Romy Sommer - The Trouble with Mojitos

He laughed, a mirthless, rusty sound, even to his own ears. “I sure as hell don’t need to bribe you for sex either, honey.”

Though he was sure sex with her would be fun, he’d never needed to bribe anyone for anything. Everything he’d ever wanted had been handed to him on a platter, including women.

But no matter how attractive the idea was, he wasn’t in any fit state for that now. Tonight it wasn’t sex he wanted, but oblivion.

“Keep my car keys safe for me until the morning.” He removed the keys from the back pocket of his jeans and slid them onto the bar counter between them.

“That’s it?” She lifted an eyebrow. She had the most piercing blue eyes he’d ever seen, as clear as the water in the bay where he swam every day. “How do I get them back to you?”

“I’ll meet you in the hotel reception at ten.”

“How can I be sure you’ll be there?”

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Because you have my keys.” And besides, he’d had more entertainment in the last half hour than he’d had since he arrived in Los Pajaros. That had to be worth a little effort in return. “I’ll be there.”

She hesitated a moment before she took the keys and hopped off her bar stool. “In which case, I need to get my beauty sleep.”

“Hey Pollyanna … ” She was halfway out of the bar when he called after her. “You might want to wear a dress. A short skirt will get you much further with the mayor than your current ensemble.”

“I don’t own a dress.”

“You could make a stop in the resort boutique first thing in the morning.”

She shook her head and kept on walking, and with a chuckle he turned back to the barman to order another drink.

When it arrived, he stuck Kenzie’s discarded swizzle stick and umbrella into the glass. “Happy birthday to me.” He downed the drink in one long gulp.

@KenzieCole101: Sheesh I’m tired. See you in 8 hours world.

@LeeHill: What’s up Mac? I’m not even asleep yet and I’m 5 hours ahead.

@KenzieCole101: You know I’m useless without a full night’s sleep.

Kenzie woke to the insistent ringing of a phone. Not the chirpy tone of her mobile, but a shrill tring-tring. The room was still dark.

She pushed her long fringe out of her eyes and groped for the hotel phone on the bedside table. “Hello?”

“Miss Cole? This is the night manager. We require your urgent assistance at the beach bar please.”

What the…? “What time is it?”

“It’s a little after 1am.”

He must have the wrong person. Why on earth would she be needed in a bar in the middle of the night? “You have the wrong room.” Her voice was still scratchy with sleep.

“You’re not Miss Cole?” The man’s voice rose in anxiety.

“I am, but I’m sure you have the wrong person.”

The manager cleared his throat. “It’s about your young man.”

What young man?

Oh heavens, he had to mean Rik. What had he done? A tremor of ice ran down her spine and brought her fully awake. But he couldn’t have gone anywhere – she still had his car keys.

“Is he okay?” she asked, struggling upwards and fumbling for the light switch.

“He’s passed out.” And the manager sounded very unimpressed.

She rubbed her eyes. “I’ll be right down.”

She pulled on a sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, tied her hair back in a ponytail, and slid her feet into the espadrilles she’d bought on her first day in Los Pajaros in celebration of having arrived in the tropics. Then she headed downstairs.

Why was she always dragged into other people’s shit? She really had to learn to be less trusting of people. She should have taken one look at that rugged face and those glittering eyes and run as far away and as fast as she could.

But no…she always had to give people the benefit of the doubt. And now here she was, in the dead of night, about to take on someone else’s problems yet again.

The 80s music had long since ceased and the reception lights were on low. But outside the path that meandered between swimming pools and luscious gardens was as brightly lit as Piccadilly Circus on a hot summer’s night.

The thatched bar lay right at the end of the path, where the grassy lawn met the sandy beach. It didn’t look much different than when she’d been there earlier in the evening, a little darker, but still deserted and still full of shadows.

The dreadlocked barman had emerged from behind his bar and was now huddled over a figure sprawled face down across one of the rough wooden tables. Beside him stood a harassed looking young man in a wrinkled white suit who had to be the manager.

“What’s the problem?” she asked in her most cheerful voice.

The manager turned, his face transforming from aggrieved to relieved in an instant. Kenzie wished she felt the same, but instead her heart hit the bottom of her espadrilles.

“We need to get him out of here,” the manager said, huffing as he tried to lift Rik’s dead weight. “Where does he need to go?”

“How the hell should I know?” Kenzie frowned at the two men.

“He gave you his car keys,” the barman pointed out.

“Yes. He asked me to keep them until the morning so he wouldn’t drive anywhere in this state.” She turned to the manager. “Surely you must know which room he’s in.”

The manager stiffened, righteous indignation written all over him. “He’s not a guest of this hotel.”

It just kept on coming.

“Maybe there’s something in his car that will tell us where he belongs?” she suggested. “Then perhaps we can call a cab and send him home.”

“We can’t leave him here while we look,” the manager said. “What if he wakes up and wanders into the sea, or one of the pools? I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

Neither did she. “Okay, we’ll have to take him with us to the main building.”

It took both men to lift Rik off the table. Then, with his arms looped around their shoulders, they began the shuffle back along the brightly lit path. The trip took at least three times as long as it had taken Kenzie on the way down. Impatient to get rid of the lot of them and back to the comfort of her king-size bed, she lengthened her strides and hurried ahead, fingering the car keys in her pocket.

She had no idea how she was going to identify which car she was looking for. This could take all night.

But when she reached the guest car park, it wasn’t too hard to work out which car was Rik’s. The car park was packed full of vehicles that were obviously rentals – all but one, a sleek black Lamborghini.

Doing ‘Nothing much’ clearly paid a lot of money. Perhaps he really was a pirate. Or a drug smuggler. What if she found packages of cocaine stashed beneath the seats?

With her heart knocking against her ribs, Kenzie scoured the car for clues. Nothing. Not a driver’s licence, no scraps of paper – not even a bank bag of marijuana. Relieved by the last but frustrated by the first, she sat down in the passenger seat and racked her brains.

Who was this man? A local, a guest at another hotel? His accent was indistinct. There’d been a hint of something European, but equally he spoke as if he’d learned his English at Eton or Harrow.

She rubbed her forehead. Was anyone missing him?

She jumped as a shadow moved beside her.

“Found anything?” the manager asked, bending down into view.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Did you check if he had any ID on him, or credit cards?”

“Of course. The only thing in his wallet was cash.”

What kind of man drove a fancy sports car but didn’t even have a credit card? In her experience, wealthy people always had plastic of the platinum variety, and weren’t afraid to use it.