The Playboy

by Alice Ward

  If I found her, that is. Everything centered on that. And her being okay.

  When I finally saw the main island, I thanked God I was almost there. I caught sight of a black jet taking off, and something told me she was in it. It wasn’t marked as far as I could see. No signs of it being FBI, but I felt it in my bones.

  I shook my head to clear it. It couldn’t be her. I couldn’t have missed her by that small amount of time.

  But what if I had?

  What if she was gone?

  Hope was fast retreating as fear took its place. Everything felt like it was spinning. My head felt light, and I leaned over, putting my head between my knees so I wouldn’t pass out.

  The boat cruised into the dock. After a sharp turn that had us coming in sideways, we stopped. A hand touched my shoulder. “You okay?”

  “No.” I looked up at the captain. “But it’s not your fault.” A porter came, grabbing my luggage, sensing my urgency as I was hustled to the airport.

  The first thing I noticed was how electric the atmosphere was when I got inside. People were talking excitedly to one another. I looked around and saw no sign of Sloane.

  Thinking the best place to start would be at the security station, I went there with my cell in hand. Pulling up one of the pictures I took of us together, I showed it to the small woman who stood behind the desk. “I’m Zane Boyd, and I’m looking for this woman.”

  Her brown eyes flashed wide, but only for a second before her expression went back to normal. She gestured for me to come to the room that was behind her. “If you come this way, we might be able to help you, Mr. Boyd.”

  Based on her expression and actions, I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved. I followed her as the man who carried my baggage put it down. He shook his head, backing away. “I’m not going in there.”

  Weird.

  With no time to ask questions, I tipped the man and picked up my bags myself, carrying them into the little office. A rotund, walrus-looking man stood up when I entered the room. The door closed behind me, and I heard it lock. My spine bristled. Now I understood why the porter hesitated.

  “You are looking for Sloane Anderson?” The man gestured to the small wooden chair in front of his desk, and I tried not to show my surprise that he knew her name. I hadn’t said it, only shown the picture. “You are Zane Boyd, the man Ms. Anderson’s been staying with, no?”

  “I am. Do you know where she is? I need to find her.”

  Hope that I was going to find her swirled together with terror that I was too late.

  Then the man smirked at me and crossed his arms over his bulging stomach. “If a woman wanted to be found, then she would be. Please leave the airport. There is nothing here for you.”

  I just stared at him, anger seeping through my pores. “Can you at least tell me if she’s okay?” I placed my hands on his paper littered desk. I wasn’t leaving without some answers.

  “Okay?” He rubbed his chin. “Why wouldn’t she be? That woman is more than capable of defending herself. Even more so than most men.”

  My chest finally relaxed.

  She was okay.

  “Can you tell me what happened? I’ve been a nervous wreck since I woke up and found her gone. She and I had plans. We were going to live together. Fuck, maybe get married…” I trailed off as the man’s smirk grew into a look of outright sympathy.

  “I hate to break it to you, Mr. Boyd, but you were used.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, threading his thick fingers together. “Agents must use every available resource, and I’m sure the US government appreciates not only your participation but your confidentiality as well.”

  My heart cracked, then sank to the bottom of the ocean. “Did she actually say that I was only her cover?”

  He exhaled a long breath that stank of cigarettes and coffee, even from this distance. “No. She didn’t say anything about you at all. We were briefed by another agent that you might be making inquiries. I was told to break the news gently.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “She told me she was FBI.” It occurred to me she could’ve even lied about that. “Was she?”

  He nodded but didn’t verbally confirm. “I can see that you’re heartbroken. Take it from me, any kind of undercover agent is not easy to love. They lie for a living, Mr. Boyd.”

  “Yeah, I know.” My heart was barely beating. Everything inside of me ached. She’d been so dishonest, yet… what? How could you love someone you didn’t even know? “Can you please tell me what happened at least? I have to know.”

  He was already shaking his head. “I’m sorry. That’s classified information.”

  I was getting angry now. “I understand, but you need to understand that I was part of the operation. I helped—”

  The man chuckled and stroked his bushy mustache. “Mr. Boyd, I’m sure your, um, services were appreciated. I’m sure if they are needed again in the future, the young lady will be in contact with you.”

  This was getting me nowhere.

  I’d been used. Discarded. I didn’t want to make things worse by continuing to make a fool out of myself… or being hauled off to prison for beating this smug-ass man half to death.

  I rose from my chair, mustering every ounce of dignity I possessed. “Thank you.”

  He didn’t bother to stand. “Good day, Mr. Boyd.”

  Just as I reached the door, it clicked open, saving me the embarrassment of trying to break it down.

  Stalking out, I realized I had no idea what to do next.

  No, that wasn’t true. I did know.

  It was over.

  She was gone, and I didn’t know where.

  “May I be of assistance, sir?”

  It was the woman from the security desk. I shook my head and went in the direction of customer service. I had a jet to catch. A life to put back together.

  There were police everywhere. Crime scene tape. A body under a tarp.

  I hoped it was Smith. It was a man. The size gave it away.

