SILHOUETTE
Darren G. Burton
Published by Darren G. Burton at Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 Darren G. Burton
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The Author asserts the moral right to
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Front & Back Cover Photography: Jovica Antoski
Cover Design by: Darren G. Burton
One
SURFERS PARADISE, Gold Coast, Australia:
The repetitive beat of house music pulsated through the club, infecting everyone with the urge to either dance, tap their feet, or just contentedly nod their head to the rhythm.
Two heavyset men dressed in sports coats, designer shirts and pants took up a position at the bar and watched the dancers gyrate on the floor with a lack of real interest.
"What would you like?" a barmaid asked the two men, raising her voice to a barely-audible level above the music.
"Scotch and water," the first man told her, for which he received a thump on the arm by his counterpart, who corrected with, "Just make that two iced waters, thank you."
The second man, who had a finely-boned face and thick moustache, turned to the first and said emphatically, "We don't drink when there's work to do." The first man just shrugged and returned his attention to the dance floor.
The barmaid placed the two iced waters on the counter and said, "That'll be three dollars."
"What?" the moustached one was incredulous. He took the glasses. "Forget that, lady. We don't pay for water."
The barmaid considered pressing the issue, but thought better of it. She didn't like the look of the two men, and felt no urge to enter into a debate with them.
A tall and elegant black woman walked onto the dance floor, escorted by a white man in a dark suit. The woman wore a bold red dress that clung to her flawless curves, the colour contrasting strikingly with her dark complexion and hair. The two commenced moving in rhythm to another house track.
The moustached man at the bar nudged his partner, who was distastefully sipping at his iced water, and said, "That's her."
The first man smiled appreciatively. "She's a real honey."
"Not for long," the moustached one replied soberly. "Dead people don't look too glamorous."
"It'll be a waste."
"That's our job."
The house track died out and was replaced by the voice of the resident DJ "Evening, party animals! Just a short interruption to let you know that we have a very special guest here tonight at Nightbeat on the Beach. She's a contestant in the Miss World pageant to be held right here on the Gold Coast; and after the preliminary judging, is favoured to take the crown of Miss World. So, please give a warm welcome to Miss USA, Silhouette... Havana!"
Several hollers and whistles erupted from the male contingent in the crowd as a spotlight focused on the young black woman in the stunning red dress out on the dance floor. The hollers and whistles were superseded by catty remarks from jealous females around the club.
Silhouette felt herself blushing, but composed herself and took the attention in her stride. She had expected the announcement. She was here for publicity. But she'd had no idea when it was going to come.
The music fired up again, the spotlight was replaced by a flickering strobe and the limelight quickly passed. Silhouette danced to one more song, then moved off the floor to the other side of the club. Her companion followed. There she joined up with her second bodyguard. This side of the club featured full-length windows overlooking Surfers Paradise beach. She picked up her glass of Tia Maria and stood staring out those windows at the floodlit sand. She glanced at her Rado watch. It was now after three in the morning. A few drunks lay sleeping on the sand, just beyond the fence that lay parallel to the sidewalk. She forgot; they don't call them sidewalks over here, they call them footpaths. How cute, she thought.
"It's almost time to be getting you home," her dancing partner said to her. He was an American, as was her other bodyguard; both assigned to escort her through her promotions by the American organisers of the Miss World pageant.
"You'll need your beauty sleep," the second bodyguard added and smiled. "Can't have you getting bags under your eyes now, can we?"
"No," Silhouette agreed and turned away from the window. This was the fifth nightclub she'd been to this evening, and now she was feeling pretty drained. Nightclubs weren't as much fun when you couldn't drink much. She had to watch her weight with the pageant near. The Tia Maria she held was the first alcoholic drink she'd had all night. The rest had been iced water and one low-cal lemonade.
Her dancing partner hooked an arm around hers and escorted her through the semi-crowded club. The second bodyguard followed right behind.
A young man smiled at her as she walked past. Silhouette returned the smile warmly. He was a good looking guy, with a prominent jaw line - which she liked. But that was where it ended. She wasn't here to meet anybody so she walked on by.
The two heavyset men at the bar watched her leave. They waited until she was almost at the door, then they moved through the crowd to follow her outside.
Silhouette and the two bodyguards descended a flight of stairs down to The Esplanade which ran parallel to the beach. Across the road, in the angled car parking, was the blue Ford LTD she was being chauffeured around in. The gentle sound of the surf filled her ears as she walked across the road, her stiletto heels clicking loudly on the bitumen. They reached the car and she stood between the two men as one of them unlocked the vehicle, and the other prepared to open the rear door for her.
It was then that an explosion filled the night air, and Silhouette watched, as if in slow motion, the head of her dancing partner splatter across the roof of the Ford. In the next instant she was thrown onto the footpath behind the car by the second bodyguard. He crouched behind the car with her, a pistol drawn from a concealed shoulder holster. Silhouette lifted her head over the bonnet and saw two heavyset men standing across the street. There was a muzzle flash and a second bullet hammered into the driver's side door. Somebody screamed somewhere.
"Stay down, damn it!" the remaining escort said tersely.
Another shot was fired that hit the front tire. It went down with a protesting hiss of escaping air.
Silhouette shuddered, feeling fear grip her. "Who the hell are they?" she asked.
"I don't know." He looked around, spied the low-set concrete wall, beyond which lay the beach. "See that wall there?" She nodded. "I want you to jump that as fast as you can. I'll cover you. Then get on the beach and run like hell."
Again she nodded and, shakily, removed her shoes.
"You ready?" he asked her.
"Yes."
"Go!"
With that one word she leaped for the wall, which was only about three feet high, and tumbled over. At the same time her bodyguard rose above the hood of the LTD and fired off several rounds, all of which missed. The two assailants ducked for cover behind a parked car.
