by B. J Daniels
Did Carlos know the true story of the disappearance of his best friend, wife and children? Supposedly he and Alma hadn't been on the island when it had happened. Maybe that was true. Maybe Carlos was as much in the dark as Landry was about the events that had happened around him.
Landry stepped back into the trees as he watched Carlos look around then head into the thick underbrush. Where was he going?
Carlos wasn't gone but a few minutes before he returned with a fishing pole. He put it in the boat, then pushed out and climbed in.
The boat motor purred to life. Carlos spun the motor to point the bow of the boat toward a far island. He gave it full throttle and sped off to disappear into the horizon.
Landry waited for a few minutes longer, then trailed along the edge of the cove to the spot where he'd seen Carlos disappear into the underbrush. There was only a faint path, not even noticeable if you hadn't seen someone just emerge from it.
Bending low to avoid limbs, he pushed back through the dense vegetation. At first he didn't see it. Probably because the old fishing shack was grown over, the island reclaiming it.
He recalled how secretive the old man had been and felt a shiver of dread work its way through him as he reached for the door.
Chapter Thirteen
Landry found the latch on the old fishing shack and slowly opened the door.
The shack was small and dark inside. All he could see were old bait buckets, weather-ruined life preservers from another era, a few fishing poles and odds and ends.
He wasn't sure what he was looking for. Maybe an unfinished painting by W. St. Clair. One of him. Stolen from her room.
It was just large enough that he could step inside. He stood in the darkness, not sure what he was looking for, just that he didn't like this place any more than he did the villa.
The island gave him the creeps and he wasn't sure if it was the people on it—or the evil he felt that permeated the place. He hadn't been kidding when he told Willa he could feel that something horrible had happened here.
He found the small wooden box under a shelf hidden behind the life preservers. The lock was rusty, the hinges creaking loudly as he lifted the lid.
Old letters. Envelopes yellowed with age. Gingerly he picked up one, lifted the flap and carefully pulled out the thin sheet of paper.
The letter was written in Spanish, but he could make out enough of it to see that it was a love letter addressed to "My Dear One" and signed "Your Faithful." The writing was neat but neither masculine or feminine, the paper plain.
He put it back in the envelope, noting that the letters had never been mailed. Had they been delivered?
Putting the letters back, he returned the box to its hiding place and checked to make sure no one was waiting for him outside. The island seemed too quiet, as if even the birds held their breath. It gave him a strange, anxious feeling, and suddenly he couldn't wait to get back to Willa.
Slipping out, he stole back out to the beach. No sign of Carlos.
After circling the entire island, he hadn't found any sign of another person on the island or a boat. Maybe there wasn't anyone on the island he had to fear. Not that he was taking any chances with the odd group living here.
For now they were safe here. Bull would be arriving soon with the package from the gallery owner. Once they had the painting it would just be a matter of getting the disk to the right people.
As he neared the villa, he felt the heat bearing down on him. He needed a bath. The thought brought back an image of Willa in the tub. Not a good idea. A swim. That's what he needed. He would get Willa and go down to the sandy part of the beach. The tide was going out. It would be nice to swim and maybe lie in the shade for a while. Better than staying alone in that small apartment with her.
Henri's door was open, but there was no sign of her or of the others as Landry crossed the courtyard. Loud music throbbed from Blossom's apartment. There was no other sound as he climbed the stairs.
He tapped at the door, wondering if he would wake Willa. He'd been gone for quite a while. She should be awake by now. She'd been so obviously exhausted earlier he figured she'd gone right to bed.
"Yes?"
"It's me," he said quietly.
She opened the door, a paintbrush in her hand.
He stepped in, her look questioning. He shook his head. "You're working?" He glanced toward the bedroom and her easel, relieved to see a picturesque painting of the villa. No splashes of red. No hint of a bloodbath.
"Want to go for a swim?"
She cocked her head at him.
"We can talk on the beach." He made it sound as if he thought the apartment might be bugged. It might be, but that wasn't his reason for wanting out of here right now. Willa smelled and looked wonderful and the apartment was cool, the bed too inviting.
She studied him for a moment, then said, "I'll put on my suit."
When she came out of the bathroom, she was wearing a two-piece—chaste compared to that string thing that Henri was wearing yesterday.
But Willa in her two-piece was so damned sexy he felt poleaxed standing there looking at her. How the hell was he going to keep his hands off her?
"What?" Willa asked.
He shook his head, afraid to trust his voice.
She picked up a beach cover from behind the door and pulled it around her, leaving nothing exposed but a lot of leg.
He turned away, let out a long breath and couldn't wait to hit the water. He just hoped it would be cold enough, he thought as he followed her down a short path to a secluded stretch of beach, the sun golden over the top of the palms.
Running past her, he dove into the surf. As hot as he was, it felt icy, but as he surfaced and looked back at Willa, he realized the dip had done little to cool his desire for her.
What was wrong with him? He'd gone all these years without needing anyone. Hell, he hadn't seen his family in months. Talk about a loner.
So now he was going to let some South Dakota farm girl twist him all up inside? A virgin farm girl, he thought with a grin as he waded toward her.
