Every particle of him believed she was a part of Luca’s disappearance. Suspicion had spread through him from corner to corner, edge to edge, so despite the glimpses of raw honesty he found in Izzie, he couldn’t force himself to trust her—or anyone—completely. The world he lived in didn’t allow it. But he wouldn’t accuse her of organizing his father’s escape from Las Vegas and enabling him to survive underground, because he didn’t think her involvement was direct or voluntary.
Because even she didn’t know the role Luca had assigned her.
A discreet, precisely planned and almost irresponsibly expensive vacation wasn’t something a man—even one with a slipshod grasp on his sanità mentale—paid for and forgot about. Gambling debt must’ve already begun closing in on him at the time he’d taken Izzie as his fiancée. Yet he’d spent what must have been a hell of a supply of funds to make a two-week stay in “paradise” possible.
Then he’d canceled the engagement, but not the trip.
Why?
What was his gamble? What did he have to gain by enticing her with a tropical haven? Touring the Seychelles and entertaining strangers in the villa could eat up only so many hours, leaving dots of moments that were bound to find her alone—reimagining the villa’s garden or kicking up sand on a beach or lagging behind a crowd on a Victoria street. Those moments of isolation were taken for granted, and what if that’s what Luca was banking on?
Because isolated, Izzie was integral, necessary to Luca. Was she a throwaway key to freedom he didn’t deserve? Or did he figure she owed him for the luxurious life she’d lived on his dime without giving up her pussy to him—and he was ready to collect?
That possibility made Milo burn with an unfamiliar brand of anger that stretched inside him and settled.
As dawn breached the dark, he was glad to unfold himself off the sofa and fix the fucking coffee. To be the first one awake, he would’ve had to sleep first. But he wasn’t about to let his restlessness and a trivial technicality spark another go-round with Izzie.
Something infiltrated his strongest defenses when his temper met hers. It didn’t stop and end with the urge to fuck her. If it did, he could cease the self-inflicted sweet torture of reliving the sight of her, the sound of her, her scent and touch and taste. Getting hot, getting hard, and getting off didn’t happen for him often—but it did happen, so that wasn’t what made her exceptional. And it didn’t make him cured. It was the intimacy she’d offered and he’d selfishly taken, as she rode him, came for him, and let him hold her while she talked about superheroes, that got to him.
Damn, did she get to him—in ways that had nothing to do with his dick. If he never put a hand on her again, she’d still get past his barricades and occupy too much space in his head. Last night was a mistake. Odds said it’d happen again if they found themselves in the mistake-making mood. Self-restraint failed him, so yeah, let distance step in. Milo had given her too much, and that fact made her reminiscent of Tabitha. But he’d taken just as much from Izzie and couldn’t leave this island without taking one more thing: answers.
If she came close to satisfying his questions as completely as she satisfied his body, then ambushing her on this island wouldn’t have entirely counteracted his purposes.
And those questions wouldn’t be satisfied if he pissed her off about a pot of coffee.
Figuring out the futuristic-looking brewer was a distraction he appreciated. Leaning over a counter, mumbling a few curses, he got some relief from suspicion and erotic memories. On the other side of the windows lining one of the kitchen walls, an oasis-type terrace tried to lure him. Leafy plants swayed. Birds called out.
One of the worst moves he could make involved giving in to any temptation to hang around here when he knew he should leave. What he should’ve done was left Izzie alone last night—no sex, no kiss, no unlocking her, no wanting her with a ruthlessness that was as damaging as it was healing.
Get out, Tarantino. Walking away seemed easy enough. He’d make himself scarce, take a look around the island, send an “I’m alive. Be cool.” response to his brother’s text messages. All better options than staying on Izzie’s borrowed terrace, waiting for the smell of coffee to draw her out of her hiding place—no matter how much it killed him to wonder if she’d come stumbling half-awake straight to the brewer or waltz in bright-eyed and on guard. Either way she’d be hot as hell.
