Rachel Gibson - Lola Carlyle Reveals All

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© 2002

I would like to express my thanks to the following people who helped during the writing of this book: Floyd and Gloria Skinner, for sharing their knowledge of yachting with me; Coast Guard Petty Officer Mike Brock, for taking my call and answering all my questions; and to the many authors of the many research books that I pored through in the writing of this book.

Of all the humiliations Lola Carlyle had suffered in her life-and the list was quite long and juicy- seeing her naked pictures on the Internet was without a doubt the worst. Anyone with a modem and a credit card could view fifteen different photos of her in the buff. Each one a bit more embarrassing than the last. Knowing that they were out there was a constant disgrace, a weight on her shoulders, an anvil on her head pressing into her skull.

The photographs had been taken of her several years ago by her ex-fiancé, Sam The Jerk. Sam, the guy who’d always professed his unending love, the guy who’d told her she could trust him with anything, had used her photographs to bail himself out of his financial problems. Four years after their breakup, he’d developed www.lolarevealed.com and had created the source of Lola’s biggest shame.

In the past, Lola had posed for professional photographers-too many times to count. But Sam was an investment banker, and he’d shot the pictures with a disposable Kodak he’d picked up on a munchie run. In a moment she could only look back on and attribute to complete insanity, she’d allowed him to snap a series of butt-naked photos of her in his bed, riding his stationary bike, and sitting in the middle of his kitchen table chowing on candy bars and bags of Doritos.

The absolute worst photograph had been taken of her kissing a king-sized Tootsie Roll. At the time, the pictures had been meant to be funny, a silly joke on her career, for which she never ate anything that wasn’t baked, broiled, or tossed in zero-calorie dressing. Never ate anything fattening that wasn’t routinely purged from her body.

What the photographs hadn’t shown was the sickness that had begun right after she’d binged on all that junk food. The vicious cycle of guilt that always began after her total loss of control. The panic that she might have gained an ounce, which always sent her straight to the treadmill or the toilet.

It was a compulsion she now controlled, but at one time it had almost taken her life. Even now, every time she looked at the old images of her five-foot-eleven, one-hundred-and-ten-pound body, it triggered the voice in her head that told her she should skip lunch, or it urged her to visit the Colonel and order a bucket of chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a diet Coke.

Worse than the humiliation of those tacky pictures appearing on the Internet for the world to see was the knowledge that there wasn’t anything she could do about them. And she’d tried. She’d begged Sam to give her the photos and to removed them from the net. She’d offered him money, but even after all this time, he was still so bitter about their breakup, he’d refused. She’d hired an attorney and was told what she basically already knew. Sam owned the photographs and he could publish them wherever he liked. She’d taken him to court anyway, and she’d promptly lost.

Her only option now was to hire a hit man. A choice she might actually consider if she knew beforehand that she wouldn’t get caught, humiliating herself and her family further. Because in a family filled with fairly prolific sinners, Lola had always been the biggest black sheep. Which was quite an accomplishment when one considered Uncle Jed’s recent troubles. None of them had spent time in the penitentiary, though county jail, yes. Pen, no. And seeing her in prison orange just might finally do her poor mother in.

Lola reached for the tabloid she’d tucked in her suitcase and glanced at her face on the cover of the National Enquirer. Beneath her picture the headline read, HEAVYWEIGHT FORMER MODEL, LOLA CARLYLE, GOES INTO HIDING.

She tossed the magazine aside, and with her Miniature Pinscher, Baby Doll, tucked beneath one arm, she walked out of the tiny bungalow. It seemed her name was never mentioned anymore without comment on the twenty-five pounds she’d gained since she’d turned her back on the modeling business. Heavyweight was one of the nicer descriptions used these days. Her least favorite was Large Lola. She tried not to let the names hurt or bother her. Deep down inside, they did.

She wasn’t fat, and she wasn’t in hiding, either. She was on a much-needed mental health vacation. On a private island in the Bahamas, resting. But after two days of rest, she was bored to tears and likely to go crazy as a bullbat. She had a life to live and a business to run. And now, thanks to the warm sun and fresh air, she had a nice tan, a clear head, and a new plan.

