Tropical Getaway

by Roxanne St Claire

  They’d been neat. There were no overturned tables or slashed pillows, just a slight disorder that he knew the efficient and organized Genevieve would never allow.

  Looking around the sparse, contemporary rooms, grief hit him again. He couldn’t believe she was dead. The guilt that had barely begun to diminish from Paradisio flared into an ugly burn in his chest.

  Damn, he shouldn’t have gone back to the ship for one more night. He should have left Guadeloupe and come straight here. She might still be alive. He walked toward her bedroom, starkly decorated in pure black and white. Beyond the sleeping and dressing areas, he saw the windowed alcove with a sleek black desk, her computer and file cabinets.

  Whoever had searched her home made no effort to hide his handiwork in here. All of the file cabinets were open with papers strewn about, her calendar left askew and desk drawers hanging open. What were they looking for? He remembered the computer printout that he’d taken off her desk. Perhaps her reaction that day had less to do with his accidental touch and far more to do with how much she didn’t want him to have that paper.

  In the files, everything seemed to be related to Utopia. Marketing materials, sales brochures, ad campaigns, Web site updates. He gathered up as much as he could to take home and examine. For a moment the weight of grief, deepened by her invisible presence, pushed down on his shoulders. God, how did this happen?

  He had to face the inevitable. He had to call Nat and Elizabeth Giles. Now, before another moment passed. He didn’t know their number, but surely Genevieve had an address book here. He opened a few more desk drawers, then scanned the desktop for a Rolodex, but found nothing. In the top drawer of the nightstand, under a box of tissues and a magazine, he found a slim black leather book. With one glance inside, he realized that it was not an address book but a journal. He closed it immediately. It seemed like such an invasion of privacy.

  But perhaps it held answers. Names. Explanations. The privacy of a murdered woman had to be invaded.

  He leafed through the pages and began reading. Some entries were curled and feminine in their style, and others were scratched in anger as though written with poisoned ink. But one word appeared in every line, on every page, buried in heated, passionate prose.

  Dane. Dane. Dane.

  He snapped the cover closed. Genevieve had been obsessively in love with him, and he’d treated it like a schoolgirl crush.

  When Dane finally came home, he briefly acknowledged the guests milling about his house, then locked himself in his study for two hours. When he came out, he seemed pensive and angry. Ava longed to confront him and to find out what had happened with the constable, but he’d erected an invisible barrier. He softened only when comforting someone who seemed to be falling apart. He barely spoke to her.

  By sunset, nearly everyone had left. They’d been fed, Ava had seen to that. A steady rain added to the dark depression that hung over the house. Dane returned to the study, so she and Marj cleaned the kitchen, put away the food, and restored order throughout the house. The domestic tasks and the sound of Marj’s soft humming soothed Ava. But when Marj left, Ava was alone in the house with Dane, and every cell in her body went on alert, waiting for him to find her.

  But he didn’t. She wanted to wait for the rain to stop before she made her way to the guesthouse that she could see up the hill, but it showed no sign of letting up. Marj had said the keys to the tiny cottage were in the study.

  She finally walked the length of the hallway toward the closed door. Taking a deep breath, she knocked lightly.

  At his grunted reply, she nudged the door open. A desk lamp provided the only light. She glanced around and found him sprawled on a sofa under an open window, his eyes closed.

  “Everyone’s gone. I need to get into the guesthouse,” she said quietly.

  With a slow sigh, he sat up and opened his eyes. He stared at her for a second, a regretful look darkening his face. Then he tapped the seat next to him. “C’mere. I’m sorry.”

  The leather crunched as she took a seat on the edge of the sofa and frowned at him. “For what?”

  “For one thing, leaving you to play hostess to a bunch of people you don’t know.”

  “I just fed them. That was easy.” His face looked weary and beat. Still striking, but worry and grief had taken their toll around his eyes and mouth. Her fingers tingled with the urge to touch the tiny lines and soothe them away. She clasped her hands on her lap. “When are you going to tell me what happened today?”

  He fell back and rubbed his eyes. “I hit a few more brick walls.”

  “I’d really like to hear about them.”

  “The constable’s an asshole—pardon my French. And then I spent hours tangled in DEA red tape, only to learn that the guy I need is based in Trinidad and on some special assignment right now.” He finally looked directly at her. “I’m beginning to wonder if anyone really cares about drug running around here.”

  The apathy in his voice jarred her. “These people are killers, Dane.”

  “And they probably know I have more information than I ought to. I’m rethinking your being here at all, frankly.”

  A sharp breath caught in her throat. “Do you think they’ll just show up here and come in and kill us?”

  He smiled a little. “They’ll ring the doorbell first.”

  He must have sensed her horror, since he immediately sat up and reached for her. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him on the sofa. “Don’t worry, princess.”

  Electrical shocks jolted her and she stiffened, backing away with a little more force than she needed. No, no. She would not fall into his arms on this sofa, in this study.

  He smiled apologetically. “You looked so terrified.”

  Of you. “Well, it’s not a pretty thought. Murder.”

