“Isn’t it?” he says, taking it in himself. “Beauty amid so much ugly.”
I look up at him. I couldn’t agree more. He is beauty amid the ugly. We make it out onto the terrace, where there are sun loungers and another terrace directly next door. It’s a hotel. A lovely mansion hotel.
“Here.” He lowers me to a lounger and positions himself behind me, moving back and letting me rest on his front. I exhale, close my eyes, and feel the warmth of the sun on my face and the warmth of James on my back. “Good?”
“Perfect,” I say. This is perfect. Wherever we are, wherever he’s brought me, it’s perfect.
Paradise.
No evil. No hell.
But I know it can’t be sustained, because despite being in a place that looks like paradise, all I can think about is the loss.
Our baby’s gone. Nath’s gone. Dexter killed my mom. Lawrence must also be beside himself with grief. I’d thought I’d grieved enough already in my life, but the hits just keep coming. I feel like I’m slowly losing my mind. I need some facts. Something to stop all these thoughts of loss and pain that are barricading my brain from good sense. Something to show me we have some hope. “Tell me where we are,” I demand softly.
“No. Just enjoy it.”
69
JAMES
Fuck, I’m going to have to share eventually. But revealing where we are will lead to other questions I’m not sure I can answer yet. “How’s the sunshine on your face?”
I don’t like the long silence that comes. Neither do I like it when she starts to try and turn over, so I lock my arms down around her upper body, mindful of her cast and cannula. Even broken, she’s difficult. “James,” she says, her voice threatening.
“Stay still. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“I’m fucking fine.”
Anger. She’s full of it, and I know my evasiveness is only a small factor. I close my eyes and search for calm, try to push back my own fury. Fury with myself, because while trying to tame the demons in us, I’ve created more. “We’re at Danny Black’s mansion,” I say quietly, and she stills.
“What?” she whispers. “Why the hell are we at a dead mafia boss’s home?”
“Because I can’t do what I need to do while looking after you.”
“I don’t need looking after,” she says, tensing, like she’s intending to move. She jerks, not intentionally, but in pain, and the line in her arm pops out, blood starting to piss everywhere.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, slipping out from behind her and crouching by the lounger, taking a towel from the table and applying pressure on the inside of her elbow. She stares at the towel, her breathing labored. “Just give in, Beau,” I say, looking up at her. “You have to give in and let me help you.” A fat teardrop slips off her cheek and splashes onto the towel. “Stop trying to be strong. You don’t need to be.” I reach for her face and wipe under her eyes. “I’ve got this,” I assure her. “And once it’s done, we go wherever you want to go.”
She looks up at me, and I fucking hate the sadness I see. Not anger. Not need. It’s pure, heavy sadness. “Will it ever be done?” she asks. “Do you know who The Bear is? Where Dexter is? You could spend years chasing your tail.”
“You don’t want this to end?”
“Yes. End it now. Let’s just go. Me and you and . . .” Her words fade off and her hand lands on her stomach. And our baby.
Fuck.
“Do you want to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders? Worrying about me. People know who I am, Beau. They know James Kelly is The Enigma. I have to end this.”
She swallows, her eyes dropping. She knows. And she has to accept. “Is that why I’m here? Protection while you go on a mercy mission? What if you don’t come back?” she asks, looking up at me. More sadness. “Then what happens to me?”
“He’ll come back,” a voice from behind me says, and every muscle I possess firms up as I look at Beau. She’s frowning through her tears, her neck craning to see past me. I don’t need to look. His British accent tells me everything I need to know. Not to mention the thick, deadly air that’s arrived.
Beau’s jaw drops, her eyes expanding. She knows who she’s looking at. I squeeze her hand, take a breath, and rise to my feet, slowly turning to face him.
The Brit.
His impassive expression doesn’t crack, the scar on his face silver, his skin tan, his eyes sharp. He turns his suited form slowly and leans on the railings, looking out over his gardens. “I think we need to have a little chat,” he says quietly, slipping a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.
I knew. I slowly put the puzzle together with the scrap pieces unwittingly thrown my way, and yet still, seeing him in the flesh, I’m surprised.
Surprised he’s here. Surprised he’s revealed himself to me.
I turn to Beau, who literally looks like she’s seen a ghost, and lean down to help her up. She comes with ease, and I’m grateful, despite knowing her compliance is fueled solely by shock and not willingness. “Here, hold this,” I say, picking up the metal stand and placing it in her hand. She grips it, eyes still on Danny Black behind me, and I scoop her up and carry her back into the bedroom, laying her on the bed. She looks at me in question. “I’ve got this,” I say again, pushing my lips to hers.
I make sure her arm has stopped bleeding before I text Otto to get Doc up here. Then I leave her, heading back out onto the terrace, pulling the door closed behind me. “How is she?” he asks, exhaling a plume of smoke.
“Difficult.”
His scar dents slightly, the sign of a small smile. “I get it. Smoke?”
“I’m trying to quit.”
He pushes from the balustrade and flicks his cigarette butt away. “Me too,” he mutters, his hand coming out, extending toward me. “Danny Black.”
Like he needed to introduce himself. “James Kelly.”
His smile breaks. “I prefer The Enigma.”
“He’ll soon be dead.”
He laughs under his breath. “Take it from me, not even death gets you away from this world.” He motions to a chair and takes one himself on the other terrace. “Talk to me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know who you are, where you came from, and how you know The Bear knows I’m alive. Because I’ve no interest in being resurrected unless I have to be.” The side of his finger brushes across his Cupid’s bow, his eyes watchful. “I have a wife. My chances of survival are zero if I have to go home to St. Lucia and tell her we’re coming back to Miami.”
I’m amused, but I don’t smile. The Angel-faced Assassin is wary of a woman. I can relate. “Spittle was taking backhanders from someone connected to The Bear,” I tell him. “I killed the connection, had Spittle looked up, and gave him a courtesy call. He took an instant dislike to me. I think he has a thing against British.”
Black smiles, amused.
“Spittle knows he’s fucked up,” I continue. “He’s said things he shouldn’t have said to people he shouldn’t have said them to.”