  An hour later, I was in the air, staring down into the ocean. Taking out my phone, I scrolled through world news updates. Nothing.

  Would a shooting in a small island airport even warrant a headline?

  “Coffee, Mr. Boyd?”

  I shook my head. “Scotch, please. Breakfast of champions.”

  The attendant simply nodded. “Right away, sir.”

  Completely dejected, I refreshed the screen, hoping some news report would appear. Nothing.

  I drank scotch and refreshed. Nothing.

  Again, when the attendant poured my second drink. Nothing.

  A thought occurred to me. The airport shooting might not’ve been making world news, but it might certainly spread like wildfire with staff and crew.

  “Jacob?”

  The attendant turned back to me. “Yes, sir?”

  “Did you or the pilots hear any rumblings about a shooting in the airport?”

  His eyes grew wide. “Yes. You were very lucky to have just missed the action. From what I understand, the situation was very tense for a while.”

  I refreshed my phone again. Nothing.

  “I was hoping for more information, but it doesn’t seem to be making the news.”

  He tapped his lips. “Did you YouTube it?”

  “What?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “Every person with a smartphone probably recorded the action and had it uploaded within seconds.”

  I began tapping at my phone. “You’re brilliant.”

  He beamed at me, then stepped closer to watch over my shoulder. “There it is. Maldives Airport Shooting.”

  Sure enough, he was right.

  I tapped play.

  The video was jerky and the person recording it had been late to the game because three men were on the ground being handcuffed. I recognized one of them as Smith.

  Damn straight.

  But where was Sloane?

  Frustrated, I scrolled for additional titles
. “There,” Jacob said. “Maldives Airport Shooting, Part II.”

  I tapped, and disappointment had me sagging in my seat. In this video, Smith and the two men in black suits were being hauled away by airport security personnel as well as some hippie-looking dude and another guy in a pink shirt.

  “Freeze!”

  The person recording jumped and whirled around, the video image a blur until it stabilized.

  My heard squeezed. It was Sloane, and there was a man behind her, his arm around her throat. She was wearing a yellow sundress, her eyes huge in her pale face.

  “Oh my,” Jacob breathed from behind me.

  People were screaming, and the person recording was running, so I missed an exchange of words. Behind a column now, the person stabilized their phone, then zoomed in.

  As I watched, Sloane lifted a finger, clearly trying to communicate with the female agent in front of her.

  Oh no. The man was talking, something about a trade.

  She raised a second, and I thought I understood. My heart was a roaring monster in my chest. “Don’t do it,” I told the phone, my anxiety ratcheting in degrees.

  But she did.

  When the third finger lifted, Sloane became a blur of swinging elbows and twisting body.

  I jumped as the gunshots rang out. One. Two. Three.

  The man collapsed against the wall, and for a moment, I could breathe again.

  “No!”

  It was a female voice, and suddenly, I understood. The agent was rushing to Sloane, who was looking at her in disbelief.

  Red — the color of fire.

  Yellow — the color of sunshine.

  Together, the combination simply looked evil. Wrong.

  There was so much blood.

  The video stopped as the woman I loved was falling to the floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sloane

  Five weeks later…

  Tendrils of steam floated up from my cup of herbal tea, playing with one another as if they were happy dancers, moving to a slow rhythm. Miranda elbowed me gently, regaining my attention.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I set the cup down on the table. “I’d owe you change.”

  She rubbed my arm, her face filled with sympathy. It was an emotion I had grown to hate the past few weeks.

  “You still miss him.” It was a statement, not a question. And I knew the look on my face answered it anyway. She nodded, knowing all too well what I was going through. As female agents, we all faced falling for men who thought of us as breakable little girls who needed their protection.

  We were far from that.

  I swallowed. I used to be far from it anyway.

  Resting my hands on the wheels of my wheelchair, I pushed myself to the window of the rehab center that had been my home for exactly twenty-nine days. I had a gorgeous view of the parking lot and a tiny green strip of grass beyond. I wheeled away and faced my room instead.

  It wasn’t much better.

  Though an effort had been made to brighten the sterile space, it was still a hospital room at its core. A vase of fresh flowers Miranda brought for her visit sat beside the bed. A quilt my mother made spruced up the metal bed as did the one tossed across the rocking chair.

  It made me feel old.

  Used up.

  Depressed as all hell.

  Although I was fighting it, constantly reminding myself how lucky I was, the depression settled around me like a wet blanket, especially at night.

  In the dark, as my legs spasmed from the day’s exertions, I had too much time to lie awake and remember. And those memories always spiraled around him.

  The way he looked at me. The way we moved together. The way my heart was simply happier when he was at my side.

  And I threw it all away.

  For what?

  My ego?

  My need to prove my independence? My badassness? My loyalty to an old friend?

  “Stop it.”

  I glanced up at Miranda. “Stop what?”

  “Whatever is causing this wrinkle…” she poked me between the eyes, “to exist.”

  I blew out a breath and forced my face to relax. “Better?”

  She sat down on the rocking chair so I didn’t have to crane my neck up to look at her. “Much. Want to talk about it?”

