Then You Hide (3 page)

Wade stayed right on her tail and watched those white shorts hitch left, right, left, like her own military march.

Not far from the Circus clock she slowed her step, glanced up and down the busy intersection of Fort and

Banks Street

, then crossed to enter the Ballahoo Restaurant. The tables were outdoor, under umbrellas, mostly peppered with the early lunch crowd, and she snaked through them straight to the bar, where she levered herself into an empty stool and whipped out that handheld again.

Wade followed, murmuring some “Excuse me’s” she’d no doubt skipped, and stood close enough to her to hear but not draw attention.

The bartender placed an empty cocktail napkin in front of her. “CSR and Tang? It’s the official drink of St. Kitts, you know.”

“No, thank you.” She slid something across the bar. “Have you seen this man in here in the past few weeks?”

So
that’s
what she was up to. On the hunt for the one that got away.

The bartender raised his brows a little, glanced at the picture, then at Vanessa. “No, sorry.”

Wade saw her shoulders sag in frustration. She pushed the picture forward again. “Are you sure?”

The man’s smile faded. “I’m sure. And if you’re going to sit here, you need to buy a drink.”

“Are you absolutely positive?”

The bartender glowered at her. To be fair, the man had barely looked at the picture, and Wade would have wondered the same thing. Only he’d have taken the time to get friendly first, to make a connection with the potential informant and probably get a better response.

“Listen.” She leaned closer and reached for the bartender’s hand. “I know about this place.”

Wade glanced around the bamboo bar and its higher-end clientele. What about the place?

The bartender’s black eyes narrowed. “I have never seen your man in here. Sorry.” He turned away.

She stared at him for a second, then turned in her stool to survey the patrons. She lingered over a table of four young men, tanned, toned, and dressed in the tourists’ uniform of khakis, T-shirts, and flip-flops. One of them said something; they all laughed and toasted frosty mugs of beer.

She watched for another few seconds, gathered her giant bag, her phone, and her picture, and headed straight for the table. The laughter died down when she reached them, changing to a look of surprised interest.

If she was out to get lucky, maybe she didn’t realize she’d gone to the wrong side of the street. That group was more interested in one another than in a woman in short shorts and a tight top.

Wade moved to the other end of the bar and leaned against the last stool. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he had a direct view of the table and their interaction.

Out came the picture again, passed from man to man. The first three shook their heads. The last one studied it and said something, eliciting laughter from the others.

Except for Vanessa, who gave them a tight, impatient smile. Then she crouched down and spoke again, her mouth moving as fast as her feet had, and whatever she said definitely held the men’s attention. One nodded. Another put a sympathetic hand on her arm.

“Buy you a drink?”

Wade turned from the scene to an older man who stood next to him, quickly taking in an impression of wealth and confidence.

“Unless you’re more interested in that table of playboys you’re ogling,” the man added.

His target had led him right into a gay bar.

“No, thanks,” he said, but the other man eased into the next barstool, forcing Wade to move his arm.

“You on vacation?”

“Business.” Wade turned away, just in time to catch one of the men at the table write something on a paper napkin and hand it to Vanessa.

“What business are you in? Modeling? You’ve got the build for it.”

She said good-bye and whisked her way toward the street.

“‘Scuse me.” Wade pushed off the stool and followed, staying about twenty steps behind. She paused at the entrance, reread the napkin, and crunched it into a ball before tossing it onto a table that hadn’t been bussed.

Wade grabbed the discarded napkin just as a large group of tourists entered, blocking him long enough for her to dash across the street and get into a taxi. He uncrumpled the paper.

Bartholomew Nine. Gideon Bones
.

“You won’t do any better there.”

Wade drew back at the intrusion, meeting the gaze of the guy who’d tried to pick him up at the bar. “How’s that?”

He cocked his head and gave him a get-real look. “More babies at Bonesy’s place. No
real
men.”

Wade held up the napkin. “Is this another bar?”

That was met with a snort. “That’s a whorehouse for fags. Men like me wouldn’t be caught dead there.” With a disdainful shrug, he walked away.

Wade stuffed the napkin into his pocket, crossed the street to the taxi stand, and got into the first cab.

“Bartholomew Nine,” he ordered.

“In Monkey Hill?” Black eyes met his in the rearview mirror. “You looking for a mon to fuck?”

