A combination of disappointment and bewilderment clouded his features. ‘That’s a hell of a thing to hear. Couldn’t you have told me before this?’
‘Oh, I tried, believe me, but it never seemed be the right moment. I… I like you, Jack.’
‘Like me enough to lie to me.’ He glanced at her left hand and wondered why he’d never noticed the thin platinum band on her finger. Something in her eyes told him the marriage wasn’t all it should be. For the longest time he just stared at her, saying nothing.
Eventually, she held out her trembling right hand. ‘It was wonderful meeting you, Jack.’
He took her hand, leant forward, and brushed his lips against her cheek. ‘You too.’
‘Have a safe journey home.’
‘Grace—’
‘I’m sorry. Goodbye, Jack.’ She turned and walked quickly toward the bank of elevators before he could say anymore.
That was the last time they’d had any contact. He’d often wondered what might have happened if she had invited him back to her room for a drink.
Rosa padded into the room. ‘You’ve been painting the same piece of wall for the last five minutes.’
Startled, he jumped at the sound of her voice. The can of paint in his hand tipped, threatening to spill its contents over the polished wood floor.
‘Damn it, Rosa, do you have to creep up on me like that?’
She yawned, and then brushed her long black hair from her eyes. ‘You were someplace else, what were you thinking about?’
‘I was thinking that I’d finish this a whole lot quicker if I wasn’t interrupted every five minutes.’
‘You haven’t been interrupted by me, so there’s no need to be a grouch. Did I hear the phone?’
He looked at her with something akin to disgust. ‘Christ, Rosa, you wake up when the phone rings, but not when your daughter cries. What sort of a mother are you?’
Hands on hips, Rosa glared at him. ‘Don’t start, Jack. You’ve no idea what it’s like to give birth. I just can’t stand her needing me all the time.’
He sighed. Rosa hadn’t told him about the pregnancy until it was too late to do anything about it, not that he believed in abortion. It was just that fatherhood had never featured high on his list of priorities. But whether the pregnancy was due his carelessness or her forgetfulness in taking the birth control pill, he’d accepted the responsibility and moved her into his condo. What he couldn’t tolerate was her total lack of interest in the child, and the home he was providing for them.
‘Besides, I’m not feeling well. I’ve a terrible headache.’
‘Yeah? That’s not surprising is it? You should be looking after our daughter rather than spending the evening drinking with your friends.’
‘You don’t understand, Jack. I can’t cope with her on my own. Not when she cries all the time.’
‘It’s what babies do. You’ve got enough brothers and sisters with kids to know that. I can’t be around all the time, Rosa. I have to go back to work at some point.’
‘But not yet. Please, Jack, stay at home a little longer. At least until we get her settled into a routine.’
‘Another week, that’s the best I can do. The condo is a mess. There are dishes stacked in the sink, laundry waiting to be done. It’s about time you started pulling your weight. I can’t be expected to look after the baby, as well as cook, clean, and fix up the nursery. You’re going to have to learn to manage on your own.’
As if on cue, Emilia started bawling.
Rosa put her hands over her ears. ‘For God’s sake, what’s the matter with her?’
‘She’s hungry.’
Rosa rested a hand on his arm and offered him a smile. ‘Can’t you feed her, Jack? She always settles after you’ve fed her.’
Jack put down the brush, and removed her hand from his arm. ‘No. I’m busy. You might try breastfeeding her for a change. It’s the motherly thing to do.’
‘No way! I’ve seen what breastfeeding does to a woman.’ She wrapped her arms around her generous chest. ‘I don’t want my tits ending up down by my knees.’
‘In that case, there’s a bottle of formula in the fridge. You can nuke it in the microwave. Now go on, go and feed our daughter. And don’t forget to burp her before you put her back down.’ He pushed her in the direction of the lounge. She hissed something in Spanish, but did as she was told.
The following afternoon, with his ears still ringing from their latest futile argument, Jack pulled the black Ford Explorer into a vacant parking space at the airport. He glanced at his watch. Two o’clock. He locked the SUV and walked the short distance to the main terminal building. With half an hour to kill before Grace Elliott’s flight landed, he headed to the nearest coffee shop. He chose a stool at the counter nearest to the exit and ordered a double espresso.
Airports fascinated him, not because he wondered where everyone was going to, but rather what they were hiding. He rubbed the dark beard on his cheeks. He didn’t like the man he’d become — cynical, bitter, and when occasion demanded, tough and mean. He had the Bureau of thank for that, or rather fourteen years working as an undercover agent.
Jack drained the last of his espresso and headed for the international arrivals hall. The officer on the customs desk recognized him and waved him through. If anything, the hall was more crowded than the concourse. He glanced at the overhead display. Three flights had landed in quick succession: a British Airways flight from London, an American Airlines flight from Bogota, and an Air Taca flight from San Salvador.
