“You really want to help? I have something you can do. Escort the women to Augusta this morning.”
Carter shook his head. “No way. I’m offering to stay here and help you take care of last-minute—”
“So you can keep an eye on me. But where I could really use you is in making sure they get there safely.” Mark held his gaze. “The roads will be wet and overcrowded. There’s no doubt going to be some road rage, and Mercer has her hands full with Mom and Emily. It would be a relief to me knowing you were driving them there.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
After a few beats, Carter reluctantly bobbed his head. “If that’s what you really want. But I expect you to meet up with us.”
“I will. You should get packed,” Mark advised. “Mercer’s getting Emily’s things together now.”
Carter went off in the direction of the guest rooms.
Mark hadn’t been lying. He did feel a small weight taken off him knowing that Carter would be making the trip, too. Although it was only a few hours to Augusta where their aunt lived, he was concerned about traffic congestion. He also hoped Carter might provide a distraction for Emily, who thought he hung the moon. Since finding out about the upcoming trip, she’d been asking repeatedly why Samantha couldn’t come with them. When she discovered Mark wasn’t in the car, either, he was worried about how she might react.
Going into his office, he noticed that housekeeping had been there but hadn’t completed their job in light of the evacuation frenzy. A vacuum cleaner sat in the middle of the floor, still plugged into the electrical socket, and an abandoned bag of trash leaned limply against the wall. Mark sat down behind his desk, taking a short break from all the commotion. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead, his weariness extending far beyond the storm preparations.
He’d done the right thing to call it off with Samantha. For Emily’s sake and for the sake of the hotel, he reminded himself. But no matter what Samantha had done in her past or what she had been involved in, he still had feelings for her. He felt mixed up and painfully alone.
The things he’d said to her had damaged her, he knew.
Even if they were no longer together, Mark vowed he would do whatever he could to help her. But he had been wondering what help actually meant—whether it was simply keeping quiet about her true identity, or persuading her to go to the police and then paying for her legal defense. He recalled what Todd Hamilton had told him about the Leary brothers. What if Samantha was right that exposing herself would put a target on her back? The thought of her being placed at risk made cold pool in the pit of his stomach.
In that moment, Mark hated that he was having such a hard time dealing with the truth. He ran his hand over his face. Last night, Mercer had told him of Samantha’s plans to sell the café and leave town once the hurricane was behind them. It hadn’t completely surprised him, but the revelation had still left him shaken.
Was he really going to just let her go?
His throat felt tight. On impulse, he retrieved his cell phone from his pants pocket. More than anything, he just needed to hear Samantha’s voice. He would give her a brief call, make sure she was all right and planning to go inland soon, if she hadn’t left already.
His finger remained poised uncertainly over her number on the phone’s screen for several seconds, until the quiet of his office was disrupted by the intercom console on his credenza.
“Mr. St Clair?”
He recognized the soft inflection as belonging to one of the women who worked the concierge service. “Yes, Peggy. What is it?”
“We have an emergency. The driver taking guests to the Charleston airport just called. The limousine has had a breakdown on I-526, and several passengers are going to miss their flights.”
“I’ll be right there.” Sighing in resignation, Mark returned the cell phone to his pocket. His call to Samantha would have to wait awhile. Which might also give him some time to figure out exactly what he was going to say to the woman whose heart he had broken.
The noontime sky looked like gray velvet hanging low over the quaint beach town. From his seat in the passenger side of the Cadillac Escalade, Red Leary peered out at the boardwalk and dark plane of sea just beyond it. The weather had continued to deteriorate as they’d traveled along the coastline, the smell of rain adding an extra fecund note to the sea air. They had looped north and taken a back road south to Rarity Cove, avoiding the one-way evacuation route headed out of Charleston proper. Red sipped coffee from a local Gas ’n Go, scowling faintly at the bitter taste.
“It’s not looking good. The wind’s picking up,” Cyril commented, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the leather steering wheel. “Figures that when Trina finally turns up, it’s in someplace that’s about to be underwater.”
Red saw him give a nervous glance to the rough waves pounding the shore.
“What’s the matter? You afraid of a little rain?”
Cyril shrugged his massive shoulders, returning his eyes to the road and slowing the vehicle as two teens on foot darted in front of them. “I’m not much of a swimmer, that’s all. Like I said before, I don’t know why we couldn’t wait until this blows over—”
“Because I said so, that’s why,” Red snapped, tired of repeating himself. He had a cool half-mil to recoup, one way or another, and he wasn’t taking a chance on the opportunity getting away. Sipping from the foam cup, he continued his watch along the beach as the vehicle moved forward. A few thrill-seekers still roamed the shore, strutting around with surfboards under their arms as if the impending hurricane might turn the Atlantic into the Pacific and make it the perfect place to hang ten. The idiots would deserve it if Mother Nature washed them away in the storm surge. He squinted at a police officer that had reached the surfers, his body movements indicating they were being told to leave.
“What if he was feedin’ us a line of shit? You thought about that, boss?”
Red pressed his lips together. He knew in his gut the private investigator hadn’t lied to them. Men being threatened with extreme violence rarely did, not if giving up the desired information could keep them breathing.
