“Come see the place, Rojo. I have some poems for you, and pictures.”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glances at the dock. “How long did you work for Gertrude?” she asks pointedly.
I can tell from her intense stare that my answer is important, so I don’t say ‘four years.’ It sounds insubstantial, which it’s not.
“We met in Madrid, at an art exhibit. Have you ever heard of ‘W?’”
I know she has. I’ve done my homework.
“He’s one of my favorites,” she confirms.
“I met Trudie at one of his first café shows.”
Her face transforms—a look of wonder; maybe even envy—and I’m irrationally pleased she appreciates my work.
“We both liked nature, and being by ourselves. I moved here to help her keep the island up.”
She bites her lip again, inspecting me from beneath her long eyelashes. “Tell me something about my mother. Anything you know. And you will know something if you really knew Gertrude.”
“Her middle name was Anna, and she liked butterflies and worked as a professor.”
She juts her chin up. “Where did she work?”
“University of Alabama at Birmingham.”
Again, with her teeth on that tasty little lip. My dick, which had been settling down, is all the way up again, and I want to groan.
“Okay, so you really worked for my grandmother. That doesn’t mean you’re not a manipulative asshole. I’m afraid I have no interest in helping you. I’d rather take my money-grubbing self and starve.” She grabs her bags and starts to climb out of the boat, and I’m on her; my hand on her elbow, fingers closing around her smooth skin.
“C’mon, Rojo. Just come see it with me. All I’m asking for is one night. How about this? If you come with me, I’ll pay you ten thousand. Either way. I promise.” I put my heart and soul into the word, because what’s left of them is anchored to that damn island. I can’t exist anywhere else. I jerk my gaze around the docks, suddenly terrified someone will recognize me and I’ll lose my chance with her.
Her mouth puckers. “I want to see your photo ID or I won’t even consider your ridiculous request.”
Fuck!
“I don’t have it on me.”
“Really. ’Cause that’s not strange or anything…”
“I don’t often leave the island.”
“Also strange,” she says. “Why is that?”
“I’m uncomfortable around people.” It’s the closest I can get to the truth, which reads more like I hate everyone.
That’ll win her, James.
As if she hears my thoughts, she says, “What’s your name?”
“Race,” I tell her. It’s my college nickname.
“Race what?” She’s frowning at me like she thinks I’m stupid.
“Race Hollister.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Really?”
“Do you have a problem with it?”
“Only that I can’t believe you. Without some sort of ID, I have no idea who you are. What the hell would make me go anywhere with you, let alone a deserted island where you could chop me into little pieces and feed me to your pet turtles?”
“Turtles aren’t meant to be pets; most animals aren’t.”
“Even posing as a humanitarian, I still don’t trust you.”
I take a step away from her, suddenly drained. “I’m not going to keep begging, Rojo. If you don’t need ten thousand dollars, walk away. If you do, get in.”
RED
My stomach twists when I think of the money he’s offering. Ten thousand dollars is enough to tide me over until I find work. Sixty is enough to take a year or two off. Enough to travel almost anywhere I want.
“You must really want this island badly.”
He rubs his forehead, reminding me of a tired child. “I do.”
Even now, standing close enough so I can see the sweat on his brow and throat, he’s beautiful. A handsome villain.
I sigh. “I can’t believe I’m desperate enough to consider this.”
“I’m sorry I called you a money-grubber.”
I meet his eyes and am surprised to find they’re softer now. Probably an act.
I look down at my bag and purse, then around, at the other boats, then out at the sea, which is choppy from the breeze. I drag my phone out of my pocket.
“Let me see if I’ve got service. The e-mail you sent had the longitude and latitude of the island. I’ll copy that and send it to a friend. Just in case you turn out to be a lunatic. Promise me you won’t turn out to be a lunatic?”
He nods, looking surprisingly serious. “Scouts’ honor.”
“Shit. That’s not enough. Just e-mailing my friend is definitely not enough to convince me to go with you. I need something more. I need…I don’t know. A reference. Or maybe I don’t…” I have a Taser in the bottom of my purse. I could always use that.
No—I’ve got a much better idea!
He turns away from me and moves over to the motors and I point my phone at him. With trembling fingers, I pull my camera up and set it on video mode. When he turns back toward me, I get a brief shot of his face and send it, along with a note and the island’s coordinates, to Katie.
He’s leaning back over the motors, pulling on the top of one of them so it rises slightly out of the water, when I notice the bulge in his pants.
Chapter Three
RED
This is a surprise.
Does he find me attractive? This man? I’m not ugly, but I’m no beauty—and I know that. And yet, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a hard-on for my brilliant personality.
All we’ve done so far is argue.
Maybe he gets off on arguing.
He looks up from what he’s doing and, again, I think he looks tired. Much wearier and more sympathetic than a blackmailer has a right to look.
I wonder how close he was to Gertrude.
I wonder why he doesn’t want to leave the island.
I’m a fool for caring.
He turns back around toward me, and a quick glance-over reveals he’s tucked his boner away. Or lost it. For a moment I’m dizzied by how good he looks in those slacks; how much broader his shoulders are than his hips.
Tall, dark, and handsome. That’s what he is. And an asshole.
“So, you ready?” The corner of his lip tugs up, as if he’s trying to smile and failing.
“Hmm.” I make him sweat it, because he deserves that much. Then, after I tuck my hair behind my ears and sit down on one of the benches, I tell him, “I guess so.”
A brilliant grin spreads over his face, confirming what I’d figured: He’s got a nice smile. It lightens his eyes, almost literally. They don’t look quite so dark-brown.
“Thanks for this. I’ll return you here tomorrow with a check.”
“You fucking better.”
I spend the next few minutes pretending to be absorbed with something on my phone. I have the wherewithal to be sure the GPS-tracking service is turned on, in the event he does turn out to be insane. But I don’t get that vibe.
A few minutes later, his big hand is pushing the boat away from the dock; he’s stepping over to the steering podium, and I’m shamelessly watching the way his shirt melds against the hard lines of his back.
I hunch my shoulders against the wind and watch him as he steers the boat, first idling through the cove, then pushing a handle up a few inches and increasing our speed until the boat’s nose rises out of the water, then the rest of it. The boat bobs and bounces as it flies across the sea.
I wonder if the money will be worth this ordeal. I hope I learn something from what I see of Gertrude’s home. I wish Gertrude was here.