* * *
Sex in a bathroom? With a stranger whom she knew only as 22F? Thank God he was only stopping in Aruba on his way to Bon-Aire. As he hurried away to catch the puddle-jumper flight, she waved to him, the sick twist of her stomach turning her weak smile into more of a grimace. She’d felt oddly exhilarated as they’d coupled frantically in the family restroom at the airport. She hadn’t yet reached customs, and she was already disgusted with herself.
As she made her way through the airport, she was grateful for the interlude if only because the majority of the folks on the plane had apparently already rushed through to begin their vacations. There were very few people left in the baggage carousel area. Rolling her suitcase behind her, she made her way to the corridor, suddenly anxious to begin her vacation as well.
Underestimating her own skills, she tried to dig out her passport while pulling a suitcase and toting her carry-on items. The paperwork she’d shoved into the folio that housed her e-reader fell to the floor, stopping her in her tracks. As she released a sigh of exasperation, she bent down to scoop it up, but someone else got there first.
She noticed the brown leather boots, broken in but not worn, the faded denim that outlined without straining against what seemed to be toned flesh underneath. With a blush, she fixated on the amply filled area at the top of his thighs before she snapped her gaze up to meet the steel gray eyes of the stranger who held her boarding pass and itinerary in his hand.
She reached for them, thanking him absently as she grasped the documents, and before either of them could speak, his cell phone rang.
“Excuse me,” he said before turning to fish his phone from the backpack he’d placed on the floor behind him.
On instinct, she fled. Something inside her told her to run, that her experience with 22F needed to be analyzed and dissected before she could interact with another male of the species. The nagging something said interacting with this man would be different than 22F. More dangerous.
Picking apart the emptiness she felt after her encounter with 22F came later. She convinced herself that it was the nature of the experience, the location and the impersonality of it, that made it horrible. It was hardly an environment where she could meet her potential, and it fell decidedly short of an atmosphere of excellence.
* * *
Vicki glanced down at her BlackBerry again, scrolling absently through the text of the e-mail without really reading it. She’d memorized it, so it really wasn’t necessary to even have it open, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to close the message.
The final line was burned into the back of her eyelids.
Come back when you’re ready. We’re all moved out.
Her chest tightened as she stared at her reflection in the glass behind the bar. Her week was almost up. Only two more nights and she would have to leave. Go home. But it wasn’t really home. Truthfully nothing had held her there for a long time, but now there wasn’t even the pretense of a family to bring her back.
It was amazing how easily all her ties to New York had been snipped.
The reflection facing her showed someone whose mission statement had failed her. Or she had failed it. Either way she’d attempted everything from quick and dirty fucking in an airport bathroom to being wined and dined on a private dinner cruise. Each new encounter had left her feeling hollower than the last.
Vicki caught a glint of something in the mirror and turned to look behind her into the relatively empty lounge. Since her hotel didn’t have a casino, the bar had proven to be a quiet place once the dinner hour had passed, and it wouldn’t pick up again until people began to return from wherever their evening’s entertainment had taken them.
A man sat at a small cocktail table near the far wall of the lounge. Although the place itself was fairly dark, his table was better illuminated than most by virtue of a light situated directly overhead. It cast his face in shadow.
Something clicked. She’d seen him before.
In fact, as she thought about it, she’d seen him almost every day, including the day she’d arrived. The boots-and-jeans guy from the airport. She’d seen the man regularly, usually in the lounge during the evening, but sometimes by the pool where she’d lazed most of the days away, snacking on fruit and European cheeses while sipping French wines and reading. She had never made the connection.
Directing her focus back to the man sitting in the lounge was her escape from self-exploration. His face might have been shadowed, but his hands were visible. They had seemed strong and firm when she first saw him, and looked even more so now. His fingers were loosely laced together on the tabletop, a heavy glass of something amber resting next to them. His wrists were barely visible emerging from a black shirt and deep charcoal suit. He was a chameleon, his attire so different than it was in the airport, or when she’d seen him headed out for a jog or lounging by the pool, that he didn’t appear to be the same man. But clearly he was.
He was dressed well and held himself with confidence. He didn’t fidget and seemed to be watching the bar.
Vicki shifted to return to her drink and caught another flash of light, drawing her attention back to him. Catching the tail end of his movements, she realized he was checking his watch. Must be waiting for someone. Yet he didn’t study the entryway; his body was oriented to squarely face the bar. It seemed as if he were watching her.
She shook her head lightly. Don’t be ridiculous. He certainly wasn’t expecting her, and if he’d had any interest, she’d been perched right there enjoying the breeze and her beverage for long enough that he could have approached. Hell, he’d had five days and hadn’t spoken a word to her. Heaven knew, others had certainly done so. And it wasn’t as if he wasn’t lacking an opening line: You’re welcome for picking up your things. How about I pick you up this time?
Admittedly it was a shitty opening line, but it was an opening, regardless.
