Dangerous Places: A Roman Cantrell-Nikki Holden Mystery, #1

By Elaine Raco Chase

The Seven Deadly Sins have never  been so Deadly.  Or so much fun!

Meet Nikki Holden - she may know 140 characters but social media is not her venue. She's an investigative reporter with more enemies than friends - and her friends are very shady.

She's on the trail of a stunning story at Pleasure Island. And she doesn't mind using her pick pocket talents or a well- aimed champagne cork or even a pair of 38's (boobs not guns) to get her story.

She's tenacious, sarcastic and an ex-con.

Meet Roman Cantrell - he's an ex-army ranger who couldn't stop fighting, went off the grid doing Black Ops but came back to the US to start an international security firm.

He keeps popping into Nikki's life at the most inconvenient times.

And he knows too much about her past.

He also knows she's not capable of good behavior.

Is Roman looking for the person Nikki's ...kidnapped? Or is he looking for a more intimate connection.

One thing for sure - They're both heading into murderously  Dangerous Places

• Language: English
• Publisher: Damsel in Distress Publishing
• Release date: Dec 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519990051

Book preview

Dangerous Places

Elaine Raco Chase

One

Dammit, will you listen to me? Marcy Nathan jabbed her elbow into Nikki Holden's left side and continued the painful bashing until Nikki put down her betting sheet. Look to the right, Marcy said urgently. See the big guy at the end of our row, three sections over. Black hair. Really broad shoulders. Blue and white striped shirt and navy slacks.

So? What's the problem?

Him! He is the problem! He's been watching me, staring at me, following me for the last four days. Marcy spoke so quickly, so heatedly, that her words plowed into one another threatening to turn into mere babble. He's even been at the afternoon practice sessions.

Marcy you are paranoid. Nikki dipped her fingers into the tub of buttered popcorn that was balanced on the wooden arm between their two seats. "There are six thousand people coming into this fronton for the jai alai games tonight. Probably most of them were here watching the practice. It’s been like that for the last month.

A crush of people. Mostly bored people. Men and women who have escaped from dull convention meetings. Or too little action at the gambling tables. People who wandered in to pass the time until the next Triple X Burlesque review. Nikki tossed popcorn into her mouth and chewed reflectively. A veritable sea of faces and bodies. And you notice one guy? He's probably just some awestruck Midwesterner attending the pipefitter’s convention.

Does he look like some fucking plumber to you? Marcy's high, young voice screeched. She fumbled in her purse for another cigarette. He...he doesn't watch the jai alai games. He watches me. Look at him!

Nikki didn't look. She didn't have to. Marcy may have spotted him just this Wednesday, but she'd pegged him two days earlier. Tonight he was going to be her unwitting pawn. Maybe he wants a date, Marcy, and he's a little shy, came her disinterested response as she pretended to refocus attention on her trifecta selections for tonight's million-dollar jai alai jackpot.

No.

Why not? Nikki waved away the cloud and wished smoking had been banned rather than cellphones and cameras. But the Cuban cigars and European specialty cigarettes were moneymakers for Pleasure Island.

I'm committed to Ignace, Marcy stated emphatically, twirling a hot pink chalked lock of hair.

Your new admirer doesn't know that.

Marcy shifted uncomfortably. I know it's not about a date.

Really?

Yeah. He...he would have hit on me by now. I know men. I know what they want. How they want it. Her pierced tongue slowly mapped fuchsia lips. And I aim to please. I take Ignace around the world. He calls me his woman-of-the-world.

Nikki didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or puke. If the fucking little nymphet started to regale with anymore of her sexual antics - Nikki shuddered as she waved away another gust of smoke.

Marcy Nathan imagined herself lots of things. She was, however, as phony as the ID she'd shown to get into Pleasure Island's jai alai fronton. Her plastic-coated Florida driver's license, complete with photo, did proclaim that she was Marcy Nathan, free, white, twenty-one and short. What it neglected to reveal were the girl's invincible blond roots, adolescent chain smoking, half a dozen visible piercings plus the pierced nipples that were outlined by her sheer blouse tonight. Nikki shuddered again, wincing over a wardrobe that came from an erotic costume shop.

