The Miracle Strip by Nancy Bartholomew Page B

warm, and lit by soft yellow lights. I had the place to myself.
    I couldn’t tell you how long I swam. I let myself sink into the repetition of stroke after stroke. At some point I realized I was angry. I was pushing myself through the chlorinated water, pushing against everything that seemed to overpower and control me. I pushed away the tears that I’d wanted to shed all day. I pushed away my frustration at being so close to the Mirage and being so stupid. That man had to have known the Mirage or Leon Corvase. Hell, he could’ve worked on the boat for all I knew. Like a stupid schoolgirl, I’d let my emotions ride me.
    I swam on and on, cursing silently, hurting my sore muscles as punishment, until I was too limp to move. I hauled my water-puckered body up onto the edge of the pool, doing it the hard way. I walked over to my table and dried off with a harsh white pool towel. Now I could have the piña colada. Now I could stop beating myself up and figure the rest of my plan.
    I sat, panting, drinking my slushy drink. Somewhere nearby someone lit a cigarette. In my younger, careless days, I’d smoked. Years later, my nose still caught the whiff of a freshly lit cigarette and reached out to inhale. There was something about that first pungent whisp of smoke.
    â€œYou saved me the trouble of calling your room.”
    The voice, deep, resonant, and steely calm, cut through the darkness and took me back to the morning. He stepped from the shadows and walked up to my table, casually pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down. He was wearing white linen trousers, Italian tassel loafers without socks, and a pale pink Izod shirt. Unless my sense of smell was off, he was also wearing Paco Rabon cologne. The white streak in his hair was more prominent in the dark, and his eyes seemed clearer, perhaps more colorless than they had that morning. He carefully set his cigarettes and ornate silver-and-turquoise lighter down on the glass table.
    â€œMr. Corvase,” I said, my voice a calm lie, “I wondered if you’d come in person or send along a messenger.” Inside, I shuddered. I looked over at the bar, hoping for a witness, but it was deserted. The steel shutter had been pulled tight and locked. It was me, alone with Denise’s ex.
    â€œYou were looking for Denise,” he said casually. His cigarette glowed orange in the darkness. A few feet away, in the hotel restaurant, patrons ate their dinners by candlelight, looking out at the pool but unable to see me. My table was hidden from view by a bougainvillea. Leon Corvase stretched, his muscles taut, like a large cat.
    â€œThat’s funny,” he went on. “I’ve been looking for Denise, too.” He leaned closer to me. “Maybe we can help each other out.” He smiled and his eyes were hooded. “Two people, looking to help Denise stay safe.”
    I pushed air into my lungs. “I wasn’t aware that you were concerned for Denise’s safety,” I said. “I was thinking it was maybe the opposite way around.”
    He laughed but let it die in his throat. “And so you were going to come all the way down here, with your midget dog and your crazy old lady, to save my wife from me?”
    â€œSomething like that,” I answered.
    He laughed again, this time letting the sound echo through the empty pool terrace.
    â€œEither you have an inflated idea of your own capabilities or you’ve seriously underestimated mine.” The thick lidded eyes widened for a moment, glaring, but the smile never left his lips. He reached across the table in one flash of movement and gripped my wrist. “I need to find Denise,” he whispered harshly. “She has something that belongs to me.”
    â€œAnd what would that be?” I asked, not letting him know that his grasp was tight, painful.
    â€œShe knows,” he answered. His mood suddenly changed, and he became the man from the dock, the