Angry voices filled the air as people jostled for trolleys and stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the carousels waiting for their luggage. To his left, a small, wizened man was arguing with the custom official in a mixture of Spanish and halting English over the inspection of his luggage. Jack grinned. It reminded him of his arguments with Rosa. Whenever she thought she was in danger of losing the point, she reverted to her native tongue.
Out of habit, he watched the arriving passengers for telltale signs of nervousness and anything that seemed out of place. A sniffer dog and its handler worked the luggage from the Columbian flight. The dog gave no reaction, but Jack knew from experience that agents from the DEA—the Drugs Enforcement Agency, would be closely monitoring the passengers, selecting those who acted suspiciously, for a more thorough examination of their luggage.
He turned his attention to the carousel for the London flight and recognized Grace straightaway. She stood to one side waiting for her luggage. Dressed all in black, she was thinner than he remembered and her complexion more translucent. She looked more ethereal than ever, if that was possible.
More than one man glanced in her direction, openly appraising her. Jack grinned. He wasn’t the only man to find her attractive. He started to turn away, but one individual in particular caught his attention. A short, stocky man, dressed in a well-cut suit, continued to stare at Grace from the opposite side of the carousel. Without seeming to, Jack memorized the face. He wasn’t sure if Grace had noticed, but something unnerved her. She constantly put a hand to her throat. He shrugged and put her nervous behaviour down to a combination of jet lag and unfamiliarity with her surroundings. It took him several minutes to cut through the crowd and reach her side.
‘Grace? It’s good to see you again. I just wish it could have been under happier circumstances.’
She offered him a tremulous smile. ‘Me too. Thanks for coming, Jack. How have you been?’
‘I’m fine, all things considered. You look tired. How are you holding up?’
Her blue eyes clouded with tears, she lowered her gaze. ‘Oh, you know. Some days are better than others.’
‘Did you get any sleep on the flight over?’
‘Not much, the passenger in the row behind me had a young baby. It cried for most of the journey.’
Against his will, he smiled. Despite what she said, she looked great. All the ‘if only’ feelings he fought to contain threatened to spill out. He looked away.
; The conveyor belt whirred into life. Grace stepped forward to reclaim her suitcase.
‘Here, let me get that for you.’ He dragged it off the carousel, then took her elbow and urged her toward the exit. ‘I’m parked in the multi-story. Do you want to wait while I get the car? Or do you feel up to a short walk?’
‘A walk would be good.’
Without speaking, they made their way through the terminal. As they neared the door, Jack caught a glimpse of the man who’d been staring at Grace. For a millisecond their gazes locked. Something about the man’s demeanour and his overt interest in Grace brought Jack’s senses to full alert. He lengthened his stride and hustled her towards the parking garage, where they took the elevator to the second level.
Jack couldn’t stand the silence anymore. ‘So where am I taking you?’
‘I have a reservation at the Island Palm Hotel. Do you know it?’
‘It’s about half an hour from here on Collins Avenue in South Beach.’ He stowed the luggage in the trunk, then helped her into the passenger seat, before climbing behind the wheel. The engine growled to life with the first turn of the key. He cranked the air conditioning up to full, then steered the Explorer out of the parking lot into the steady stream of traffic heading for the city.
Grace sat in silence; her arms folded across her chest, and stared out the window.
‘Jet lag is the pits. Trust me. After a hot shower, and something to eat, you’ll feel a whole lot better.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. Right now my nerves feel as if I’ve drunk a year’s supply of coffee.’
Jack turned onto the Dolphin Expressway and followed the traffic towards the MacArthur Causeway. ‘All right, Grace. Time to tell me why you’re here.’ He stole a glance at her.
She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then when?’
‘Soon,’ she whispered. Her eyes closed, she sat rigid, her fingers plucking at the fabric of her shirt.
He knew what it was like to feel strung out, and if her tight-lipped expression was anything to go by, she was near breaking point. He reached for her hand to offer a little comfort, and then thought the better of it. Nothing had changed between them.
Everything had.
Instead, he pulled his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket and concentrated on getting her safely to her hotel.
The traffic on Collins Avenue consisted of the usual snarl-up of tourist buses and private cars. Jack drummed his fingers on the dashboard while an elderly matron tried to reverse into a parking space that was obviously too small for the Lincoln she was driving. After three attempts, she gave up and drove off, much to his relief and the queue of vehicles behind him.
The Island Palm Hotel, one of the more upmarket hotels in South Beach, was situated just north of the Art Deco District. He swung the Explorer into the hotel’s forecourt and parked in front of the entrance.
‘Grace? Wake up. We’re here.’ He climbed out from behind the wheel and retrieved her luggage. By the time he walked round to the passenger side, she’d clambered out of the vehicle. Together they mounted the marble steps to the hotel.
The lobby, a mixture of South Beach Chic and Southern Charm, was quiet and blessedly cool. The concierge was on the phone, talking rapidly in Spanish, as they approached the desk. Jack understood enough of the language to know that he was berating whoever was on the other end of the line for taking a break rather than delivering fresh towels to room four-oh-six.