She landed in the sand, where she immediately crawled away from the wall and got up and ran. She stumbled over a drunk and fell back into the soft sand. "Shit!" she cursed and got up quickly. She made it to the hard sand just as an explosion erupted in the night, followed by a blinding flash of red and white light. She stopped at the water's edge and looked around to see the LTD one big ball of fire. The two heavyset figures appeared on the footpath behind the concrete wall.
Standing in this floodlit section of the beach, she felt like a sitting duck. About a hundred yards south the beach was dark. That was her first goal; to get into the shadows. She took off and ran at full speed. In High School she'd been in the athletics team, and now she would need to use every bit of what she had left to make it out of here alive.
A bullet exploded from somewhere behind her. She waited for the intense pain of lead ripping through her flesh, but none came. The shot missed and was lost in the sea.
She made the relative safety of the shadows. There was no moon in the sky, which helped, but enough light was emanating from the multitudes of highrise buildings of Surfers Paradise to illuminate the beach a little too much. She took the chance to look back and saw the men running through the soft sand in her direction.
Jesus, what do they want with me? she thought desperately, then was off in full flight again.
Silhouette could sense them coming after her, but she didn't dare look around again. Not yet. She wanted to put as much distance as she could between herself and them. After another two hundred yards at full pace she slowed to a jog, puffing and panting in the warm spring night. The air felt thick and clammy with humidity, and it was hard to breathe. This time she chanced a look around. She could see the figures outlined against the floodlit backdrop. They were still pursuing, but further behind.
She kept jogging at a brisk pace. Another shot was fired, but went astray. In the distance she could hear sirens approaching the scene of the explosion. God, I wish they would come this way, she prayed.
Up ahead lay more floodlit beach. She hesitated at the edge of the light, anxiously trying to make a decision as to what to do. She looked behind her and saw that the men had spread out; one still pursuing along the hard sand, the other higher up on the beach near the footpath. She figured she had three choices: One, she could take her chances and keep on running through the lights. Two, she could try and make it to the road above and probably be cut off by the man up there before she got to it. She decided to take the third option and ran into the surf.
A bullet thudded into the water so close beside her that water splashed into her face from the impact. She dove under a wave and kicked as hard as she could until she had to come up for air. Barely having enough time to draw a quick breath before a wave crashed over her, Silhouette dove under again and kicked further out to sea.
When she couldn't stay under a moment longer, she raised only her head above water and looked toward shore. She was fifty yards from the beach and in water about shoulder-deep. She could see the two men standing in the shallows scanning the water for her. They looked left and right, obviously unable to see her.
She hoped there were no sharks around. She'd heard the beaches were netted here, but shark nets weren't foolproof. And this was prime feeding time.
The water was cold, despite the fact that it was spring, and she started to shiver. She tried to think of warm thoughts to stop herself from shaking, fearing this, too, may attract predators. But it was impossible to control. She was not only cold, but frightened as well; her nerves on edge all over.
Still the two heavyset men scrutinised the water for her. She heard one of them curse, "Damn it, we've lost her!"
Then the second one said, "She'll have to come out some time."
The first man replied, "But she could float all the way down the coastline. We'll never find her in the dark. We'll get her another time."
Silhouette watched as the men waded out of the water and trudged slowly, defeatedly, up the beach to the road and out of sight. She waited in the water for another hour before daring to venture back onto the beach, shuddering and cold to the bone.
She hoped they were long gone.
Two
The room was filled with the heady aroma of sweat, masked unsuccessfully by the scent of cheap cologne and perfume. Grunts and strains, hisses of air through clenched teeth and the groans of relief also permeated the atmosphere with a cacophony of bodily exertions.
Ashlar Roman finished his workout on the pin-weight machine and moved through the crowded gym to the free-weights section. This was the area where the juice pumpers and steroid heads worked out. Roman himself never touched steroids, but liked to work out with free-weights as it was pure muscle power versus the forces of gravity.
The bench press was free for the moment, so he decided to start there. He loaded up a bar on the squat stand with sixty kilograms, then lay down on the bench, positioned his hands on the bar just outside the uprights of the stand and prepared for the first set of reps. A woman wandered past. She had more muscles on her than ninety percent of the guys in the gym. Roman watched her go by. She was certainly in good physical shape; but that kind of body just couldn't arouse any desire in him. He preferred a woman to look like a woman. Not like a man.
One of the steroid heads, a guy with pecs and biceps huge enough to challenge Conan the Barbarian, glared at Roman as if to say: Hurry up and get off that bench or I'll throw you through the wall. Roman ignored the look and commenced his bench press workout.
He was used to that kind of stare in this section. Had felt the benefit of it many times. It was a well-known fact that steroids affected a person's disposition and rendered them less than easy to get along with. But he'd been coming here for years, and basically didn't get any flack.
After fifteen straight reps he was straining, but decided to push for twenty. At eighteen his triceps, shoulders and chest muscles were burning in protest, but he forced out the last two reps and placed the bar back on the squat stand with relief. He sat up.
"Out of the way," the steroid pumper barked and commenced loading up the bar with more weights. "I can press three times that much with one arm."
"I'm impressed," Roman quipped and moved over to a rack of barbells. He selected one loaded up with forty kilos and commenced doing some slow bicep curls. After ten reps of those, he moved into military press, raising the bar above his head until the elbows locked, then lowering it slowly to his shoulders. He did this fifteen times, then rested the bar across the back of his shoulders, behind the head, and performed twenty squats.
Next he went for the dumbbells - a name he was sometimes referred to as in his days at school by the straight-A kids - and went through a routine of tricep curls and forearm curls. When the forearm curls started to hurt, he pumped out several more reps, then prepared to do lateral raises. He held the dumbbells at his sides, slowly rose them in a star pattern above shoulder height, then down again. He hated doing these. They hurt like hell. But they were good for developing the tops of the shoulders, so he persisted in churning out thirty reps a session. When he was done he replaced them on the rack and cursed softly, wiping sweat from his brow. His muscles felt pumped up and as hard as iron.