“Actually, I’m looking for a woman.”

The driver shook his head and bared spaces where his two front teeth should have been. “Not at Bonesy’s house. For twenty dollars, I take you to a woman.”

“I’ll give you fifty if you take me to Bartholomew Nine and wait.”

The cabbie flipped the meter. “No problem, mon. But you don’t find no woman up dere.”

Wade had a feeling that he most certainly would. “Just hurry, please.” Because that woman moved fast.

CHAPTER TWO

VANESSA TAPPED. EVERYTHING
. She tapped her foot on the scarred wood floor. Tapped her fingers against her thigh and her tongue against the roof of her mouth in a
tsk
of impatience.

How long would she have to wait in this cigar-stinky parlor for a “madame” named Gideon? She’d been here ten minutes, and except for the creepy little guy who’d opened the door, she hadn’t seen anyone or heard anything. She smelled plenty, though. Stale cigar smoke, dank air, a litter box in the near vicinity.

She rubbed her bare arms against that creepy sensation she’d had ever since she’d gotten off the boat. As if someone were watching her. It didn’t help that the cabbie refused to stay in spite of the twenty she offered, leaving her in front of a two-story house at the edge of the mountain rain forest.

She whipped off her glasses to wipe some perspiration from her face, then looked at her watch for the six-millionth time. It was still early in the day in New York, but near the close of the London Stock Exchange, and most of her Hong Kong clients were asleep. Everywhere on the globe, deals were going down, money was being made, and investments were changing hands.

While she was on some godforsaken pile of sand doing…

The right thing
.

That’s what she had to keep reminding herself. She flipped out her iPhone—no signal, of course—then cursed the only man she loved enough to put herself willingly through this torture. The son of a bitch was
so
going to pay for this. As soon as she found him, got him on his meds, and dragged his sorry ass back where he belonged, Clive Easterbrook would pay.

He’d pay for lunch every day for a year, drinks on Friday after the closing bell, and possibly half the commissions she was missing while she pulled Good Samaritan duty.

Eight excruciating minutes later, the floorboards of the hallway stairs squawked with heavy footsteps, and she reached into the side pocket of her tote bag to dig for the picture, pulling it out as a shadow darkened the parlor.

He filled the doorway. Then he filled the room. Literally.

A huge three-hundred-pound man with ebony skin, India-ink eyes, midnight dreadlocks, and dark clothing that made him look like a big black Mack truck. And from the look on his face, Vanessa was about to be roadkill.

“Mr…. Gideon?”

“They call me Bones.”

Then they clearly had a sense of humor.

He walked past her, around her, made her turn to follow him and the heavy, vile stench of a stogie that clung to him.

“What do you want?” His voice didn’t match his body. He had a British accent with a little island lilt.

She held out her hand to shake his. “I’m Vanessa Porter, from New York.”

He didn’t move, didn’t blink, and forget any glimmer of a smile. His eyelids were no more than folds of flesh, his cheeks wide, puffy, and shiny. If he had teeth, he wasn’t showing them. She dropped her hand.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

She raised the picture, but he didn’t reach for that, either. “I’m looking for a friend of mine.”

He just stared her down with a crushing glare, the only sound the rhythmic clicking of the inefficient overhead fan.

“I think he’s been here recently.”

His nostrils widened like a dragon, and she half expected a shower of flames. “I cannot help you. Please leave.”

“You don’t even know what I want yet,” she shot back, indignation straightening her back. “I’m trying to find a friend. This man. Here.” She fluttered the picture at his face. “About a month ago, he came down her on vaca—”

“Go away.”

“Won’t you just look at the picture?” Her voice rose, exactly as she didn’t want it to. She cleared her throat and looked him in the beady eyes. Far badder badasses than Gideon Bones had tried to spook her in M&A negotiations, and every single time, the bastards failed. And so would this freak. “His name is Clive Easter—”

“No.”

“—brook,” she finished, her jaw clenching. “Clive Easterbrook. He’s my friend. Won’t you even look at this picture, Mr. Bones?”

“No.”

Her hand hit her thigh with a thud. “Look. I’m not with the media or the police or anything. Clive is a really good friend of mine who—”

“No.”

Shit
. “—went on vacation a month ago and decided not to come home. I’m worried about him.”

