Temptation Island

by Rachel Woods

  “Then you would have followed that person,” I said.

  “Right, but then I got worried,” he said. “What if it became like a shell game, with one person passing the money to another person and then that person passing the money to someone else? What if one of the people removed the money from the bag and put it into a briefcase, or something, without me knowing about it? I would still be following whoever had the beach bag, not realizing that the money was no longer inside of it until the last person dropped the empty beach bag into a trash can somewhere. I just didn’t want that to happen.”

  I stared at him, wondering if that sincerity in his soulful eyes was just a ruse. His reasoning for the last-minute change of our original plan seemed to be based on paranoia, but I understood it. The blackmailer didn’t trust me, obviously, and probably hadn’t expected me to follow his instructions about not going to the cops. The extortionist would have taken steps to make sure he, or she, would not be discovered. Still, something about Icarus’s story seemed fishy, farfetched.

  “What happened when you went to Henri’s?” I asked. “Did he take your deal? Do you have his confession?”

  “Henri wasn’t there.”

  Convenient. The word came to me, but I wasn’t sure if I really thought that or if I was allowing Lisa to influence me.

  “So, tell me this,” I said, folding my arms. “Where is the money now?”

  Icarus shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “The money wasn’t in the beach bag,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Remember I told you I was afraid the blackmailer would play some kind of shell game with the ransom pickup?” Icarus asked. “Well, I was right. By the time I got to the locker room, that shell game was already in play, only I didn’t realize it until later, after I had left Henri’s place.”

  “Wait a minute,” I stopped him. “Are you telling me that the beach bag you removed from locker number seventeen at Golden Lizard Beach was empty?”

  “It wasn’t empty,” he said. “Inside, there were five bundles wrapped in newspaper.”

  “The five bundles of money we wrapped in the newspaper,” I said.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said. “But, something didn’t seem right, so I opened one of the bundles. It was a small paperback book. There were paperback books in all of the bundles.”

  “So, someone took the money out of the bag, replaced it with paperback books that had been wrapped in newspaper, and then put the bag back in the locker?” I rubbed my eyes and then stared at him. “That’s crazy. Why would the blackmailer do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Icarus said. “But, like I told you, Quinn, we have bigger issues to deal with.”

  Apprehensive, I sighed and decided to mull over his story later, maybe with Lisa, who would provide her usual suspicion and insight.

  “Henri’s murder.” I nodded, realizing he was right.

  “You were going to tell me what you remember?”

  “I don’t really remember anything else that I haven’t already told you,” I said, jumping up to pace. “I thought he was going to hurt me so I grabbed a knife, and then I turned and I think …”

  “You think what?”

  “I think he hit me,” I said. “I think he knocked me out. Because the next thing I remember is you telling me to get up.”

  Icarus sighed and stood. “Try to see if you can remember anything else.”

  “I don’t think I will,” I said. “Are you leaving?”

  “Before I call the police,” he said. “I want to go back to Henri’s and look for your shirt.”

  My heart kicked. “My shirt?”

  “The shirt that had blood all over it,” he reminded me. “You took it off at Henri’s place, remember?”

  “Because I had to get it off,” I said, defensive, trying to ignore the escalating panic I felt. “I didn’t want that bloody shirt anywhere near me. I remember I threw it … somewhere.”

  “I’ll find it,” he said, assuring me, though I could have sworn I’d seen a flash of doubt in his gaze. “And then I’ll get rid of it.”

  “What if you can’t find it?” I jumped up and hurried to him.

  “It’s got to be at Henri’s house,” he said, embracing me. “I’ll find it.”

  I wrapped my arms around his waist and clung to him, pressing my face against his T-shirt as the tears fell.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he said, and when I lifted my head to look up at him, he pressed his lips against my forehead. “I’ll be back as soon as I find your shirt and then I’ll call the police, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, nodding, trying not to cry, and resisting the urge to tell him to hurry.

  “Listen, while I’m gone, try to relax,” he said. “Maybe have the butler bring you a glass of wine. Something to take the edge off.”

  After Icarus left, I returned to the bed and lay across it, knowing I wouldn’t be able to relax enough to get a decent night’s sleep. Most likely, I wouldn’t close my eyes tonight, and on the off chance I did, I would be haunted by images of Henri, stabbed to death, lying in bed with a knife protruding from his chest—a brand new night terror to replace the crazy courtroom killing nightmares.

  Sighing, I thought about the unease and restlessness I had endured from my recurring dreams. Since I’d met Icarus, I’d had only one nightmare, but I couldn’t celebrate tension-free sleep just yet. I still needed to identify the cause of my angst, but there was no time for introspection or analyzing, not with the horror show my life had become.

  Icarus’s suggestion to have a glass of wine was tempting; though I doubted pinot grigio would be able to lure me away from the ledge I wanted to jump off. Nothing would.

