Snagged by Carol Higgins Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

from the Watergreen. It was where all the hip and beautiful people stayed, where they strolled, where they partied. Hell, the Watergreen made the best piño colada in Florida, but it wasn’t as much of a draw anymore. Everyone was drinking all that annoying mineral water. The Watergreen had a great piano bar but the models weren’t interested in sitting around and listening to show tunes. They just wanted to go to those clubs where they pack you in and blare the music.
    At forty-two, with sandy hair, mild gray eyes and a slight build, nothing about Nick attracted immediate attention. He made a good living and had socked away some money but he never felt content. Sure, on some days he felt like Donald Trump as he blustered around the hotel solving problems, his phone ringing endlessly. But on nights like last night, when he had gone down to South Beach for a drink and the models he met wouldn’t give him more than three seconds of their time, he felt angry. If I were a club owner, they wouldn’t treat me that way, he thought. He was feeling so bad he went into one of the shops and bought a hot new skin cream that cost a fortune.
    Nick straightened the papers on his desk and took a final sip from his coffee. It was nearly eight o’clock. What should he do tonight?
    Never having married, Nick was always looking for a woman who could advance his social position. Along the way there’d been a few nice girls he had dated, but they all wanted to settle down and have children, and that didn’t cut the mustard with him. “I’m not ready,” he told those types. One had recently replied, “You’re going to have to chase your kids around the house with a walker.”
    Nick got up from his desk and turned out the lights of his office. One of the perks of his job was to have his own large apartment on the top floor of the hotel. Very impressive. If I could only get one of those models to see it, he thought, then they’d look at me with different eyes. So far, no such luck.
    I’m not that hungry, he thought. And I don’t feel like watching television. Maybe I’ll put on that new flowery shirt I bought for $175 at one of those fancy boutiques and give South Beach another try tonight. Who knows? Maybe I’ll finally get lucky.

R EGAN SAT IN the lobby of the Ocean View enjoying her morning coffee and a bowl of fruit. Breakfast was an informal buffet where you helped yourself to coffee and juice and chose from a variety of cereals, bread and fruit. Bacon and eggs had to be specially ordered from the kitchen, but you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in this crowd to admit they ate such cholesterol-laden no-no’s.
    Glancing through the Miami paper, Regan read about the usual assortment of crimes that you’d find in almost any big city’s newspaper. Robberies, murders, drug deals gone bad, arson. A new favorite in Miami was to bump the car in front of you at a stoplight. When the driver gets out to check for damage, someone else comes out of nowhere, reaches in the window and grabs purses, briefcases, whatever he can get his hands on. In really bad neighborhoods you were encouraged to hand over your wallet by the barrel of a gun. Regan folded the paper. Thank God there wasn’t an article about a successful hit-and-run on Ocean Drive last night.
    On the way home Richie had told her the name of the real estate agency that was handling the option on the Fourth Quarter. It was called the Golden Sun. Regan had looked up its address and was happy to discover that it was only a few blocks away. She planned on making a little visit there this morning.
    I should have taken Nadine’s number, Regan thought. But hopefully she’d find Nadine’s Joey at the Golden Sun and get some information out of him. Dolly Twiggs’s suspicious death and the near accident last night, both around the times of real estate transactions, were a little coincidental for her taste. Transactions having to do with valuable waterfront property in a booming