His eyes turned to thin black slits. “Why?”

“Because he’s…” Would she have to reveal Clive’s secret to get some help? She hated to be a rat.

“He’s gay?” he said, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m worried about him. Clive is my closest friend and colleague at work, and he’s also…moody.” Bipolar was more like it. “I think he might be depressed.”

Drunk, high, and suicidal, too.

“No.”

The single syllable irked. “No what? No, he’s not depressed, or no, you won’t help me, or no, you don’t know him?” Her voice tightened with frustration. “No
what,
Mr. Bones?”

“No, I will not discuss visitors to my home. You can leave now.”

She exhaled with a curse of frustration. It’d been like this since she’d arrived in the Caribbean.

“I understand your position, Mr. Bones. I have clients of my own, and I respect confidentiality. But I’m worried that my friend’s sick or hurt or spiraling into depression, because he’s prone to that, and—”

She froze as something hard and round stabbed her in the back. Whoever it was had entered without creaking a single floorboard. Despite the hellish heat, chills rose.

Bones just stared at her, not acknowledging whoever was behind her.

“You talk too much,” he said.

Her whole body went rigid, her knees locked, her neck stiff. She wasn’t afraid of too many things…except guns.

Guns killed people. She knew that better than anyone.

“Leave, Miss Porter.”

“Fine.” She automatically raised her hands, as if there was a snowball’s chance in the Caribbean that she was armed. “I’m going to step away now, okay?”
Please don’t shoot
.

She kept her gaze straight ahead, unwilling to make eye contact with whoever held a gun to her back.

“I, um, I let the cab go.” Or, rather, it bolted, leaving her in the Armed House-o-Male Prostitution in a skanky part of town, up a deserted dirt road and a good mile from what passed for civilization. Clive was
so
dead for doing this to her.

If she didn’t die first.

“Go.”

She heard the gun cock, felt it shift against her back, and slowly walked toward the front screen door, where sunlight poured in, along with freedom and safety.

She glanced over her shoulder at Bones, who looked at whoever was behind her and nodded.
Oh, Jesus.
What did that mean?
Go ahead and shoot her?

She dove for the screen door and thwacked it open so hard it hit the house. Just as she stepped outside, a bright yellow cab screamed around the corner, coming to a gravel-spitting stop in front.

“I’ll take that!” Clive was right—the cab gods
were
freakishly good to her.

The cab door flung open just as the screen door slammed, making her jump.

“Go!” Gideon lumbered onto the wooden porch, the boards groaning under his enormous weight. Then he looked over her shoulder, and a huge smile broke across his face. “Oh, hel
lo
.”

Vanessa whipped around. Speaking of the gods, this one had dropped down from Olympus to deliver her cab in person. Six seriously solid feet of…gold. Close-cropped sun-kissed hair, tanned, chiseled, square features, broad shoulders in buttery yellow cotton, and eyes the precise color of the sea and sky behind him.

A customer, no doubt. Wait till she told Clive about this.
You guys get all the good ones
.

She pointed to the cab. “I’m taking that back into town.” She practically leaped off the wooden porch to the dirt drive.

The man merely stepped aside, then held the door for her with a quiet “Ma’am.”

She muttered thanks and dove in, dragging her bag across the seat. “To Basseterre, please,” she said to the cabbie. “Really fast.”

Golden Boy slid right in next to her.

“I’m sorry.” She added a smile, just tight enough to let him know she’d fight for the cab if she had to. “I have an emergency, and I need to take this cab to town.”

He nodded to the driver. “Take us to town, please.”

“But…” She glanced at the house. “I’m sure he’ll get you another cab when you’re, uh, done.”

“I’m done.” He settled into the seat and calmly rested his arm across the back, giving her a look that was as reassuring as it was sexy. “I’m going where you go.”

Through the dirty cab window, she saw black eyes bore a hole through her from the porch.

“Thanks a lot. He didn’t like me before, and now he really hates me.”

“Why’s that?” He stretched out long legs, drawing her gaze to the muscular thigh covered in crisp khaki pants.

“Because I asked questions he didn’t want to answer, made him mad enough to sic his hit man on me, and now I’m taking his hot new john away.” She tapped the driver’s seat. “I’m really in a hurry, if you don’t mind. Basseterre. Stat.”

