by Eve Langlais
“Ocean swims?”
“Do you have a death wish?”
“You’re sucking all the fun out of this tropical paradise already,” Darren muttered. “Anything else?”
“Don’t get killed.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“No, he won’t,” muttered Marcus.
Any reply she might have had literally blew away as a strong ocean gust lifted her skirt at the back, high enough that she felt the breeze brushing her bare cheeks. Head held high, she tried to pretend she’d not just flashed Marcus her ass.
He, on the other hand, didn’t seem inclined to ignore it because, as they approached the end of the pier, he brushed past her saying, “Nice cheeks.”
Red cheeks was more apt.
Leaning close to Darren, she asked, “Is the guy in the suit who arranged for you to come?”
“Doubtful. Take a look at what he’s carrying.”
Probably weren’t too many rich hombres who stood waiting like a servant with a towel folded over an arm and a tray of drinks.
She didn’t get to observe much because Marcus stood in front of them, looking every inch the big and burly guard. Staring at his broad back, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d truly meant what he said about kissing other girls.
Let him.
She didn’t care.
Although, if he let any women get in the way of him doing his job—and if they pissed her off—they were on an island surrounded by water. It wouldn’t be hard to get rid of a body.
“Welcome, Mr. Thorne, and, of course, your lovely guest.” She bit her lip lest she snicker when the servant bowed. “The master couldn’t be on hand to greet you but wishes you welcome.”
“Welcome to where?” Darren asked.
“Paradise.”
Kacy had to admit, the name fit the location, as Gerard—such a proper butler name—led them along stone paths on foot. They’d eschewed the offer of a golf cart. After the incident with the helicopter, they all preferred to be in control of where their bodies went.
The lush island boasted numerous wide paths comprised of crushed seashells that meandered through a vegetative jungle bright with blooms and redolent with flowery perfume. While Kacy didn’t spot any bugs, she noticed brightly colored birds dipping in and out of the foliage. A closer glance showed feeders where they could alight and feast. The owner of the isle might have eliminated the bug population, but had ensured that the feathery ones stayed fed, or so Gerard explained as he pointed out the island’s attributes.
The manservant didn’t just keep a steady dialogue going. He also answered almost all of their questions.
“How many people are there on the island?” Darren asked.
“Quite a few if you include staff. And given that our master has invited so many guests, we’ve had to bring in extra.”
Playing the part of arm candy—blech—Kacy asked, “What kind of amenities do you have?”
“Three pools interconnected by a lazy river that goes around the entire island. You can hop into it from any of the guest cabanas on the isle. Foam noodles and other flotation devices are available upon request.”
“A blow-up ring would be nice,” Kacy remarked. “Marcus has enough hot air to inflate it no problem.”
Gerard didn’t even crack a smile. “There is a tennis court on the east side of the island. A fully equipped gymnasium is attached to the main house. Meals will be served on the grand terrace if the weather is cooperative. In the great room if it’s not. But you can also choose to have room service. Simply use the intercom system to place your request with staff.”
“Intercoms? What about a phone? And Wi-Fi? I seem to be having a problem getting a signal.” Darren held up his phone. A new one since his old one had gotten blown up. Apparently, he kept spares stashed around his house because he had a habit of losing them.
“Unfortunately, there is no service on the island, but should you require contact with the mainland, there is a satellite phone option in the main house.”
How convenient.
Not.
What she didn’t mention was that her cell phone in her purse already worked off a satellite. What surprised her was that Darren’s supposedly didn’t. Or was he stringing Gerard along…?
“Here is the guest house you’ll be using during your stay. Unfortunately, it doesn’t have two bedrooms like some of the others, so we had to make other accommodations for your security detail.”
“I’m sure whatever you have will be fine. Marcus is used to roughing it.” Darren clapped his bodyguard on the back. Marcus, for his part, looked big and mean.
