“Good night, Luke. Sorry you weren’t my date.”
He smiled. “Me, too. Good night, Scarlett.”
And then, like the mystery he was, Luke climbed back into the boat and disappeared into the curtain of night.
Luke just wanted to keep going, lose himself in the black expanse of the ocean.
How could he have mistaken Scarlett Hanson for an operative? And then, even briefly, considered that she should take Stacey’s place? That more than anything seemed proof that he’d lost function of his brain synapses.
He’d kept staring at her in the boat as they’d gone back to shore—not that he meant to, but disbelief kept him glancing back at her, huddled in the jacket, her eyes huge in the moonlight.
Chet would kill him.
And where was Stacey?
Even better—how was he supposed to keep Lucia safe? He’d have to stay on her like glue, but with Benito nearby and without a date for cover…
Yeah, that could get interesting.
He knew a little about how jealousy could warp a man’s brain, turn him violent. The last thing he needed was Benito throwing him off the yacht for perceived wrong intentions.
The boat churned through the ocean, spray misting his face.
Sorry you weren’t my date. For a second, on the pier, he’d nearly pressed his hand to her cheek, his heart giving the strangest leap at her goodbye, as if he actually hoped she’d stay.
And do what? Be his fiancée? No, this was better—now he could work alone, call the shots.
This was the best thing, for both of them. He hadn’t exactly been looking forward to feigning romance, letting fake words roll from his lips, kissing a woman he didn’t love.
It all felt way too much like what Darcy had done to him. Her name roiled something nauseous inside him. You’re married?
No, he wouldn’t go there. And besides, with Scarlett, the act would have been part of his job. Not a diversion from her life in the suburbs, like Darcy, a bored housewife from D.C.
He lifted his face to the wind, gritty and thick against his face. The lights of the yacht came into view. The music had died, the guests finding their berths or leaving. Maybe he could take up residence in Scarlett’s berth. At least he could be on the yacht, available 24/7, keeping watch over Lucia. He’d give her a pager, something he’d planned to pass on to Scarlett.
He could do this. He’d simply say Scarlett had a severe bout of seasickness. And on the day of the wedding? He’d make it up as he went along.
Oh, how he hated mistakes.
The driver cut the engine as he pulled up to the yacht. The same two goons who’d met him the first time helped him aboard. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
He slid the lie out with a shrug and a look of impatience. One laughed, the other made a crude remark. But they allowed him back onto the yacht.
He averted his eyes from a couple locked in a late-night tryst on a lounge chair and climbed the stairs to Lucia’s stateroom.
Lucia answered the door, her eyes wide, flashing warning, her tone sweet. “Oh…hello. I didn’t expect you.” She opened the door, motioning him in.
Really? But he’d told her he’d be returning—
Benito. Her fiancé sprawled on one of the white leather sofas, his silk shirt open, his linen pants wrinkled, his feet bare. He grinned drunkenly, his short dark hair windswept. “Hola.”
“I got Scarlett home safely,” he said to Lucia.
“How is her stomach?” She said it loud enough for Benito.
“Better, I think, but she may be sick the entire weekend. Sailing isn’t for her.”
“You—who are you?” Benito pushed himself off the sofa, came over and draped his arm over Lucia. “Do I know you?”
Lucia wore a stricken expression.
“I don’t think we’ve met, pal,” Luke said, holding out his hand.
Benito ignored it. “I did not invite you.”
He glanced at Lucia. “Uh…no. Lucia did.”
“She invited a strange man to our wedding?”
“I’m her maid of honor’s fiancé.” He hoped he sold the lie, because suddenly Benito didn’t seem that drunk.
Sure enough, Benito’s eyes narrowed. “Fiancé?”
“Remember, Benny, I told you about her. My housemate in college? She was here earlier but got sick. Luke ran her back to the mainland.”
Benito caught her hand, turned his face into it and kissed it. “I think so. Stacey someone?”
Lucia gave a hard laugh. “No. No, Stacey was the other housemate—the one we wanted to kick out.” She glanced at Luke. “Scarlett was the good one. Who liked pink?”