Nikki stared hard at Marcy's perpetual sulky lips and immature features that time had yet to define. Here was a barely legal nympho wearing bravado like a coat and sex was her kryptonite. She wanted to be watched. She fed off it. She was hungry for attention. And not just from men. Nikki had managed to crack Marcy's vulnerability and become her sympathetic ear.

She hadn't been particularly cunning, just persistent. For the last four weeks she had courted Marcy Nathan, giving the girl everything she hungered for. It hadn't been fun.

Painstaking.

Annoying.

Migraine gifting.

Yes.

But never fun.

Nikki finally allowed herself to smile...slightly. But she wasn't in this for fun.

Just pure profit.

Money was the name-of-the-game on so many levels.

Marcy had tried very hard to be one more groupie who adored the jai alai players noisily from ten feet away. But her groupie image was as phony as her name. The girl was such a transparently obvious fake.

Once Nikki had confirmed Marcy Nathan's real identity, she knew she had the key to the tightly bolted, well-guarded door she'd sought. Effectively manipulating Marcy had just become so much easier - courtesy of a man she needed to know.

A side-long glance revealed fear had replaced lust in Marcy's wide brown eyes. Nikki decided to move quickly to make that fear work to her advantage. Selecting a particularly large piece of popped corn, Nikki studied it carefully. If your admirer isn't interested in a date, just what does he want with you?

He wants...he just wants me, that's all. Marcy turned to stare at Nikki. It's a private matter. A secret.

Okay, you handle it. Privately. She uncrossed her legs and started to rise. You're a woman of the world. You can— But the multi-ringed fingers that locked around her wrist halted both her words and movements.

I...I can't, damn you. Marcy's voice splintered. I...I don't know how to handle someone...someone like him.

She watched Marcy scramble to light a third cigarette off the half-smoked butt whose filter tip had been pulverized into a hot pink mess. The girl was feeling pressured. All Nikki had to do was apply a little more heat.

But how much?

There was no margin for error.

Nikki had to be perfect. She had to be careful.

After that - there could be only success.

Her gaze shifted to the red and white striped popcorn container. Marcy was a lot like the kernels. Her tough shell was vulnerable to the elements. Too much heat could make her parch, shrivel. She'd be a dud. Unusable.

But with just the right amount of heat, the right amount of pressure and a dab of oil - the girl would explode into something quite beautiful.

Letting her fingers comb through her copper hair, Nikki allowed herself a quick, casual glance at the man who turned out to be the perfect catalyst.

Tonight he was careless. Obvious. Or maybe just unlucky.

He had caught her eye on Monday, basically because he stood out. His physical features, military posture and self-assured manner were too damn overwhelming. Today, his band-collar shirt was the perfect covering for the hard lines of his well-developed torso. The sleeves were rolled up above the elbow revealing muscular forearms and the point of a knife blade tat.

And then there was his face. Sun-bronzed complexion, dark eyes and hair with the perfect stubble that framed tough, hard features. Nikki idly wondered if the stubble had gone from hard to sexy-soft...she shook her head, her thoughts skidded to more important questions.

Who the fuck was he?

Why in hell was he here?

Nikki needed those answers.

Needed?

Hell more than that—she was desperate for those answers.

This afternoon while they were watching the practice sessions, Nikki garnered the distinct impression he was more interested in watching her than in Marcy.

Which was why she went back to her apartment and changed her hairstyle and clothes. She was angling to be his evening's entertainment.

She had opted for a three-pronged temptation: tits, ass and legs.

That should turn his curiosity against him.

And give her an edge.

Nikki sat back.

Quiet.

Thinking.

Mentally role-playing a few scenes, gauging Marcy's response and reactions. She'd made up her mind and was about to speak, when the momentum was stolen from her.

Two

The jai alai players filtered into the protected pelotari's box and onto the court for their pregame warm-up. The crowd took up the chant for their favorite: Ignace! Ignace!

Even Marcy joined in. Adoration had replaced fear. Color returned to her cheeks, her brown eyes glowed and the ever-present cigarette tumbled from her petulant lips.

When the twenty-five-year-old Basque player finally stepped onto the racquetball-style jai alai court, thousands in the audience went crazy. Ignace's reaction was the opposite of tradition. He acknowledged the response and began to show off.