While the evening had begun with the determination that she was done soothing herself through others, she had also reached the point where she knew she didn’t want to soothe it with alcohol either. Caressing the face of the BlackBerry with one hand as she stroked her wineglass with the other, she took one last look at herself in the mirror. The man at the table was just another distraction.
It was time to face her future.
Sighing, she rose from her bar stool, prepared to return to her room and call the airline. If she could switch her flight, she’d pack and leave in the morning. There was nothing in Aruba for her.
Not that there was anything in New York for her either, but it was time to face that nothing, and face whatever would come next.
Chapter Two
Michael checked his watch. He didn’t really need to; he had an innate sense of time, carefully cultivated during years on the job, but each small movement seemed to draw her attention. He wanted her curious and off balance.
The first time he saw her, emerging from the bathroom at the airport, there had been something in her that called to him. Why had she run from him? It puzzled and intrigued him. He had come here to escape from mysteries, but this one had certainly drawn him in. Instead of enjoying a break from his life, he found himself falling back on old habits quickly once she’d fled.
Closing the Masterson case had bled him dry, and he had needed a break. There was always a swap for his time-share available in Aruba. The island was full of them. His sister laughed at him when he’d bought the time-share in Myrtle Beach, marveling that his idea of vacation meant cooking his own meals and having a comfortable place to put his feet up and watch television.
“You know most people call that home, right, Mikey? They go on vacation to get away from that!” Very few people understood the allure, and certainly Sarah wasn’t one of them. But because he tended to live the job and not just work it, trying to kick back in the comfort of his own living room never really worked. He’d find himself going back to old cases—cold ones, usually—or working an angle on his open ones.
No, if h
e wanted to escape, he needed the generic walls and furnishings of someplace other than home. In truth he liked cooking for himself and the peace of just being. Aruba was ideal for that. Not much to do but lounge around; the pace was perfect. Liz Masterson’s murder had haunted him around the clock, her appearance so similar to his sister, Sarah. Finally putting the son of a bitch who’d sliced her up in a cage had helped him block the visions of her blood-soaked floors and walls from his mind. Getting out of town would put it away for good.
Lord knew he had the time coming. So he took it.
Being a detective, a cop to the core, meant he had a keen eye for reading people. And when he’d spotted her exiting that bathroom, two steps behind the unassuming guy in the golf shirt with the smug look on his face, he’d seen pain. She’d flashed a quick smile and a slight wave, and he saw the mask of flirtation she wore, but underneath it he’d seen someone hurt and lost.
She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, but she was attractive. Probably early forties, but she’d done a good job keeping fit and looked younger than her age. The slight frown lines around her mouth and the dark circles under her eyes looked like recent developments, and gave her a vulnerability that drew him in further.
He couldn’t help but follow. When she’d fumbled with her things, he was right there to help her out. Before she took back her paperwork, he’d seen the name of the hotel on her itinerary, surprised to note it was the same place he was staying. If only the damned phone hadn’t rung…
Her escape had been an easy one. The phone call, which normally would have been a welcome greeting from a friend, distracted him just long enough for her to slip away.
As he’d entered the lobby of the resort, she’d stood to the side of the registration counter, a desk clerk addressing her animatedly while she appeared to sag from exhaustion. Part of him had wanted to rush to her rescue, a feeling that surprised him in its intensity. He’d forever been protective of others—the primary reason he became a cop in the first place—but this was something more. Something made him ache for her.
He wanted to know her, to learn her story, to smooth those lines and wipe that vulnerability from her face, eradicating the shadows. There was an empty space inside of her. More than anything, that was a mystery he wanted to solve.
Whatever the issue had been, the clerk was ultimately able to resolve it. He couldn’t hear the exchange between them, but he’d noted that the clerk seemed ready for her to explode at any minute; she never did. In fact, she’d seemed to grow calmer the more sheepish the clerk became. She’d finally taken the key folio and appeared to wave off an offer of assistance as she slowly turned for the elevator. Her shoulders had stiffened as she’d walked away, as if she’d found some measure of pride in her ability to control her reaction to whatever had happened.
He longed to see that pride and confidence again.
The glint of her light brown hair, streaks of gold hinting at the blonde child she had probably been, had caught his eye by the pool the next day. Her routine was easy to determine. Coffee and a piece of technology, an e-reader of some sort, on her balcony in the morning, followed by more reading at poolside. Around midday, but not on a rigid schedule of any kind, she had a light lunch. That first day, she’d gotten a cheeseburger at the pool bar, which made him laugh. So few women would willingly eat a cheeseburger in public lately; he marveled at the return of her self-assurance. As he saw her eat, though, he realized it wasn’t self-confidence at all but comfort food. She’d gone to the grocery by the second day and changed her lunch routine to cheese and crackers, fruit and wine.
Seeing her nibble grapes had made him hard.
Cursing himself for treating her like the subject of a stakeout, he’d tried to return to his own routine. He’d gone for a run on the beach at sunrise on that second day, forcing himself not to look at her balcony as he’d left and as he’d returned. It worked for the morning, but he’d found himself studying her from his balcony as he ate lunch.
