Then You Hide (8 page)

“The whole place is a mess,” Wade said, as if he suspected that was meaningful.

“Clive borders on being a slob. So this doesn’t mean he left in a hurry or anything. The cigarettes and wine tell me he’s miserable.” Not to mention
You, Understood,
prime evidence that he was feeling anything but
understood
. “My guess is that his heart’s been broken.”

“There’s only one head groove on the pillow.”

She’d have never thought to make that observation. “True. But this is all his stuff. I recognize it.”

“So maybe he had a lonely, drunken night, and he woke up and—”

“Went off to find the one that got away,” she finished. “And he didn’t think he’d be gone that long, so he didn’t check out of the resort.” Disappointment curled through her. “God, I really expected to find him. Or something that would lead me to him.”

“Let’s keep looking around.”

With a sigh, she leaned against a bedpost and tossed the newspaper to the side. She skimmed the room slowly, taking in Clive’s favorite nylon tank top balled up on the floor next to the gel-soled Asics that she’d spent a whole Saturday afternoon schlepping around Midtown to help him find.

Where would Clive go without his running shoes? It was like her leaving without her iPhone. Imflippingpossible.

She could hear Wade opening and closing cabinets in the bathroom.

“Does he have any Zoloft in there?” she called. ‘Cause, boy, he needed it.

“Don’t see any…but…” She heard something like porcelain grating on porcelain.
“Whoa.”

“Whoa what?” She pushed off the bedpost and headed toward the bathroom.

He stood with the tank lid in his hands, staring into the tank. “I know you said he’s a slob, but would he stuff clothes into the toilet?”

She peered inside and instantly recognized the corporate lime-green and navy-blue T-shirt Vexell Industries had given out at a 10K they sponsored last year. “That’s one of Clive’s favorite running shirts. Why the hell would he put it in there?”

With two fingers, Wade gingerly plucked a corner of fabric, water rushing off as he lifted it.

“He came in second in that race, and he—” She froze and stared at the dark marks, chills rolling over her as she noticed the maroon color of the water. “Is that blood?”

He let the shirt fall back into the tank. “Yes, it is.”

She took a few steps back, her hand over her mouth, stumbling over a balled-up towel on the floor. Was Clive hurt? Was that his blood? Her chest tight, she stepped out of the bathroom, vaguely aware of Wade passing her.

She heard the refrigerator door close with a soft pop. In the dim light from the closet, she looked around the bedroom, searching for a different kind of clue, something more nefarious than signs of a man who took off after he and his lover had a fight.

Dropping to the unmade bed, she squeezed her burning eyes closed.
Clive, what happened to you?

“Do you want to call the police now or wait until morning?” Wade asked, standing in the doorway.

She looked up. “I don’t know what to do.”

He pointed to the newspaper. “Not that it’s proof of when he was here, but what’s the date on that?”

She lifted it and read the top again. “The sixth. Eight days ago.” She looked farther down, the newsprint swimming before her. “I just wish I knew if…” The print stopped moving as her gaze fell on a picture of a man.
A man she knew
. “Oh, my God.”

“What is it?”

She frowned at the words and the image, trying to process it. “Russell Winslow. He’s Clive’s ex-boyfriend. They broke up months ago…” Her voice trailed off as she read the words. “His car went off a cliff.” She looked up at Wade, her head spinning. “Oh, God, Wade, do you think Clive was with him?”

He snagged the paper and read. “It doesn’t say if he was in the car alone, just that they found the car and…” He skimmed the article, then looked up, his eyes narrowed. “They suspect foul play because of the way the accident happened.”

She inched back, the weight of the words and his look of accusation pressing hard. “You think
Clive
killed him?”

“I think you have to assume Clive’s involved somehow. Look around, Vanessa. Someone abandoned this place. He hasn’t been seen for more than a week. What was their relationship like?”

“The breakup was nasty, but they seemed to be getting back to being friends. I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong,” she said defiantly. “Clive isn’t capable of murder. He’s good, kind, funny, and…”

“Depressed, missing, and hiding bloody clothes in the toilet tank,” he finished.

“And sending me messages to be careful.”

“For you to watch your back. Maybe you’re next on his list.”

She shot up. “Stop it! You don’t even know the man, and you’re ready to send him to the electric chair. Haven’t you ever heard of circumstantial evidence?”