I need a break, he thought and moved through a section of warm-up apparatus - exercise bikes, rowing machines, step trampolines - over to the cold water dispenser. When he'd lapped up several mouthfuls of the freezing liquid he turned to see a young woman with muscular legs, but a definitely feminine figure, waiting to use the dispenser. She smiled and moved past him to take a drink. Roman couldn't help but stare at those firm and well-proportioned buttocks as she bent over the machine. Her hips and butt were clad in tight gray lycra shorts, and she looked a lot more appealing than the muscle woman he'd seen earlier in the free-weights section. This girl he'd noticed here a few times, and every time he laid eyes on her she would smile at him. Just as he was contemplating chatting to her, one of the fitness instructors came purposefully over to him. His name was Jim and he was a friend. Jim had blond hair, a finely-boned face, an excellent physique with a deep tan, and was very popular with the ladies there.
"Got a message for you, Ash," the man said and handed Roman a folded slip of paper.
The girl finished her drink, turned, looked Jim up and down appreciatively, then moved off. She totally ignored Roman this time.
Roman soon forgot his disappointment as he read the note Jim had given him. It was an urgent message from his boss, wanting to see him immediately. The last words on the note were: Very important assignment. Roman tossed the note in the bin and moved off to the locker room to change.
He stripped out of his running shorts and muscle shirt and took a quick shower. As he toweled off he checked out his physical condition in the mirror. His body was powerfully built - not in the tradition of the steroid pumpers, but in a normal way - and the outlines of his chest, arms and abdominal muscles were clearly defined with all the fat cut away. It gave him that chiseled look without being over done, and he liked that look.
When he'd finished his self-examination he removed his street clothes from a locker. He dressed in brown pants and casual shoes, then slipped on a white t-shirt. Next he removed a shoulder holster from the locker. It was equipped with a ten millimetre Smith & Wesson automatic pistol. He concealed this under a beige sports coat, then combed his hair, grateful that he hadn't yet suffered a receding hairline. After packing his sweaty clothes into a sports bag he left the gym.
Outside in the warm morning sun of mid-spring he searched out his car in the crowded car park. The gym was situated right next to a major shopping centre, with only the one parking lot to service both. But he had no trouble in locating it. He wasn't so old yet as to forget things like where he'd parked his car.
He reached his old Ford Falcon and searched his pockets for the keys. The car was affectionately known as a shitbox. At least in its appearance. The original tan paintwork was worn through to the primer on the bonnet, roof and boot. The windscreen had a series of cracks in it resembling a poorly-constructed spider's web, and along the rear of the boot were rust holes big enough for mice to crawl through. But the motor was in good health, and that was the important thing. It was a reliable old beast.
Roman found his keys, opened the door and climbed in. The interior was little better than the exterior. The dash was cracked and flaking away. The plastic that covered the instrument panel didn't exist, and the vinyl seats, both front and rear, had tears in them that threatened to swallow the passengers.
The engine fired to life with the flick of the key. Roman pulled out of the car park and made his way through the back streets of Southport. He pulled into a Mobil garage to fill up, where a young man, who looked anything but thrilled with his job, came out to serve him. With a full tank, he made his way onto the Gold Coast Highway and headed south. He crossed a bridge over the Broadwater and drove toward the highrise-studded skyline of Surfers Paradise. On the left hundreds of boats were moored at Fisherman's Wharf and around. Roman drove through Surfers and continued south to Broadbeach where his headquarters was located.
He turned off the highway and drove through to a T-intersection. Across the street was a park, and then the beach. Roman pulled into a building on the left corner. It was a two-level glass and concrete structure; the walls painted sky blue, with a sign above the entrance doors that read: Private Police - Private Investigations and Security Firm. He drove on down into the basement car park and cut the motor.
Roman lit a cigarette and waited for the elevator. There was a chime and the doors slid open to reveal an empty compartment. The ride to the top floor was uninterrupted. The doors opened and he stepped out into a brightly-lit corridor. He walked directly to the end of it and knocked loudly on the door there.
"Come in," he heard the gruff voice of his boss say from the other side. Roman opened the door, entered, closed it behind him. "Ah, Ash," Bill O'Reilly said and motioned him to a seat.
O'Reilly had the bowling ball style head; not much hair and almost perfectly round. Podgy cheeks protruded either side of a bulbous nose. His eyes were sharp slits of brown in the fatty face below his thick eyebrows, and above his top lip ran a moustache in need of trimming. O'Reilly was wearing a tired gray suit today, a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie.
The man glanced over some papers on his desk and tented his hands.
Ian Jeffries, one of the other detectives, a man whom Roman had worked with on assignments several times, stood leaning against a filing cabinet. In contrast to O'Reilly, Jeffries was thin, neatly dressed, and had a full head of brown hair.
"Well?" Roman prodded, inhaling on his cigarette. "What's so important?"
"The Miss World pageant," O'Reilly stated, as if that made everything clear. The man looked over his notes again, then leaned back in his chair.
Roman exhaled smoke. "What about it?"
"You know it's being held here on the Gold Coast in a week and a half's time? At the Beau Monde Hotel."
He nodded. "I had heard about it." He ashed his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray on O'Reilly's desk.
O'Reilly leaned forward and rested his elbows back on the desktop, tenting his hands again. "Have you also heard of the American entrant? Miss USA? Silhouette Havana?"
"Sure," Roman replied. "I read in the paper the other day that she's favourite to take the crown."
"That's right," his boss said seriously. "But she won't remain favourite if she's scratched from the race."
Roman had an inkling now as to what might be going on, but he decided to let O'Reilly tell him. The man hated it when he jumped to conclusions. "Go on," he said and drew on his smoke.