She figured all she needed to force Sam to pull the plug on his site was a good private investigator and some fresh dirt. Sam hadn’t always been up front in his business dealing, and she knew there had to be plenty she could use to blackmail him. It was so simple, she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before.

As soon as she got home, Sam The Jerk was going down.

Max Zamora was getting too old to play Superman. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and raised the hair on the backs of his arms, but did little to dull the fiery ache shooting up his side, stealing air from his lungs. At the age of thirty-six, he felt the pain of saving the world much more than he used to.

He took steady breaths to control the pain and the nausea threatening just below the surface. Above the pounding in his head, he listened to the sounds of tourists and taxicabs, of island music and waves hitting the docks. He heard nothing out of the ordinary filling the humid night air, but Max knew they were out there. Somewhere. Looking for him. If they caught him, they wouldn’t hesitate before they killed him, and this time they would succeed.

Light from the Atlantis Casino illuminated blurry patches of the marina, and for a split second his vision cleared, then doubled again, playing havoc with his balance as he moved from the shadows. The soles of his tactical boots made not a sound as he boarded the yacht tied to the end of the dock. Blood trickled from the cut in his bottom lip and dripped down his chin to his black T-shirt. When his adrenaline ran dry, he knew he’d be in a heap of hurt, but he planned to be halfway to Florida before that happened. Halfway from the hell he’d visited on Paradise Island.

Max made his way to the dark galley and rifled through the drawers. His hand fell on a fishing knife, and he pulled it from its scabbard and tested the wicked five-inch blade against his thumb. Moonlight poured in through the yacht’s Plexiglas windows overhead and lit up patches of the inky black interior.

He didn’t bother to search the yacht further. He couldn’t see much anyway, and he’d be damned if he’d turn on the lights and illuminate his position.

Flatware rattled in the drawer as Max slammed it shut. He figured if the owners were still on board, he’d made enough noise to roust them by now.

And if someone did suddenly appear from out of the darkness he’d have to switch to contingency plan B. Problem was, he had no plan B. An hour ago, he’d run through the last of his backup strategies, and now he was running on pure instinct and survival. If this last ditch effort failed, he was a dead man. Max didn’t fear death; he just didn’t want to give anyone the pleasure of killing him.

When no one appeared, he made his way back outside and quickly cut the docklines. He moved up the stairs to the flying bridge. Max’s vision cleared for a few brief seconds, allowing him to see the bridge had a canvas top and plastic wraparound windows. He knelt beside the captain’s chair within the variegated shadows, and his vi-son blurred and doubled again.

A wave of nausea rushed at him, and he breathed through it as best he could. Mostly by touch, he used the knife to pop a section off the top of the helm. Perspiration stung a cut on his forehead and ran into his brow as he pulled out a tangle of wires. His vision wasn’t getting any better and it took him longer than he would have liked to locate the back of the ignition switch. When he did, he sliced through the wires, then touched them together. The twin inboard engines kicked over, sputtering and churning the water as Max placed one hand on his side, one on the helm, and rose.

He put the yacht in gear, slid the throttle forward, and eased the craft away from the end of the dock. If he tilted his head just right, his double vision wasn’t as bad, and he could keep the yacht in the center of the waterway and away from hazards.

He motored the vessel out of the marina and into Nassau Harbor, beneath the bridge that connected Paradise Island to the capital and past the cruise ships docked at Prince George Wharf. Nothing that night had come this easy, and at any moment, he expected a spray of automatic fire, shredding the canvas top and chewing up the deck. The minute he’d landed on the island that afternoon, his luck had gone from bad to worse, and he didn’t trust that his bad luck was through with him yet.

“Excuse me, but what are you doing?”

At the sound of a female voice, Max spun around and gripped the arm of the captain’s chair to keep from falling. He stared at the double image of a woman outlined by the fading lights of the harbor. A lighthouse at the end of the island sent a bright beam sliding across the floor and lighting up two identical pairs of feet with twenty red toenails. It made a leisurely journey up two red and blue skirts and bare flat bellies. Two white shirts were tied between two pairs of big breasts. Then it slipped across the corners of two full mouths and drifted through a tangle of blond curls. Her face remained hidden as the fuzzy image of two small dogs yapped from her arms, the shrill barking enough to make Max’s ears bleed.