He plopped down on the beach and squinted out at the Gulf. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her drop her beach cover and walk slowly into the surf. He closed his eyes and lay back in the sand, concentrating on each breath the way he did when he was shooting a sniper rifle.
Over the sound of the surf, the breeze in the palms overhead and the cry of seagulls on the rocks nearby, he heard her return from the water and lay down on the sand next to him.
The sun beat down on his bare chest, legs and arms. He tried to concentrate on the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed slowly, carefully, too aware of her next to him.
Whose stupid idea had this been? A secluded beach in paradise? What had he been thinking? At the time he'd thought anything was better than staying another minute in that small apartment with her.
He flinched as a cool damp fingertip touched his shoulder. Eyes still closed, he felt her shadow fall over him only an instant before her lips brushed his.
He opened his eyes and looked into a whole lot of blue. He'd been able to read her from the first time he'd seen her. She was incapable of hiding her feelings. Even her thoughts. Just as she wasn't hiding any now.
He groaned and cupped the back of her head as he brought her mouth down to his again.
She tasted salty, her palm cool as she rested it on his chest. He parted her lips with his tongue and drew her down on him, her cool body on his sun-hot one as he kissed her deeply, aroused by her lush body clad in the still-wet old-fashioned two-piece swimsuit.
As he freed her of the two-piece suit, he rolled over so he was on top. Tossed the suit aside—top and bottom— Her eyes widened a little as he pressed his chest to hers. She felt so good.
He'd promised himself he wouldn't do this. She must have seen his moment of hesitation.
"Are you sure about this, St. Clair?"
"I need a man who doesn't own any sheep," she said on a breath.
He grinned down at her. Damn, she was sexy as hell in that innocent, naive South Dakota way of hers. "What you need, darlin', is a man who can promise you tomorrow. I'm not that man."
"Don't go gallant on me now," she said, and grinned up at him. "I want you to be my first. Set the bar for those other poor fools."
He didn't want to even think about another man making love to this woman. He dropped his mouth to hers, stunned by the sensation of just kissing her, and all the while telling himself that this wouldn't change anything between them.
Willa had often dreamed of the first time a man would make love to her. Frustration and fear combined. But kissing Landry, she let herself enjoy the feel of him, the new sensations that sent shock waves through her body, tremors of exquisite pleasure. She'd challenged him and he'd taken it. No other man would ever be able to surpass this, she thought as he dropped his mouth to her breast and she felt his wonderfully talented tongue begin its journey over her body.
After that, she had no clear thoughts. He touched and licked and caressed and kissed, leaving trails of heat up and down her body. She gasped, sometimes out of shock at the places he went, the things he did, until she lost herself entirely in the building volcano he'd started inside her.
And just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he made her explode, showered every cell in her body with pleasure as she quaked in the aftermath.
Then he kissed her, held her and started all over again. This time as she clung to him, he entered her. She felt a sharp jab of pain, then slowly he took her higher and higher until she could no longer hold back, the two of them, their bodies locked in ecstasy on her swimsuit cover, the warm sand beneath.
He rolled to the side, taking her with him, pressing her face into the sweaty warmth of his chest. She breathed him in so she never forgot his scent, the feel of him, the sound of his voice next to her ear. She never wanted to forget.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Hmm," she said. "I just feel sorry for those other men. That will be a hard act to follow." She giggled and tried to remember a time she felt this wonderful. "Not even Christmas in South Dakota could top this."
He chuckled, a deep throaty sound, and pulled her closer. She sensed a sadness in him. Did he feel guilty for taking her virginity? She smiled at the thought, grateful to him, not that she would ever tell him that. But it made her wonder if Landry Jones wasn't as tough as he let on. She let herself drift in a cloud of contentment, forgetting for a while that anyone wanted her dead.
He must have dozed off. Landry woke with a start as cold water dropped on his chest, on his face. He reached for the gun he'd wrapped up in his T-shirt as he squinted up at the dark silhouette standing over him.
His T-shirt was empty.
He came all the way up into a sitting position, eyes focusing as he raised one hand to block out the sun and saw Willa standing over him holding his gun. His gun with the silencer on it.
He swore and met her gaze.
"You," she gasped as if she couldn't catch her breath. She was soaking wet, obviously having gone swimming. He hadn't felt her leave his side and that, it turned out, was a huge mistake on his part. "You're the one who shot at me."
She pointed the gun at him, her finger on the trigger. "I wondered when you didn't seem overly concerned about a killer being on the island with us. It was because you're the one who took those shots at me!"
He groaned. "I did it because I needed to gain your trust quickly."
"My trust?" She spat the words at him. "You took shots at me to gain my trust? Did you make love to me for the same reason?"
"You know better than that."
"Do I?" Her hand holding the gun was trembling. "You could have killed me."
"I'm a better shot than that." He gave her a grin, hoping to lighten this moment.
Her eyes narrowed, the gun in her hand steadied as she pointed it at his heart.
