by Lucy Score
At least it was a luxurious, floating cage.
There was a quiet knock on her door. One rap followed by two short knocks.
“Come in,” she said without bothering to sit up.
The door opened, and she lolled her head to look at Xavier.
“Do all you Invictus people knock the same way?” she asked.
“What way?”
She rapped her knuckles on the teak nightstand.
He gave her a crooked smile. “It’s just another little layer of security. That way you always know it’s Invictus knocking.”
“Smart,” Waverly yawned.
He stayed in the doorway.
“What?”
“You look like a bored, high-priced call girl waiting for her client,” he told her.
“That’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”
“How about this one?” Xavier pulled his hand from behind his back with a flourish. He held a gold-rimmed plate, and on it was an impressive slab of baklava and one fork.
“Oh, my God. I love you.” Waverly sat upright, reaching both hands for him.
The color drained from his face.
“Jesus, X. I was talking to the baklava. Gimmie.” She wiggled her fingers until he entered, delivering the plate. She forked up a flavorful bite and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, my God this is orgasmic.”
“As someone who has had a front row seat to a few of your orgasms, I object,” Xavier protested.
“Xavier Saint with the jokes.”
“It’s the jet lag,” he yawned and flopped down on the foot of her bed. “Please tell me you’re going to bed and staying there for twelve hours. I might throw you overboard if you say you’re getting up for a six a.m. Pilates class.”
Waverly laughed between bites. “My ass will remain glued to this bed as long as I can get away with it.”
“If you leave your cabin, come get me, okay?” He grabbed her bare foot, squeezed.
“We’re on a yacht in the middle of the ocean with crew that you personally okayed, X,” she said dryly.
“Humor me.”
Waverly feigned a sigh. “As if I could say no to a devastatingly handsome man begging from the foot of my bed.”
He pinched her in the calf. “You know I don’t beg, Angel.”
“And the winner with the innuendo,” Waverly said archly. “What did my father want to talk to you about this afternoon?”
Xavier snagged her fork and helped himself to a bite of dessert. “He had some questions about the investigation.”
“You feel guilty.”
He looked at her through those thick, dark lashes. “I suppose we’re not talking about the investigation now.”
“We are not.”
He sighed, reluctant to talk. “Yes, I feel guilty. I broke a rule, the rule. And so when your father thanks me for doing my job, all I can think about is how I wasn’t doing my job when I was defiling you.”
Waverly laughed. “Defiling? Xavier, we made love.”
“Why don’t you try yelling that a little louder? I think there’s a hard-of-hearing grandmother in Santorini who didn’t hear you.”
She poked him in the very firm abs with her toes. “You didn’t take advantage of me, and it was amazing. End of story.”
“I worry that I won’t be able to control myself again,” he admitted.
“We’re on a bed now, and we’re behaving,” she reminded him.
His eyes narrowed, considering. He dipped his mouth to the arch of her foot, and she felt his tongue dart out to tease the sensitive skin.
The purr caught in her throat, and she saw his eyes warm. Testing himself, she thought, wanting to see how far he could push himself.
But his test didn’t take into account how his touch affected her. She didn’t know if she could trust her own control if pushed too far.
She put her foot against his chest. “Go to bed, X.”
“Sweet dreams, Angel.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
True to her word, Waverly slept late the next morning. Xavier got a solid seven hours before he heard the tender leave taking Robert and Sylvia to shore. He dressed and opened the door to his cabin so Waverly wouldn’t be able to sneak past him.
Instead of setting up at the narrow desk in his room, which would force his back to the door, Xavier propped himself up on the mountain of bed pillows and opened his laptop. He spent the next two hours sifting through Invictus reports and firing off emails to his team, the FBI investigator, and Hansen.
He pulled up the report Roz had put together for him.
Daisy Louchner had been a waitress at the Rail Car Diner, two blocks from Ganim’s mother’s El Plano house. At twenty-two, she was a bubbly blonde according to the Facebook pictures his team had dug up—one of her playing softball with the diner team, another at a local fundraiser wearing a hot pink shirt that rallied readers to Save the Ta-Tas. She shared an apartment with a high school friend and enjoyed baking and a good party. She had her stomach pumped once for alcohol poisoning and a blip for underage drinking when she was nineteen.
She had no family to speak of. Her father had died when she was a kid and her mother when she was seventeen.
Daisy hadn’t posted to Facebook, filed a tax return, or had a single credit card transaction since she left El Plano three years ago.
The roommate, now living in Dallas, had been thrilled to talk to someone who was finally taking Daisy’s disappearance seriously. She’d told local police when Daisy didn’t come home that September night that the creepy guy from the diner had something to do with it. But there had been no proof that she was even missing, let alone abducted. She was probably out partying, the cops had told the roommate. After days ticked into weeks, they assumed she had just left town on a wild hair. Besides, Ganim had been alibied by his mother on the night Daisy disappeared from El Plano.
Tiffani Plotts was a nineteen-year-old dancer at a shithole club called Castaway Dolls on the outskirts of El Plano. She had run away from her Oklahoma home when she was sixteen and ended up in El Plano after a zig-zagging path through Louisiana and Mississippi. She dyed her hair a goth black and wore enough make-up for an entire dance troupe of drag queens.
