by Lily Harlem
I watched the boat attached to ours bobbing out of sync. I could make out a shadow moving past the windows. Dillon searching, hunting for clues. “So tell me,” I said when Jose handed the drink back and hunched forward again.
“Tell you what?”
“About turning back time. What else do you wish you could rewind?”
He turned to me, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the low sun. “You mean apart from you deciding to show yourself back there and making an already complex situation a damn game of Russian roulette?”
“Yes.”
He stared at the floor again. “Nothing.”
I looked at his back, a wide expanse of sun-kissed flesh with muscles and tendons lurking beneath the surface. He had four freckles right in the center, between his shoulder blades, shaped in an almost perfect square. I couldn’t help myself, I had to touch him. Offer him comfort or support or something.
Resting my hand on his warm skin, I pressed my cheek to the ball of his shoulder. “Sometimes you get a kind of haunted look in your eyes,” I whispered. “Like you’re seeing something you would rather not.”
He pulled in a sharp breath, the movement of his body nudging my face against his shoulder. “In our line of work crap happens, okay.”
“But do you get anyone to talk to about it, you know, afterward?”
I could feel him tensing, his body becoming rigid.
“Talking doesn’t help,” he said.
“Most people say it does.”
His fists clenched. “Not for me.”
“So there is something?”
“Leave it, will you?”
“But—”
He stood abruptly, causing me to drop my hand from his back and lift my face from his shoulder. “Just fucking quit the interrogation.”
“I’m not interrogating you.” I lowered my voice. “I just care.”
He turned to me. “Why, why would you care? Why would the award-winning, super-talented, mega-rich India Moore care about a nobody cop like me?”
I swallowed tightly as I realized just how much I cared. Oh, I didn’t love Jose, how could I after such a short time? But I really did care that he seemed haunted by something in his past. Something that stole him away, captured his mind and transported him back to God only knew what nightmare. “Because,” I said. “You’re Jose Santiago, and right now, there are only two people I can truly trust in my life.” I paused and thought about the shocking reality of that statement. Surely it wasn’t true. Tommy couldn’t be a suspect, he just couldn’t. I loved him like a brother and I knew he loved and cared for me as if I was his sister.
Jose folded his arms and stared at me. Cocked his head as though wondering if I was going to cry.
I wasn’t. I had to be strong. Say what needed to be said. “Jose, I care because despite having all the fame and fortune anyone could ever dream of, I actually haven’t had a special someone in my life for more years than I dare admit. And now here you are, and Dillon. Two men who quite honestly have, in the space of a day, reminded me what it’s like to be touched and made to feel a woman again. Not India Moore, not a famous country and western star, just a hot-blooded, passionate woman with needs and desires to be shared and enjoyed.” I put the drink down and stood, moved to him and rested my hands on his folded forearms. “So believe me when I say I care about you, because that’s just how it is now.”
He unfolded his arms and cupped my face in his palms. Dropped his head low so our noses were touching. He closed his eyes for several long moments and then opened them, his dark gaze boring into me.
“I couldn’t give a fuck about your fame and fortune,” he whispered. “You could be a barmaid from the deep south and I would still want you so much my dick actually physically hurts.”
“It does?”
“Hell yeah.”
My heart soared at the sexy switching of his mood. “You want me to do something about that?” The words just popped out, before I could stop them. Was I crazy? Get down and dirty with Jose, here and now, with everything else that was going on? I was turning into some kind of nymphomaniac now that I’d had a taste of it again.
He tilted the right side of his mouth into a smile. “Very kind offer, but I think we ought to wait until we’ve sorted out the pile of crap we’ve managed to bury ourselves under first.”
“Hey.”
We both turned at the sound of Dillon’s voice.
“I’ve found some things for us to go through,” he said, grinning broadly and holding up a clear bag of documents and a cell phone.
Chapter Twelve
Dillon walked over and waved the bag. “There might be shit in here that helps us find out who he is and what the fuck he’s really here for. No drugs on the boat and certainly no friend—nothing out of the ordinary. This is all I could get my hands on to investigate.”
He pulled out some papers, flipping through them. Nothing incriminating, just boat documents, some receipts for fuel, and a slip of paper with numbers written by hand that obviously meant something to the bald guy but nothing to them. He wondered if he was being fanciful in thinking the man had something to do with the note sender, or was the note sender, but life was stranger than fiction… Then again, since when had any case he and Jose had worked on been so easy? If the guy cuffed down there was the one they had to be wary of, it’d be the first time they’d solved something so quickly.
He huffed out a laugh and shook his head. Why hope? That bald bastard was just a jerk intent on shafting them for money, he’d bet on it. That he’d known who India was probably wasn’t anything unusual—most people would, he suspected.
“Check through the phone,” Jose said. “Numbers first.”
Dillon gritted his teeth, accessed the menu and selected CONTACTS. A list of names and numbers popped up, and he leaned toward India so she could see. After all, she was the one who needed to recognize names. The list wasn’t very long and she shook her head at each one.
“Photos,” Jose said.