  “Not really. What’s there to say?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Well, you could start with how it felt to take a few steps by yourself. That’s a freaking big accomplishment in such a short amount of time.”

  I smiled. She was right. I did take steps. Not on my own exactly, but close enough. Using the bars for support, my legs had moved five full steps.

  The bullet caught me as I was turning, entering my abdomen and glancing off my T12 vertebrae, causing the bone to fracture. Although my spinal cord wasn’t severed, the fracture pressed on the sensitive nerves. I was taken to a local hospital for immediate surgery to remove the resulting hematoma and stabilize the vertebrae, taking pressure off the cord.

  As a result… I was lucky. I could feel my legs, and my therapists felt sure I’d be able to walk again in a few months, although it was doubtful I’d be running any marathons in the near future. Or ever.

  Leaning forward, Miranda took my hands in hers. “I need to tell you something.”

  My stomach immediately began to churn. When Miranda arrived unexpectedly, I knew there was a purpose behind the visit. We drank tea, did some idle chitchat, but now the time had arrived. “Go ahead, tell me.”

  She took in a deep breath. “Zane has gone online, offering a million-dollar reward for any information on you.”

  My eyes popped open, and I gripped the sides of my chair. The room did a few revolutions around me as I attempted to breathe. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.”

  Rolling the chair to the table where my iPad lay, I tapped the screen, then tapped again. Shit. Miranda was right. There, so achingly gorgeous I nearly hugged the device to my chest, was Zane. I tapped play and closed my eyes as his voice filled the room.

  He held up my picture. “This is a woman I’ve known as Sloane Anderson…”

  I was leaning against the railing outside our little bungalow. It was my profile and I was smiling up into the sun. “I don’t remember him taking this,” I murmured.

  He held up another. I was asleep, my hand under my cheek, my hair falling into my face.

  “I’m very worried about her, and I’m offering one million dollars for information regarding her well-being.”

  Another. I was laughing.

  “If you know her, tell her that there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not searching for her, that I’m not thinking of her, dreaming of her.”

  Another. Walking toward him.

  “We didn’t know each other long, but she made a profound impact on my life.”

  Another. Me wearing snorkels.

  “I miss her.”

  Another. I was asleep on his chest. He was in the photo too. It was on the boat after the snorkeling trip, I realized.

  I smiled. Zane was a better spy than I was.

  “Please, if you have seen this woman, please tell her I’m sorry.”

  I frowned. Sorry for what?

  “And Sloane…” He looked directly into the camera, those green eyes gazing directly into mine. “I love you. I miss you. I’m worried half sick about you. Please… put me out of my misery. One word. Just one. Call me.”

  The offer of the reward popped up on the screen and I laid the iPad in my lap.

  Miranda’s hand came down on my shoulder. “He’s right. There hasn’t been a day since you were shot that he hasn’t called or dropped by the office. Even though I’ve been tempted a number of times to just tell him where you are, I’ve kept my promise.” She tapped the iPad. “But now, with a million dollars on the line, there is no HIPPA regulation, no change in identity that will stop someone from cashing in.”

  She was right.

&
nbsp; A tear fell, and I swiped it away. But another one followed. Then more.

  “I don’t want him to see me like this.”

  It was a terrible admission. All ego, no soul. But there it was… I couldn’t face the sympathy I knew I’d see in his eyes.

  Her voice was gentle. “Isn’t it better than not knowing?”

  I met her eyes. “He’ll stay. He’ll feel like he has to. Because he’s an honorable man—”

  She quirked her brow. “For a total hot ass playboy.”

  That got a laugh out of me. “Yes, for a playboy or anyone.”

  Even before the shooting, Zane considered me to be someone he had to watch over, keep safe. I looked down at my legs. And now?

  “Honey, why is him staying so bad?”

  I swallowed the emotion that threatened to strangle me. “Because I’m not the same woman he met. I can’t do the same things I once did. I can’t…”

  Make love? I actually had no idea if that was a possibility.

  “It’s just better if he forgets about me. Then he won’t feel compelled or whatever to take care of me or some shit like that.”

  Miranda frowned, her jaw growing tight. “Better for whom? Did you look at his face? His eyes? Did you see the strain there or are you so caught up in your own pity party that you can’t see what’s in front of you?”

  My fingers itched to slap her. “Is that what you think?”

  “Yeah, it’s exactly what I think. And I’ve been thinking it for a while now, but like everyone else, I’ve been tiptoeing around you.” She stood, jamming her fists on her hips. “Not anymore.”

  “Don’t you tower over me. Just go away!”

  “No!”

  I stared at her, then dropped my face in my hands. She was right. I knew she was right. She knew that I knew that she knew that she was right. Or something like that.

  I needed to face this. Face him. Put both of us out of our misery. It was the fair and honorable thing to do.

  “Okay.”

  Miranda sank back into her chair. “Okay, what?”

  “Okay, I’ll call him.”

  She closed her eyes in relief. “I’m glad.” When she opened her eyes again, she was grinning. “On behalf of me and everyone in the office, thank you for doing this.”