Benito smiled, nodding even as she leaned in tight to him. Clearly Lucia knew how to distract him. But he let go of her hand and turned to Luke.
“Why are you here without your fiancée?”
Good question, Benny. “I came back to pick up her dress. She needs it for the fitting tomorrow.”
Lucia glanced at him with a flash of a smile. “Yes, it’s in my closet. I’ll retrieve it for you in the morning, but I think it’s too late to return to the mainland, don’t you, Benito? He can sleep here—”
“Here?”
She gave a laugh, and Luke hoped Benny was too drunk to notice the way her voice shook. “In the stateroom next door. The one I reserved for her.”
Benito pressed his hands against her cheeks. “Anything for you, chiqua.” He rounded on Luke, his finger pointing but missing its target.
“My Lucia needs her maid of honor. You will get her,” Benito said, getting some spittle on Luke. “Tomorrow. We will pick her up tomorrow.” He pressed his finger into Luke’s chest. “I want to meet your fiaaaancée.”
Luke resisted the urge to smack his finger away, finding instead a smile. “If she’s well.”
Benito patted him on the cheek. “She’ll be well.” He pulled Lucia close. “Isn’t my bride beautiful?”
Lucia looked up at Benito, something Luke couldn’t place in her eyes.
“Yes, she is.”
Benito’s expression hardened. “Don’t you look at her.”
Luke slid his gaze back to Benito. Right. Okay. “Good night.”
He met Lucia’s eyes when Benito turned back to her. She gave him a slight nod. Clearly, despite Benito’s intoxication, she believed she had nothing to fear.
Probably not, but he’d be right next door. Trying to figure out how to keep Scarlett away from the yacht. Maybe she could come down with a convenient case of malaria.
He let himself out of the room and closed the door. A man stood at the rail, his shirt whipping in the wind. He wore linen pants, not unlike Benito, his feet in sandals. A gold band on his right ring finger glinted in the moonlight.
“Hola,” he said, not looking at Luke. “A beautiful weekend for a wedding, no?”
Luke drew in a breath. Claudio Sanchez. He stepped up beside him. “Beautiful.”
He stayed silent for a moment, the boat rocking with the rhythm of the waves. “I love the sea. The wind carries the souls of the lost. I can hear them sometimes, moaning.”
Luke gripped the rail, staring out into the blackness. Yes, the ocean at night seemed fathomless, dangerous. Even haunted.
“This boat was a gift, you know. From an old friend.”
“It’s quite a gift.”
“Yes. He and I grew up together in the same village. Our mothers were friends. Our fathers, too. Manuel was a lawyer, went to school in America while I scrabbled to make a living in Panama.”
“You did well for yourself,” Luke said.
Claudio slanted his gaze at him. He had a square, solid face, dark eyes that seemed to linger too long on Luke. His thick hands stayed at the rail. “Real estate. I bought my first apartment complex, a little place in our village, when I was eighteen. People always need a place to live.”
Oh, Claudio lied well. To outward appearances, he was Panama’s version of Donald Trump. Except no one would call The Donald a slumlord
. Or worse, a conduit for his brother’s trafficking businesses. Luke didn’t even want to guess how many women and children Claudio owned, how many brothels he ran. Real estate, indeed.
“I finally convinced Manuel to move back to Panama, and I gave him a job. He was a good lawyer. Kept me out of the courts.”
And what Manuel couldn’t plea-bargain, Claudio probably took care of via other means.
“He grew quite wealthy.”
“And bought you a yacht?”
Claudio lifted a shoulder. “It belonged to a competitor. Manuel helped me acquire it. We sat right down there,” Claudio pointed to the deck, where the lovers had finished their tryst and the deck chair sat empty, “and toasted to our good fortune. I remember that night as if it were yesterday, the expression on my wife’s beautiful face as she looked at him, her eyes shiny. She sat in my arms, toasting our fortune, and smiled at him. The little seductress.”
Something inside Luke began to clench.
“I knew, of course, that they’d been together. Why not? Esmeralda could steal a man’s breath from his lungs, make him forget his name. His place.”