He wiped the grin off his face. "Look, I'm sorry I lied to you. I didn't know you then." He lifted up, getting his feet under him and slowly rising. "I was desperate and you were just a means to an end. But somewhere along the way, that changed." He reached out to her, needing to get that gun away from her before she accidentally pulled the trigger. Or pulled it on purpose.
She stepped back, the gun still aimed at his heart.
In the distance, he heard the sound of a boat headed this way. Bull. He glanced toward the sun. It was high overhead, bathing the island with golden heat.
"That will be Bull with the paintings," he said.
She nodded, her eyes sparking with anger and pain. She handed him the gun, slapping it into his palm, her blue eyes cold and hard enough to chip ice. "Let's get this over with."
Finally something they could agree on. She didn't give him a chance to say anything else, which was good because there was nothing he could say. He was a bastard. He liked to believe that all men were on some level, but right now he had the feeling he was wrong about that, too.
He stuffed the gun into his shorts as he watched her walk away, mentally kicking himself. As she was swallowed up in the vegetation, he quickly picked up his T-shirt from the sand, shook it out and went after her as he pulled it on.
His skin felt raw with sensation, their lovemaking imprinted on his flesh—and embedded forever in his brain. Talk about raising the bar. He couldn't imagine being with another woman without thinking of Willa and this sunlit beach.
Willa heard him behind her but didn't turn. She had every right to be angry with him. It didn't matter that he'd done what he had for supposedly a higher purpose—getting the disk and taking down the bad guys. Or that he'd been shot defending himself and was now being wrongly accused. Or that there were still people out there who wanted him dead—and her, as well, and that he'd taken those shots at her to protect her. Or that he had protected her, even saved her life last night by the canal.
The bottom line was that he'd lied to her. He'd deceived her.
It wasn't him she was so angry with and she knew it. Nor was it the fact that she'd made love with him, wanted him to be the first man and wasn't sorry one iota for it.
No, what had her furious with herself was that she'd made Landry Jones into some kind of hero in her mind. She'd needed a hero and she'd let herself believe he was one.
And that hadn't even been her worst mistake.
No, her worst mistake was… She slowed, tears burning her eyes. She felt his hand on her shoulder and didn't even have the energy to shrug it off. He came around in front of her, his gaze going straight to her tears. He looked like his heart would break, as if he could read the truth in her eyes.
Her worst mistake was falling in love with him.
She jerked away from him and wiped angrily at the tears as she bit her lower lip and gave herself a good mental talking-to.
"You want me to pick up the supply box?" he asked behind her, sounding uncomfortable, as if half-afraid to touch her and even more confused as to what to say.
"You do that," she said, lifting her chin into the air and stalking toward the villa. She could feel his gaze burning into her backside. He'd looked scared back there, as if he couldn't bear what he'd done to her—but she would bet if she glanced back, he'd be looking at her butt. Landry, everything else aside, was all male.
She cursed his black heart silently as she passed through the archway and ran up the stairs. She heard Odell come out of his apartment to go down and get the supplies he'd ordered, but she hurriedly unlocked her door and rushed in before he could call to her.
She went straight to the tub and stood under the spray, washing away the sand and the scent of Landry Jones. If only it was that easy to wash away the feelings. They had come on her so quickly. But spending time with a man under a dock under these kind of circumstances put feelings on fast-forward. At least that was her excuse.
It didn't help that he was so darned handsome. Or often pretty witty. And that grin—
She shut off the water and heard
the door to the apartment open. She'd left it unlocked so he could come in when he returned from the dock. The painting was in the box. Evan had said it was. So there was no more looking for the disk. Soon, no reason to be together.
She heard Landry cutting into the box and reached for a towel. Within moments, Landry would have what he wanted, and if she knew him the way she thought she did, he would be gone.
She leaned against the wall and waited for the sound of the front door closing. Maybe he'd already left and she just hadn't heard the door close. He could be halfway to his boat right now.
The bathroom door opened. Her heart did a little leap inside her chest. At least he had come to say goodbye.
He drew back the shower curtain, seeming a little surprised to see her standing in the tub holding a towel to her. She met his gaze and felt another start.
"The disk isn't in the painting."
"What?" She plowed past him out of the shower and into the living room, still holding the towel in front of her, indifferent to her otherwise nudity.
The box was open, a half-dozen of her paintings standing up along the front of the couch. The one painting, the one that Simon Renton had supposedly hid the disk behind, was on the floor, the back ripped, revealing the space under the paper. It was empty.
She bent down and picked up the painting, seeing at once where the paper backing had been slit. The disk had been inside it.
She turned to stare at Landry. He looked like he'd been kicked in the gut as he lowered himself into one of the chairs just feet from her.
"Where is the disk?" she said stupidly.
He shrugged. "Maybe it fell out. Maybe Simon lied. Who knows?"
She felt chilled suddenly. Putting down the painting, she went into the bedroom, closed the door and dressed. The ramifications were just starting to hit her. Without the disk, Landry could never clear himself. Both of their lives would remain in danger.
Unless someone already had the disk and that was why she and Landry were almost killed last night. They had become too much of a liability.
