Florida Knight (6 page)

Startled, Kate turned to look at him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “so few people are natives. And somehow I assumed you lived in
Manatee
Bay
, that this wasn’t your territory.”

“The FHP patrol station is here,” Michael pointed out. “I have a condo in
Twin
Lakes
Village
.”

Which explained the local connection to Bill Falk. The bridge siren sounded once again, signaling it was about to close. Relieved by an excuse to escape the conversation, Kate turned back to the Waterway. The large cruiser was already out of sight behind the bridge supports. A steady stream of cars now rumbled toward the beach on the west side of the bridge. Joining the crowd of sunset watchers, Kate thought. Cars, vans, SUVs and pickups lined up every evening to watch the sun plunge into the
Gulf of Mexico
, usually to a spectacular display of rainbow-hued colors.

Dear God, when was the last time she’d watched a sunset?

Kate’s gaze retreated to a row of pelicans lined up on the wooden bumpers that marked the narrow navigable channel under the center of the bridge. The area boasted three restaurants plus small boats that frequently fished under the shelter of the concrete span. The pelicans had long since learned that not all their food had to be plucked live from the water in traditional plunging dives. Between leftovers and offerings from soft-hearted fishermen, the birds lived well. So they sat on the bumper and waited.

Reluctantly, Kate abandoned the view as their drinks arrived—Guinness for both of them. Must be the first thing they had in common, Kate thought as she sipped from an iced mug so cold it nearly stuck to her lower lip. Words were sticking to it too, she realized. If there was one thing LALOC emphasized, not to mention the public relations portion of her job as Barbara Falk’s maid-of-all-work, courtesy was all-important. She might not be on a date, but polite conversation was not only expected, it was mandatory.

“Do you like living in
Twin
Lakes
,” she inquired. Kate had been around long enough to know that although the condominium complex was in the medium price range, it had been so well laid out with lakes, trees, green grass, flowers, and swimming pools that it was one of the most sought-after locations in the area. Condos at
Twin
Lakes
were usually snapped up as soon as they came on the market.

“It’s peaceful,” Michael replied. “Hard to believe it’s right off a main road.” Then—even though he’d vowed to play it cool, strictly business—some evil genie made him add, “I’ll have to show it to you sometime.”

Fortunately, the waitress arrived with their salads before Kate could do more than grimace. This was business, she reminded herself. If she could deal with LALOC fighter jocks, she could deal with Michael Turco.
Face it, idiot, he was just passing an innocuous remark. He didn’t even smirk. You’re the one who’s making something of it. The lechery’s in
your
head, not his.

Kate swallowed a mouthful of romaine, radicchio, and arugula coated in honey-mustard dressing. It wasn’t just sunsets she’d missed. When was the last time she’d been in a fine restaurant, eating superior food, with a panorama of water, boats and birds against the backdrop of a barrier-island beach? She should be grateful instead of going into her prickly pear routine. “The next Event is a week from tomorrow,” she tossed out as a peace offering.

Michael glanced around the crowded restaurant. “Let’s eat first,” he suggested. “We can talk out on the dock when we’re done.” Since her baked stuffed shrimp had just arrived, Kate was more than willing to agree. At least she’d tried to meet him half-way. Truthfully, she still hadn’t decided if he was a lech or cold as her iced beer.

Later, as they exited onto the narrow dock that ran along the side of the restaurant, an eighteen-footer pulled up. Obligingly, Michael grabbed a line, wrapping it expertly around a bollard. A family of five—gramma, grampa, daughter and two small children—got out. After disengaging the children from their life jackets and a hearty thanks to Michael, the family went inside The Troll House to eat.

“That’s nice,” Kate murmured, looking after them. Michael answered her with a grunt. Kate felt like a fool. Lieutenant Michael Turco was about as sentimental as a robot. Not true. The man hadn’t agreed to wear a costume to LALOC Events because of his job. He was doing it for vengeance. Personal, family vengeance. She should never forget there was a lot of fire—probably volcanic—beneath that cool, sharply etched exterior.