“Down!” He dove at her, taking her to the floor in one lightning-fast move, stealing her breath and knocking her glasses off as she hit the floor. “Someone’s out there. I saw a flashlight.”

With one solid push, he had her halfway under the bed. “Don’t make a sound. Don’t breathe. Don’t move.” He snagged her glasses from the floor and shoved them at her. “Just hide.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

WADE KEPT ONE
arm around Vanessa, bending his right leg so that his other hand was only inches from his ankle holster. When the bedskirt fell back into place, he couldn’t see, but he could hear everything. Footsteps on the patio. The slider door being tested.

And the erratic heartbeat of the woman next to him.

The footsteps grew distant, moving away from the patio.

“They’re gone,” she breathed.

He tightened his grip on her. “Wait.”

In seconds, the front latch clicked, and the door opened. Wade closed his eyes to focus on sound, to determine if this was a standard security check, a late-night visit from housekeeping, the return of her buddy Clive…or someone else.

The footsteps were heavy—probably male—and quick, moving through the villa and turning on lights as he went. Whoever it was, he wasn’t worried about being seen or heard.

Could it be Clive?

Wade and Vanessa shared a silent look, neither one moving. Through the centimeter of space between the bedskirt and the floor, they could see a man’s feet in slightly worn Docksiders and no socks. He slid clothes against the closet rod, then moved to the bathroom, the shoes quieter on the marble floor. The shower door clicked open and closed, and Wade listened for the sound of the porcelain tank being removed. Instead, he heard the soft tones of a cell-phone dial pad.

“No one’s here,” a low male voice said.

She looked at Wade and shook her head, as if to say it wasn’t Clive.

“False alarm,” he continued. “I didn’t think she could get in here, anyway.”

Vanessa tensed, and Wade squeezed her to keep her from reacting.

Inches away, feet shuffled.

He’d been in this situation a dozen times or more. In his former life, he’d have a weapon out, ready to rid the world of a terrorist, a drug cartel leader, or some other threat. His heart rate hadn’t even climbed yet, but he could feel that every muscle in Vanessa’s body was viciously tight.

“Oh, she’s definitely at the resort. She was at the bar for a while, hit the bathroom, then flirted with some dude before they took off for his room.” Another pause. “Well, apparently, she
does
have time to get laid.”

Wade slid a glance to his left. Vanessa’s eyes were wide, and he’d bet her cheeks were bloodless, since about twenty gallons a minute was coursing through her heart.

“I’ll find her,” the man said. “Might cost me, but someone at the front desk will give me the guy’s name and room number.” He paused. “Yeah, I know what to do. If that doesn’t work, we’ll send her off to…” A low chuckle. “Excellent. She’ll never see that coming.”

He sat on the bed, his weight smashing the box spring against their backs and crushing Wade’s arm over Vanessa’s back. She bit her lip and didn’t make a sound.

“Oh, I’ll stop her,” the man said, the threatening note in his voice barely audible over the newspaper rustling. “You should see this picture. Jesus. Those fucking idiot cops still haven’t searched this room. I swear, they’re going to buy the suicide angle, which doesn’t help us at all.” He paused again, standing. “Not a bad idea, since I’m in here. I would have said it was too obvious, but since it’s taking them fucking forever to find the bloody shirt, I’ll just push things along so there’s no question who killed Russell Winslow.”

He stood in front of the dresser and dropped something into a drawer with a thud. Then he slammed them all shut.

“All set. When they finally check in here, it will be obvious even to a moron who did the deed. Now I’m gonna go find Blondie and do some damage. She’s probably screwing her bar pickup by now.”

The voice faded, the front door slammed, and Vanessa finally breathed.

“Not yet,” Wade warned before she launched out of there. “There are lights on everywhere. Wait.”

“They’re setting Clive up,” her words burst in a whisper. “Did you hear that?”

“Maybe. Whoever was in here is looking for you and knows you’re in this hotel. What we need to do is find out who they are and why they’re following you.”

She nodded, visibly working for control. “Okay. Right. How?”

“For one thing, we move slow and smart—not fast and stupid. You stay
right here
for ten seconds. I can get to the window, get a look at him, and never be seen.”