After a little haggling, he got Grace’s reservation upgraded to a one-bedroom suite on the ninth floor overlooking the ocean. He picked up her suitcase, and ushered her toward the elevator. Once inside the suite, he placed her suitcase in the bedroom on the stand provided, and handed her the room key.
‘I’ll give you an hour to get settled and freshened up. I’ll wait for you in the lobby. Then you can tell me why it was so important to travel six thousand miles to ask for my help.’
CHAPTER THREE
The door closed softly. Grace shot the bolt. She draped her jacket over the back of a chair, and dropped her oversized black leather purse and the room key onto the coffee table. Elegantly decorated in muted shades of cream and chocolate, the large airy sitting room felt welcoming after her long journey. She kicked off her shoes, stretched, and then winced. Hours of sitting cramped in one position had made her back, neck, and shoulders ache.
She removed a bottle of mineral water from the mini bar, emptied the contents into a glass, and added ice. The cold liquid tasted like nectar and was a welcome change from the bitter, semi-warm airline coffee she’d drunk for the last ten hours.
After the cold of England, the room felt overheated. She crossed to the balcony and threw open the door. Warm, humid air billowed through the curtain. Nine floors below, the half-naked bodies of sunbathers stretched out on loungers around the pool. Through the palm trees, she could just make out the white sand beach and turquoise waters of the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Grace let the curtain fall and walked into the bedroom. The digital clock on the nightstand showed three-thirty. She picked up the telephone and dialled Olivia’s number. While she waited for her to answer, she tried to work out the time difference, but her weary, jet-lagged mind refused to make the calculation.
‘Olivia? It’s Grace.’
‘Hello, my dear.’
‘I’m calling from Miami, so I won’t stay on the line for long.’
‘Miami? Good gracious! What on earth are you doing there?’
‘It’s a long story, but it seems that Daniel owned property here. I’ll know more once I’ve spoken to his attorney.’
‘Well, I always said he was secretive. But Miami? Why couldn’t he have purchased a house in France like everyone else?’
‘I’ve no idea. Hopefully, I’ll find out why tomorrow.’
‘All right, but be careful. I’ve heard Miami can be a dangerous place.’
‘Don’t worry, Olivia. I have a friend helping me. I just wanted to let you know where I was. I’ll be in touch again in a couple of days. Give my love to Tom.’
Grace replaced the receiver. The king-size bed looked soft and inviting, but even if she had time to undress and slide between the cool cotton sheets, she knew she wouldn’t sleep. Instead, she opened her suitcase, took out her bag of toiletries along with some fresh underwear, and walked into the bathroom.
A quick look in the mirror told her she looked worse than she imagined. Her clothes were so crushed and travel-weary they looked as though they’d never seen an iron since the day she had purchased them. Fatigue settled in dark pockets under her eyes. Her hair was a mess; tiny curling tendrils escaped her once-neat braid and now framed her pale, pinched face. She pressed her hands over her eyes and tried to wipe away the sadness. She felt empty and drained, and so tired that her nerves throbbed.
You’ve come this far. You can’t fall apart now. A few more days, and then you’ll know the truth.
She undressed like an automaton. Shook her hair free from its braid, and then stepped into the fancy marble and chrome shower cubicle. Turning the faucet full on, she let the hot water stream over her body and face, but it did nothing to relieve the tension in her neck and shoulders.
Seeing Jack again had re-kindled old emotions. Six months ago she’d been within minutes of falling into bed with him. Only her strong sense of righteousness had stopped her — that, and the platinum band on the third finger of her left hand. Tall, dark, lean, self-assured, he was everything she remembered, everything she wanted but couldn’t have.
Desire washed over her, followed by a wave of shame. Other memories filled her mind; his ready smile, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. But most of all she remembered his gentle, sensual touch.
Grace knew she ought to walk away, find someone else to help her uncover the truth. Yet she knew he was the only man she could trust.
The only man who could protect her.
She’d told herself she could handle being close to him
again. But she wasn’t fooling anyone, especially herself.
She lathered herself with the complimentary orange and ginger scented shower gel, and then slathered shampoo and conditioner through her knotted hair. After rinsing off, she turned the faucet to cold and stood under the fine spray until her skin puckered and she began to shiver.
Most of the clothes she’d packed were more suited to a harsh British winter rather than the milder sub-tropical climate of Miami. But after much rummaging, she finally she settled for a pair of smoke-coloured linen trousers and an apricot silk shirt. She towelled her hair dry, shook her head, and finger-combed it into soft waves.
The woman in the mirror looked more together than the one who’d stepped off the plane a couple of hours ago, but her face remained chalk-white. A few strokes of blusher and a little mascara was all she could manage by the way of make-up. The next time she looked, her cheeks at least had some colour.
Ring of Lies Page 3