  “Nothing’s pretty right now, I’m afraid.” He dropped his head back and closed his eyes. “I just had to tell the man who’s the closest thing I had to a father that his granddaughter is dead.”

  Heartache crossed his face again, as it had on the way back from the airport. The poor man had been kicked hard lately.

  “I feel completely lousy,” he admitted. His powerful tan hands ran through his hair, tousling it into disarray. “Completely empty.”

  Here it comes, she thought. I need you. I want you. She had to stop it before he got her. Before those hands were working on her. “Empty? You’re hungry.”

  He chuckled at the statement, eyes still closed.

  “I bet you haven’t eaten all day,” she added, certain of her tack now.

  “No, I haven’t.” He opened his eyes and smiled sheepishly at her. “But not everything can be cured with food, I’m afraid.”

  “Everything is better on a full stomach. That’s what Grandma Rose says.” She stood and took his hand. She’d be safer on her own turf. At the stove, in front of a cutting board. This darker Dane in a rare moment of vulnerability could be her undoing.

  He let her pull him up. “I did smell something quite good when I walked in. Like a real Italian kitchen.”

  She nodded knowingly. “That’s the basil. Come on. Let me feed you.”

  In the kitchen, Dane settled on the bar stool with a glass of wine and suppressed the guilty sensations that teased him. At a time like this, it felt sinfully wrong to be so comforted by this woman. He should be mourning, researching, tearing his world apart for answers. Instead, he watched Ava Santori move gracefully around his kitchen, her cropped yellow top revealing her tight waist when she reached for something, a kitchen towel hanging from the pocket of her shorts.

  He couldn’t resist the blanket of warmth she threw over his whole house with tempting aromas of food and the gentle, feminine act of cooking. It eased the ache in his chest.

  And Arnot was right. She was talented. She chopped scallions with lightning speed and sautéed them as the flames danced around a pan he didn’t even know he had. She deglazed and blackened and seasoned and stirred without a pause bet
ween each step, all confidence and concentration. Desire stirred low and strong as he absently ran a finger along the crystal rim and let the fruit and oak aroma of the cabernet tickle his nose.

  “I went to Genevieve’s house after I left the constable’s,” he said without thinking. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to share it with her.

  She looked up from the pan. “What did you find?”

  “That someone else had already been there.” He took a sip of wine. “And I guess I confirmed what you told me a while ago.”

  Her hands froze as she waited for him to finish.

  “That she was…in love with me.”

  Silently, she designed a plate, artistically laying a piece of blackened fish over greens and angling vegetables around the dish. She finished the work and set it down in front of him.

  “Her feelings can’t come as a great revelation to you, Dane,” she said, pushing the plate closer. “Mangia.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I already did. I’ll just watch. You’re not an unattractive man.”

  He raised an eyebrow and a faint flush covered her cheeks.

  “I meant to Genevieve. You two would have made a great couple.”

  He took a bite, savoring the flavor and considering how to respond. “God, this is fantastic. I can’t believe you just pulled this together.”

  She smiled and leaned against the island behind her, looking the closest thing to cocky he’d seen since the day he met her on the docks. “So. How long is the string?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Of broken hearts you leave behind.”

  It was his turn to feel the heat of a flush. “Not that long—honestly. I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone, Ava. I just don’t get into long-term relationships.” He took another bite, not wanting to talk about his failed love affairs, but she deserved some explanation.

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I get bored quickly. Probably some deep psychological response to my pathetic rich kid childhood, raised by parents who were never around and shuffled me off to boarding schools.”

  Her dubious look said she wasn’t buying it.

  “Or I’m just a cynical, selfish son of a bitch who can’t make a commitment.” Her dimple deepened with the hint of a smile and he took heart in it. “Which do you think?”

  “Probably a combination of both.” She turned to busy herself with the pans on the stove while he ate the delicate fish and fresh vegetables, liberally complimenting her between bites.

  She wiped a counter thoroughly before she picked up the subject again. “Do you think that’s why Genevieve did it? The drug running, I mean. To get back at you for not…for not wanting her?”

  He set his fork down and nodded, having already thought of that. “Possibly. Probably.”

  “Did she ever tell you how she felt?”

  “Sort of. Not too long ago.” He finished the last bites and stood to take his plate to the sink. He didn’t want to share Genevieve’s clumsy attempt at seduction. “I wasn’t too responsive.”

  They cleaned up together in silence, then he picked up his unfinished glass of wine and dimmed the kitchen lights.

  “Great dinner, maestro. Do you want me to get you settled in your room now? It’s the first one on the left down that hall.” At her look of surprise, he added, “It’s too wet to trudge up the hill. Or perhaps I could convince you to sit in the living room and talk to me some more.”

  She put both hands on the counter and stared at him. “Talk. Only.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Deal.”

  She curled into a collection of throw pillows in the corner of a long sofa. He toyed with the thought of lying down next to her and just holding her, for the pure solace she offered. But he didn’t want to scare her away. He knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight, and the longer she stayed up with him, the less lonely he’d be throughout the night.

