, Cronin?” Gentry
queried. “I know all about the possible donation.” She was silent for a long moment
then her next words sounded ominous. “We could stop you if we were so inclined.”
“She’s my daughter,” he said.
“Unfortunately for her, she is,” Gentry said. “Call when you get out of the hospital
and have fully recovered and we will discuss your next assignment.”
She paused as though waiting for him to say something and when he didn’t, she
hung up.
* * * * *
“You’re being awful quiet,” Star said. She glanced at him as they drove along
Interstate 10, the top down on her spiffy little BMW 645Ci convertible. The powerful
engine of the sleek silver car purred along at eighty mph, passing most everything else
on the slab.
Daire’s thick hair was disheveled, blowing in the wind, but that only added to his
predatory male beauty. With the dark Ray-Bans snug over his eyes, the front of his
white shirt billowing against his deep tan, his bare feet braced on the dashboard, those
female drivers they passed never failed to do a double take at the man in Star’s
passenger seat.
“I’ve got a headache,” he said.
“Want me to put the top up?”
“No.”
Star looked at him again and her body melted. She was no more immune to him
than the woman in the other lane who was gawking so hard at him she almost swerved
off the road. His right hand was resting on his right knee, his fingers tapping out a
rhythm of their own. He was staring straight ahead, and in profile, he looked like a
statue of a Greek god.
“How ‘bout stopping in Milton and letting me get a drink?” he asked.
57
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Star understood he didn’t mean liquor. It was the Southern way of expressing a
desire for soda and to Dáire’s way of thinking there was only one brand of soda that
would do.
They had just crossed the county line into Santa Rosa County and it would be a few
miles before the next turnoff for a convenient store. She knew he was aware of how far
they’d have to travel before he could get something to help his headache.
“You got some aspirin in that suitcase you call a purse?”
“Excedrin Migraine,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and laid his head back on the headrest.
Star was passing a car full of teenage girls and she jumped when the young driver
laid on her horn and the shrill voices of adolescent lust yelled out to Dáire.
“Hey, baby!”
“Hubba, hubba, dude!”
The teenagers sped up,
his taut, well-developed muscles and as he soaped himself down, she felt another
stirring of lust pool in her body.
“I’m going to go back to my place and pack a few days’ worth of clothing,” she
called out to him, knowing if she stayed, she’d jump him as soon as he came out of his
bath. “See you in about thirty minutes?”
“Okay,” he said, pouring shampoo into his cupped palm. “I’ve got to pack too so
make it forty-five minutes.”
“Sure thing.”
As soon as he washed the suds from his hair, Dáire hurriedly finished his shower.
He had a phone call to make and very little time in which to get it done if he wanted to
speak with Gentry without Star there to listen in.
56
HardWind
The connection went through on the very first ring and he had an uneasy feeling
she’d been waiting for the call, sitting there in expectation of hearing from him.
“So what’s it to be, Cronin?” were the first words out of Gentry’s mouth.
“We’re back together again,” he told her.
“Figures.” The word sounded like a curse on the older woman’s lips.
“How’s Jackson?” he asked in a bid to change the subject.
“Since you are going to be out of commission for at least six weeks, there is nothing
to be gained by giving you any information regarding Jackson,” Gentry snapped.
“What do you mean?” Dáire asked.
“Do you really think I don’t know about the child’s problem, Cronin?” Gentry
queried. “I know all about the possible donation.” She was silent for a long moment
then her next words sounded ominous. “We could stop you if we were so inclined.”
“She’s my daughter,” he said.
“Unfortunately for her, she is,” Gentry said. “Call when you get out of the hospital
and have fully recovered and we will discuss your next assignment.”
She paused as though waiting for him to say something and when he didn’t, she
hung up.
* * * * *
“You’re being awful quiet,” Star said. She glanced at him as they drove along
Interstate 10, the top down on her spiffy little BMW 645Ci convertible. The powerful
engine of the sleek silver car purred along at eighty mph, passing most everything else
on the slab.
Daire’s thick hair was disheveled, blowing in the wind, but that only added to his
predatory male beauty. With the dark Ray-Bans snug over his eyes, the front of his
white shirt billowing against his deep tan, his bare feet braced on the dashboard, those
female drivers they passed never failed to do a double take at the man in Star’s
passenger seat.
“I’ve got a headache,” he said.
“Want me to put the top up?”
“No.”
Star looked at him again and her body melted. She was no more immune to him
than the woman in the other lane who was gawking so hard at him she almost swerved
off the road. His right hand was resting on his right knee, his fingers tapping out a
rhythm of their own. He was staring straight ahead, and in profile, he looked like a
statue of a Greek god.
“How ‘bout stopping in Milton and letting me get a drink?” he asked.
57
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Star understood he didn’t mean liquor. It was the Southern way of expressing a
desire for soda and to Dáire’s way of thinking there was only one brand of soda that
would do.
They had just crossed the county line into Santa Rosa County and it would be a few
miles before the next turnoff for a convenient store. She knew he was aware of how far
they’d have to travel before he could get something to help his headache.
“You got some aspirin in that suitcase you call a purse?”
“Excedrin Migraine,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, and laid his head back on the headrest.
Star was passing a car full of teenage girls and she jumped when the young driver
laid on her horn and the shrill voices of adolescent lust yelled out to Dáire.
“Hey, baby!”
“Hubba, hubba, dude!”
The teenagers sped up,
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