Cuba Straits (27 page)

Ford’s response: “Thanks. I’d like to believe I’m not always an insensitive jerk.”

Not the faintest wisp of a smile did that earn him.

Beyond a crop of sea oats, framed by palms, Maggie—if that was her real name—had closed the trunk and was returning to give her vacation hideaway one last look.

Ford drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Left hand only because he’d bruised, or broken, his right hand on Anatol Kostikov’s head.

Should he get out and say good-bye to the lady as required of a gentleman?

No . . . it was too late for that.

I wish you all good things,
he thought as he watched her.
Your husband, too.

Ford, when Maggie was safely inside, started the truck and drove to Jensen’s Twin Palm Marina and Cottages, which was bayside, Captiva Island. The next morning, that’s where he was, on the porch of Cabin 8, when Hannah and the former lieutenant governor arrived in a limo. Sitting beside Ford were Marta and Maribel Esteban. In his arms, still crabby from lack of sleep, Sabina lifted her head from his shoulder and said, “My god, Marion. Now what have you done?”

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