The sun had set, the pelicans gone to roost; traffic on the Waterway slowed to a trickle. Lights twinkled down from the bridge and from the spotlights above the parking lot at the beach. It was about as perfect a night as Kate had ever seen. If she got out more . . . if she didn’t spend her afternoons and evenings bent over a sewing machine . . .

Michael guided her to a
n outside
bench built along the side of the old building, then sat down beside her, so close their hips were touching. “So there’s an Event next weekend,” he declared, briskly opening the business portion of their evening while Kate’s head was still swimming with the nearness of him. “So what do I wear?”

Kate snapped closed the chinks in her armor. She, too, could play this game. “Aren’t you and your brother about the s
ame size? What can you borrow?”

“Most of his stuff’s in the evidence lockup. Shirt, tights, some sort of silky thing that went over the top.”

“Surcoat,” Kate supplied.

“There’s an extra shirt and tights at home, but I’ll be damned if I’ll wear tights,” Michael growled. “There’s got to be something else,” he added on the distinct note of a plea.

Kate grinned. “Okay, I’ll make you a pair of balloon pants, a lot of the men wear them. You’re not the only one with a men-in-tights phobia, you know. And I’ll run up a tunic too, add a little trim if I have time. You need casual for day and something fancier for Feast. But as a newcomer, you’re allowed a lot of leeway. You don’t have to be perfect the first time out. No one ever is.”

“Balloon?” Michael challenged. “You mean those things that look like pumpkins with strips of cloth slit to show how God made you?”

Kate chortled. “Heavens, no! You’re thinking of the Elizabethan era, Tudor times. That’s not what I meant at all. Though, believe me, those slits only show another layer of fabric underneath. Solid fabric,” she emphasized. Michael was still looking skeptical. “The pants I’m talking about have a drawstring waist; I always sneak in some elastic so they don’t bind. They’re full in the leg and either tuck into your boots or go over them to fasten at the ankle. Again, I use elastic so they don’t come untied during fighting. There’s authentic, and then there’s practical,” Kate added decisively. No need to mention they were what was often called harem pants. “You do have boots?” she asked.

“Trooper’s boots.”

“They’ll do.”

“So what else do I need to know?”

How to say what had to be said? Kate wondered. The Michael Turco sitting in front of her just wasn’t going to cut it in LALOC. Obviously, he knew that; that’s why she was here. But what to say to effect the necessary changes?

Best to begin slowly. “You have to have a name—”

He cut her off. “Michael Gibbs. There’re almost as many Gibbs around here as Smith or Jones. I work
for a company that puts up cell
phone towers.”

“Okay.” Kate nodded absently, finding her concentration diffused by the soft lap of water at her feet, stars overhead, the pervasive scent of the sea blown on a gentle cooling breeze. The hot spike of warmth where Michael Turco’s hip touched hers. “You prefer Michael, don’t you—instead of Mike?”

“The FHP calls me Mike. My family calls me Michael. Never thought much about it, that’s just the way it is.”

This is business. Just business. He’s a cop, not a man.
“You need a LALOC name too,” Kate said. “Nothing fancy—that comes later. Newcomers just need some sort of handle that sounds as if it might be in period. Michael’s just . . . not quite right. It’s okay for a mundane name—your undercover persona,” Kate added hastily as the headlights of a passing car rumbling over the bridge clearly illuminated his scowl.

“I suppose you’ve got one all figured out,” Michael grumbled.

“Well . . .,” Kate hedged, “I’ve given it some thought. Perhaps I anticipated your using some of your brother’s costuming. I thought we’d keep your LALOC persona all in black. It suits you.” She shouldn’t have said that. She hadn’t intended to, the words just popped out.

“So? . . .”

“I was thinking something simple . . . like Raven.”

“Raven,” Michael echoed. His long fingers drummed on the handle of his beer mug. Kate wondered if he were pretending it was her throat. “Just Raven?” he asked.