She didn’t argue as he slithered forward. At the wall, he inched up until he had a visual over the windowsill. Nothing moved, no light shone. But he couldn’t be sure someone wasn’t watching the villa. Now that the lights were on, they were moving targets inside.

She peeked out from under the bed. “Clear yet?”

“Hang on.” He crawled across the floor toward the drawers. “I want to see what he put in the drawer.”

Carefully, without making any noise or creating a shadow in the window across the room, he opened the top drawer and peered over the edge. Boxers, a bathing suit, and an undershirt. He felt around. Nothing that would thud.

He opened the next drawer. More T-shirts, shorts. And there, under a pair of socks, was a wallet. A wallet could have landed with that noise.

“Got something here,” he said, plucking out the leather billfold.

He crouched back down and motioned Vanessa out from the bed. Opening the billfold, he immediately recognized the picture from the paper. “Russell Winslow’s wallet.”

“That guy had Russell’s wallet and put it there? And what about the shirt in the toilet? Did they do that? We have to find out who that was. Because that’s who killed Russell, not Clive.”

“Could be. We’ll let the police—”

She smacked her hand over her mouth. “Oh, shit. I’ve been shoving that picture into the face of every person I met since I got here. I never dreamed he was in trouble, in hiding.”

“He’s in something, that’s for sure.”

“What else is in the wallet?”

He flipped it open. “A couple hundred bucks. Credit cards. An ID.” Wade angled it toward the light and squinted at the holographic imprint. “Environmental Protection Agency?”

“That’s where Russell works. Worked,” she corrected grimly. “Is there a driver’s license?”

“No, but maybe he had that on him when he died.” Wade glanced at the EPA ID again, studying the thick neck, skin head, and serious expression. “Military?”

“He’s a former Navy SEAL,” she said. “Clive just loved saying that.”

He snapped the billfold closed. “We’ll turn all this over to the police immediately. I don’t think we should wait until tomorrow.”

“But what about Clive?”

“What about him?”

“You heard that guy. They’re setting him up as a killer. And what if they fail? They’ll…kill him, too. And what if they manage to plant enough evidence that no matter what I say I heard—from under the bed when I broke into his villa, by the way? Then Clive still looks guilty of something he didn’t do.”

“All that could happen regardless of what you do, and you have a legitimate motive for entering his room. Your crime isn’t as bad as whatever happened to this Winslow guy.”

“The system doesn’t always work like it should,” she shot back. “And even if the truth comes out, Clive’s reputation will never be the same. No one will trust him to handle millions of dollars. His career could be over—not to mention his life. I have to find him, Wade. I have to help him. Now that I’m on to them, I won’t go where they try to send me. I’ll do exactly the opposite.”

“Someone sent you to Nevis, and you went instantly.”

“And I was right to. Clive has been on this island. Might still even be here.” She shook her head, her expression set. “I’m not going to give up now.”

Add stubbornness to her list of irritating attributes. “Listen, Vanessa. You need to go to the police. They’ll take it from here.” He held up his hand to stop the protest he could see coming. “And then you really ought to get on a plane and meet Eileen Stafford and Miranda Lang. Do the right thing.”

“
Your
right thing, not mine. I can’t leave my closest friend to take the rap for a murder I know in my heart and soul that…that…he…” She stumbled at the words. “That he didn’t commit.”

He didn’t have to say a thing, just watch her expression evolve from hard and determined to…less hard and determined. He gave her a full thirty seconds to let logic and emotion hold hands and settle in her brain.

“No one should be blamed for a crime he didn’t commit,” she whispered, looking away as though she couldn’t meet his eyes, defeat coloring her tone.

He took her hand, pulling her attention back to him. “It could take days to find your friend, or more. Go to the police, tell them everything, let them handle it. Then let’s go help someone else who…” He searched for the most persuasive, powerful words he could find. “Someone else who needs you to help her stay alive long enough to prove she isn’t guilty.”

She trapped her lower lip under her teeth and looked hard at him. “All right,” she finally said.

“Good girl.” He squeezed her hand with the victory. “That’s the right—”

“If you help me find Clive first.”

He stilled.

“Come on, Wade,” she insisted. “You’re so good at this. Help me search this island and any others, keep me safe from whoever is trying to find me, and use all the software and ice picks and whatever else you’ve got up your sleeve that I don’t have. But no police. Not yet.”

