winced as Glo described a ridiculous set-to in which the strength of three Secret Service men had been called upon to subdue Jacques Cardinal.
Maggie was embarrassed slightly – but unsure why – to admit that the gossip she had overheard had inspired her to use the same Slack Cardinal in her next novel, but Glo thought the idea amusing. “Have you got a part for a shy southern belle? ‘Ah do declare, suh, you do say the most wicked thangs.’ ”
Glo offered a physical description of Cardinal for the novel: “Late forties, cute but shy, doesn’t own a comb, six-five and built like a work truck; bay window with love handles, and great glaring green eyes, full of suspicion. Someone has to teach him how to smile.”
Glo perched beside her on the bed, took her hand, and looked at her meaningfully. “I hired him for a private cruise — out of sheer boredom, understand? – to escape the cigar smoke and beer farts. But I didn’t tell Chester, and I had to threaten the agent who tracked me down. If this shows up in your book, know that I still have friends in Las Vegas who break arms.”
Maggie looked at her skeptically. What could anyone do in a kayak? Sex would seem impossible even in one built for two.
“Light flirting was the most I had in mind, just a little frolic.” She hesitated, as if unsure what more to divulge.
Maggie, who was more titillated than shocked, hoped Glo was not censoring.
He drew her trembling body onto the wet sand, his glaring green eyes hot with desire
. “Well? What happened?”
“Shit all, honey; he was as nervous as a turkey on Thanksgiving eve. Reacted like I was trying to bust his balls.”
Maggie felt let down; the story lacked an appropriately erotic punchline.
“Chester says he has a record of screwing up. Delete – I’m not supposed to say that. Classified shit. Anyway, Cardinal has a right curious background. Change of subject. You look good in this joint; it’s Jane of the Jungle in her tree house. Let me see one of your wet reads.”
Maggie rummaged in her bag for one of her Nancy Wards. She hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult to draw details about Slack Cardinal from the loose lips of her confidant. A state secret, a nervous screw-up of a spy with a dark history: that did not tally with her other meagre information.
The sign on his shop had said, “Closed until creativity restored.” What mysteries were concealed behind the bay window of the brooding kayak man?
– 4 –
Maggie was woken by the trilling of nature’s early risers. She threw back her mosquito net, breathed in the pungent tropical air, picked up pen and pad — she enjoyed writing during the early morning while the world was stretching awake. It was a time of inspiration. This was her second day at Eco-Rico Lodge: her idyll was passing too quickly. Tomorrow evening she would return to the beaches of Manuel Antonio for a week of tropical tanning before retreating north. She shivered at the thought of cold winds whipping across the stubble.
Here she could lie under light cover all night, with the windows open, and awake not to the cruel jangling of an alarm clock but to serenades of birds. She could not count thenumber of melodies in their repertoires. Her
Birds of Central America
recited light-hearted names: Black-Capped Pygmy-Tyrants, Scaly-Throated Leafscrapers.
There were bugs, naturally: Bare-Necked Umbrellabirds must eat. Some tropical species were delightful: fairylike fireflies that danced through the dark of the forest, priggish praying mantises, plodding rhinoceros beetles.
She had seen three species of monkeys: the grumpy, slow-moving ones were howlers, and their harrowing
whoofs
were resounding outside her window at this moment, though they could be a mile away. She had been shown a glass frog, almost transparent, and a gaudy poison-dart frog; she had seen tracks of a jaguaroundi.
Yesterday, Maggie had stared in awe at the green living sea of the canopy before being lowered on
Maggie was embarrassed slightly – but unsure why – to admit that the gossip she had overheard had inspired her to use the same Slack Cardinal in her next novel, but Glo thought the idea amusing. “Have you got a part for a shy southern belle? ‘Ah do declare, suh, you do say the most wicked thangs.’ ”
Glo offered a physical description of Cardinal for the novel: “Late forties, cute but shy, doesn’t own a comb, six-five and built like a work truck; bay window with love handles, and great glaring green eyes, full of suspicion. Someone has to teach him how to smile.”
Glo perched beside her on the bed, took her hand, and looked at her meaningfully. “I hired him for a private cruise — out of sheer boredom, understand? – to escape the cigar smoke and beer farts. But I didn’t tell Chester, and I had to threaten the agent who tracked me down. If this shows up in your book, know that I still have friends in Las Vegas who break arms.”
Maggie looked at her skeptically. What could anyone do in a kayak? Sex would seem impossible even in one built for two.
“Light flirting was the most I had in mind, just a little frolic.” She hesitated, as if unsure what more to divulge.
Maggie, who was more titillated than shocked, hoped Glo was not censoring.
He drew her trembling body onto the wet sand, his glaring green eyes hot with desire
. “Well? What happened?”
“Shit all, honey; he was as nervous as a turkey on Thanksgiving eve. Reacted like I was trying to bust his balls.”
Maggie felt let down; the story lacked an appropriately erotic punchline.
“Chester says he has a record of screwing up. Delete – I’m not supposed to say that. Classified shit. Anyway, Cardinal has a right curious background. Change of subject. You look good in this joint; it’s Jane of the Jungle in her tree house. Let me see one of your wet reads.”
Maggie rummaged in her bag for one of her Nancy Wards. She hoped it wouldn’t be too difficult to draw details about Slack Cardinal from the loose lips of her confidant. A state secret, a nervous screw-up of a spy with a dark history: that did not tally with her other meagre information.
The sign on his shop had said, “Closed until creativity restored.” What mysteries were concealed behind the bay window of the brooding kayak man?
– 4 –
Maggie was woken by the trilling of nature’s early risers. She threw back her mosquito net, breathed in the pungent tropical air, picked up pen and pad — she enjoyed writing during the early morning while the world was stretching awake. It was a time of inspiration. This was her second day at Eco-Rico Lodge: her idyll was passing too quickly. Tomorrow evening she would return to the beaches of Manuel Antonio for a week of tropical tanning before retreating north. She shivered at the thought of cold winds whipping across the stubble.
Here she could lie under light cover all night, with the windows open, and awake not to the cruel jangling of an alarm clock but to serenades of birds. She could not count thenumber of melodies in their repertoires. Her
Birds of Central America
recited light-hearted names: Black-Capped Pygmy-Tyrants, Scaly-Throated Leafscrapers.
There were bugs, naturally: Bare-Necked Umbrellabirds must eat. Some tropical species were delightful: fairylike fireflies that danced through the dark of the forest, priggish praying mantises, plodding rhinoceros beetles.
She had seen three species of monkeys: the grumpy, slow-moving ones were howlers, and their harrowing
whoofs
were resounding outside her window at this moment, though they could be a mile away. She had been shown a glass frog, almost transparent, and a gaudy poison-dart frog; she had seen tracks of a jaguaroundi.
Yesterday, Maggie had stared in awe at the green living sea of the canopy before being lowered on
Similar Books
