“Remember.”
I nod, satisfied, and finish wrapping her up. “You’re good.” I send her into the shower with a pat of her bum. “I have a few calls to make.”
She nods, quiet, and I return to the terrace to call Black. He answers with silence, as I’ve become accustomed to. And then the sound of him taking a drag of a cigarette comes down the line. “I need your reassurance that Dexter will never be found,” I say quietly, closing the terrace doors behind me.
“You never did tell me why Beau can’t know about the mess you made of him.”
I laugh lightly, taking a seat in the rattan chair and relaxing as much as a man who’s lying to the love of his life can. “Beau seems to have grown a conscience,” I say, raking a hand through my hair. “She agreed to marry me if I promised not to kill him.”
“Oh,” he says over an exhale. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Not if you can assure me his body will never be found.”
“I can assure you,” Black says with a confidence I can’t ignore. “How’s Beau doing?”
I look over my shoulder to the door. “Quiet.”
“Mine too,” he says, and then laughs a little. “Well, when she’s not yelling at me or throwing deadly weapons at my head.”
“That bad, huh?”
“I can handle her.”
“I can’t imagine she’s going to be my biggest fan, then.” I get up and walk down to the sand, scuffing my feet through the hot, silky grains. “The man who’s dragged you from your grave.” That’s how his wife will see me. She’ll want to blame someone, and I’ll be that someone.
“You’ve not dragged me anywhere,” he muses, thoughtful, and I nod. “Other powers have unearthed me. I can’t sit around waiting for my past to catch up with me. If that benefits you, so be it.”
I’m beginning to understand Danny Black. I’ll expect no loyalty from him. I’ll always be wary of him, but he’s no need to be wary of me, and he worked that out very fast. I’ve no desire to become king of his old playground. That’s the only reason I’m here at the pleasure of The Brit. I’m a means to an end for him too. We both want the same man dead, and two assassins is always better than one.
“Are you naked?” he asks, amused, and I frown, looking around me. I spot him in the distance, standing on the shore in a wetsuit, a jet ski bobbing on the water beside him.
“It’s hot.” I roll my eyes to myself, and he laughs, as I trudge back to the beach house. “See you at the restaurant.”
“Look forward to it,” he says. “And, James?”
“What?”
“Get some sunblock on. You don’t want to burn that back of yours.” He hangs up, and I look over my shoulder. He’s still standing on the shore, his arm raised in a casual way. I raise mine in return, not feeling threatened by his comment. He’s merely pointing out that we’re the same. We’re no longer hidden by death. We’re no longer invulnerable. We have someone to live for.
And we need to be careful.
4
BEAU
* * *
I take off my arm protector and start unraveling the wrap that James so carefully applied around my stomach, naturally tense. And not just because of my wound.
Dinner.
And not just dinner, but dinner with The Brit. I’m literally having dinner with a ghost, a man thought to be dead. And his wife. What the hell are we supposed to talk about?
I drop the wrap in the sink and sigh. We’ll probably talk about how many lives our men have taken between them. I can only imagine what kind of woman she is to be married to a man like Danny Black.
But then, if Rose Black is fucked up, I’m right there with her. Ex-cop turned gangster’s mol. “Jesus,” I breathe, glancing at the mirror. I look empty. Hollow. What would my mother say to me? What would she think? And yet I can’t help but hope she would be egging me on. Encouraging me. Giving me a pep talk like no other, willing me to find the bastard who took her from me and end him. I’ve long accepted that I can’t do that on my own. Her death goes way past a cover-up. It’s led me into the deepest depths of the Miami underworld. It led me to James.
And James has led me to the truth. It’s irony at its best. Or worst.
Mom wasn’t only a talented cop, something she passed down to me. She was an intuitive woman. Strong. Determined. She never gave up on finding out who The Bear was. Or who James was, for that matter. The former had her blown up. The latter tried to save her. He failed, but he saved me, and in the process nearly burned himself alive.
I look down at my scars. Some might think from the mess of my arm that he didn’t save me from the explosion. Nothing could have saved me from that destruction. But he did save me from self-destruction. From the moment James called me under false pretenses to paint his office, I was enamored. Mesmerized. Intrigued. Curious. Attracted.
I laugh under my breath. Fucked up really doesn’t cover it. So perhaps Rose Black and I will find some common ground.
But what the hell am I going to wear?
I rub some face cream in as I go to the closet and scan the limited options. Sun dresses. Sarongs. Shorts. My shoulders slump, and I back up to the bed, dropping to the edge. I have nothing. My days in Miami were spent in ripped jeans and oversized shirts with long sleeves that covered my damaged skin. The only dress I own these days is the dress James bought for our first date to the opera—where he assassinated a corrupt judge while I was handcuffed to a chair after he’d gone down on me.
I fall to my back, exasperated. Rose Black has nothing on me.
The door to the bedroom opens, and James appears in his boxers. We’ve only been here a few days and he’s already sun-kissed. Bronzed. At least, the front of him. Not his back, which, like my arm, is constantly smothered in sunscreen. His hair is lighter, his blue eyes bluer. I pout at the Adonis before me. Soon, he’ll get dressed. Probably put on a divine suit. Muss his hair. Spray himself with a cologne that’ll send me delirious with pleasure.
And I can’t even jump him.
My hand goes to my stomach, feeling at the white gauze. “I have nothing to wear,” I grumble. “This was a terrible idea.”
“Cover up,” he orders, nodding to the sheets.
I frown and pull them in around me, concealing my naked form, as James stands back, opening the way. A man scuttles in with arms full of clothes and some strappy shoes dangling from his fingers. “What’s this?” I ask, sitting up slowly.
“Miss Rose sent them,” the man declares, stopping in the middle of the room, waiting for instruction. I’m stumped, so James directs him to the closet, where he hangs up various dresses while I look on. Once he’s done, he nods and backs out of the room.
“Problem solved,” James says, flicking through the vast selection.
I get up and pull the sheets in, approaching behind him. “Why would she send me clothes?”
“You can ask her at dinner.” James pulls out a pretty cream dress that’s decorated with gold stitching. “This one?”
I blindly take the hanger, lost for words. “I thought you wanted to see my scars?” I remind him, looking down at the long sleeves.