“And in return?”

She closed her eyes in resignation. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to South Carolina.”

“Will you test for a bone-marrow match?”

“Only if we clear Clive.”

“We may not clear him if he’s guilty.”

“He’s not. But I will do it if he’s completely safe, and we know who’s behind all this and why. Are those terms you can live with?”

“This isn’t a negotiating table, Vanessa. We might not find all that out in time.”

“
Life
is a negotiating table, pal. You’ve got something I need, and I’ve got something you need. So, do we have a deal or not?”

Tough and stubborn and fast and pushy. What a waste of a beautiful woman. “If we can do it in three days,” he said. “Not one minute more.”

“Fine. How do we get out of here and get started?”

“Stay low, and do exactly as I say. That guy is off to find you, so we’ll go where he goes.”

She hesitated. “He thinks I’m off screwing you.”

Wade grinned. “Then we better hurry up and get into bed.”

Behind her back, Vanessa uncrossed her fingers. It was childish, but hey, in her business, a deal wasn’t a deal until it was signed in ink and blessed by lawyers. Until then, terms could change.
Anything
could change. Right now, she was desperate for Wade’s skills. And he had plenty.

He’d wordlessly pulled the hood over her hair, tucked her hands into the sleeves of the sweatshirt, and made himself equally invisible before leading her to a gated exit on the beach that opened from the inside. He’d gotten them out of the villa undetected in less than two minutes. Working from memory of a resort site map he’d called up on his computer, he avoided the lobby with a back entrance, took a service elevator to the second floor, and got them back into his suite without encountering a soul in record time. Proving that she’d picked the right man for the job
and
that he could move fast if he wanted to.

In the room, he yanked his torn T-shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor. “Strip down, and get into bed.”

Very
fast when he wanted to.

Moonlight streamed into the room and highlighted the planes of his chest, the dusting of dark blond hair at the center, and washboard abs so defined there were shadows in between all six of the pack.

“Vanessa,” he said, dipping his head into her line of vision. “Drop trou, sweetheart. Strip.”

She lowered the zipper of her hoodie and shouldered out of it, toeing her sneakers at the same time. “Everything?”

“Everything. You don’t want the guy to know you’re one step ahead of him. You’ll lose the advantage that way. He thinks you picked up a guy in a bar and went to his room. We’re not playing tiddlywinks. Get down to nothing, and get into bed.” He kicked off a shoe and started on his belt, giving her a pointed look. “You need help?”

“Of course not.” Heat rammed through her as he unzipped his jeans with a flick of his wrist. She fingered the bottom of her tank top. “You know, if he’s really watching my every move, he would have seen us go into the villa.”

He pushed his jeans down narrow hips, revealing more golden skin and smooth, ripped muscles, and very tight-fitting boxer briefs.

“No, because he hadn’t figured out what room I was in yet or made the assumption that we were in for the night. Our best bet is to make him think that assumption was correct.”

He was right. She pulled her tank top over her head and dropped it onto the floor, shaking her hair out of her face in time to catch him looking. She flipped the bra strap. “This, too, I assume.”

He notched a brow. “Unless you generally keep it on.”

Was he testing her? To see how badly she wanted to find Clive? Well, he was in for a surprise. She reached behind her, unfastened the strap, and let it fall to the ground, the air-conditioning—and his heated gaze—instantly hardening her nipples.

“Jeans, c’mon, hurry,” he said as he slid one foot out. His thighs were like carved granite, dusted with light hair over tanned skin. Forcing herself to look away as she unzipped, she turned to look over the half wall that separated the living room from the bedroom. The king-size bed was completely visible; anyone at the door could see who was in it.

“What do you think he’s going to do? Just barrel in here, or knock on the door and threaten us?”

“I have no idea. We need to be ready for anything.”

Her backside to him, she pushed her jeans down to her ankles, managing to keep her thong in place.

“So, we should act like we’ve been interrupted in the middle of…” His voice trailed off, and she looked over her shoulder. He sat on the sofa armrest, leaning over his ankle, but was staring at her ass. “The good thing.”

“The good thing?” She faced him, naked but for a tiny piece of satin between her legs. “Is that a Southern euphemism for sex?”