Ruthless (46 page)

Layla watched, fascinated, as Annie jotted stuff on to the paper.

When she’d finished, Annie sat back and stared at it.

‘Oh. Dear. God,’ she said. ‘These are map co-ordinates.’

‘What?’ Layla demanded.

Annie looked at her daughter and suddenly she started to laugh.

‘Honey – It’s a grid reference. Alberto’s telling you where he is.’

117

Whoever said it was better to travel hopefully than to arrive was obviously barking mad. Layla felt as though she had been travelling for about a year, first shuffling in airport queues, then on a five-hour flight, then another airport,
another
flight, then a water taxi, then a sea plane. Now a dust-covered cab with a smiling man in a loud shirt at the wheel was bumping her along an unmade-up road. She was so exhausted she could barely keep her eyes open.

‘Do you know how many islands there are in the Caribbean?’ Annie had asked her excitedly before she left New York. ‘There are
thousands.
Saba and St Eustatius, the Virgins, then there’s Andros and North Bimini in the Bahamas, and—’

‘And your point is. . .’ interrupted Layla impatiently.

‘My point is, a person could lose themselves there and never be found. You could stash your money in Belize or Panama, get yourself a luxury yacht, live on it, cruise around. Get lost
for ever
.’

Layla had been looking at the maps, she knew Annie was right.

I would kill for a shower,
she thought. She felt grubby, sweaty. It was so hot, there was no air-conditioning in the taxi. She peered outside, blinking with gritty eyes, and saw an azure sky, a stretch of white beach zip past, people strolling, no hurry, no problems, palm trees bent nearly double by the breeze, and the sea. She stared at it, a vast shimmering turquoise expanse that she longed to dive into to cool down.

The taxi came bumping to a halt. She fumbled for her purse, paid the driver. Clambered from the car while he went round the back and got her case out of the boot. The warm breeze tossed her hair into her eyes. She dragged it back, looked around her. There was nothing here.

‘Hey!’ she said to the driver. ‘Where . . .?’

But he was already back behind the wheel, slamming his door closed, gunning the engine, driving away in a cloud of dust. That was when she saw the huge black-haired man standing near a rickety pontoon, wearing shorts and a green polo-shirt. He saw her, and came lumbering over to pick up her case.

‘Miss,’ he greeted her.

Layla felt like she wanted to kiss him. ‘Sandor! Hi.’

‘This way,’ he said, and she stepped out on to the pontoon over the swirling sun-speckled clear waters, tiny bright fish dancing inches below her feet, Sandor following on behind. The taxi roared away.

Layla looked ahead, shielding her eyes from the hot glare of the sun. There was a forty-foot schooner moored out in the deeper waters of the bay. And there was a man stepping out of a small rowing boat at the end of the pontoon. He was wearing cut-off denim shorts, nothing else. His blond hair was bleached almost white by the sun and the wind, and his tall muscular frame was tanned and fit. He gazed along the pontoon, saw her standing there. His laser-blue eyes met hers, and Alberto started to smile.

Layla smiled too, her heart beating very fast. It was him. It really was.

She began to walk towards the man she’d loved all her life.

Then she broke into a run.

118

Not fifty miles from where his daughter was being reunited with Alberto, Max Carter lay in blissful ignorance in the sun on his Bajan terrace, wearing black Speedos. He loved lying in the sun. It refuelled him, made him stronger, and he was soaking it up, making the most of it, because he’d decided that he was going back to grey blustery England soon, see that crazy bitch Annie again, why not? Put her out of her misery.

He missed her.

That
was what he’d been trying so hard to blank from his mind these last eight years, with the heat and the women and the easy-living style of the Caribbean. The fact that he missed his ex-wife. And . . . he could see now that he’d been a fool. He’d allowed his jealousy and his deep insecurity where she was concerned to run riot. Maybe he would tell her that, but he didn’t think so. Keep her on her toes.

Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.

Wasn’t that what his old man had told him? Oh yeah, and
Keep ’em well fucked and poorly shod.
That was another favourite of his.

Fat chance of keeping Annie Carter poor, she liked the high life too much for that.

He was drifting off into a light doze, perfectly relaxed, when someone kicked his sun bed, hard.

‘What the
fuck
?’ he asked, springing into a sitting position.

Someone was standing over him, blocking out the sun. He squinted, unable to see a face.

‘Is this all you’ve got to do out here? Lie in the sun all day?’ demanded a very familiar female voice.

‘Well what would you
like
me to do?’ he asked her. He could feel a grin forming on his face: couldn’t stop it.

‘You could say hello, that’d be a start.’

He grabbed her hand and yanked her down so that she was sitting on the sun bed in front of him.

‘Hey!’ Annie protested, suddenly on his level. ‘Not so rough.’

‘You want me to say hello or don’t you?’ he asked, looking her over. The dark green eyes, the mouth that was now beginning to smile. Her long dark hair was moving gently in the breeze. She was wearing a cream linen sun dress, and a large gold cross he hadn’t seen her wearing before glinted in the valley between her breasts. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

She shrugged. ‘Wanted to surprise you.’

‘Missed me, yeah?’

‘Not especially.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Really.’

‘Yeah, really.’

Max stood up. Reached down, pulled her to her feet and into his arms.

‘You’re hot,’ she murmured, feeling the warmth radiating from his sun-heated skin. She twined her arms around his neck. Later, she was going to have to break the news about Layla joining up with Alberto – she knew he was going to be spitting mad about it – but for now she just stood there and enjoyed the feel of his arms around her.

‘So are you,’ he said, running his hands down over her body. ‘Let’s go inside, where it’s cooler.’

He picked her up.

‘What the
hell
?’ protested Annie.

‘Ah, shut up,’ he said, and took her into the villa.

Annie shrieked with laughter as he tossed her on to the bed.

‘Bastard,’ she said, opening her arms.

‘Bitch,’ said Max, and kissed her.

RUTHLESS

Jessie Keane was born rich. Then the family business went bust and she was left poor and struggling in dead end jobs, so she knows both ends of the spectrum and tells it straight. Her fascination with London and the underworld led her to write the No.1 Heatseeker
Dirty Game
, followed by bestsellers
Black Widow
,
Scarlet Women
,
Jail Bird
,
The Make
,
Playing Dead
and
Nameless
. She now lives in Hampshire. You can reach Jessie on her website www.jessiekeane.com.

By Jessie Keane

THE ANNIE CARTER NOVELS

Dirty Game

Black Widow

Scarlet Women

Playing Dead

Ruthless

OTHER NOVELS

Jail Bird

The Make

Nameless

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To all the usual suspects – you know who you are: love & thanks for your support, laughs and general cheerleadership.

Also to Andy Woodward, External Communications Manager of the Cessna Aircraft Company, for the advice.

First published 2013 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2013 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-230-77202-1

Copyright © Jessie Keane 2013

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