One of the girls at the Blue Iris had come to Red about the man who’d been asking around about Trina. He’d had a few drinks and a lap dance in the Champagne Room while talking to her, telling her enough about himself that it hadn’t been all that hard to track him down. After Cyril had landed a few well-placed punches, the once-tough PI had blubbered like a bitch, abandoning all rules of client confidentiality. He had been hired by phone by a man named Carter St. Clair, he’d confessed. And while his client’s number had a New York City area code, St. Clair had instructed him to send the invoice to him at a hotel outside Charleston, South Carolina.
The St. Clair.
Red thought of the photos he’d been sent and their beach-like locale, his radar tingling. The PI wouldn’t be issuing anyone a warning. Once they had gotten the information they wanted, Cyril had snapped his neck, dropped him back into his desk chair and then set his office on fire.
“Been through what I’ve been through just to end up drowned,” Cyril muttered under his breath.
“Take a right,” Red instructed, having seen the street sign at nearly the same time the automated voice on the GPS sprang to life. Frowning, he lowered the window and tossed out the remainder of the foul-tasting coffee, including the cup. Cyril turned the vehicle onto a long stretch of peninsula, its road bordered by gnarled live oaks. Their massive limbs stretched across the road, garlands of Spanish moss swinging in the ominous breeze.
They rode in silence until the asphalt turned into cobblestone, leaving them idling in front of a black wrought-iron gate with a large brass plate across it. The St. Clair was engraved on the plate in elegant black script.
Cyril whistled. “Swanky place.”
They passed through the entrance and got closer to the grand, antebellum-style hotel just as the drizzle kicked up a notch, blurring the
windshield between each sweep of the wipers. Vacationers stood under the hotel’s awning as bellmen loaded their luggage into the backs of waiting luxury cars.
Like rats leaving a sinking ship, Red thought, studying the oversize rear of a woman in a hot-pink jogging suit as she rummaged through her designer purse and tipped the bellman.
He’d never been much for the beach. His skin burned too easily, and he hated the sand that was everywhere—in the hotel carpet, the floorboards of cars, in his shoes. But Devin had been a real waterdog. He could almost see his little brother at the age of ten or so, waving at him from the plank of a diving board before disappearing headfirst into a pool. Red shoved away the image and the emotion it conjured inside him, reminding himself why he was here. Devin, idiot asshole that he was, had taken something that didn’t belong to him. And his strongly held conviction was that his brother’s girl had made off with the bounty. He planned to extract some sweet revenge for his troubles, too. The SUV passed through the parking lot, mostly empty except for a smattering of vehicles.
He dug out his cell phone and called the hotel.
“Carter St. Clair,” he demanded when an operator finally answered, but he was told Mr. St. Clair had departed due to the impending storm. Red hung up, pissed. “He’s not here.”
“Smart man. We should go, too—”
“Slow down,” Red ordered, annoyed by Cyril’s perpetual whining. “And run the wipers faster. I can’t see a goddamn thing.”
At the edge of the lot, there were several covered parking spots in an open-front, bricked structure, all of them marked Reserved. But only one still held a car. Red sat up a little straighter, squinting at the convertible. Its top was up, but it still made his heart skip a beat in recognition. Reaching inside the glove box, he pulled out the photos, flipping through them. The maybe Trina stood next to a cherry-red Lexus convertible in the images. She’d been in conversation with the female driver, oblivious to the photos that were being snapped.
“Stop.” Red unleashed his seat belt and climbed from the SUV. Shoulders hunched against the drizzle, he stalked to the car, then bent forward and peered through the driver’s side window. A miniature disco ball hung from the rearview mirror. The same as the convertible in the photo. He loped back to the shelter of the SUV, brushing the rain from his hair as he got inside. “Go ahead and park so we can check the place out.”
“You got it, boss.”
They were so close. Red’s mouth formed a grim line. If Trina wasn’t here at the hotel, she was somewhere in this town—unless she had already hightailed it out. If so, they would find a place to hole up and wait for her to return.
Hurricane or not, he was going to find her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Standing in the circular driveway in front of the Big House, Mark closed the trunk to Olivia’s older-model, mint-condition Mercedes with a soft whump. They’d decided to use it for the trip to Augusta since Carter had only a rental—an open-air Hummer, of all things—and Mercer’s convertible was too small for the four of them plus luggage.
Lifting his daughter into his arms, Mark kissed her cheek. Emily wore a yellow rain slicker over her T-shirt and shorts, as well as rubber boots designed to look like cheerful frogs. He felt his heart tug. “Be a good girl for Aunt Mercer and Nana, okay, Emily?”
“You come, Daddy,” she begged, sounding fretful. Mark suspected she sensed the somber mood. A steady drizzle had set in over the town, and that would only increase throughout the day as the outer bands of the storm approached.
“I’ll be there. Just as soon as all the hotel guests and workers are safe and out of the storm.”
“I stay, too.” Emily’s small hands clung to his neck.
“You can’t, sweetheart,” he said, his chest tight.