He turned away from the deck, his back against the rail, folding his arms across his bullish chest. “I found them in the cabin next door.” He gestured with a nod of his head. “They died slowly, dragging through the water off the end of the boat, their blood a trail for the sharks. Sometimes I can still hear their screams.”
He glanced now at Luke. “I hope my son has a long and happy marriage.” He sighed then clamped a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “What was your name again?”
“Luke. Dekker.”
“Nice to meet you, Luke.” He turned back to the rail. “Did I see you come aboard with a beautiful woman?”
“You did, sir. My fiancée. She’s Lucia’s maid of honor. But I had to take her back to the mainland—seasickness.”
“What a shame. I look forward to meeting her.” He met Luke’s eyes, smiled, then turned back to the darkness. “Yes, I do love the sea.”
FIVE
No, thank you very much, Scarlett did not want to move from the villa near the sea to the single room on floor eleven of the Lost Breezes Hotel. But she would anyway.
“Let me just get my bags,” Scarlett said, pushing her hair back from her face. The breeze tickled the gauzy drapes of the porch, now open to the reef. Outside, waves pounded the coral, the gulls crying into the morning.
“Again, ma’am, we’re very sorry, but they double-booked your room. And since your reservation came in second, the other guests were given priority.”
Of course they were. And of course, she’d packed up her belongings, following the valet as he lugged them across the crushed coral walkway back to the hotel, into the murky dampness of the hallway, up eleven stories to a room that overlooked the salt-sprayed town of Isla Mujeres, with its dirt alleyways and tiny cement homes in faded blue-and-pink paint, cast-iron balconies jutting from wooden windows. From here, she could make out the ferry launch on the other side of town with the two boats docked, ready to transport tourists back to the mainland.
If she kept going and hailed a cab, she could probably make the nine o’clock ferry. Or—oh, ten! “Is it really ten o’clock? I think I forgot to change my watch,” she asked, looking at her watch as she tipped the valet, a handsome man she’d guess to be nineteen with dark skin, big brown eyes, an eager smile.
“No, ma’am.”
Phew.
“It’s nearly eleven.”
“It can’t be, the time change can’t be that much.”
“It’s the sea air. It makes everyone exhausted. But if you hurry, you can still make the breakfast buffet.”
He backed out of the room and she sat on the bed, a white cotton blanket over the top, an elephant made of towels in the center. The place smelled of algae, too much time spent soggy, not enough in fresh air. Up here, the room didn’t catch the same breezes as down by the sea.
Thanks, sis.
Then again, no one had known she was attending until three days ago.
But we do need you. She couldn’t get Luke out of her head. She closed her eyes against the memory of his voice, but he only appeared in her mind as he had standing under the moonlight, something in his eyes that made her think he might actually miss her. Good night, Scarlett.
Oh, she had to push double-oh-seven out of her head and get her brain where it belonged—on Bridgett’s wedding. That’s why she’d come to this overbaked island—to help her sister marry the man of her dreams.
Or, once upon a time, Scarlett’s dreams. Except maybe not, because the moment she’d sat down in the taxi, she realized she’d been aiming a bit too low.
That’s right, for six whole hours, she’d been a secret agent, or at least mistaken for one by a guy who actually protected people for a living. Top that, Duncan Browne.
Slipping on her sandals, she grabbed her room key, left her bags packed and walked down the hall to the elevators.
She scooted in next to an older couple, the woman in a broomstick skirt and a wide straw hat, the man in a pair of Bermuda shorts. “Are you here on vacation?” the woman asked.
“A wedding. My sister’s.”
“We’re celebrating our fiftieth,” the man said. “Gayle and Louis Bingham, from Michigan.”
“Scarlett. I’m from Rochester.”
“New York?”
“Minnesota.” She smiled at them as she exited, fast-walking through the cool air of the hotel and outside into the bath of humidity. Her skin immediately felt clammy, but she’d take sea breezes over canned air any day.
Her hotel reservation came with the all-inclusive package—at least it had when she checked in—so she angled toward the straw-roofed cabana with the breakfast buffet.
She walked in, scanning the room, wishing for just a moment that she might see Luke. But he’d probably returned to the boat and long forgotten her.