"Last night there was a hit put out on her," O'Reilly confirmed Roman's assumptions. The podgy man searched his pockets for his cigarettes, drew out a crumpled packet, found it empty and bludged one of Roman's. He lit it, blew a puff of smoke in Roman's direction.
"Tell me about it," Roman quipped.
"Miss Havana was doing a round of nightclub promotions last night and early this morning. After her final appearance, two armed men shot up her bodyguards and blew her car away to hell."
Roman mulled this over. "Do you think it was definitely a hired hit, or just a chance thing."
O'Reilly shook his head adamantly. "No. It was definitely a professional hit."
"But obviously she got away," Roman surmised and stabbed out his smoke on top of the mountain of butts.
"Yeah, she got away. Escaped down the beach and hid in the surf."
"Any idea why someone would put a hit out on her?"
O'Reilly shrugged. "Not yet. But that's what we've been hired to find out."
"So that's my assignment?" Roman said, jumping to conclusions and lit another smoke. "To find out who's behind the hit and why?"
"Uh, uh," he shook his head, annoyed, and nodded at Jeffries. "That's Ian's job. Your assignment doesn't involve any digging."
"Oh, I get it," Roman said when the realisation struck him. "I've got baby-sitting detail."
"It's called protection work," his boss corrected him. "And it's a vitally important part of our services." He pointed his cigarette at Roman. "This is a very important assignment. This girl is Miss USA. The Miss World pageant is being held here in Australia. The world will be watching. If one of the foreign contestants gets murdered and creates bad publicity, it won't look good for this country's foreign relations."
"You're talking like a politician," Roman pointed out.
O'Reilly shrugged. "You know these pageants are political. In fact, the Australian contestant's father is a politician; and a very wealthy businessman. The American Embassy is on our government's case. They want their girl protected around the clock until the pageant is over. They want someone with the necessary experience to look after her, and someone with a good local knowledge. That's why they chose us." He put out the cigarette. "And now I'm choosing you."
"She's a very beautiful woman," Ian Jeffries spoke for the first time. "I envy you the job."
O'Reilly looked at Roman sternly. "I'm not asking you to take on this job, Ash. I'm telling you to do it."
"Okay," Roman reluctantly agreed. "Just for you, Bill."
"Good." O'Reilly drummed his fingers on the desk. "Keep her safe and in good shape. The American organisers are considering canceling the rest of her promotions before the quest. I'll keep you posted as to if and when you'll be required to escort her to any functions."
Jeffries moved toward the door and opened it. "I'll get to work on this right away, Bill," he said and left.
O'Reilly turned his attention back to Roman. "You'll keep her at your place?"
"For the next few days at least. If I take her elsewhere, I'll let you know." Roman stood. "That leaves just one question: Where is the precious Miss Havana?"
Three
Roman took the stairs down to the ground floor. He passed the reception desk, where a young redhead was busy clattering away on a computer keyboard.
"Hi, Tania," he offered.
"Hello, Ash," she replied, pausing and looking up from the monitor. She smiled at him with her lips and her eyes. "Hear you've got a new assignment."
"Yeah."
"Good luck. I have a feeling she'll be a bit of a handful."
Roman was immediately apprehensive. "Why do you say that?"
Tania shrugged. "Intuition. You'll find out soon enough."
He walked off down the hallway, wondering what Tania had meant. There was a doorway at the end of the hall, like upstairs with O'Reilly's office. Roman paused at the door, then gripped the handle and thrust it open.
Inside the room, pacing the floor rather impatiently, was an elegant young black woman. Her skin wasn't real dark, more a medium-brown hue. She wore an imitation leopard skin top and a black skirt.
Hearing his entry she turned towards him. Roman stared at her. She was certainly beautiful. Her hair was black and lustrous, slightly waved and crept below her shoulders. Long dark lashes surrounded her eyes, which were white and clear with blue-brown irises. Below her petite and powdered nose, her lips were full and pouting, and coated in bright red lipstick. Her chin was curved and smooth, but had a strong, prominent look about it in the way she held it up high.
Silhouette glanced Roman up and down. Must be him. "So you're it?" she said, her American accent drawing out the R.
Roman stopped staring and found his voice. "I drew the short straw," he said and extended a hand. "Ashlar Roman, at your service."
She half-heartedly shook his hand. Ashlar? she thought and said, "What the hell kind of name is that?"
Roman shrugged. "I don't know. I guess my mother never had one of those baby name books, so I think she just plucked a word out of the dictionary."
Silhouette smirked. "And what do they call you for short?...Ass?"
"Some do. But you can call me Ash."
"I'm feel so privileged," she retorted with sarcasm.
"Yeah. Just like I'm privileged to draw this damned assignment."
"You don't want to be my bodyguard?" She playfully batted her eyelids at him.
"I don't have a choice."
"Neither do I."
"Well, now that the pleasantries are over with, let's get you out of here."
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"Back to my place."
"Already? We've only just met."
I've had enough of this already, Roman thought. He picked up her bags and silently led her down to the basement car park.
"You mustn't be working hard enough," she commented as Roman stowed her gear into the back seat of his battered Ford.
"Oh? And why's that?"
"Because you're obviously not making much money. Otherwise you wouldn't be driving around in such a shitpile."
Roman climbed in behind the wheel. Silhouette sat in the torn passenger seat. "It's inconspicuous," he told her. "Is anything else not to your satisfaction?"
She looked at him and shrugged. "I'll let you know if something comes up."
I'm sure you will, thought Roman and started the engine. The motor growled to life and he manoeuvred the vehicle out of the basement and into the mid-morning sunlight.
"What do we do when we get to your place?" Silhouette asked as they drove south.
"We lay low for a while."
"How long's a while?"
"Until it's safe for you to return to your normal routine."
"Wow. This sounds like it's gonna be fun. Being cooped up for days on end."