Ignace was quick. He had lots of arm, lots of leg. He was one of the best. Nikki watched him scale the concrete wall in a five-foot leap. He plucked the ball from the air with the sling-like, curved wicker cesta strapped to his arm. The pelota, harder than a golf ball and three quarters the size of a baseball, came off the wall at speeds of at least a hundred miles an hour, ricocheting dangerously around the playing area.

The spectators roared. The chant was taken up again. Only louder. Ignace! Ignace! Nikki smiled as the bad boy of one of the world's fastest and most dangerous professional sports stayed on the court two minutes longer than scheduled. He was giving the hungry bettors a tantalizing hors d'oeuvre of action to lose or win their money on.

Jai alai.

Very beautiful.

Very dangerous.

Back to being big business – very big since the dying game had been resuscitated after nearly twenty years in sports purgatory. Jai alai was fast becoming the darling of the One Percenters and the first stop for all the Cuban visitors.

Pleasure Island was the catalyst. The new fronton was the centerpiece. Built like the Roman Colosseum but housing the modern day gladiators of a Basque sport that started in 1798. Once billed as the fastest sport in the world, jai alai was watched by presidents and kings and the elitists of the past.

With all the sports reporting she'd done, even Nikki found jai alai a difficult sport to understand. It was similar to handball in that the game was played against three walls: front, back and side. When the ball or pelota slammed against the wall, the entire fronton shook with a thunderous boom that reverberated inside the spectators' bodies.

The players were elegantly garbed in all white – from shoes to pants to helmets. Only their jerseys and sashes added color. Nikki noted Ignace's black jersey with a number ten on his front and number three on his back. The number ten was his playing position and that changed with every game; while the number three was his permanent number and symbolized the three flames of fire that so fit his name.

Whether the players were right or left handed the cesta, a long curved basket was always attached to the right arm. With an incredible display of athleticism, the cesta whipped the ball against the wall, making the collision sound like an explosion. And the ball must be caught and thrown in one fluid motion.

When their opponent can't return the pelota in time, a point is made and the player gets to stay on the court. The game was played round-robin style until someone gets ten points in singles play.

Betting was the same as in horseracing; each player was identified by their permanent number. A sport that was thought of as a relic was now a moneymaker and was going to be making even more money in the near future. Pleasure Island was already reaping rewards.

The sophistication of the new fronton could not be denied. The architects who shaped the Dubai Mall had created equally jaw-dropping designs for Pleasure Island – in the casino, the hotel and the fronton. The three hundred foot hotel was built to withstand a Category 4 hurricane but so far Mother Nature had been kind to the man-made island that was beyond the territorial limits and protected by a breakwater that was thirteen feet above low tide.

The hotel complex housed nearly five hundred shops and possessed a smaller version of the famous Oceanis Australia Group's acrylic panel aquarium. Nikki had become a daily visitor to the ocean tunnel. Finding total relaxation in being surrounded by marine life especially when dealing with Marcy.

The hotel rooms were in the luxury resort category with different pricing for each floor and view. Nikki knew the lower floors were less than two hundred dollars a night and included all of the amenities. Of course the penthouse suites reined supreme, each with their own spa, private chef and glass balcony extensions that made special clientele feel they were being suspended over the ocean – and they were.

While there was no dress code in either the casino or fronton, the nightly parade of elegantly clad South Beach, Hollywood and European patrons had quickly established the upscale allure. Social media was awash in a who's who of selfies that lit up Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and Instagram.

Paparazzi had turned the fronton into the hottest red carpet event that sports had ever seen. The Michelin-starred gourmet restaurants that ringed the top of the grandstand had a two-week waiting list courtesy of being featured in Bon Appétit Magazine, although that was quickly adjusted depending on who you were and how big your tip was. Nikki gave an inward snicker; apparently she was a nobody nor were her tips big enough to bump a table.

Down in the fronton's main auditorium, cocktail servers came directly to your chair. The iconic, scantily clad cigarette girls offered an unlimited supply of Cuban cigars. The world's favorite Montecristo; JFK's desired H. Upmann; and Castro's $70 Cohiba along with the most expensive cigar in the world, the Gurkha Black Dragon at $1,150 in a carved camel bone and brass tube.

