Hôtel De Plage Dauphin
Tahiti Nui
When a gun-wielding intruder appeared at the foot of their bed, Spense’s first thought, his first instinct, had been to protect Caity.
And that he would do at any cost.
But his second thought?
Here we go again.
Despite his promise to Caity that the wedding would take place as planned—and he’d damn well make sure it would—the other matter was out of his hands. There was no staying out of the case now. This wet puppy of a woman, all the more dangerous because she clearly didn’t know how to handle her pistol, had put them squarely in the thick of whatever the hell this was.
With a quick glance, Spense checked in with Caity. Her expression told him she was rattled—but ready for whatever might come. He dared a brief nod to her, and then, after waiting for his pulse to settle down, he leveled his gaze at the bride. “You’re Rose?”
They’d heard her name, along with a number of choice expletives, from Tommy Preston, earlier this evening.
“I’ll ask the questions,” Rose said.
Spense gave it some time, but none were forthcoming. And it wasn’t long before his arms stung like hell. His muscles were bathed in lactic acid from the ocean rescue, so after only a couple minutes of holding his hands high in the air, the pain became excruciating. “Rose, I’d like to lower my arms. I’ve had quite a workout today. How about if Caity and I both keep our hands folded in our laps?” He’d chosen his words deliberately. It would be harder for Rose to shoot Caity now that she knew her by name. They might not be friends, but they were no longer strangers.
Rose nodded.
He heard a big sigh of relief beside him as Caity slowly lowered her arms and clasped her hands.
“Thank you, Rose,” Caity said, her tone both grateful and sympathetic.
If Spense knew Caity, and he did, it would be all too easy for her, no matter the circumstance, to develop a soft spot for a kid with big green eyes and a tear-streaked face. He firmed his jaw and sent Caity another glance, meant to remind her their first priority was staying alive.
Caity’s eyes jerked and her teeth clamped down tight.
Message received.
For another few beats they all remained silent. Spense’s heart thumped in his ears. Outside, waves crashed against the bungalow’s stilts. Rose must be tired, too, since she softened her elbows and straightened out of that deformed Weaver stance some well-meaning Joe at the range must have taught her.
“Put down the gun,” Spense said.
She shook her head. “I know who you are, Agent Spenser. If I put it down, you’ll arrest me.”
She must’ve seen tonight’s news. The ocean rescue had taken the lead. “I won’t. I have no authority here. Just put down the gun, and we can have a conversation.” She might look innocent, but she’d already shot one man today. “You got no beef with us. We got no beef with you. So just take it easy and lower your gun.”
The gun sank, maybe a few inches.
“Good. Now put it on the floor,” Spense said.
She shifted her aim off to the side.
Okay, progress. At least if she discharged the pistol by accident, her victim would be that sumptuous arrangement of tropical fruit the management had sent up.
“I can explain everything.” Rose’s green eyes glistened with fresh tears.
The more she cried, the more Spense worried she might fire on them. Rose was desperate, and desperate equaled dangerous.
“Put the gun down, and we’ll be able to listen a lot better,” Caity said. A soundtrack of soft thuds accompanied her words.
At the front of the bungalow, a door crashed open. Rose whirled, pistol out front as two men in uniform—Brousseau’s men—burst into the room.
Dammit.
“Police! Drop the gun! Dépose ton pistolet!”
Spense froze, his mind calculating the best move. With Rose’s back turned, he could go for a surprise attack, but that would almost certainly startle someone—either Rose or the officers—into pulling a trigger. If only he’d had another minute, he was sure she would’ve surrendered her pistol voluntarily, but now, they were in a guns on gun standoff, and unless Rose cooperated fast, it was not going to end well.
“Drop it!” shouted the officer, again.
“Don’t shoot!” Rose cried, but kept her weapon out front.
“Put down your gun, Rose. If you don’t, we can’t help you,” Caity said evenly.
The police pressed in closer.
“Please, put it down, Rose,” Caity repeated. “You don’t want to die.”
Rose’s gun clattered to the floor.
“Hands behind your head. On your knees!”
Rose sank to the floor.
A click sounded as handcuffs snapped over her wrists. “Please, just give me a chance to explain.”
“Don’t, Rose. Don’t say anything else without a lawyer.” Caity was on her feet.
Spense tossed her a sheet.
Before addressing the two uniformed men, Caity covered herself. “We’d like to speak to Inspector Brousseau—ASAP.”
Chapter 8
Tuesday
Police Station
Papeete
Tahiti Nui
Rose Parker undid her braid, and her damp hair cascaded in crimped waves around her shoulders. The cheap cotton uniform the female intake officer had provided scratched her sunburned skin, but she welcomed this small discomfort compared to that of the miserable, wet bridal corset she’d been strapped into all day and night.
Good riddance.
After being searched and given a change of clothes, she’d been handed over to a male guard and brought here, to a holding cell.
At least she had it to herself.
As she took in her surroundings, full body exhaustion swept over her. The cell walls were gray and glossy, like a kitchen, and smelled of fresh paint. The place was surprisingly clean, and she wouldn’t mind drifting off to sleep on the built-in concrete bench—far better than on a feather bed with Tommy Preston.