  Well, maybe there was something. Sex. Specifically, sweaty, scorching sex with Icarus. I wasn’t sure if I could trust him or believe his wild rationalizations. I didn’t think falling into bed with him was a good idea, no matter how much I wanted to be with him.

  DAY EIGHT

  Chapter Twenty

  “Quinn,” Icarus began. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

  “What?” I asked, heart pounding.

  At a little after eight in the morning, we sat at the small bistro table on the terrace outside my bedroom, surrounded by lush, tropical flowers bathed in golden sunlight. Icarus had returned after midnight. I had still been up, waiting for him to tell me what happened when he went back to Henri’s place to look for my shirt, but Icarus said we would talk in the morning.

  I fell asleep in his arms, imagining it was what I did every night, because I wished I could. In the morning, there would be grave conversation, possibly bad news, panic, and worry. Last night, I gave myself permission to pretend that Icarus was my husband. I imagined a scenario where we were on a third honeymoon in paradise. He loved me, and his passion and desire for me would never fade.

  That was my fantasy.

  But, like most fantasies, it would never be real, never come true.

  “I didn’t call the cops,” he said.

  My heart sank. I knew why Icarus hadn’t informed the police about Henri’s murder. “Because you didn’t find my shirt, did you?”

  “I didn’t get a chance to look for it,” he said. “The cops were already at Henri’s house. As soon as I turned on his street, I saw all the cop cars, so I just drove by his house.”

  “You think the police found my shirt?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t think you should stick around to find out.”

  Heart slamming, I asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I think you should leave St. Mateo,” he said. “You should take the first flight back to the states.”

  Confused, I just stared at him, not sure what to say.

  “I was looking up the flights before you woke up,” he said. “First flight out is around one o’clock tomorrow. But it was sold out. And so was the next one, which was taking off
around six in the evening. Usually, there are only two flights in and out of St. Mateo each day.”

  Reeling, still shell-shocked by his suggestion, I found myself asking, “What about Sunday?”

  “The second flight on Sunday still has some seats,” he said. “It leaves at eight Sunday night, heading to Miami. From there, you can go back home, wherever that is.”

  “Okay, fine, if that’s what you think I should do,” I said, trying to manage the disappointment and sadness coursing through me. “I’ll leave St. Mateo on Sunday.”

  “I think that’s for the best,” he said and then added, “even though I wish it wasn’t.”

  “What?”

  “You should leave,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to go.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I want you to stay here with me,” he said. “But, I know that’s impossible. Even if this stuff hadn’t happened with the blackmailer and with Henri, your fantasy still would have come to an end.”

  Near tears, I nodded. Reality could be cruel, I realized.

  “I know you have a life back in the United States,” he went on. “You have to go back there and live it.”

  “It’s not much of a life,” I said.

  “What does that mean?” Icarus asked. “It’s not much of a life?”

  “It means …” I shook my head, not wanting to talk about the sad state of my career in these final moments of my fantasy. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you don’t want me to go.”

  “You thought I did?”

  “I didn’t know what to think,” I admitted. “I was just hoping that maybe …”

  “You were hoping what?”

  Looking at him, I didn’t know how to say what I felt or if I should admit I’d been hoping Icarus might feel something for me. I didn’t really know how to define what I wanted him to feel. Something like what? Something like … falling in love?

  Startled by the wayward direction of my thoughts, I buried them. Asking Icarus to fall in love with me was too much to ask of him, myself, and of our situation. For the two of us, it could be nothing more than an island fling.

  “I was just hoping that you wanted me to stay here,” I said. “But I guess leaving would be best.”

  “If you stay in St. Mateo,” he said. “I think you might be accused of killing Henri.”

  “But, I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know that,” Icarus said. “But the cops might think differently. They might find evidence that shows you were at his house when he was killed. Or, maybe someone saw you at Henri’s.”

  “Like a neighbor, you mean?” I asked, my heart slamming wildly, as I tried to remember whether or not I’d seen anyone else in the immediate area of Henri’s house.

  “Did you notice any neighbors outside?” Icarus asked. “Did you see anyone walking down the street?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, I don’t think so, but …”

  “But?”

  “But, I wasn’t really paying attention,” I said. “I was so angry, I was literally seeing red. I wasn’t thinking about my surroundings. All I wanted to do was—”

  “Confront me,” Icarus said. “You wanted to accuse me of blackmailing you.”

  “Icarus—”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I get why you might not believe me. I realize that some of the things I’ve done may have seemed suspicious to you, but I want you to know that I would never try to blackmail you.”

  I nodded, though I didn’t know what I was acknowledging. Was I letting him know I believed him? Or had it been some automatic nonverbal response because I wasn’t sure what to say to him? I didn’t know what to believe about him.

  The question remained: Did I think Icarus had blackmailed me? Did I believe he’d plotted an elaborate con to take me for a hundred thousand dollars? Did I think he was still conning me? I didn’t know. I just wasn’t sure about anything. So many horrible things had happened, and I didn’t know what to think.

  Except maybe Icarus was right. Maybe I should flee the island to avoid being thrown in jail for a crime I hadn’t committed.