Dillon didn’t need telling—this was standard practice—and he bit back a sarcastic retort. He found the picture gallery icon and hovered his finger over it, wondering what he’d see. What India would see. If there was nothing on here worth writing home about, they’d dump the guy back on his boat, get a message to the coastguard about a scammer. Get India to safety and fuck off.
Did he want that, though? Did he want to drop her off and never see her again in person?
I don’t need this crap now.
A shiver of foreboding attacked his spine and he shuddered. That didn’t augur well. His police instincts were always spot on—him listening to hunches was an in-house joke back at the station, but they’d always produced helpful results. That worried him now. Was it selfish of him to hope they found fuck all on this phone so they could move on?
He pressed the icon.
Another screen popped up, containing options for camera footage and pictures. He decided on the pictures first. A shaft of sunlight snuck between him and India, rendering the screen invisible. He moved even closer to her, the tops of their arms and their heads touching. Jose shifted to stand so they created a triangle and leaned forward, putting his shadow over the phone. It would mean Jose would be viewing the pictures upside down, but shit, they’d examined shots every which way before now.
The first one came on screen, just the bald guy holding up a fish on a hook. So he had a boring pastime, big deal. He clicked an arrow for the next one, then did the same again and again as images of the man below deck featured in them all—basic vacation snaps.
So what the fuck was that feeling all about then?
“This is bullshit,” Jose said. “He’s just a prick out here trying his hand at pissing people off—and doing well at it.”
“We have the videos to watch yet,” Dillon said. That shiver returned and he swallowed to ease his suddenly dry throat. “That’s where we’ll find something.”
Jose looked at him. “Aww, fuck.”
“What?” India said, panic in her voice.
Jose put a hand on her shoulder. “He has this thing. Gets hunches.”
Despite looking freaked out, she smiled. “You’re joking, right? I thought cops and hunches were—”
“They’re real,” Dillon said, irritated that she seemed to be mocking him. “But it might not be anything to do with you.” He’d just had to say that, hadn’t he. To make her see not everything was about her. “There might be something on the videos that shows us he isn’t just a lowlife.”
She blinked a couple of times, and Dillon felt sorry for her. Sorry for what he’d said. But hell, he realized she was used to being the center of attention but sometimes people like that had to learn they most certainly weren’t. It had to be difficult, living the way she did, everyone knowing her business—or thinking they did—and her never getting any private time. Yet she’d chosen her career. Some said he was a heartless bastard, but he preferred to call himself a realist. He saw things how they were, and if India lamented the fact she couldn’t do anything without someone finding out, she’d get no sympathy from him.
He pressed PLAY on the first video.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he said. “It’s just him fishing again. What the hell?” Annoyed, he jabbed STOP and selected the second video. The date at the bottom struck him first. “This was last night.” And the scene on screen hit him second. “Shit, that’s you, right?”
He felt India stiffen. “Oh, God…”
“Where is this?” Jose asked, his voice low.
India started shaking. “It’s in the restaurant.”
“Tell me who these people are that you’re with,” Jose demanded, pointing at those sitting at the table with her.
Dillon frowned. This might not be anything to get frantic about. If he saw a star he admired he might video them too. But something was wrong, he felt it in his gut. It looked like an innocent scene—they were eating and enjoying themselves—but…
India raised her hand and indicated each of her companions in turn. “I trust them all. I think. I mean, I did, until… Why did he video me? What the hell was he going to do with it, put it on You Tube? Sell it?”
“You’d know more about that shit than us,” Dillon said. “What I’m more concerned about is this guy has images of you on his phone, and we’re meant to think it’s coincidence he shows up out here? Think about it, yeah? How did he know you were on this boat? Could he have been the one who was in the restroom? Are you sure you don’t remember seeing him?”
India let out a shaky breath. “No, I didn’t see him! As you can see, I wasn’t looking his way. This has been taken from the far corner past the pond with the carp because everyone on screen is so far away.”
“I see no one with you looks his way either,” Jose growled. “Some fucking security you have.”
Dillon had to agree. It just appeared they were any ordinary gang of friends out for a meal. Where were the extra security measures? The bald guy should have been spotted, damn it!
Why do I care?
Fuck. He was starting to develop feelings for her and that didn’t sit right. They hadn’t known her long enough for him to give a shit about her, yet if the anger growing inside him was anything to go by, she’d somehow got under his skin.
“Wait,” Dillon said. “Watch.”
The camera zoomed in, making it much clearer that it was India at that table. It also brought into focus a man wearing a baseball cap and sitting at a corner table beside India’s. He had his back to her party, but he sat straight—a bit too straight—as though he was listening.
“You know him?” Dillon asked. “The guy sitting right there?”
She leaned forward, and Dillon felt a strange sensation of feeling alone without her head pressed to his.
What the hell was that all about?
“Oh my God. Oh my God!” she said, whipping her hand up to cover her mouth. She peered again, lowering her shaking hand to her chest.
“What is it?” Dillon asked, his heart rate kicking up and adrenaline leaking into his system.
“He…he was the guy by the door when I…when I was going to the rest room. I…I didn’t like him, he made me feel afraid. Oh God, look at him.”