Mercer stepped forward. “C’mon, Em. Let Daddy get his work done so he can hurry up and join us. Remember, we talked about this at home?” Taking her hand, she coaxed Emily away once Mark had gently disentangled himself and placed her back down.
Carter had just finished securing Emily’s booster chair in the backseat of the Mercedes. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he straightened and trudged over to Mark while Mercer settled Emily into her seat.
“Drive safely,” Mark advised.
“Precious cargo.” Carter gave a serious nod. He regarded Mark from under the brim of his ball cap. “I’m calling your cell and making sure you’re out of here before sundown. I might even want you to send me digital photos of interstate markers as proof.”
“Don’t count on it.” The rain picked up a bit, and Mark pushed his damp hair back from his forehead. “I’m planning to take the back roads, head north and circle around.”
The two men shared a brief embrace. A second later, Mercer came up, holding a rain poncho she’d found in the backseat over her head. Standing on tiptoe, she put her free arm around Mark’s shoulder and hugged him, too.
“You need to remember the hotel can be replaced,” she whispered against his ear. “You can’t.”
Wind caused the palm trees in front of the house to sway, their fronds fluttering and snapping.
“You should all get going,” Mark pointed out.
As Carter and Mercer got into the car, Mark turned toward the house’s columned front porch. Olivia appeared stoic as she held a black umbrella, her pale hair protected by a clear rain bonnet. Mark went over and escorted her to the front passenger seat. He started to open the door, but she placed her hand on his arm.
“Twenty-six years ago, I left this place with you children—Mercer just an infant—only to find a pile of rubble and your father standing in the middle of it when I returned,” Olivia recounted softly, looking back toward her home. “What if it happens again?”
“It won’t,” Mark promised. “The hotel and your house will be here when you come back. What about Marisol?”
“She left yesterday with her daughter’s family.” She patted his cheek, her blue eyes worried. “Please be careful and join us as soon as you can. I love you, darling. And I want you to know…I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you and the restaurateur.”
“You’re lying,” Mark noted. “But I appreciate the effort.”
Olivia blushed a bit. “What happened, exactly? No one tells me a thing anymore.”
“It was like you said, Mom.” Mark squinted at the ominous sky, not meeting her gaze. “She and I…just weren’t right for each other.”
“But at least you know now that you do have the potential for happiness again. That your life can go on without Shelley. That’s a good thing, Mark.”
Mark simply nodded, his heart heavy, unable to say more.
He opened the car door and helped Olivia inside. His clothing and hair soaked, he stood next to his station wagon and watched as the sedan pulled from the driveway and headed out.
As it grew later in the day, the hotel still held a small handful of guests, most of whom were traveling inland by car, but for one reason or another still straggled behind despite repeated prodding. Mark worked at the front desk in the lobby, helping with the last checkouts since only one of his clerks remained. Outside, the rain preceding Hurricane Gina had set in, and it appeared hours later than it actually was due to the darkened skies. The cast-iron streetlamps around the hotel’s exterior were already on, their lights emitting a fuzzy golden glow in the all-pervading grayness.
A chartered bus idled outside, awaiting the remainder of hotel employees who did not have their own transportation to evacuate. Mark had arranged for the bus to take them and their families to one of the hurricane shelters that had been set up inland.
Hopefully, in another hour he might be ready to leave, as well.
He had just finished fielding a complaint from a guest, upset that the bad weather had cut short his vacation, when his cell phone rang. Extracting it, Mark saw the name on the screen.
“Todd,” he answered. “Hold on a minute, all right?”
He signaled his departure to the lon
e desk clerk, then walked to the rear of the lobby where it was quiet enough to hear.
“Have you headed for high ground yet?” Todd asked once Mark resumed the call. “I hear they’re calling for a real gully washer.”
Mark glanced at a family who hustled past him, hauling their own suitcases since bellmen had gotten scarce. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“Don’t wait too long. None of that captain going down with his ship business.” The attorney’s tone grew serious. “Mark, I know you’re probably knee-deep in this hurricane mess right now, but I’ve got some information for you. I thought you’d want to know, but if this isn’t the right time…”
Mark felt the thud of his heart. Despite all that was going on around him, he said, “Now is good.”
“I spoke with some people in the know around here. People I trust. There’s some confusion, apparently. The police do want to talk to Trina Grissom. But she’s wanted as a potential witness for the state, not as a murder suspect.”
Confused himself, Mark squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand. Samantha—Trina—she told me she killed the guy. She stabbed him to death.”
“Well, I’ve got a copy of the autopsy report from the Shelby County Medical Examiner’s Office right here in front of me.” The airwaves crackled behind Todd’s voice, and Mark hoped he wouldn’t lose the connection. “Devin Leary died of a gunshot wound to the back of the head, execution-style. That’s the official cause of death. According to my contact, the number one suspect is a Russian named Sergei Boklov. A real badass. He’s an entrepreneur importer into the US, if you will—drugs, weapons, conflict diamonds, that kind of thing. He also leaves his signature on killings by taking an eye from the victim. Leary’s corpse was missing one peeper. That’s confidential information, by the way.”
Mark realized he’d been holding his breath. Surprise threaded through him, as well as a flare of hope. “So you’re telling me there was no stab wound?”
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