Irritated by her constant whining, Roman turned on her. "Would you rather be out in the streets getting your ass shot off?" He mimicked her American accent when he pronounced the word ass.
"I just wanna have some fun while I'm here. Not be holed up with some macho, underpaid cop who can't get a job in the real police force."
"For one, I'm not a cop and never was," he told her firmly. "And two, this is a job; a very real job."
"I just don't want a babysitter. I can look after myself."
"Fuck me stupid!" Roman snapped. "What is your problem?"
"I just told you."
"You don't want a bodyguard. Well who's gonna watch your pretty ass if you don't have one? Someone is trying to kill you, lady! Doesn't that bother you? Besides, you had bodyguards before. And lucky you did, or you'd be dead right now. What's the difference with me?"
"I don't like you," she replied bluntly.
"Well so far," Roman shot back, "I can't say I'm exactly warming to you either."
"Do you have a wife?" she quizzed, abruptly changing the subject.
"No. Why?"
"Who do you live with then?"
He sighed. "I live alone."
No wife, she thought. That was bad. He lived alone. That was even worse. "Great. So the only person I'll have to talk to for the next few days is you."
Roman grinned at her without humour. "Lucky girl, aren't you."
He turned left into a cul-de-sac and parked beside a block of units.
"You live on the beach," she was surprised.
Roman nodded and got out of the car. He dragged her luggage out of the back seat.
"Well that's a plus," she said.
Roman raised his eyebrows. "You mean something actually meets with your approval, Madame?"
Silhouette ignored the remark.
"Make yourself useful and grab my sports bag from the back seat."
She did so, got a whiff of something unpleasant. "What's in here?" she asked and screwed up her nose.
He smiled. "My sweaty, smelly gym clothes. Like the aroma? Thought you might. Lock the door and follow me."
"Lock it!" she said incredulously. "Who's gonna steal it?"
"Just do it anyway."
Silhouette pushed down the lock and slammed the door shut, then followed Roman up some stairs to the top floor of the two storey block. They walked along a balcony that ran parallel to the road, then turned right as the balcony ran in line with the beach. White sands and a glassy ocean glistened in the morning sunlight. Board riders were out riding a small wave. The sand was dotted here and there with sunbathers. The majority appeared to be girls, and most were topless.
"You're allowed to sun bake topless here?" she said as Roman opened the door.
"Yep. Good, isn't it." He shot her that same humourless grin again and entered behind her.
Silhouette was pleasantly surprised again. She'd expected his apartment to look as shabby as his car did. But it was relatively clean, with modern furniture in good repair. Another thing that appealed to her about it were all the potted plants. Palms, cacti and ferns were decorated all around the living area.
Roman dumped the bags on a couch patterned in tropical colours and watched her, waiting for some sort of response. None came. "What? No complaints?"
"It's okay," she said. "Like I said, I'll let you know when something doesn't meet with my approval."
"So I've noticed." He moved into the kitchen that ran off the living room. The kitchen was only small, but relatively new, and was well-equipped with every modern appliance. "Want some coffee?" He glanced over at her. She was staring out at the beach.
"Sure," she replied without turning away from the balcony doors.
Roman boiled the jug, dumped coffee into two mugs. "How do you have it?"
"A dash of milk. No sugar," she said and flicked on the television. She played around with that while Roman made the coffees. "Don't you have cable out here?"
"Sure we do. But I haven't bothered to get it streamed in. I don't get much time to watch TV anyway. I'm usually working all the time."
"Great. So free-to-air channels only. Should make for really riveting viewing watching endless repeats of the same info-mercials."
He brought the coffees over. "Well, please accept my sincere apologies for not considering you." He coloured the word "sincere" with heaps of sarcasm. "Turn that off, anyway. I wanna talk. Tell me exactly what happened last night."
"Why? What's the point? It's not your job to find out who these guys are, is it?"
"No. But I'd still like to know a bit about who and what we're up against. Every advantage we can come up with, the better. Knowing all the facts at any given time will make my job of keeping you alive just that little bit easier"
Silhouette went through her ordeal for about the third or fourth time that morning. She told Roman how the guys had killed her bodyguards, blew up the car, chased her down the beach, and how she'd escaped by hiding in the surf. "Christ, talk about a rock and a hard place. I thought if they didn't get me, a shark would."
"Not very likely," Roman said confidently. "The nets keep them out, day or night." He sipped his coffee, lounging back on the couch. Silhouette sat adjacent in a matching armchair. "Can you tell me what sort of weapons these guys had? Any idea?"
"I don't know," she said irritably. "Some sort of handguns. They were too far away. And I'm no expert on firearms."
"Okay," Roman went on patiently. "Can you tell me what these men looked like? Anything about them at all will be helpful"
She shrugged.
"Did you see them?"
"Only very briefly. I didn't exactly hang around to check them out. They were shooting at me. I was too preoccupied with dodging bullets."
"You must have noticed something about them. Anything," he persisted. "The clothes they were wearing. Were they short? Tall? Bald? Fat? Skinny?"
Silhouette thought about it, tried hard to picture the scene of some eight hours ago. "They were both fairly solid. Heavyset. And I think one of them had a moustache. They were dressed sort of similar to the way you are now." She shrugged again. "That's it. That's all I can recall."
"It's not much," Roman conceded. "That description could fit thousands of guys. But at least it gives me something to look out for. Do you think you'd recognise them again if you saw them?"
"I don't know." She shrugged, then shook her head. "Probably not."
Roman lit a smoke and got up to locate a clean ashtray. Silhouette picked up the packet of cigarettes he'd left on the smoked-glass coffee table and lit one. Roman returned and sat back down.
He looked at the cigarette in her hand. "Can't you afford to buy your own?"
She shot him a glare, then her eyes softened. "I don't usually smoke. I used to, but I gave it up."