Dillon placed his free hand on the back of her neck and she rested her cheek against his chest. Jose crowded closer so sunlight didn’t touch the screen from her changed position.
The man had risen from the table and turned to face India’s, stepping back slowly until he reached the restaurant wall. From there he observed, looking odd with his hands clasped in front of him and his shades on indoors. The anger in Dillon grew.
“How come no one noticed him there?” he said, voice harsher than he’d intended. He massaged her neck, feeling tense muscles. “How long do you think this was before you saw him?”
“Um…I don’t know.”
“Think!” Jose said. “Look at what’s going on around the table and try to remember. It might be important. He’s clearly watching you, and for all we know, that guy we’ve got below deck is in on it.”
Her breathing came out ragged. “Okay, it’s before the main course, I still had my cell so I hadn’t passed it to Meredith yet to call Liam…”
“Hey, wait up,” Dillon said. “Look.”
The man moved forward as though about to approach the table. He slipped his hand into his pocket and drew it partially out again. He held something black, the square end of it peeking from behind the side of his hand.
“What the fuck has he got?” Jose asked. He glanced up at Dillon.
Dillon stared back.
Gun.
Jose nodded once. He’d got the message and dipped his head to look at the screen again.
The man changed his mind and returned to his seat. The camera homed right in on him, clearly showing the man’s shaking hands and twitching mouth. It seemed he was talking to himself—buoying himself up, Dillon suspected, to get up again and do what he’d planned to do.
“That mustache is fake,” Jose said. “Got to be. Who the hell goes around looking like Magnum P.I. these days?”
He’d said it to break the tension, and Dillon silently thanked him for it. India let out a laugh-stroke-sob and they continued to watch in silence. The man pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and put them on under the cover of the table edge. He then reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced a pen. Scribbled something on a napkin. Rose, dropped the napkin and walked out of shot. The cameraman kept the phone trained on his table for a second, as if he was deciding whether to follow the man or pan in on the napkin. He chose the napkin. As the camera zoomed in it shook. Was the bald guy walking toward the table? The napkin had fallen to the floor beside the feet of Meredith. One corner had folded over, but what had been written on it could be seen clearly.
YOU’RE GOING TO FUCKING DIE, BITCH.
“Oh, God. It’s him!” India gasped. “I had a feeling…I-I knew! When I saw him at the restroom door. Oh shit, and he was so near me, about to shoot me.”
“That’s enough,” Dillon said. “I’m going to fucking kill that man.” He thrust the phone and India at Jose and made for the stairs.
“Wait up!” Jose said. “He might have fuck all to do with this. He was just recording events. Go easy, right?”
Dillon clenched his teeth and paused at the stairway opening, one hand on the top frame. He saw red—hit-out-first-and-think-later red—and sucked in a deep breath. It didn’t help to calm him.
Fuck it. Go with your instincts, man.
He shot down the stairs and into the bedroom. Baldy jerked his head around to look at him, scooting backwards on his ass as if to lose himself in the wall but unable to move far because of his constraints. Dillon lunged forward and seized the man’s shoulders. He shook him—hard.
“What the hell were you doing videoing her?” He pulled him forward then shoved him back, Baldy’s head smacking against wood. “What the hell are you doing
out here? Did you follow her, is that it? Did you know she was on this boat?”
Baldy mumbled behind the duct tape. Dillon let go of him and wrenched the strip off his face. A red band quickly sprung up. Baldy squeezed his eyes tight but didn’t utter a sound.
“Answer me, you bastard!” Dillon resisted the urge to shove his fist into that meaty face.
“Hey!” Jose said, charging down the stairs and into the room. “Don’t.”
Jose’s warning got through and Dillon stepped back so he wasn’t tempted to beat the crap out of him. Baldy slowly opened his eyes.
“You deal with him, then!” Dillon shouted, moving to the doorway to take India’s hand as she joined them.
He drew her to his side and put his arm around her back, stroking the top of her arm. She was shaking, and who could blame her? Confronting the person who might have something to do with the bastard who’d been threatening your life had to be right up there as one of the freakiest fucking things.
Jose stood in front of Baldy. Legs apart, arms crossed over his chest. “Now, you need to tell me exactly what you are doing here.” He spoke in a calm and controlled voice, as if offering to be reasonable.
“Fuck you!” Baldy shouted, spittle flying. “Fuck. You!”
Dillon went to hurtle forward, his intent to wrap his hand around Baldy’s neck, but remembered India was beside him. She didn’t need to witness him in action again.
“Do you know who we are?” Jose asked.
“Couldn’t give a damn shit,” Baldy said, a mean sneer forming.
“We are police officers. We have been undercover watching Miss Moore for some time and have just had the pleasure of witnessing the nice little video on your phone. And you,” he lied. “As we see it, you are the man in the video’s accomplice. It is too serious for you to not answer my questions now. You need to explain yourself.”
Dillon admired Jose’s restraint. He’d always been good at speaking to suspects calmly and coercing information out of them.
“Shit!” Baldy said. “All right. I’ll spill, but it isn’t what you’re hoping for. I’m not the one you’re after.”