She dated, frequently older men, but nothing stuck, and usually when one relationship ended, she breezed on to the next man in the next town. She’d lived in a trailer court less than a quarter mile from the club and walked to and from work. She was saving for a car that would get her out of this hellhole, and she told anyone who would listen. Unlike Daisy, Tiffani didn’t have any close friends. So when she didn’t show up to work one day, the only fuss had been which girl had to work a longer shift.
Ganim had visited the club regularly and had gotten creepy enough that Tiffani had finally refused to go on stage if he were there. After an altercation one night in the parking lot involving Ganim and the trunk of his car, Tiffani had filed a complaint. But it was her second complaint since landing in town a year ago, and with her record of a DUI and a handful of possessions, the local cops hadn’t taken the investigation very seriously and a week later, the lead investigator received an email from Tiffani claiming she’d made the whole thing up and was moving back to Oklahoma to take care of her ailing mother.
Mrs. Plotts, too, had been happy to talk to Invictus regarding her daughter. When asked about her health, Mrs. Plotts informed them if it came out of Tiffani’s mouth it was safe to assume it was a lie. Just like when, at fourteen, she chased off Mrs. Plotts’ second husband by making noises about him assaulting her. It was consensual, that much Mrs. Plotts was sure about. As for her daughter’s whereabouts, she didn’t much care. As long as she wasn’t calling and begging for money, Tiffani could live her life, and Mrs. Plotts would do the same.
Xavier made a note to do something very nice for his own parents at his earliest convenience.
As with Daisy, Tiffani had fallen off the face of the earth. No convictions
, no taxes, nothing on Instagram. She’d simply vanished.
He tapped his fingers restlessly and then fired off an email to Micah asking him to get the El Plano investigator who handled Tiffani’s complaint to let them have a look at her email. Maybe they could learn something by tracing it.
He had two missing girls that no one wanted to believe were missing and a third target, none of them seemed to have anything in common besides being young and pretty, which could have been all it took to catch lonely Ganim’s eye.
Xavier brought up the photos from the motel room Ganim had abandoned the night of the explosions and clicked through them. Not many clothes, leading him to believe that L.A. wasn’t a permanent destination.
The laptop left at the scene would hopefully yield some useful information. A detailed manifesto with a list of hiding spots, perhaps? It was never that easy, but at least it was a starting point. He wondered where on the priority list the case fell for the FBI. It couldn’t hurt to reach out and offer some of Invictus’ services if it got the investigation moving.
He cued up the video shot from an abandoned TV camera on the red carpet. It had captured the exchange between Xavier and Ganim. He watched it on mute, paying close attention to Ganim’s movements. He’d stopped and slid his right hand into his pocket a moment before Waverly had seen him.
Xavier backed it up, played it again. Was it a weapon in his pocket? Was he reaching for a gun? Why hadn’t he tried for her? Why had he given up when he was so close to what he wanted?
The FBI hadn’t released Ganim’s identity yet to the public, but they had gotten a warrant to search his mother’s house. It was still furnished, and Ganim still had possessions there. They were speculating that he planned to return at some point. But “at some point” wasn’t good enough.
Ganim had been quiet since the premiere. No messages besides the flowers he sent the next day. Maybe things hadn’t gone to plan that night on the carpet? Maybe he’d intended to grab Waverly, and he was off somewhere licking his wounds. But he’d looked too smug, too satisfied, standing there just feet away.
Regardless, they needed a break, and they needed one fast. Xavier felt reasonably safe with Waverly on the other side of the world. However, when her tour ended, she still had to go home. The longer they went without answers, the colder the trail got, and he wasn’t going to let that happen.
Not with the other timeline hanging over his head. He’d bide his time before telling Waverly that Stanford might not be an option this year. He hated to crush her dreams. That’s why he was dragging his feet. He was hoping for a miracle. That Ganim would slip up and get taken down at a Pinkberry, and Waverly could have everything she wanted.
“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
And just like that, there she was in his doorway. She wore her hair up in a high ponytail and a very small, very flattering black string bikini. She looked refreshed, rested. Unfairly beautiful.
“Good morning,” he said finally.
“Oh good, I thought you’d lost the power of speech,” Waverly winked. “Want to come up and have breakfast with me? I’m thinking about a swim after.”
He could think of nothing he wanted more in the moment.
“Sure,” he said closing his laptop before she could try for a peek at his screen.
“Do me a favor before we go up?” she asked. She held up a bottle of sunscreen. “Can you get my back? I don’t want to ask the crew to do it.”
And he would have no problems tossing the lucky guy overboard. “Sure,” he said again.
She tossed him the bottle and brushed past him. She hinged forward just a bit against the mattress, and he went from half-mast to rock hard when he caught the rear view.
The bottoms, which had been tiny from the front, were miniscule from behind. The rounded curve of her perfect ass cheeks demanded attention under the high cut bikini.
“Oh sweet Jesus,” he muttered.
Waverly pulled her ponytail over her shoulder. “Problem there, Saint?”