But there would be no rest for the wicked . . . or for the foolish tonight. She’d made one mistake after another—unworthy of her upbringing.
It was time to play it smart.
Parker smart.
So instead of crashing for the night, as she longed to do, Rose wandered to the front of the cell. The thought of what she was about to do next made her cringe. But in order to trade in this crazy, chaotic life for a fresh start, she had to keep going. Pulling a con might not be the only possible way to get out of a desperate situation. But it was the only one she was any good at. She took a deep breath and recalled what Papa used to say to her and to Lilly.
If you don’t care to do what you must, pretend you’re someone else.
Be Anna.
Play the game.
She took a determined breath and stepped forward as Anna Parker. She pressed her chest against the bars, knowing that in her loose-fitting top, they would outline her assets.
There was no need to offer a come-hither look.
The guard didn’t seem to be able to take his eyes off her. Before she could so much as bat her eyelashes, he approached. When he’d locked her up, he’d been staring at her, too. At the time, she’d assumed, that like most men, he liked what he saw. She wasn’t vain. It’s a tough world, and you should recognize and use all the resources you’ve been given.
Anna’s good looks were a tool, and she’d use them to her advantage if needed.
The more the guard stared, the better her chances. Only there was something funny about the way he was sizing her up. Almost as if . . . “Have we met?” she asked. She couldn’t quite place him—ruddy face, gray-shot, receding hair.
“Non.” He met her gaze.
His eyes were the color of slate, the type that change depending on the light, and veined with red. No malice in them that she could perceive. And she was the perceptive type. He seemed older than she, but not by more
than a decade. For years, she and Lilly had been coming to Papeete with Papa, so it was entirely possible they’d bumped into one another. This was, thankfully, her first incarceration at the Papeete police station, but Papa had been an overnight guest a time or two. Perhaps she’d seen this guard when she’d come to collect her father. “I’m not trying to BS you. You look familiar.”
“BS?”
“No BS means for real. I think I know you.”
“Nous ne nous sommes pas rencontrés.”
She smiled. “English please. I heard you speak it earlier.”
“We’ve never met.”
“If you say so.” She gave him a coquettish smile. “I just thought maybe I’d seen you around. Are you certain we’re not old friends?”
He turned his back on her, rather abruptly.
“Hey.” She tried to rattle the bars, but unlike in the movies, they didn’t budge. “What’s your name?”
He sighed, lifted one shoulder, and turned around, this time stepping close enough for her to catch a whiff of something sweet on his breath. Whiskey?
“Je m’appelle Pierre.”
“Nice name. I don’t suppose you have something to drink around here, Pierre.”
He shrugged. “I could bring you some water.”
“If that’s all you’ve got I’d be grateful, but it’s been a heck of a day. You don’t have anything stronger?”
“It’s against the rules.”
“You don’t look like the kind of man who bothers much with rules.” She hugged the bars in the most fetching pose she could finagle. “Besides, I promise not to tell. Nothing in it for me to get you in trouble.”
“Mademoiselle, I’m here to—how you say? Enforce the law,” he said stiffly, glancing up at the corner of the ceiling.
Ah. A camera.
“I bet things go on the blink now and then around here,” she offered. Surely he knew how to turn the video off.
“Non, miss. I’ll get you some water.”
He left the holding area and returned a few minutes later with a tin cup—empty. He glanced up, seeming satisfied. The green light that had been blinking on the camera was no more.
“About that drink?” She tilted her head.
He smiled, a bit warily. Went to his desk and retrieved a bottle. Showed her the label as if they were in a fine restaurant—scotch. He filled her cup about a quarter full, then with a wink, handed it through the bars and returned to his desk. Resumed shuffling papers.
She sat cross-legged in the middle of the cell, staring down into her cup of booze.
What now?
Pierre’s overly careful stride suggested he’d been drinking awhile already. And the wink he’d given her had been conspiratorial. When she’d promised not to tell on him, he’d believed her.
And why not?
Why should she wish him any harm?
In truth, she didn’t.
She put the cup to her lips. The scotch burned on the way down. She welcomed its warmth into her cold empty stomach. “You’re very kind, Pierre. And a gentleman.” As far as she knew this was true. Many a man in his position might try to take advantage of a woman in hers. Pierre had not . . . yet.
She needed to do something about that.
He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Would you like a blanket? No pillow I’m afraid. You look fatiguée.”
“I’m not sleepy. Just bored,” she said. “You won’t get into any trouble, I hope, because of turning off the camera.”
She wanted him to know she knew what he’d done. She wanted him to begin to think of her as being on his team, and by extension to think of himself as being on hers.
Us against them.
Pierre and his prisoner against the stodgy old rule makers—those spoilsports who forbid drinking and pillows in jail.
It would move things along quicker if she was up front with him—as up front as she could be, anyway. Truth telling was part of the game. Earn your mark’s confidence first; slam down the hammer after.
“Don’t worry. I turn the camera off, but no trouble comes for me. No one will know. No one watches.” He laughed, a big hearty laugh. “Unless you try to escape. Then they watch.”
