Four bachelor-types were shooting tequila, attention laser-focused on three unaccompanied brunettes at the bar. And by Beckett’s count, there were eight couples there. No red flags, though it looked like one of the husbands was going to get a drink to the face if he didn’t stop checking out the blonde across the bar from him. Or maybe he’d get decked by the girl’s boyfriend, who appeared to work out for a living based on the size of his biceps.
A server approached their table with open arms and a welcoming smile. “Bienvenidos al Pueblo Mágico.”
Beckett lowered the brim of his ball cap to shield the bright noon sun from his eyes as it washed over them, then he scooted his chair to steal some shade from the palm tree.
“Pueblo Mágico,” the man repeated to Beckett and Oliver as if they hadn’t heard him the first time, but Beckett was too preoccupied wondering what was holding up Sydney and Mya to pay much attention to anyone or anything.
“Magic Town,” their server translated. He must’ve assumed by their lack of response that they didn’t speak a lick of Spanish. That wasn’t true. He was fluent, but his thoughts were too jarred, and his body was still on edge after his brief encounter with Sydney.
“You’re here in paradise, and it’s full of mysticism and wonder,” the man went on. “Extraordinary things happen to people here.”
Extraordinary, huh? Was that the word Beckett would use to define whatever had happened to him in Sydney’s room? No, more like possessed. By desire.
The man pointed toward the thick line of trees. “Lush Mayan jungle there.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder toward the water. “A gorgeous beach full of beautiful women.” His grin was downright infectious, but there was only one specific gorgeous woman that came to Beckett’s mind.
“We’re not tourists, so you don’t need to sell us on the city’s greatness, but we appreciate your enthusiasm,” Oliver responded in a respectful tone.
“Ah, but there’s no need for me to sell anything. This place sells itself, yes?” The man pointed to a female server heading their way with a tray of cocktails alongside a basket of chips and a side of tempting guacamole. “I had these drinks whipped up as a welcome when I saw you two take a seat.” He set down two small martini glasses, filled with frothy, pale-yellow cocktails that were garnished with pineapple wedges.
Beckett had no intention to drink today, but he didn’t want to insult the man, so he took a hesitant sip, and Oliver did the same.
“When Prohibition began, many of the best mixologists fled to Mexico and created what we like to call a cocktail renaissance,” the man continued with pride, and Beckett’s stomach dropped at his words.
Prohibition? After his experience at Capone last night, the last thing he wanted to think about was anything 1920s. He’d prefer to stay in the twenty-twenties, damn it.
As if sensing Beckett’s dissatisfaction, the man offered, “How about a Mayan mule then? Little vodka, sour orange juice, ginger syrup, and tonic water. In a nice ice-cold copper mug with a touch of mint.”
“We have two more joining us. I think we’re all mostly hungry,” Oliver told him. “So, maybe you could bring us an assortment of your most popular dishes? Some tapas too?”
“Ah. Por supuesto.” Of course. The man reached for the menus and tucked them under his arm. “So, if you’re not tourists, are you here for business?” He tipped his head toward Beckett’s Ariat leather cowboy boots as if he didn’t believe they were businessmen either.
“Something like that.” Beckett peered around the bar again, counting two more men sitting at the bar alone. Mid-thirties. One appeared antsy, looking around as if wondering whether he’d been stood up.
“Well, life cannot be all business. Must have some pleasure too, right? Just don’t go too deep into the jungle for an adventure without a guide. Ghosts haunt those grounds.”
Mayan ghosts? Beckett expected the man to toss in a joking wink, but it never came. Before he could follow up with a question about the so-called ghosts, merely out of curiosity, his gaze jumped straight to Sydney and Mya heading down a boardwalk leading to the bar.
Sydney had on black shorts, black sandals, and a white tank top. Her blonde hair lay in soft waves over her shoulders, but a mild breeze blew a few strands in front of her face, and she quickly swept her hair to her back. No purse on her, unlike Mya.
Mya’s clothes were flip-flopped from Sydney’s. White shorts. Black tank. White sandals. He hadn’t paid much attention to what Mya had been wearing earlier in Sydney’s hotel room, too hung up on what Sydney hadn’t been wearing beneath her robe. And hell, his dick stirred in his jeans at the memory.
“Ah, I see you have the pleasure part covered.” The man must have followed Beckett’s line of sight to spot Sydney and Mya.
Beckett wasn’t sure if the strange swell in his chest was relief they’d finally joined them or nerves. His daughter would blurt, You’re acting weird, Dad, if she were there with him.
“I’ll come back with that food soon. And four Mayan mules.” The man tipped his head and left.
“You ready for them?” Oliver asked. Beckett could hear the smile in his tone, but he didn’t peer his way to confirm it. He was too preoccupied with the scene before him.
One of the “bachelors” he’d pegged earlier had stood from the bar and blocked Mya and Sydney’s path. Sydney was waving Mya off as if telling her, I got this. Mya gave Sydney a hesitant look and then started for where Oliver and Beckett were seated.
When the man turned to the side and snatched Sydney’s wrist, Beckett quickly pushed against the table to stand, unintentionally sliding it into Oliver in the process. “Sorry,” he mumbled, eyes back on his target. No way in hell would Beckett let any man like that near his . . .
He let go of that thought as Mya said, “Oh, she’s got this. Let her do her thing.” But Beckett was already on the move, spinning his ball cap backward en route.
Sydney freed herself from the man’s grasp, planted a palm on the guy’s chest, and shoved.
“You’re drunk. That’s the only reason I’m not breaking your arm,” Beckett heard Sydney warn, but the idiot didn’t get the message.
Worried the idea of a challenge would only turn this guy on even more, Beckett moved in next to Sydney and hissed, “Back off.”
“Who are you? Her sugar daddy?”
Okay, I’m not that old. And Sydney’s the rich one. Well, according to his sister, she was the daughter of a billionaire. “Go back to your buddies,” Beckett offered the same chance Sydney had given him. He was far outside his jurisdiction, so maybe he could slug the guy without losing his badge?
The twenty-something man-child looked back and forth between him and Sydney before lifting his hands in the air in surrender. He headed back to the bar, and a loud cry of boos cut through the air from the other idiots in his entourage.
“What is it with these young guys wanting an older woman?” Sydney asked with a shake of the head. He had no clue what she was talking about, but he knew she wasn’t that old. Younger than Beckett, yes, but . . . “I know you didn’t need saving. I wasn’t trying to undermine—”