Maybe if he closed his eyes, the white hot lust that had electrified his body would start to dissipate. He opened the bottle, squeezed, and with eyes closed rubbed his palms over her shoulders and down her back.
The lotion smelled exotic, like oils and spices from the Middle East. Trust the Sinners to not have a spray bottle of Coppertone lying around.
She gave a little sigh of appreciation that had his cock flexing. “Please don’t make that noise again,” he pleaded through clenched teeth.
His hands skimmed over her low back and around the curves of her hips.
He blew out a breath. Eyes closed wasn’t helping. If anything, it was making it more sensual. He opened his eyes, saw that she was bent over, elbows on the mattress now. It was an unfortunately seductive position.
“Did you get…lower?” he asked.
“Hmm?” she murmured lazily.
“Your ass. Did you put sunscreen on your ass cheeks?”
“Jeez. Such violence when you talk about my ass. And no, but I can—”
He shut her up by shoving her all the way forward. Another squirt of lotion, and he was coasting his hands over the rounded cheeks. His thumbs brushed together between her thighs and this time her sigh was a gasp. Xavier held his breath, willed himself to think about procedural reports, and skimmed the tips of his fingers under the edge of her bikini bottom. He didn’t want her burning if it rode up, though God knew where it could ride up to.
“There,” he said, backing up like she was a toddler with a piñata bat. “Please do not ask any member of the crew to ever do that. I won’t survive it, and I’ll make sure they don’t either.”
“Gee, Xavier. I thought you never begged.” she teased.
His palm landed soundly on her right ass cheek with a satisfying smack. She yelped, and he grinned.
“Don’t play games with me, Angel. I always win.” He smirked, enjoying the view of his handprint on that lovely ass as he followed her upstairs.
--------
The crew arranged a breakfast of French toast, berries, and yogurt on the covered main deck. The espresso chased away the cobwebs of travel and jet lag, and Xavier soon got his second wind. He opened up his laptop at the table while Waverly moved out into the sun with a novel for now and a script to be reading when her parents returned.
She sprawled face down on a soft deck bed, and Xavier did his best to concentrate on the screen and not her ass. He took half an hour and cleaned up some personal business—investments, bills, birthdays—and when Waverly rolled over to sun her front, he switched back to Invictus business.
Her front was just as distracting as her back.
Leonidas had to ask him twice if he’d like another espresso before it registered. And judging by the sly smirk on Waverly’s face, she’d heard the exchange and guessed the cause.
The advance team had sent over yet another final, final tour schedule for London. The studio had squeezed in a one-on-one with one of the biggest newspapers in the UK. He was still waiting on a floor plan for the hotel from their head of security. He reviewed the profile of the driver they’d be using while in London and approved.
He glanced up again, and it looked to him like Waverly’s top had gotten even smaller.
Xavier gave up. It would still be hours before Micah or Roz or any of the team was ready to connect. He was on a yacht on the Aegean Sea with Waverly Sinner. Twenty years from now, would he look back and be glad he spent so much time on paperwork instead of enjoying some non-life-threatening time with Waverly? He could afford to take an hour or two and just relax.
He shut down his laptop and wandered over to Waverly.
“Ready for that swim?” he asked, nudging her bed with his foot.
She dropped the book and smiled. “Let’s go.”
He let her lead the way up the flight to the upper deck and around the port side to the stairs to the sun deck.
; While he shed his shoes and his shirt, Waverly studied the small pool pensively. “I don’t think we’re both going to fit in there,” she decided.
“You’ll just have to make do,” Xavier told her. He draped his shirt over a lounger and nearly had a heart attack when he saw her climbing the rail.
He plucked her off and spun her around. “What the hell are you doing?”
“There’s a lot more room in the sea, X.”
“If you want to swim in the sea, we can walk down four flights of stairs and you can jump in from the very nice swim platform on the stern.”
“First of all, there’s an elevator we could use instead of the stairs—”
“Of course there is.”
“Secondly, the swimming isn’t the point. It’s the jumping.”
Xavier peered over the side. In his young and dumb youth, he’d jumped off cliffs with a shorter fall than this.
“You’re not jumping.”
“Jump with me. Come on,” she pleaded when he started to shake his head. “Don’t you want to feel a little self-induced danger for once? I’m tired of feeling afraid. I want to jump off the side and years later still have this memory to pull out and enjoy. I’ll text you wherever we are then when I think about it, ‘Hey, X, remember the time we jumped off a yacht together?’”
He was already going to have to crush her life’s dream about college. Maybe he could give her this. He admitted the idea of being a treasured memory to her stroked his ego. If he couldn’t claim her, he could at least claim a memorable moment in her life.
“I can’t believe I’m considering this.”
“What will metaphorically push you over the edge?”
He grumbled. “Call the captain, find out how deep it is, and if we’re likely to die on impact.”
Waverly squealed and clapped her hands. She danced away to a white phone mounted on the wall.
He looked over the side again. Had the ocean gotten farther away? This was crazy. He was crazy. Crazy about her. She’d talked him into a motorcycle ride careening up the coast. Now, all she had to do was blink those sea witch eyes at him, and he was trussing them both up as shark bait.