"Yeah. Looks like it," he retorted.
"This is just one cigarette. I feel like I need one. What I'd really like is a drink, but I can't afford to risk putting on any weight right now."
"Life's tough, isn't it?"
She shot him another look with daggers in it. "Why don't you like me?"
"Why don't you like me?" he returned pointedly.
"Because you're sarcastic."
"And you're not?"
Silhouette spent the afternoon watching the American talkback shows on television; sitting through Jerry Springer, Oprah Winfrey and Dr. Phil.
Roman spent most of the afternoon on the balcony, drinking coffee and smoking. He was avoiding her. For someone who was supposed to be a sophisticated beauty queen, Silhouette was sure hard to get along with, he thought.
He busied himself soaking up the melanoma rays and checking out the near-naked ladies on the sand. There were certainly some cute babes on the beach today, he noted with admiration. He hadn't had a woman in a while. Had almost forgotten what sex was like. He hadn't had time for a woman in his life, anyway. Work had kept him too busy lately. Now he was stuck with one of the world's most beautiful women and he could hardly stand being in the same room as her.
Silhouette reverted her attention away from the television for a moment and glanced at the man standing on the balcony. He was keeping his distance from her, she knew. That's what she wanted. But at the same time, as much as she hated to admit it, she was glad he was there. Last night had really shaken her up. She just didn't want to show it. Especially not to someone she didn't yet know. Or trust.
Roman came in and got more coffee. Silhouette was still glued to the TV and didn't look up as he walked by. He went to the kitchen, refilled his cup, lit another cigarette and wandered back outside.
"You'll never get any sleep tonight with all the coffee you are drinking," she said to his back.
He turned and leaned on the balcony rail to face her. "That's the idea. I don't plan on getting much sleep."
"I hope you're good at your job."
Roman drew on his smoke, exhaling slowly through his nostrils. "Why should it bother you if I am or not. You think you don't need protection. Remember?" He drew back on his smoke again and turned away.
He stood there for ages, watched twilight descend on the beach. Saw the sunbathers leave and the fishermen arrive. He never spotted anyone either on the beach or in the street that fit the description of the two men Silhouetted had vaguely outlined.
His stomach was grumbling from all coffee and no food, so he went back inside. Silhouette was still watching the box.
"What flavour pizza do you like? I'll dial for one and get it delivered."
"Can't we go out for dinner?" She looked up hopefully.
"No. We can't."
She slumped back into the couch. "Pepperoni with lots of cheese."
Roman dialed the number of the Pizza Hut down the road. He threw in an order for some garlic bread as well, then hung up.
"I'll get fat eating pizza and garlic bread and sitting around on my ass all day," she complained.
"There's an exercise bike in the back room," he told her. "Use that if you're worried."
Roman closed the balcony door and locked it, then slid the curtains shut. He sat down in the armchair to watch the news. After a few major stories, some footage of the incident in Surfers Paradise came on. He watched with interest as firefighters doused the blaze of the burning Ford. The report was all over in about thirty seconds.
"They didn't even mention me," Silhouette noted.
"That's because they're not allowed to," Roman explained. "Like I said, it's bad publicity."
They sat through the rest of the news and sport in silence. When the weather came on there was a knock at the door. Roman drew his gun, much to Silhouette's surprise, and moved quietly over to the door. He cautiously peered out the balcony window by sneaking a peek around the curtain, reholstered the gun and opened the front door.
A boy of about eighteen stood there with a pizza box in his hands and wearing a red, white and black Pizza Hut shirt.
Roman handed him some notes and accepted the pizza and garlic bread. "Keep the change," he offered. The boy thanked him and left. After a quick check of the balcony and the street to make sure no one untoward was lurking around, Roman went back inside and relocked the door.
He dumped the pizza and garlic bread on the coffee table. "Want a drink?"
Silhouette opened the box and eyed the greasy mess. "Better just make it water for me."
Roman got two glasses of water and a couple of plates. Silhouette hadn't yet started on the food. "Help yourself," he said. She went for the garlic bread. Roman watched her as she opened the foil. Her hands were nice, like the rest of her appearance. Dark and smooth. No veins, no wrinkles. Long, immaculately manicured nails painted bright red like her lips. "Do you do your nails yourself?"
"What?"
"Do you do your own manicuring?"
She tore off some garlic bread. "Most of the time." She stuffed it in her mouth. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Just making conversation."
"I'd rather watch TV."
"That's real gratitude, that is," Roman grunted with derision. "I buy you pizza and you'd rather watch TV than talk to me."
She sighed and said, "Well, what do you want to talk about then?"
Roman dumped some pizza on his plate. "Nothing. Forget it. Just shut up and watch the stupid television."
"Ooh. Snaky," she retorted.
"Well, you don't exactly lend yourself to congeniality."
"Big vocabulary, too."
Roman shook his head, feeling frustrated, and flipped channels with the remote control onto one of the current affairs programs. A story came on about the Miss World pageant. They interviewed briefly Peter Reed, the father of Miss Australia; the successful businessman and politician O'Reilly had mentioned earlier in the day.
At the end of the interview the reporter asked, "Who is your tip to take the crown of Miss World?"
Peter Reed grinned at the camera, obviously loved the attention. "Miss Australia, of course."
"Not if I can help it," Silhouette stated with determination.
"If you live that long," Roman quipped.
She turned and glared at him, feeling heat surge up from the pit of her stomach. "Some bodyguard you are. Are you gonna try and protect me or what?" She took a mouthful of pizza, chewed and swallowed. "Statements like that don't exactly fill me with confidence."
"You're right. I apologise," he offered, and meant it this time.
Roman consumed five slices of pizza and most of the garlic bread. Silhouette ate two slices and a few bits of the bread, then announced she'd had enough.
"You don't want the last piece?" he asked her.
She shook her head.