He poured a cup, drank down the steaming coffee without flinching. And he got out of there, shoving his phone and wallet into his pockets and swinging open the front door.
A shard of a second too late he remembered the place was armed with a security system that would, if rigged with typical entry and glassbreak sensors, fill the estate with ear-stabbing noise and send out a signal to authorities.
Except…nothing happened. A veranda decorated with rain-drowned tea light candles and the peaceful whispers of the early morning greeted him.
A quick scan revealed no controls panel, but he didn’t need to see it to confirm the system hadn’t been activated. Being with him wasn’t the only risk Izzie had taken last night.
Step back. Don’t start giving a shit. Quit gambling what you can’t afford to lose.
As he made fast tracks for his rental truck at the edge of the property, Milo passed Villa Soleil’s carport. A powder-blue convertible slept behind the wrought iron gates. The cool, calming color was starkly different from the sunshiny yellow of the Lamborghini he’d gotten used to finding parked in his driveway in Nevada. Both vehicles were part of Izzie’s illusions. She’d rented the convertible from the same Cora Island company that had provided his truck. The Lamborghini had sold well at an auction, and she’d bought a forgettable gray crossover that was easy to overlook on any Vegas street.
Almost invisible.
Invisibility—that’s what she told him she’d wanted. Could be what she still wanted, after what his father had put her through. Could be she’d find herself willing to make a devil’s bargain to get what reality denied her.
Navigating the open island roads and allowing his periphery to take in clear waters and jungle-coated hills, he regretted letting down his guard for even a second. Because now he prayed for it to catch hold, choke out empathy, and let him breathe.
At Cora Island Resort Hotel, he surveyed the concierge desk. A pair of men commanded the desk while a woman who’d stuffed her supersize breasts and hips into a dark suit spoke into a hands-free device and manipulated a tablet. When she set down the tablet and he saw a pair of gold crossed keys on her jacket lapel, he knew he’d wait for her.
The double shot of chipper he could do without, and he could easily get distracted picturing her rolling her hair around beer cans to come up with those cyclone-size curls, but Thora Whit had earned her Les Clefs d’Or keys after fifteen years in the industry, specializing in the delicate needs of politicians and high-profile celebrities. Her reputation as a woman who collected skeletons to keep the island’s closets clean said she was as much an enemy as she was an ally.
If his father roamed this island, she would know.
As he stepped forward, Thora sliced her hand through the air and the men retreated to the opposite end of the glossy desk.
“Bienvenu,” she cooed. “Welcome to Cora Island Resort Hotel. I’m—”
“Thora Whit.”
Cutting her spiel short, she said, “Follow me,” and strode to an office behind the gatekeepers’ desk. Coconut trees stood outside the windows, which he’d barely had time to notice, because she immediately snapped the blinds shut and gestured to a chair. “You read people, but I’m better at it. Age, if nothing else, has given me an edge. You were watching me because you have a special request, or you’re fond of the older woman.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“About your special request,” she said. “Paranoia’s making you hesitate. Am I correct?”
“Paranoia. Protecting my interests. Same thing.”
�
�What can our resort do to earn your confidence?”
“I’m searching for somebody. Word is you like to think you run this island.”
“I don’t fool myself with delusions. This island is mine, sir. I’ve earned it and, yes, I do run it. Like a well-greased machine.” Selling herself, she revealed her eagerness to add his skeletons to her collection. “You need more than discretion, don’t you?”
“I need someone found.” Milo laid a photo on the desk. “Would you recognize this man if you saw him?”
“The jaw. I would recognize the jaw. It’s similar to yours.” Eye-fucking the photo, Thora asked, “Uncle?”
“Father.”
“He’s an Italian? Full-blooded?”
“He is.”
“Knew it. I have an eye for classic Italian men.” Tossing her beer-can curls, she allowed a curt smile. “This man’s not a guest here.”
“At this resort?”