She made her way to the end of the buffet table, picked up a plate and opened one of the stainless steel containers. Empty. The next one contained a blackened piece of bacon, and the next the gelled remnants of scrambled eggs. She took a spoonful, added the bacon. Gone were the eggs Benedict, the sausages, the crepes, the fried potatoes. She managed to score a cold piece of wheat toast, then turned, searching for her sister.
Sure enough, at five tables jammed together, her sister sat holding court with her two other bridesmaids—former models from her days overseas—and her three groomsmen. She chatted with them as she finished off a bowl of granola and yogurt.
Her sister, as usual, could eclipse every other person in the room with her creamy tanned skin, her long sun-streaked blond hair, that wide smile, those green eyes. That she’d inherited all the tall genes just didn’t seem fair. Duncan sat next to her, his hand draped easily over the back of her chair, his eyes on her, shining. He looked as if he hadn’t seen the sun in close to a decade until yesterday. His skin was lobster red down his nose, along his arms. Someone needed to up their SPF protection.
Or not. Let him fry.
“Hey, guys.” Scarlett walked up to the table, finding a smile.
Bridgett had been laughing at something. Now she grabbed a napkin, pressing it to her mouth. “Oh, Scarlett, hi! When did you get here?”
So much for her sister sitting in some dark corner in the fetal position, paralyzed with worry. “Last night. I left a message on your phone.”
“You did. Oh.” She turned to Duncan. “Did you see a message on the phone?”
He didn’t look at Scarlett. “No, sweetie,” he said, kissing Bridgett on the nose.
Why eat? She’d just lose her breakfast.
“I’m so glad you made it.” Bridgett stood, leaned over the table and gave her an air-kiss. “Where’s my dress?”
Oh, the dress. The dress. “Uh…it’s in good hands.”
Dress update…check.
“Thanks, sis. I knew you would take care of me. Join us. Everybody, make room for my kid sister.” She w
aved her arms as people scooted their chairs down. A woman who looked as if she hadn’t eaten this decade, her hair gathered high in a deliberately messy ponytail, reached out with her French manicure to grab a chair. She pulled it toward the corner of the table.
“Here you go, hon.” She patted the wicker.
Perfect. Scarlett sat down.
“Is that all you’re eating?” Bridgett said. “They have doughnuts up there.” She turned to her group. “Scarlett has a standing order for a Danish at the bakery cart at church.”
“This is all that was left,” Scarlett said, picking up her blackened bacon. “But I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, they had homemade crepes with raspberry sauce. So good,” Bridgett said. “I had two!” She winked. “I’ll probably have to starve the rest of the day. I hope they offer wraps for our spa day today.” She looked at Scarlett, her waxed eyebrow high.
Scarlett took a drink of orange juice, hopefully one that didn’t belong to someone else. Why was her sister looking at her like that?
“You did put together the spa day, right? You got my email?” Bridgett’s smile dimmed and Scarlett had the faint memory of her sister mentioning a bachelorette day at the spa. But she’d taken that as an invite, not a directive to plan it. Still, how difficult could that be?
“Yes. Of course. And I’m pretty sure they have wraps.”
“A seaweed wrap. You gotta try one, Scarlett. They’re amazing. The seaweed seeps into your skin, and you can just feel your whole body coming alive.”
One bachelorette party with a seaweed wrap, check.
“The girls are going into town to do some souvenir shopping. But we’ll be back in time for lunch. I’m assuming we’ll do the spa in the afternoon?” She turned to Duncan, who gazed at Bridgett with such adoration that Scarlett felt he could use a good slap to bring him back to reality.
“I’m so excited about our beach party tonight—shish kebabs on the beach. I can’t wait.” She leaned into his arms, looking at Scarlett. “You checked the menu, right? Remember, no mushrooms—oh! I’m so rude. Scarlett, this is Dylan, from Davenport. He has his own mechanic’s garage, isn’t that wonderful?” She looked at Scarlett and a person would have to be seated on the other side of the island not to have seen her gratuitous wink.
Undercover Pursuit Page 5