  He touched the remote for his sound system and added some soft classical music to the room, then settled in across from her in an overstuffed chair. He thought of all the things that he wanted to ask her, all the subjects that would keep his mind off the sad places it wanted to go.

  “Tell me about Dominic,” he said. “And why you never call him Daddy.”

  She gave a surprised laugh. “Daddy. Gee, I haven’t called him that since I was about nine. Dominic is Dominic. He’s not the ‘daddy’ type. Plus, in the kitchen, I like to be professional and not his little girl. What do you want to know about him?”

  “Is he a tyrant?”

  She smiled. “No. He’s not a tyrant. He’s a control freak and a creative genius. Combined with a volatile temper and passionate nature.”

  “So, you take after him.”

  She laughed a little at the tease. “He’s my dad. I have to defend him, right? Really, he’s not a bad guy. He runs a great restaurant and an amazing add-on business with the show and books. I guess he heads up a fairly good family. We’ve…got our problems, like all families.”

  “Have you ever thought of leaving the restaurant?” He crossed his ankles as he watched her nervously toy with the fringe of the pillow.

  “Sometimes. I have a bit of the wanderlust that Marco had, but I keep those desires in check. Santori’s will be my life, I expect.” She sounded less than enthusiastic about it.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Sometimes family tradition is just the burden you bear. Or the privilege you inherit.” She smoothed the fabric of the pillow. “Depends on how you look at it.”

  “Definitely a burden for me,” he said. “One I didn’t want.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head. “My father is also a control freak, but with none of your Italian passion. He’s ice cold like the country his ancestors came from, and my mother isn’t much better. Our household was all about business and money and social climbing. I couldn’t get away from that world fast enough.”

  “So you made a family here.”

  He nearly choked on the idea. “Hardly. I think we’ve already covered my problems with commitments.”

  She put the pillow aside and leaned toward him, a spark in her eyes. “You’re so wrong, Dane. I stood among your family today. Black and brown and white. French and Anguillan and Jamaican. They all came to you. You’re the head of the family.”

  A rush of pure, warm pleasure shot through him at her insight.

  “You have no problem with commitments,” she added softly. “You just have problems with women.”

  And maybe he just hadn’t met the right one. An overpowering desire to fold her into his arms and wrap himself in her black curls twisted his gut. With a will he didn’t know he could muster, he leaned back and set his chin in his hand. “Now tell me about your mother. You call her Mama.”

  “I had no idea you noticed all these things,” she said, kicking off her shoes and gracefully extending her lovely legs on his sofa.

  “I notice everything.” He let his gaze sweep the length of her body, and he reached deep down for the fortitude to remain in his seat. He couldn’t wrap his legs around the curve of her hips. He couldn’t run his hands inside that little top and touch what had already teased him. He couldn’t sink his mouth into the valley between her luscious breasts and inhale the gentle musky fragrance of her. Holy hell. He shifted in his seat and willed his arousal away.

  “You’d better keep talking, princess. It’s going to be a long night.”

  She shot him a dimpled grin. “Okay. I’ll tell you about Mama.”

  “And Grandma,” he prompted. “Rose, is it?”

  “Oh, yes. I’m named after her,” she said with obvious pride. “Ava Rose. I love her to pieces.”

  Into the night, they shared their stories. Ava described the saintlike Maggie Santori and her subtle Irish influence over the colorful Italian clan she’d married into. She told him about wise Grandma Rose, who kept peanuts in her apron pocket and actually held the title of Grand Ci
nderella in something called the Order Sons of Italy. He choked in laughter as her animated, feminine hands flew in gestures, describing her family in Boston and the history of the restaurant that the Santoris had owned for nearly a century.

  In return, he offered a rare glimpse into the world of the dysfunctional Eriksons, which was so different from her childhood. He’d known only a series of changing hotel suites, nannies, and boarding schools. They hadn’t even wanted a child, and he knew from the time he was a little boy that there would be no brothers or sisters for him to take under his wing. Only Nat and Elizabeth Giles, who were really just strangers who’d befriended him as a young man, had provided anything like a family life.

  That seemed to sadden her, so he changed the subject, and they talked about sailing and cooking and the highs and lows of owning a business. And of course, they shared their memories of Marco, which brought her tears but also smiles.

  About an hour before sunrise, she fell asleep, her arms wrapped tightly around the throw pillow.

  He was still in his chair.

  13

  M ax Roper wanted to spit on the French scum who sat across from him in the tiny interrogation room, puffing on a cigarette and refusing to speak the English he certainly knew. Dombrowsky had been browbeating the kid for two hours, and he was scared shitless but still not talking. In any language.

  The raid had been even better than Max had imagined.

  The quantity and quality of what they found confirmed the site as a central transshipment point. Deliveries had come from all over the Caribbean, earmarked for Haiti, Puerto Rico, and Miami. Some of it had been stored in containerized cargo from freighters, other cartons had been air-dropped. Multikilo quantities had been hidden in secret compartments of expensive luggage. Several shipments, his personal favorites, had been creatively concealed in cases of food and spices.