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 could see 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 Cecelia 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 of an enemy as she was an ally.
If his father roamed this island, she would know.
As he stepped forward, Cecelia sliced her hand through the air and the men retreated to the opposite end of the glossy desk.
“Bienvenue,” she cooed. “Welcome to Cora Island Resort Hotel. I’m—”
“Cecelia 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 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 older women.”
“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.” Santino 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 fondling the photo, Cecelia asked, “Uncle?”
“Father.”
“He’s an Italian?”
“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 rose. “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. Cecelia 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, Mr. Franco?”
She knew his name. Of course she did. Within minutes after he left her office she’d know who his father was and why Santino needed him found. “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—Cecelia’s exclusive services might not guarantee results, but her cooperation had its price—Santino 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 Bindi Paxton.
The sun was higher in the sky, and his Bulgari chronograph watch read half past seven by the time he slowed his truck in front of Villa Soleil. Getting out, he heard Bindi say, “You should be halfway to Mahé by now.”
Rounding a quartet of palm trees, she was neither sleepy-eyed and 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 dumb ass to touch her again.
She carried a bottle of Guinness and a gigantic Frisbee. Even a safe several feet away he could smell her: sunshine, sweat, sand…and—oh, damn, baby—fresh laundry.
“I fixed the coffee, Bindi.”
“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, till your noisy tank of a truck interrupted me.”
“I didn’t know it was possible to go balls out drinking beer and 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 awesome 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. Fine, that makes sense. Who’s paying for your extras, Bindi? 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 had sex. 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.”
“Al 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. “Riiight.”
“I’ll look out for you.” Santino hadn’t thought far ahead, hadn’t come here to offer his protection to Bindi. 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. “Al 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 it 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.
But again, 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 the other. “Dammit. 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 his head that running’s going to make it worse. I’m the only man on this side of the fight, Bindi. 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 Santino 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 Alessandro Franco I know isn’t the one you know. He’s your father, and once, before I met him, he was a good man.” Bindi 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 dull 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.”
He didn’t always go for warm beer, but Santino couldn’t refuse the sweet gesture. She did that a lot—shared. She was self-serving, had an on-again, off-again relationship with honesty, but she shared what she had. Her generosity was as hot as anything about her.
Passing the beer back, he said, “Let’s give that no-lying thing another try. Tell me…how come you’ve got nothing underneath this sweater?”
Bindi’s gaze landed on him like an openhanded slap. “I—”
“Okay, let’s clear up something. Before you get the urge to say you’ve got on a bra or whatever.” With both hands free, and his decent judgment running on empty, he tucked them under the bottom of the sweater and slid them up her sweat-dampened abdomen to cover her breasts. “I wasn’t asking if you were naked under this,” he said, scraping his thumbs across her stiff nipples. “I was asking why.”
“I—I—” She made an ineffective one-handed attempt to slow him down. “I was going to work on a tan. An all-over tan.”
Get to it, he almost said. Show me.
“Santino, what’d you think was going to happen when you found me here?”
“You’d hear me out, pack up your purple luggage and go back to Vegas with me.”
“Who said I have purple luggage?” She stumbled backward.
Shit, he wasn’t going to admit to hanging on to a file devoted to her secrets. “It’s a guess. Your Frisbee’s purple.”
Bindi nodded slightly. “Okay. Good luck with the whole Al situation.”
She was distancing herself. He didn’t like it but had to let it happen. “Call me if—”
“Definitely. And you have my number?”
“Memorized.”
“Better be.” Her smile seemed forced. “Go. I have a workout to finish, a possible concussion and who knows what else?”
“Concussion? Without a possible concussion you forgot to activate the security system on this place, by the way. What are you going to do with your bell rung?”
“Wait. I activated the system last night. I told you I left the terrace entry inactive for your benefit.”
“I left through the front door.”
Bindi frowned again, glanced toward the villa. “Then, I must’ve forgotten after all. So my secret’s out—I’m human and capable of errors.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with a possible concussion.”
“First, my head’s fine. It was just a little lighthearted sarcasm. Second, I won’t be alone.”
“Are you going to get your chance with that man at the party? The one with the ’fro and piercings?”
“Might,” she said, and he knew she wasn’t lying. “I could get with him, if the stars lined up just right. We’re not exclusive, Franco. We’re not…anything.”
He nodded because she was right, not because he agreed. He nodded even though he probably would’ve crushed the Guinness bottle in his hand if he’d still been holding it.
“Take care.” Before he could turn his back, Bindi yanked off her sweater and gave him a teasing, unobstructed view of her jogging nearly naked with her oversize Frisbee and the bottle of beer they’d shared.
*
Bindi stayed outside—her heart beating too fast, the sun too hot on her skin—and counted Mississippis until she heard Santino’s truck drive away from her villa. When it did, at three hundred and sixteen Mississippi, she dropped her disc, grabbed her sweater and ran inside.
Getting rid of the beer bottle, she ran faster, clumsier, to the front of the house. Hidden behind one of the black-and-white prints beside the door was the security system’s control panel. She moved the decoy, studied the panel.
Inactive.
She’d set the system to Active as surely as she locked all seven locks on her Vegas apartment door and made sure her Louisville slugger was where it should be.
Someone had deactivated it.
Chilled, as though someone had scraped a feather down her spine, Bindi rushed to put on her sweater.
She bolted upstairs to the master suite, grabbing the closet key she’d hidden from prying guests. Opening the door with shaking hands, she stared at her Louis Vuitton suitcases. Santino had said with a lot of freaking certainty that her luggage was purple.
> How had he known if she’d kept it hidden? He hadn’t looked inside her closet.
“You’re having me tailed, Franco.”
Rage kissed her quietly, caressed her comfortingly, coaxed her to embrace it. Because she wasn’t only angry—she was hurt that he would lie to her and deceive her even as he volunteered to “look out” for her.
This was why she withheld. This was why she was right to quit trusting a man’s word.
This was why she had to sink to their level to ensure she’d come out on top.
Bindi blotted her eyes and grabbed her phone. In Las Vegas, the newspaper editor in chief who was sexual harassment defined and had refused to interview Bindi for a reporter gig because she’d refused him, was probably in the middle of a Valentine’s Day dinner with his wife, but she knew he’d take her call.
“Drew Ross. Go,” he said when he answered.
Bindi cringed. She despised every smarmy thing about this man, but despised even more that she was backsliding into sleaze. Perhaps things truly did have to get worse before they could get better. “This is Bindi Paxton.”
“We don’t have business,” he said, hostile.
“I want a job.”
“I think you’re aware of the effort I need you to show first,” Drew said, in a way that tempted her to pitch her phone out the window.
“I’m aware. And I won’t do that.”
“Then don’t contact me—”
“You’re going to want to hire me when I give you exclusive updates on Alessandro Franco.”
“Alessandro Franco skipped town.”
“His son wants me to help him find Alessandro. I just decided I’m going to do it.” It was too unfair for Santino to screw her literally and figuratively. She wanted to use, instead of be used yet again. “It’s only a matter of which media entity gets the details as they happen.”
“Santino Franco shut out the media.”
“Not me. Give me a job, Ross. Salaried, with benefits.”
“Jumping the gun, aren’t we? Get me something substantial on the papa and the godpapa. Gian DiGorgio’s in the vortex, too.”
Gian DiGorgio triggered fear she never could describe, like an itch that was too deep to scratch. Mostly, she’d stayed out of his way. But when she couldn’t avoid him, she’d laughed at his jokes, let him leer a little when Al wasn’t paying too much attention and reminded him often that her fidelity was to the man who’d put the ring on her finger.
Mine Tonight Page 8