From studying the female bettors' faces, Nikki quickly recognized the erotic thrill they were getting from watching a violent game. The pelota can kill. She wondered how the players could even see a ball that had been clocked at 175 miles per hour let alone catch and hurl it back. The chiseled, muscular bodies of the male players along with their exotic European good looks had reignited the groupies. Women of all ages were angling for more than just the orgasmic excitement of betting on men.

Jai alai players had always been anonymous, mere numbers to the crowds that cheered them on. Television commercials encouraged people to turn out for games but there was no coverage. ESPN, Bleacher, network and cable shows, sports columnists and bloggers reported little more than scores.

The players didn't win college scholarships. They weren’t on cereal boxes or underwear packages. They didn't pose for shirtless pinup posters. Their fans didn't beg for autographed balls. Even in their native Basque region of Spain more kids were playing soccer and rugby instead of jai alai.

All of that was scheduled to change. At least for one pelotari—Ignace. The angry young man whom crowds used to boo was now their darling. Ignace, soon to be a major sports star, was already a gold mine for the owner of Pleasure Island and in more than just the sport. Nikki Holden was about to wager four weeks work on Marcy Nathan's love and fear of her favorite pelotari.

The lighted odds boards changed quickly, all in Nikki Holden's favor. She reached into the popcorn box. I've an idea, Marcy. Why don't you let Ignace handle your mystery man? I bet he could—

No! No, that's not a good idea. The girl shook her head furiously. I...I don't want Ignace involved. Couldn't you—

Help? Nikki placed one kernel after another into her mouth while she pretended to think about the girl's plea. Sure. I'll help. I've got a few secrets myself.

Marcy stared at her. Yeah...yeah I bet you do. Her fuchsia tinted lips curved. But I know your secret, Miss Investigative Reporter. You want an interview with Ignace. She tapped out another cigarette. And you can't get to him. I've been watching the way you operate. You're good. Marcy stroked her gold lighter to life. But in the last four weeks you haven't been able to crack the security.

Her eyes narrowed at Nikki through the blue-based flame. Has anyone talked to you? No. Not the managers, not the players, not even the cashiers. Miss Investigative Reporter has drawn a blank. But I can get you that private interview. That's what you've wanted from me all along.

Marcy inhaled deeply. You've been nice to me just to get an introduction to Ignace. I'm not stupid. Her lips twisted. If you want the interview, you need to handle this guy. He makes me nervous. Marcy's mouth drooped. He's dangerous. He's unknown.

I'd like to know a little something about him myself, Nikki mused. She didn't like unknowns any better than her companion. Unfolding the printed betting sheet, she held it up as if they were both looking at it. It's nearly eight. The National Anthem will start in just a few minutes. As we sit back down, I'm going to spill that popcorn and I want you to put up a little fuss about me getting more. Once I leave, you wait five minutes and if he's followed me, you slip out the side exit, take a cab and beat it back to my apartment. Here's the key.

But what about Ignace? I'm his lucky charm. I've never missed a game.

He won't know you're not sitting out here cheering, Nikki countered brusquely. If our mysterious friend is after you, he's done his homework. He knows you won't budge until after Ignace plays and that would make him feel secure enough to see what I'm up to. Her blue eyes turned to ice. Keep biting your lip like that and you won't need to eat. What the hell's the matter now?

Marcy lowered her head, her dark hair curtaining her face. I don't know maybe I should just wait and see what happens. Maybe he's a nobody. A nothing.

Nikki gave an easy shrug. Okay by me. Wait and see. After all, he might just be a horny plumber looking for a date. Oh...oh he's moving closer, relocating himself right across the aisle.

Shit. Marcy took a deep breath. I hope I'm not making a big mistake trusting you.

As far as I can see, I'm the only friend you've got. Is there anybody else you can call? Ignace?

Marcy shook her head.

Knowing what I do about your hot-blooded Spaniard, he's aptly named. A real fireball. He's probably all action and little communication.

She sighed. He's not easy to understand.

Isn't that exactly what he told you about his wife? The proverbial 'she doesn't understand me' line.

Marcy's lips thinned. What do you know about it? We love each other and that bitch won't let him go. She turned in her seat. "His...wife...well she's in name only. I think she was looking for a boy-toy, someone that would add romance to