“On Cora. I keep track of visitors. The more peculiar, the more interesting. For instance, you arrived on Cora after our resort’s posted check-in time, secured yourself a rental vehicle, and neglected to claim any of the properties or attempt to book a room here—despite last night’s weather conditions.”
Half intrigued, half creeped out, he said nothing.
“A very interesting American tourist—attractive, young, curious—arrived by ferryboat last week. She’s the biggest solo spender Cora’s had the pleasure of accommodating in some time. Last night she hosted a Valentine’s party.”
“Were you there?”
“No,” she said. “But you were.”
“If I was? So?”
“Those are only observations.”
“What do you make of your observations?”
“She provided your shelter. She’s visited our resort for a cup of coffee at the top of every morning since she arrived on Cora Island. She neglected to join us this morning.” An eyebrow twitched. “I have a guess or two as to the explanation for that, but it’s neither professional nor relevant to what you’re asking of me.”
Damn. Thora Whit was good—big hair, fancy crossed keys, and all.
“Should we be expecting your father?” she asked.
“Look out for him as if you are. If he does arrive on this island, I need to know about it. Only me. Don’t alert him. Don’t drag authorities into this.”
“Then we’ll call this a family matter, Mister Tarantino?”
She knew his name. Of course she did. Within minutes after he left her office she’d know who his father was and why Milo needed him in custody. “Yeah.”
Another brisk smile. “Sir, I need to disclose that the safety of the resort’s guests comes first. Keep that in mind when you decide how you’d like to proceed in reconnecting with your father, if he does join us on this island.”
Agreeing on a nonrefundable two-thousand-euro gratuity—Thora’s exclusive services might not guarantee results, but her cooperation had its price—Milo gave her a contact number and left.
He didn’t have a database of shady sentinels on the Seychelles, could trust no one, but with a set of eagle eyes secured on Cora Island, he felt better about going back to the States without Izzie Phillips.
The sun was higher in the sky, his Bvlgari chronograph watch reading half past seven, by the time he slowed his truck in front of Villa Soleil. Getting out, he heard Izzie say, “You should be halfway to Mahé by now.”
Rounding a quartet of palm trees, she was neither sleepy-eyed craving a coffee fix nor as prettied up as she’d been last night. In sunglasses, a baggy gray sweater, white bikini bottoms, and sand sparkling on her bare feet, she was his biggest threat. Because he wanted to go to her, tug loose the side ties on her bikini pants, and forget why he’d be a supreme dumbass to touch her again.
She carried a bottle of Guinness and a gigantic flying disc. Even a safe several feet away he could smell her: sunshine, sweat, sand…and—oh, fuck, yes—fresh laundry.
“I fixed the coffee, Izzie.”
“I know. I didn’t drink any—I’d already decided on the Guinness. Um, I didn’t expect you’d follow through on that.”
“It was just coffee.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Um…so…why are you here now? A morning-after gold star?”
“I can’t leave without taking one more crack at you.”
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “One more crack?”
“Questions,” he clarified.
“Questions? Oh. Goody.” The sarcasm couldn’t mask the nervous anticipation she’d let slip a moment ago. “Ask me out back, on the beach. I was going balls out on my workout, ’til your noisy tank of a truck interrupted me.”
“I didn’t know it was possible to go balls out throwing around a big-assed Frisbee,” he said, slowing to a stop just before the grass gave way completely to sand.
She handed him the beer, walked about another yard out toward the calm water, waved the disc. “Chasing this thing down, jumping to catch it, bending to pick it up—all excellent cardio. Plus, since it rained overnight, the sand’s mushy and makes for some great resistance, which is awesomesauce for strength endurance.”
“And you keep hydrated with beer?”
“It is a vacation.” She lifted the disc, sent it zipping through the air, and raced after it, kicking up breaths of sand with each step. “My mother said a lady breaks out the booze after noon, and a lush does it before noon.”
“You believe that?”