“I’m not a customer,” he said.

“You were sightseeing up a deserted hill and just happened to cruise by the best li’l gay whorehouse in St. Kitts? Sorry, don’t buy it.”

“I came up here for you.”

For a split second, she hesitated, drinking in the sexy way that line was delivered and the glint in his eyes. Nice. “Excellent pickup line, and if I weren’t running for my life at the moment, you might have a chance.” She nudged the seat in front of her. “The Ballahoo Restaurant, please.
Now!
”

Finally, the cab took off, kicking a few stones at Bones to seal her fate as his lifelong enemy. She looked out the back window to see him on a cell phone. God, did everyone on this stupid rock get service but her?

“Did you find whatever it is you’re looking so hard for?”

His question threw her almost as much as the sharp downhill curve. She hung on to the cracked vinyl seat to keep her balance, the picture of Clive still clutched in her other hand.

How did he know she was looking for something?

“No,” she said. “I was too busy pissing off the madam.”

“I saw that.”

Something in his voice sent a little shiver over her skin. Smooth and sweet and from way below the Mason-Dixon Line, and a little too damn sure of himself.

“Yeah? Did you catch that ‘I’m gonna kill you’ look?” she asked.

“No, I caught the barrel of a Walther 99 in the second-floor window pointing right at your head.”

“And that’s why you got into the cab?” He was either extremely chivalrous or as scared as she was of guns. Her eyes took a quick trip over his rock-solid shoulders, his corded neck, his washboard-flat stomach. She’d bet on chivalry, ‘cause this dude wasn’t scared of anything. “Well, thank you, but I don’t need an escort.”

“I didn’t join you to be an
escort
.” He added a killer smile, which under any other circumstances would be returned.

Whatever he was doing at Bartholomew Nine, he wasn’t gay. No way. This guy drank testosterone for breakfast, chewed nails for lunch, and then made a meal out of whatever lucky lady offered herself up on a plate for dinner.

Then what was he…
Clive!

She shoved Clive’s picture at him. “You know him, don’t you?”

He took it, long, strong fingers brushing hers and sending a tingle straight up her arm. Unlike everyone else she’d shown the picture to, he didn’t just glance at it and shake his head. He angled it to the sun and truly studied the picture, taken in April when she’d gone with Clive to the Boston Marathon.

He frowned, looking up at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t help you.”

Disappointment stabbed, familiar and sharp.

“I take it he’s…”

“A friend,” she said. “He came down to the islands on vacation a month ago and never came home.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Have you contacted the authorities?”

“No.” Although after what just happened at Big Bad Bones’s house, she probably should. “He’s not in any danger. He just…dropped out. You’ve probably heard of people who go to the islands and decide to stay to find themselves, even though they’re already the best damn hedge-fund manager in New York City.” Bitterness darkened her tone.

“Are you sure that’s what he did?”

She pushed her hair off her face, hooking it behind her ears. “Yes. My boss talked to him, and I saw the letter of resignation, and I know his signature, or I wouldn’t have believed it, either. And he called his mother and left a message.”

“But you’ve never actually spoken to him?”

“I’ve had text messages.” Terse and weird but nothing to merit the look that said she was a complete idiot for not calling the island police.

“And you’re here to, what, fetch him back home?”

She smiled at the antiquated verb and the drawl it came with. “Yeah, I’m fetching him. Or, at least, I’m going to talk some sense into him. He’s given to mood swings. So for the last three days, I’ve been running around the islands trying to track him down.”

“Literally running.”

She shrugged. “That’s how I roll. Fast.”

“I noticed.”

Noticed? Was he some kind of stalker? “When?” she asked sharply.

“About two minutes after you got off the boat.”

Her stomach did a funny little flip. “You followed me here? Why?”

“You’re Vanessa Porter, right?”

Apprehension pushed her away, into the door. She could jump out if she had to; they weren’t going very fast.

“How do you know my name?”

He reached out a hand to shake hers. “Let’s make it official, ma’am. My name is Wade Cordell, and I’m in St. Kitts to find you.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or pop the door handle. Was he
serious
? Maybe he’d been on the cruise. Or maybe someone from work had sent him? Did this have to do with Clive?

“You are Vanessa Porter, right?” he asked when she didn’t respond.