As Gerard explained the attributes of the cabana, Kacy looked around. The outside appeared to be made of planking, painted a pastel pink with bright yellow shutters and a thickly thatched roof that rose into a peak. The windows set in the walls of the building were round and obviously custom with their wooden frames painted white.
Stepping inside, she noted that the luxurious guesthouse boasted a simple living area and, closed off from it with sliding, wicker doors, a large bedroom and a decadent bathroom. The height of opulent island living.
For Kacy and Darren, at least. As for Marcus, he got the utility room that could only be entered from the outside around the side of the house. A tight space with a few rough shelves holding empty jars, and on one wall, an electrical panel that hummed. Wires ran thickly out of it into the house. Whatever tools had used to reside in the space had been removed, and the floor swept to allow the addition of a cot.
Marcus glared at the space and then looked at his boss. “They can’t seriously expect me to sleep in here.”
“You could always try the couch,” Darren offered.
“Me and wicker furniture don’t get along. I’ll move this bed inside.”
“And give our host the impression we don’t trust their security and accommodations?”
Kacy jumped in to help Marcus. “Considering the helicopter pilot they hired jumped out and wanted us to crash, I’m sure they’ll forgive any precautions we take.”
Besides, having Marcus nearby would reassure her. The cabana assigned to them was a nightmare from a security standpoint. None of the windows actually locked. The doors either. Anyone could walk in with the least bit of effort. And a thatched roof? All it would take was one flaming arrow to set the place on fire.
Which, she would note, she’d never actually heard of or seen happen, but given the lengths the assassins kept going to, she wouldn’t put it past them.
Exiting Marcus’s solitary cell—try sneaking a girl in there, snicker—they returned to the pink cabana, and Kacy pursed her lips, looking around. She’d thought to grab her purse from the helicopter when they hopped out, and she rummaged through it as Darren spoke.
“This place is amazing. According to Gerard, we have about two hours before the gathering of the guests for the evening reception. I say we get ready now so we can go exploring. I wouldn’t mind checking out the lazy river thing.”
“If I’m going to do my face, then don’t expect me to go into the water,” Kacy sassed, using that opening to pull out her compact and pretend to reapply her lip gloss.
“You don’t need makeup, baby.”
Snapping the compact shut, Kacy uttered a false laugh. “Says the man who wakes up looking like a chiseled god. Is it me, or is it dark in here?” She walked over to a lamp and casually grabbed the nodule sitting on it. She dropped it into the glass of wine they’d arrived with. Then, signaling Darren to keep talking, she kept roving.
“If you don’t want to go for a swim, then how about a walk?” Darren said. “I wouldn’t mind checking out the tennis court. It’s been a while since…”
As he continued to speak, she snared the listening device on the windowsill. It met a watery death.
Heading into the bedroom again, she knew what to look for and snared a third bug from the lamp, and yet another from in the bathroom. Checking again with her compact, she was finally satisfied tha
t they were clear, or as clear as could be expected.
Given the gun in their special package of replacement items, whoever had brought them here obviously already knew or suspected what Kacy was. But that didn’t mean their host had planted the bugs. The assassins had obviously infiltrated Darren’s plans to come here, and Gerard had said they’d brought in extra folk to work. Anyone could be an assassin.
Fun. But only if the boys listened.
Adopting a more businesslike persona, Kacy snapped out orders. “Marcus, you go and check out this place. Figure out how many people are on the island.”
“A lot.”
“Smartass. I want a more specific number than just a lot. See if you can get the name of our host, too. Also, keep an eye out for a way off this island. Helicopter, obviously, but what about boats? You”—she pointed to Darren—“are going to see who you recognize when we go out and mingle. If you don’t know them, get a name so we can run a check.”
“Without a phone or Internet access?” Marcus raised a brow in doubt.
“I have my ways.” Hopefully, she wouldn’t get caught using her specialized methods because that would cause a bit of a dilemma. Touch her phone, and someone might die.