He dumped it on his plate and took it to the fridge. "I'll have it for breakfast then."
"Pizza for breakfast. Yuk!"
"What the hell's wrong with that?" He boiled the kettle and made more coffee. "It's no different to having cheese on toast or something. You want coffee?"
"No. I'm going to use your bike. Burn off some of the fat I've just consumed before it settles comfortably on my hips." She disappeared down the hall with her bags.
Roman drank his coffee, staring out the kitchen window at the street below. Cars came and went, but none of them slowed or stopped, or looked the slightest bit suspicious. He finished his coffee, dumped the cup in the sink and walked down the hallway.
Silhouette had found the exercise bike and was pedaling furiously. She had the tension meter about halfway up. She was dressed in skin-tight, white lycra shorts that clung invitingly to the curves of her hips and butt. On her upper body was a very short, loose-fitting T-shirt. Her ample breasts bounced around freely inside.
Roman felt a familiar stirring between his legs as he watched her, but then forced the sensation to subside.
She glanced up at him without smiling. "Have you come to watch me?"
"No."
"Do you like what you see?" She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.
"Maybe?"
A knowing smile then crossed her face.
"I didn't come here to perv, if that's what you're thinking," Roman assured her with emphasis.
"I guess you just missed me then."
"No. Can't say that I did. I've got a job to do. I came in here to ask you a few more questions."
"Why? All you have to do is protect me. Remember?" She enjoyed reminding him that he was merely her baby-sitter. She knew he hated that role and would rather be out there hunting down the thugs.
"It's in my nature to be curious. I'm a detective as well as a bodyguard. As you already know."
"So you say."
"Look!" he snapped. "Do you have to give me a hard time every time I talk to you?"
She shrugged as she pedaled. "It's in my nature to be a pain in the butt."
So it seems, he thought. Still feeling irritated, he said gruffly, "Do you know why anybody would want to kill you? Have you recently had an argument with anyone? A friend? Another contestant? A lover? Anybody?"
Silhouette shook her head. "I don't even know anybody out here. Let alone have any enemies. I haven't argued with anyone"
"No one involved in the pageant has a grudge against you?"
"Not that I know of, other than the mandatory jealousy you always get in these sort of events. Girls are always catty when in big groups together."
"There's gotta be some reason someone's put a hit out on you."
She stopped pedaling. "Well I don't know what it is. Maybe someone is jealous of me? Maybe more so than the usual that I just mentioned? But is that enough of a reason to want me killed."
Roman considered that and eventually shrugged. "I don't know. It's a possibility," he admitted. "But this seems like much more than just a mere case of envy - everyone's probably equally as jealous of everyone else in the pageant. Why single you out? No," he shook his head. "Someone went to a lot of expense hiring professional assassins to put you under. They don't come cheap." He paused. "What did you do after the hit?"
"I called my agent." She got off the bike. "We met with the pageant officials and they set things up with your boss."
"So you did want protection," Roman stated.
"Sort of. But it was mostly the pageant officials and my agent who insisted on it."
"So you're not afraid for your life? You don't care if you get killed?"
"Of course I do. But I can't go around living all my life in a cage. I might as well be dead if that's the case. Besides," she said softly, feeling a pain strike deep in the pit of her stomach, "those two guys who were killed last night were friends of mine. You I don't even know."
Roman noticed the pain in her eyes and decided to let her alone for a while. "Shower's the first door on your left. You can use my bed. I'll sleep out on the couch tonight. Leave the bedroom window closed, though. If you get hot there's a fan in there."
She nodded, was thankful, but didn't voice it.
Roman watched TV for a while, heard Silhouette in the shower, then heard her close the door to the bedroom. He turned off the television, switched off the lights, lit a smoke and sat on the couch in the darkness.
After several hours he began to doze, forced himself awake for a while, then dozed off again.
His eyes suddenly snapped open. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but something had awakened him. He listened intently in the darkness, heard a thump outside on the balcony. He got up silently, removed his pistol and moved towards the balcony doors. Lying down flat on the carpet he parted the curtains an inch or two and peered outside. He couldn't see anything. He got to his feet, stood behind the protection of the concrete wall between the balcony door and the entrance door, threw back the latch on the balcony door and thrust it open. He waited a second. Then, with the gun held down in front of him, darted his head outside, lifting the weapon as he did so.
There was no one there.
He stepped out onto the balcony and looked cautiously around in the shadows. Hearing a scuffle behind him, Roman turned sharply. Something leaped out of the darkness towards him.
Four
Something clawed at Roman's trousers. A furry ball darted between his legs. There was a loud shriek as the two critters scratched and bit at one another.
Just stupid damned cats, he realised.
"Pst!" he hissed at them to frighten them off. "Scared me half to death, you little shits."
Roman kept the gun in his hand and walked along the balcony, carefully scanning the grounds and the street. He glanced over the beach, the faint light from a sliver of moon not giving much away. When he was satisfied that no one of the human kind was lurking around, he went back inside and locked the door.
Opening the bedroom door quietly, he checked on Silhouette. She was sleeping soundly, the bedside light still burning. He closed the door again and checked his watch. A quarter to four. The sun would be rising over the ocean in about an hour and a half.
Might as well stay up, he decided and went to the kitchen to make more coffee.
As dawn broke just after five, Roman went out on the balcony to watch the sunrise over the ocean. The bright orange-red ball painted the horizon the colour of fire as it peeked over the edge of the earth.
Roman lit a smoke and wandered down to the street. He checked on his car. Still locked up as he'd left it. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Not that he expected any trouble. No one knew Silhouette was here. Only O'Reilly. Still, as he'd learnt from past experience, you never could be too careful.
He went back inside.
Six o'clock came. So did seven. Silhouette was still asleep. He decided to let her sleep as long as she liked. There was nothing else for her to do. And besides, she was more tolerable that way.