“LALOC enthusiasts spend lots of time researching names appropriate to whatever country and century they’ve chosen for their character. But as a newcomer you should keep it simple. Anything else would be considered pretentious.”

“Raven.” Michael’s head came up, as if sniffing the wind. A wolf examining the persona of a bird with a less than sterling reputation. “Okay, Raven it is,” he said at last.

Kate supposed he’d rather leap into the dark waters at their feet than admit he approved the name she’d chosen. “Next item,” she announced briskly. “In LALOC, when we put on our garb—that’s what we call our costumes—we become a character from Medieval or Renaissance times. We put our normal lives—what we call our
mundane
lives—on hold. No matter what our rank in LALOC society, we must be courteous at all times, the courtesy of, say, the twelfth or fourteen centuries, not the twentieth or twenty-first. If we don’t know someone’s LALOC name, we address them as ‘My lord’ or ‘My lady’. We give deference to our peerage—the various ranks of nobility—and bow and scrape to our king and queen. Just as it might have been in those times. Well . . .,” Kate qualified, “there’s probably more humor and hot remarks floating around than might have been acceptable in most courts of the period, but basically you’re going to have to learn the meaning of the word
humble
.”

“Which you don’t think is possible.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You were thinking it loud and clear. My mother would be crushed. She really worked at teaching us manners.”

His mournful tone proved him more of an actor than Kate had thought. “I just meant that knights, squires, and cavaliers are allowed to swagger. You’re not.”

“You think I
swagger
? Michael was stunned.

Kate scrambled to dig her way out of the hole she’d made for herself. “You’re large in size, strong in character. You look like some kind of cross between an Apache warrior and a Afghan tribesman. It’s very hard for you
not
to stand out in a crowd. The fighters are going to take one look and be all over you.”

“Meaning? . . .”

“They’ll want to teach you to fight. They’re a pretty arrogant bunch. They’ll drive four or five hours to an Event just so they can knock each other around all day. You’ll be too much of a challenge for them to resist.”

“I thought LALOC was all nicely-nicely polite,” Michael mocked. “Sweetness, light, and crooked-pinkie polite.”

“That’s the Court,” Kate corrected, fearing she wasn’t handling this at all well. “Face it, fighters of any age have not been known for being perfect gentlemen. Frankly, our fighters’ idea of the ultimate chivalry is to give an opponent a hand up after they’ve knocked him down. And they’re just going to
love
teaching you the rudiments of fighting.”

“And getting in a few blows while they’re at it.”

“Something like that,” Kate nodded. “You didn’t know what you were getting into, did you?”

A Boston Whaler scooted north, its wake sloshing gently against the dock, the low hum of its motor fading as it plunged into the dark tunnel beneath the drawbridge. Michael raised his mug of beer, took a long swallow. “No, but it’s sounding more interesting by the minute.”

Men
, Kate sighed. Then had to apologize, albeit silently, for that politically incorrect thought. Lieutenant Michael Turco was in for a big surprise.

Chapter 5

He’d had the week from hell. His boss, Captain Dave Mercer, had asked for a blow-by-blow account of his meetings with Kate Knight, while at the same time reminding him the Florida Highway Patrol was not a State Police. Michael’s so-called investigation was skating the thin line between highly irregular and downright illegal, his use of Kate Knight on the knife edge between expedient and irresponsible. If and when Michael acquired any genuine evidence, he mustn’t forget he had to work with the county and the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, whether he damn well liked it or not.

And then a gasoline tanker had gone off a bridge on I-75, causing the biggest traffic jam in the history of
Calusa
County
. When Michael began his investigation, leaping white hot flames were still billowing beneath a cloud of black smoke and traffic was backed up for miles. The fire was so intense it melted the steel rods inside the concrete bridge supports, the driver’s body so unrecognizable Michael could only wonder if they’d ever know how the accident happened. The southbound interstate would be closed for week
s while the bridge was rebuilt.