Darren laughed. “I feel like I’m on an episode of Mission: Impossible.”
“More like the A-Team,” Marcus grumbled.
“Only if I get to be Mr. T,” she quipped. “He had the best lines.”
With their roles set, Marcus left while she and Darren prepped for their evening. They took turns bathing, her guarding the door by sitting on the vanity while he showered first, making exaggerated groans of pleasure and a few, “Oh yeah, baby,” exclamations that had her rolling her eyes. But she could hardly bitch him out for trying to act in character just in case someone listened outside. The high windows wouldn’t allow anyone to peek in, but someone could lurk outside, spying.
When he stepped out of the shower, it was her turn to drop her clothes on the floor—only after she made a gesture that clearly indicated she’d rip his eyes from his head if he peeked. With his back turned to her, Darren kept up his crazy vocal byplay of their fake lovemaking to the point that she felt she had to contribute with an exaggerated, “Dios, you’re soooo big.”
Then she had to hide her giggles in the pouring spray while Darren’s shoulders shook.
Interesting how she could joke about sex with Darren, and yet Marcus, whom she’d known just as long, would have probably disquieted her.
Me, tongue-tied and flustered because of a man. If her mother knew, she’d be calling her pastor and setting a date.
Mama still had dreams of her only daughter getting married.
Shutting off the shower, she wrapped her hair in a towel and another around her body. Darren wore his around his hips, leaving his upper body bare. It looked good. Real good. She didn’t feel a thing.
Emerging in towels, she noted their luggage in the room. Had Marcus brought it in or someone else?
Did it matter? She couldn’t exactly raise a stink about it. She pulled out her knife and its holster from the suitcase and strapped it to her thigh. She shook her head at the clothes Darren had bought to replace her previous wardrobe. She hated it all on sight.
“What is wrong with a pair of comfy denim cutoffs?” she moaned. Everything in the suitcase required hanging and ironing. It was also a lot more feminine than she liked. The bikini would probably never get any use, mostly because the little triangles just wouldn’t cover enough. She preferred a one-piece to swim in. It tended to stay on when diving off high places.
She dressed while still grumbling, and when they emerged from the bedroom, they found a tray of snacks and a sweating pitcher of water in the bedroom. Kacy hated that the staff came and went as they pleased, but she couldn’t make a stink about it, not unless she wanted to draw attention.
Rich folk expected staff to wait on them hand and foot. Most of the wealthy didn’t even notice them scurrying about doing their chores.
Kacy did, though. She remained all too conscious of the fact that the staff appeared comprised of a mix of Jamaicans, their dark skin and bright smiles along with their French accent giving their heritage away and, on the other end of the spectrum, the tanned, dark-haired servants with their rapid-fire Spanish.
Kacy looked more like the staff than a guest, a fact she felt became glaringly obvious once they made it to the main house to mingle. The fine clothes she wore didn’t detract from the fact that she felt out of place. With her tanned skin and obvious Latin heritage, she should have been one of the people serving drinks, not sipping them.
Darren slid an arm around her waist, and she was so proud of herself. She didn’t flinch or break his hand.
He whispered, “What’s wrong?”
“They’ll know I’m a fraud.”
“Only because you’re scowling.”
“A smile won’t hide the fact that they’ll just see a girl from the barrio.”
“Only if you tell them. As of this moment, consider yourself a Spanish heiress, whose father made a fortune in shawls.”
“Shawls?” she quipped.
“Fancy ones.”
“That’s dumb.”
“Then think of something better. That shouldn’t be hard. You’re academy trained. Act like it.”
The rebuke served as a reminder that her past and her doubts didn’t have any bearing on the here and now. If she wanted people to believe she belonged here, she had to act as if she did.
Chin up. Shoulders back. Time to stop letting the obvious wealth in this place intimidate. These people weren’t any better than she. They peed the same, and some probably farted, too. Except for the lady in the tight, silver-sequined gown. She’d probably pop a stitch if she let one rip.