“No. Anyway, the way I see it, noon has come and gone somewhere in this world.” She jumped, snagging the disc and facing the reverse direction. “I don’t know when your flight takes off, but you shouldn’t let me keep you. Your questions?”
“So you booked all your reservations in advance. All right, that makes sense. Who’s paying for your extras, Izzie? Morning coffees at the resort, sightseeing trips, souvenir shopping? Who footed the bill for the party?”
She paused, scowled. “Those are some personal questions.”
“We fucked. How much more personal can we get?” He watched her leg muscles tauten and relax as she ran after the disc, then she bent to snatch it up when it suddenly flipped and dropped into the sand.
You touched that before. You had that already. It’s over.
“Answer me,” he hollered across the distance. “Answer me, then I’m gone. But don’t lie to me.”
“Luca made sure I planned carefully.”
She was holding something back and wasn’t doing a decent job of hiding it. “Planned? Or schemed?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s more to this, and if you don’t already know what that might be, you need to work with me—not against me.”
“Really? So we’d be partners in this? Ride or die?” She laughed. “Riiiight.”
“I’ll look out for you.” Milo hadn’t thought far ahead, hadn’t come here to offer his protection to Izzie. But if she needed it—needed him—could he turn her down? “I mean that.”
“No, thanks.” She turned the disc in her hands, but didn’t release it. “Luca gave me funds for a spending allowance out here. I was bitter, feeling epically pissed, and I splurged on the party and island-hopping and it felt good.”
“Is he authorized on the account?”
“No.”
“Is the money gone?”
“Chocolate fountain, top-trained serving staff, silver necklaces—it all adds up. There ought to be enough left to fund my excursion to see a hundred-year-old tortoise and some gift shopping.”
Yeah, he could see her venturing off after tortoises and getting lost in racks of novelty stuff. That was a dimension of her he rarely saw in Las Vegas, but knew existed.
Still, she was keeping her cards close to the chest.
“Is this about the money?” she asked.
“No, it’s about motives. My father’s. Yours. Mine, too.” He switched the warm beer from one hand to th
e other, swore. “Shit. Shit, why am I doing this? I should be in Vegas with my mind on the NFL.”
“What?”
“Forget it.” He’d retired from the league, but his jersey number hadn’t been retired and in his sport, comebacks could mean everything. A comeback, a dignified retirement on his terms—he was owed that and, if he defied science and the league welcomed him home, he would collect. “I’m doing everything to find my father. I’m trying to get to him, trying to get it through that running’s going to make it worse. I’m the only man on this side of the fight, Izzie. My brother’s in Las Vegas. He’s smart. His hands are clean. Why am I doing this?”
“You love your father. You feel responsible for him.”
“I shouldn’t. I should hate him.” He and his brother had promised their mother that they’d look after him, and every day Milo had to face what he’d lost because of his father, he found it harder to honor that promise.
“But you can’t hate him. The Luca Tarantino I know isn’t the one you know. He’s your father, and once, before I met him, he was a good man.” Izzie raised the disc, settled into her stance. “Hating him now would sure make crap easier, but that’s not an option you have. You know the other sides of him. And because of that you can’t hate him.”
When she threw the disc, it floated levelly at first, then it suddenly changed course and, wobbling, veered in his direction. She yelled, “I got it!” as he reached for it, and before he could register that she was charging toward him, they met in a collision with her head striking his chin and the disc ending up in his hand anyway.
The real tragedy was the beer bottle tipping and a stream baptizing the sand.
Grabbing his hand to right the bottle, she said, “Either my scalp’s bleeding or by sunset I’m going to have one of those cartoon lumps.”
“Want me to check it out?” He was already dropping the monster Frisbee and reaching for the spot on her crown that must’ve ached like a bastard.
“It’s all right,” she refused, taking the beer and a greedy swig of it. “Nice catch, though. Here, have a sip.”
The Hook: The End Game Series (Book 4) Page 8