Warren Murphy: Bloody Tourists

"There's lots of things I can do better than other people-" Remo said.

"I'll bet there is." It was the concierge. She lounged on the sofa by the phone, one long leg crossed on the other. A dressy high-heeled sandal dangled from her toes. Remo had been pretending she wasn't there, but she didn't get the hint.

"Who's that?" Smith demanded.

"Hold on," Remo said. "Who are you?"

"I'm Madelaine," she purred. If her blouse had not somehow become unbuttoned almost to her belly, her white lace bra wouldn't have been so exposed.

"She's Madelaine," Remo said to Smith.

"I didn't want you to ask her name," Smith responded, his voice becoming more tart.

"I'm the concierge," she said.

"She's the concierge," Remo relayed.

"Remo, I don't care," Smith said.

"I do things for people," Madelaine breathed.

"She does things for people," Remo told Smith.

"I don't care," Smith insisted. "I meant-"

"What kinds of things?" Remo asked the woman.

"For you? Anything."

"Smitty, great news," Remo said into the phone. "She'll do anything. So you can have her walk the Boston beat" Smith came close to raising his voice.

"Remo, please stop this foolishness."

"You first" Remo hung up, then severed the cord from the phone with a tug.

Madelaine was delighted. "Now it's just the two of us."

"Yeah, well, not counting the fifty people I can see in the restaurant and the bar and at the front desk."

"Forget them. Let's go to your room."

Remo shrugged. "Sorry, Madelaine. I can't tell you how great you've been. I mean, who'd have thought I'd get so much personal attention just because I asked where the phone was? But I'm off to Nashville."

"Can I come?"

"Without a doubt. But not with me."

Madelaine sat up suddenly. She was alone, just like that. The hunk in the T-shirt had vanished.

She stood and looked all around before glimpsing a figure in a black T-shirt slipping through the stairwell doors. Was that her hunk? He could never have traveled that far through the obstacle course of the lobby in just a couple of seconds.

Could he?

Chapter 5

"Cue the music," the director ordered.

From the speakers came a swell of steel-drum rhythms with an underlay of romantic strings. "Action," the director called.

The camera on its lofty crane perch drank in the scenery of lush gardens embracing the base of palm trees, which stretched over the sugar-white sandy beach and the turquoise Caribbean Sea.

The camera crane descended to the level of the woman in the bikini, strolling on the shore with the waters tasting her toes. Her lithe body was deeply tanned but detailed with freckles. Her hair was luxurious and dark, with just enough of an auburn hint to match the terra-cotta trim of the white bikini and the translucent wrap on her waist. She looked off camera, admiring the glorious tropical view, and produced a smile. The smile, warm and provocative and friendly all at once.

Todd Rohrman smiled along with her. He always did. She was something special. You couldn't put your finger on it, but you knew she had a gift of, well, attractiveness. Everybody liked her. Men lusted after her, and women gravitated to her as if she were their best friend. People just wanted her.

She turned from her beautiful view of the beautiful ocean, looking directly into the camera with her beautiful blue-green eyes.

Rohrman thought, She's looking right into the minds of every man and woman who'll see this commercial. She's unbelievable.

His trousers buzzed.

Rohrman retreated on tiptoe through the snaking cables and equipment tables. He didn't answer the phone until he reached the pool deck, but the caller hadn't given up.

"Hello, Todd, this is Amelia. I have the president on the line. He would like to speak to the minister."

"It'll have to wait. They're right in the middle of the new commercial shoot," Rohrman said.

"He's calling from the United States, Todd," Amelia Powlik pressed.

"This island is the United States, Amelia."

"The mainland, I mean."

"He'll have to wait," Rohrman said patiently.

"He's meeting with federal officials in two minutes," Amelia insisted.

Rohrman didn't get excited. Sometimes people just didn't understand the pecking order around here. Even people who were a part of the pecking order. "I will not interrupt the minister of tourism in the middle of a shoot."

Amelia pursed her lips with displeasure-Rohrman didn't have to see her to know she was doing it. Below him they were doing another take of the same shot, this time with a reflector positioned to backlight that beautiful mass of dense hair. Nice, Rohrman thought approvingly. The auburn highlights glimmered in the added burst of backlighting, and the vision of loveliness in the bikini was even more radiant.

"This is the president," said a new voice on the phone.

"This is Todd Rohrman, Mr. President."

"Why am I not speaking to the minister of tourism?"

"As I explained to your secretary, Mr. President, there's a shoot today."

"Mr. Rohrman, I am the president of Union Island, and I want to speak to my minister of tourism. Now."

"Sorry, Mr. President. Not until the shoot is done."

There was a long, tired sigh. "Oh, all right."

"It will just be a few minutes-maybe ten," Rohrman added cheerfully. Then Todd got to do one of his favorite things in the whole world.

He put the president on hold.

THE DIRECTOR WATCHED in the monitors, which received video feeds from all the cameras. It was their eighth take of the afternoon, but the star of the commercial didn't show it. She gazed into the lead camera, and even the director felt as if she were looking directly at him. When she spoke it was both intimate and friendly.

"I am Union Island," she said with her delicious half smile. "Come to me."

She was perfect. She stirred you up when she talked like that.

"You nailed it," he told her as they viewed the shot a minute later. "You got it just right."

"Thank you." She smiled like that even when she wasn't being filmed. "It's good working with you again, Hal. I can't wait to see the finished spots."

Hal, the director, was about to offer to show her the finished spots personally, but the proposal, which he had been practicing for weeks, was laid waste by an announcement from the rear of the set.

"I have the president on the phone for the minister of tourism."

Excitement seemed to ripple through the crew. "Bye-bye, Hal. Thanks so much." The woman in the bikini threaded her way through the set, shaking hands and offering her thanks to every one of the crew, all the way down to the Florida State University sophomore who was interning with the sound engineer. "How did I look?" she asked Todd Rohrman.

"You turned me on."

"Come on!"

"Almost. Seriously."

She gave him a doubting look and took the portable phone.

She said, "Minister Summens speaking."

Todd Rohrman strolled away to watch the set teardown.

After all, government leaders needed their privacy when discussing matters of state.

"MINISTER SUMMENS, what's our communications status?"

"Wide open, Mr. President," replied Dawn Summens, professional bikini model and Union Island minister of tourism.

"I see," the President said.

The president always had a hard time improvising on an unsecure phone line.

"How are your visits going with the U.S. officials?" she asked leadingly.

"Good. Yes, productive. Constructive. I would like to discuss them when you have time."

"I'll be available in my office between seven and eight this evening, Mr. President."

"Fine. Talk to you tonight, Minister Summens."

"Goodbye, Mr. President." Summens killed the connection.

"Moron," she muttered under her breath.