Other men approached. She was gracious, although clumsy in her flirtations. She got lots of practice. Michael was almost amused that she never really got the hang of it, but he found himself less amused that it seemed to charm her many suitors. He grew more jealous each day as she had drinks, went dancing, even sailing, with one man after another.
His previous trips to Aruba, the number of families he’d seen had made him long for something he’d resigned himself to living without. It wasn’t unusual to see groups of women vacationing together, girls’ weekends and the like, but single men that didn’t appear to be frat boys on break had always been a rarity. Somehow she’d managed to attract them all. The fact that it was starting to piss him off wasn’t lost on Michael.
So he watched.
His gaze returned to her luscious breasts, the relatively modest swimsuits doing nothing to hide her pert nipples when she emerged from the ocean. He’d begun to think of it as their ritual: he’d migrate to his balcony as lunchtime approached, and wait for her to rise from her lounge chair and stretch, pulling her hair from the clip she’d used to keep it off her shoulders while she read. She’d walk from the pool deck onto the beach, heading directly for the surf. It couldn’t really be categorized as a swim, since she seemed to use the ocean just to cool off, returning almost immediately after she’d completely submerged.
Returning to her lounge chair, she’d wrap herself in a towel and gather her things while he lamented the covering of her taut nipples. He learned that the best was really yet to come, though, because she headed to her room to enjoy lunch on her balcony, which afforded him a much better view. The balconies were recessed, so there was no visibility from either side, but the view from across the courtyard was unobstructed. Somehow she seemed to feel hidden, and he’d watched her emerge from her room, her wet bathing suit clinging to her curves as she set out a light lunch and returned to reading. And sometimes more than just reading; those were the best days of all.
There was no doubt that Ms. Victoria Simpson had a naughty streak. One he wanted desperately to explore.
Thus went the first five days of his vacation. He had two weeks to unwind, and he’d spent almost half of it acting like he’d been on a surveillance detail.
Christ, Collins, either go after her or let it go! This is fucking ridiculous.
After studying her habits, he had drawn some conclusions from what he’d observed and had decided to fish or cut bait. Clearly she wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship, since she’d hooked up with a different man each day. It didn’t seem like she’d had sex with all of them, but from the moment he’d first seen her, she had the look of a woman who was trying to fuck something out of her system. More likely someone.
What the hell. He could definitely help her out with that. Lord knew he’d fucked a lot of things out of a lot of women in his life: defiance, modesty, fear.
But something in him wanted more than that with her. He’d had plenty of time on his hands, so he developed a plan.
Sitting at the bar, the curve of her ass peeked out on one side of the back of the bar stool. He liked his women soft in all the right places, and this one seemed to fit the bill. He’d seen her in everything from her bathing suits to short, sexy cocktail dresses. Her skin was slightly sun kissed from days on the beach and by the pool, except her nose, which was a delightful shade of pink.
God, he’d fantasized about the other parts of her he’d wanted to see pink.
He watched her that night at the bar for almost two hours. At first he was afraid she’d arranged to meet someone, although she was dressed rather casually, a light-colored sundress draping over her loosely. It didn’t take long for him to notice her going back to something on her phone repeatedly as she idly sipped her wine and chatted briefly with the bartender whenever he passed. He felt anxiety tighten his chest when he saw the first man approach, but she rebuffed him, almost looking through him as she rejected him. When she turned to talk to the guy, he saw the tightness around her eyes had gotten worse
, and she looked sad.
Twice more she was approached. The anxiety returned each time, but he’d resigned himself to the feeling. It’s not like you’re going over there or anything. But he knew in his gut she wasn’t ready. Not for him. If she was right for him, she’d be the one to approach, not the other way around. That didn’t mean the feeling of anxiety—and jealousy—didn’t bother him.
Chapter Three
Signing the receipt for her drinks, she bid the bartender a quiet good night and rose from the bar stool.
For reasons she didn’t understand, she turned slightly to wave to the stranger at the table. Having realized he’d been on the periphery for most of her vacation, and since he’d occupied her thoughts for a time that evening, she felt compelled to at least offer a polite and symbolic good night before she left.
Before she could, he leaned forward, and his face moved into the light. Dark hair, trimmed neatly at the collar and around his ears, framed his face, a slightly tousled look to it. Pronounced cheekbones offset a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least a couple of times in his life, a slight bump at the bridge. His lips were held in a firm line; he looked stern, almost angry.
She smiled nervously, feeling a flutter in her stomach. She felt as if he were reproaching her for leaving, which was completely ridiculous considering he’d had hours to approach her and had simply sat and stared.
His face relaxed slightly and he no longer appeared to be upset with her, but he didn’t return her smile. He raised his eyebrows slightly as if questioning her actions. She’d planned on walking away, had left her bar stool with the intention of going to her room, but his gaze held her. They were too far away for words, but somehow he had communicated with her.
Her plans for the rest of the night—calling airlines and packing clothing—faded into the background. With just a look, she knew he wanted her to stay.
Mission Statement Page 2