  Even if it meant I would never see Icarus again.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I knew you couldn’t trust Icarus,” Lisa said, triumphant, as though she was vindicated.

  Sighing, I paced around the plush, tufted couches, my cell phone on speaker as I held it in my palm.

  Icarus had left several hours ago, and during that time, I’d called Lisa to update her on the latest events in my continuing nightmare—from Icarus telling me he wouldn’t be able to video the money drop to seeing Icarus on the video.

  I told her about going to the little pale blue house to confront Icarus, but instead I’d encountered Henri, the guy from the waterfall fantasy. He’d knocked me unconscious, and when I woke up, Icarus had been there, asking me if I had killed Henri.

  “But, you didn’t,” Lisa said, adamant. “You wouldn’t stab somebody to death.”

  “Unless I did,” I mumbled, biting my lip.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Lisa, I don’t really remember what happened after Henri hit me,” I said. “What if I regained consciousness and grabbed the knife and—”

  “That’s not what happened,” Lisa said. “You know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Henri knocked you out, and then Icarus came back to the house, and he and Henri fought, probably argued about the money that Icarus got out of that locker at the beach.”

  “I don’t know, Lisa,” I said. “I don’t think—”

  “Well, I do think that,” Lisa said. “Somebody has to think that Icarus is a blackmailing murderer because you sure as hell don’t want to believe it!”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to believe it,” I said. “I just don’t think it’s true.”

  “You don’t want to believe it because Icarus is giving it to you good,” Lisa said. “He’s giving it to you like you never got it before, and you don’t want to give him up. But if he’s a blackmailing murderer, then you can’t have anything to do with his ass.”

  “He’s not a blackmailing murderer,” I said, once again questioning my decision to come clean to Lisa about my burgeoning relationship with Icarus.

  “Quinn, you know that you have questions about why he took the beach bag out of the locker and why he went to Henri’s house,” Lisa said. “And you know you’re skeptical about his bullshit answers, which don’t add up.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  A knock on the door, loud and persistent, interrupted me, and I told Lisa I would call her later.

  I opened the door. “Quinn Miller?” said a tall, well-built, good-looking man. His smooth complexion reminded me of coffee with a swirl of cream and honey. Wearing dark slacks and a light-green button-down cotton dress shirt, he seemed to be in his early thirties, maybe. The muscles and the handsome face worried me. Was he the star of my next fantasy? God, I hoped not.

  “Yes,” I said, a sliver of worry slicing through me. “I’m Quinn Miller.”

  “Ms. Miller, my name is Detective Richland François.”

  My heart kicked and my attempt to swallow the lump in my throat almost made me choke.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Questions about what?” I asked.

  “Would it be okay if I came inside?” he asked.

  “What is this about?” I asked. “I really don’t have time for this. I have a spa appointment in fifteen—”

  “It’s about a man named Henri Monteils,” he said.

  “Why would you want to ask me about a man named Henri Monteils?” I asked, stalling, trying to think of what to do, worried about what to say. “What makes you think I even know someone named Henri Monteils?”

  “Well, you must know him,” the detective said. “You went to see him yesterday evening. You want to tell me what that was about?”

  “What makes you think I went to
see him?”

  The detective sighed. “Ms. Miller, I think you better come with me.”

  “Why?” I asked, stepping back, tempted to slam the door in his face. “I don’t understand what any of this is about.”

  “Henri Monteils was killed yesterday,” the detective said. “You need to tell me what you know about that.”

  Pulse racing, my stomach leaped as I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about—”

  “I think you do,” said the detective. “And I would like you to come down to the police station.”

  At the police station, in the dank, dimly lit interrogation room, I sat at a cold, metal table that was bolted to the floor, trying not to have a damn heart attack.

  When the door opened, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Detective François stepped into the room, his dark eyes kind, and yet I sensed shrewdness in his gaze, as though he was sizing me up. While he examined me, I imagined he was trying to figure out how to coax me into incriminating myself.

  Criminal defense was not my area of expertise, but I knew better than to talk to the cops without a lawyer. So, why the hell would I allow this detective to question me without any representation? The rational part of me probably thought I was somewhat still smart enough to answer questions without incriminating myself. All I had to do was tell the truth and trust the detective to have enough sense to know I wasn’t a killer. The detective would surely determine that I couldn’t have murdered Henri Monteils.

  “So, Ms. Miller, before we get started, would you care for something to drink?” the detective asked as he closed the door and walked to the table in the center of the room. “Water? Coffee?”

  I shook my head, rebuffing his attempts to play the gracious host, probably trying to disarm me, get my guard down, and fool me into thinking I could trust him with all my dirty little secrets.

  “Well, then, why don’t we begin with the basics,” he suggested, asking me to provide vital statistics.

  “Harlequin Annette Miller,” I said in a flat tone after he asked for my full name.

  “Interesting name,” the detective said. “Harlequin. Very pretty.”