At eight o'clock Roman picked up the phone and dialed O'Reilly.
"Hello?" O'Reilly's voice boomed through the telephone.
"It's me," Roman quipped.
"What's up?"
"Nothing. Anywhere I have to take her today?"
"No. Just keep her with you. I'll let you know if the situation changes."
"Any leads yet?" Roman asked hopefully, but doubting there would be in such a short space of time.
"Not yet. I'll keep you posted." O'Reilly hung up.
Roman tapped the receiver on his hand, then put it back in its cradle. This was going to be another long day.
He heard a door open and close, then the shower bursting into life. She was awake.
Thinking about breakfast, Roman went into the kitchen. He threw the pizza slice into the microwave, then rustled up some low-fat food for Silhouette. There was a mango in the fridge. He cut that in half, tore out the seed, then cross-cut the flesh of each half and dumped it on a plate. The microwave beeper went off. While chewing on the pizza he made some toast, found a scrape of canola oil margarine in the fridge and a jar of low-cal strawberry jam.
Silhouette came down the hall dressed in jeans and a red aerobic top. She had Nike running shoes on her feet. Her hair was damp from the shower and brushed back from her forehead.
Roman indicated the mango and toast on the table. "Breakfast," he said. "Coffee?"
She nodded.
He boiled the kettle. "Did you sleep well?"
"Like a baby." She looked at his face. His eyes were red and a little puffy, his hair tussled. "Doesn't look like you did, though."
"I picked up a couple of hours. I didn't plan on sleeping much, anyway."
"You've gotta get some sleep," she told him. "You won't be much good to me in a state of semi-consciousness."
He shrugged. "You can train yourself to function on very little sleep. At least for a while. That's what they do in the army."
Silhouette ate the mango in silence, then a piece of toast spread thinly with low-cal jam. Roman sat opposite her at the table and placed a steaming coffee in front of her. He buttered himself some toast.
"So," she said. "What excitement are we getting up to today?"
Roman replied with zero contemplation. "Nothing," he told her.
Frustration flashed through her. "You mean we're gonna spend another day stuck in this dump?"
"That's right." He chewed on his toast, then sipped some coffee.
"Like hell! I'm going out somewhere. I can't sit around here all day again."
"No, you're not!" he said firmly.
The intensity in his voice told her he meant it, but she persisted anyway. "Yes, I am," she matched his tone.
"Headstrong, aren't you?" Roman observed.
"You don't survive in the modeling business if you're not."
Roman raised his eyebrows. "So you're a model as well?"
"It's my job. My living. And living also includes going out and having fun."
She stood up. Roman stood up as well, bumping the table and sloshing coffee out of the mugs.
"You want to get your ass shot off, don't you?" he challenged, annoyed now.
"No, I don't!" she returned. "But I don't just wanna sit around this fucking place all day like a vegetable waiting for someone to find me and shoot me full of holes!"
Roman thought quickly, knowing he couldn't physically make her stay. "I'll do you a deal. We stay inside today and tonight. If nothing happens, I'll take you out somewhere tomorrow." He glared at her over the table. "But if you go out today, you're on your own. You wait till tomorrow, I'll go with you. Now which would you rather? Going out there alone today, unprotected? Or going out tomorrow with me there to make sure you're okay?"
Silhouette thought long and hard about it, recalling the fear and desperation she'd felt the other night when being chased along the beach by those two thugs. Remembered the sight of her bodyguard's head being splattered across the top of the LTD by a powerful weapon. She didn't really want to be out there by herself.
"Well?" Roman prompted impatiently. "Deal?"
She slowly nodded. "Okay. Deal," she said begrudgingly.
"Good." He drank down what was left of his spilled coffee, then wiped up the mess with a sponge from the kitchen.
The day dragged on without incident. Silhouette spend most of it listening to the stereo or watching TV, occasionally taking a break from that and working out on the exercise bike.
Roman entertained himself reading a cheap paperback out on the balcony, completely bored out of his mind. It was the main reason he hated protection work of this kind; where you couldn't go anywhere and weren't doing anything. He could understand Silhouette's frustration, but he wouldn't let on to her that he did. She would just use that knowledge to try and manipulate him into doing things that were against his better judgement. And against his orders.
She'd already talked him into going out somewhere tomorrow. It should be okay, though. No one would know where they were.
He spent the night on the couch again while Silhouette slept in comfort in his bed. Roman tossed and turned till daylight woke him at six in the morning.
After a coffee, he performed some push-ups and sit-ups, then went and took a shower. All his clean clothes were in the bedroom, so until Silhouette was up he just wrapped a towel around his waist.
She rose at a quarter after seven and came out for coffee, dressed only in a negligee. Her first words to Roman were, "So, where are you taking me?"
Roman poured her some coffee, knew she wouldn't have forgotten about their deal. "I'll take you for a sightseeing drive. Maybe lunch somewhere. Depends."
"On what?"
"On how things go. If there's any hint of trouble, we're coming straight back."
Silhouette quickly glanced over his naked upper body, took in the fine lines of his chiseled muscles, liked the small patch of hair in the centre of his chest. She averted her gaze when he looked at her.
"Fair enough," she said and sipped her beverage.
"What?" Roman said in obvious surprise. "I expected some catty remark."
"There's bound to be some of those as the day goes on," she promised him. "Now, how about some toast?"
Roman gave her a salute in mock obedience and went into the kitchen. He put together half a dozen slices of buttered toast and brought them and the same low-cal jam out to the table. She helped herself to three slices.
As she ate, Roman went into the bedroom - where the bed was neatly made, he noticed - and dressed in gray linen pants and a blue t-shirt. He took a matching gray sports coat from the wardrobe and went back out to the living room.
Silhouette had finished eating breakfast and was, to his surprise, washing the dishes. "I didn't think beauty queens did such mundane household chores," he quipped.