The scotch went down the wrong way. She coughed. “Escape? Are you worried I might?”
“Non. Of course not. I am big. You are small. I make joke.”
“Ha! You are fun. Too bad there’s nothing else to do but talk. Don’t you get bored doing nothing night after night?”
“I like talking to prisoners. I like talking to you.”
“You don’t happen to have . . .”
“More drink? So soon?”
“I’ve still got plenty. I was thinking maybe we could play cards. If you have some hiding back there.”
“I do!” He rummaged around and pulled out a worn deck.
“You play with your other prisoners?” Papa had played poker with his Papeete jailor once. At least he’d told a story that he had. Claimed he won a pair of dry socks and a flask of red wine.
“Oui. A few times.” His gaze swept over her. “We could play out here. But, I need to cuff you for that. Maybe you’d rather play from there.”
“Either way. Like I said, I don’t want you to get in any trouble.”
“You don’t run, no trouble for me.”
She looked down at her feet. “Wouldn’t get far. Your legs are twice as long.”
“What kind of cards you want to play, mademoiselle? Poker?”
“Sure. Or . . . do you know three-card Monte? It’s quite a challenge, but that’s the point. And I bet you’d be good at it—catch on fast.” Anna pressed her index finger to her lips as if something had just occurred to her. “Only trouble is for three-card Monte, I’d need to use the surface of the desk—to lay out the cards.”
“So we play at the desk.” He fumbled with his belt and unhooked his keys and cuffs. She held her hands out front, while he reached through the bars to cuff her wrists. As he snapped them in place and opened her cell door, inviting her to claim some small semblance of freedom, she noted a fine tremor in his hands. Which could mean he was more nervous about bringing her out than he let on, or it could simply be the drink. In either case best not to make any sudden moves or up the ante too soon. She walked, slowly, so as not to spook him, to his desk and took the chair farthest from the exit.
Outrunning him wasn’t feasible—nor was it the plan.
Pierre set the bottle of scotch on the desk in front of them next to the deck of cards. “Help yourself.”
She picked up the cards and rapped them on the desktop until the edges were even.
“I’ll shuffle,” Pierre said. “Might be difficult for you.” He frowned at her cuffed wrists.
“No need. For this game we only need three cards.”
“Thus the name.” His lips spread wide to reveal teeth aged by smoke and drink.
“Told you you’d catch on quick.” She returned his smile. “I’ll take the ace of hearts—red.” She plucked it from the deck. “The king of spades and the king of clubs, since they’re both black. Make it easy for you.”
“I would like the hard way—how you say it?”
“Challenge.”
“Oui. Challenge me. S’il vous plait.”
Don’t worry, I will.
The cards made a slapping noise as she placed them face up on the desk. “The red ace is here.” She tapped it with her fingernail. “Got it?”
He nodded.
She flipped the cards facedown. “Now. Keep your eye on the red ace. This is your only job.”
“D’accord.” He was watching her face intently, with that look again, as if he knew her.
“No. Don’t watch my face. Don’t even watch my hands. Watch only the red ace.”
“Oui.” He leaned his elbows on the desk and fixed his gaze on the proper card.
She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “Better. Here we go.”
She dropped the cards quickly, switching up
their positions, moving her hands not quite as fast as the cuffs allowed. “Show me the red ace.”
Pierre thumped the middle card.
She flipped it over. “Too easy. That was just practice.”
He waggled his brows with pride. “Faster. I can do it.”
She glanced around the boxy room, missing her sister, Lilly. With Lilly as shill, she could convert the most cynical mark into a true believer. But if she couldn’t figure a way out of this mess, she and Lilly would never be together again.
It was all because of Tommy, and she would not allow him to come between her and her sister.
She leaned forward intently.
Pierre’s body canted forward, too.
Her scheme just might work. Pierre was indeed behaving as though they were on the same team—even his body language mimicked hers. And while Lilly might not be around to act as shill, the scotch would work in her stead. Maybe better, given Lilly’s timing problems—she had a tendency to show her hand too soon.
Anna pulled in a determined breath and increased the speed of the game, keeping her movements regular. The more methodically she worked, the easier it was to spot the ace. The increased quickness only made it seem more difficult.
As she flung the cards, time after time, Pierre had no trouble keeping up. Soon he roared in triumph. “Too easy! Faster!”
She wiped a real bead of sweat from her forehead. “Going as fast as I can.” It was true. The cuffs limited her speed—though not her guile.
Pierre took a swig of scotch. “Are you letting me win on purpose?”
“No. It’s . . .” She glanced at her wrists.
He set his cup down too hard. “Je comprends. I’ll take the cuffs off.”
“I don’t want you to get into trouble. This game isn’t worth it. But I do wonder how well you’d do if we were playing for real.”
He bent, searching for keys, then jerked upright, slamming his head against the corner of the desk in the process. A gash on his forehead seeped blood, and he wiped it off with his shirtsleeve.
“Mais non! Are you okay?”
“Mais oui. Je vais bien.”
The blood might’ve made the wound look worse than it was, or maybe the liquor was acting as a painkiller. Pierre seemed unfazed by his injury. He uncuffed her. “You care to make a wager?”
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