“I have no idea how anyone could mistake you for a beachcomber,” Shana said. She stood on the opposite side of the wooden dock two feet from him with her hands on her hips and an accusation etched on her deceptively angelic face.
Dane enjoyed answering her rhetorical questions–especially because he knew it would annoy the hell out of his favorite girl. His only girl. Maybe his girl. He split a lazy grin and watched the harbor breeze wreak havoc on her wild golden hair.
He said, “I have all the markings. I surf, don’t wear a watch, run the beach every day and drink tequila religiously.”
“Sure. You also carry a 9mm Glock religiously—although I don’t know what the hell religion that is—and not to mention that your so-called beach shack is wired-up with some kind of futuristic high tech security system.” She paused and got serious, dropping her wonder woman pose.
“A real beachcomber wouldn’t take a call from a Russian mobster. So—“
“So I answered my phone.” He wished he hadn’t. “Besides, Toly is a retired old man now. And he was never really a mobster. He was into espionage. Maybe some arms sales.” Dane looked out over the harbor and soaked in the cool salty air wafting across the island.