After that, the smile proved easier to paste on her face, the act not so onerous. And that was all it was, an act.
But people bought it. Kacy mingled and chatted and did all the things rich people did, including eating little bite-sized pieces of food—no wonder they were all so skinny—and drinking copious amounts of wine. At least, they drank the wine. Kacy found ways to dispose of hers so it looked as if she imbibed more than she did.
All the time, she observed. She noted there appeared to be seven different couples. Six of them with men in their forties or older. But the women varied in age from young enough to be their partner’s daughter to probably married thirty-plus years. The seventh couple was a Mrs. Robinson combination, with a gorgeous woman in her fifties, perhaps even older, accompanied by a boy toy who looked yummy in a suit. He didn’t talk much, just smiled and kept his arm around his date.
It seemed everyone had brought a partner. At least two she figured were security, and she told that to Darren, whispering in his ear. “The redhead with the British fellow is security. She’s wearing a gun.” Kacy recognized the walk that female operatives adopted when wearing a thigh piece. “And the Asian woman. Her date is also a bodyguard, I’d wager.”
“Are you sure? He seems kind of old,” Darren murmured back. “I saw them kissing earlier.”
“They might be screwing, but he’s also wearing a piece.”
Which surprised her. She would have thought their host would have disarmed them all. Then again, how comfortable would these people be if they felt as if they were at the mercy of their unknown host?
Although introductions were made, most neglected to offer last names. Those who did a full introduction were folks that Darren claimed were public figures. In other words, their faces were known, so there was no point in hiding.
As the owner of Thorne Enterprises, Darren was one of those people who didn’t conceal his identity. Smart—because each time he shook a hand and said his name, she could watch for a flicker of something in the other person’s eyes—but dumb, as well. He appeared determined to paint a bull’s-eye on himself.
Being rich, none of them came out and asked why they were here or speculated aloud about their mysterious host. It was enough to dri
ve Kacy batty.
Pretending to kiss Darren, pulling his head down and keeping them tilted sideways so her hair shielded their lips, she whispered, “Why is everyone acting like this is some kind of beachside holiday?”
Darren chuckled. “Because no one wants to be the first to admit their curiosity. Nobody wants to admit that they know nothing.”
“Pride? But for all they know, this is a trap.”
“Yes. And those who feared for their lives probably turned down the invitation. Those who couldn’t stand the curiosity accepted.”
“Money won’t save you from a bullet.”
“No, but money does mean that whoever our host is needs to tread carefully. I might not know each of these people by name or face, but there is enough combined power on this island to draw considerable attention should something untoward happen to us.”
His belief proved a cold comfort as she spent another hour pretending to smile and exchange the most inane chitchat.
Only a brief moment with the redhead who asked, “What agency are you with?” proved that Kacy wasn’t the only one who found this whole affair surreal—and dangerous.
The evening wound down as the stars made an appearance with couples drifting off in the directions of their cabins.
Pretending to toss back one last glass of champagne, which Kacy actually poured out in a sleight of hand that the academy Magician—the code name he replied to—would applaud, she declared herself ready for bed. Wink. Wink.
Darren grinned. “Bed sounds like a great idea.”
In keeping with her drunken persona, she adopted a stumble and giggle for their walk back to their cabana. Her erratic swaying and occasional giddy spins allowed her to peer into pockets of shadow and look for danger behind them.
Arriving at their abode, she noticed the door to the utility shed stood open, the cot inside visible and empty. Marcus hadn’t moved his bed after all, and she didn’t spot any sign of him.
I am not worried. Nope, that nagging feeling in her gut had more to do with the tiny bites of food she’d eaten. It wouldn’t be a bullet that killed her, but starvation.
Following Darren into the bedroom, she danced around, keeping up the pretense as she held up her lipstick and bobbled, trying to find her mouth.
