This Year's Black (6 page)

Wordlessly, Devin and Ryder split up, taking opposite routes around the crowded shop. He turned down a narrow aisle and came face-to-face with a young woman in an orange Tea Time golf shirt.

Her almond-shaped eyes widened at the sight of him. “Is there anything particular I can help you find?” She swept back her long, straight black hair and revealed the name Dominga embroidered on the shirt.

Bingo
.

He plastered on his most charming smile—the same one that had gotten Ann Ackerman to slide off her panties in the back of his Beemer during their sophomore year in prep school. “I’m sure you can.”

Dominga’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Devin Harris. She said George would send his lackey for the money. Stay here. Aunt Sarah left you a note.”

A bird could have pooped on his head and he wouldn’t have been as surprised. Mouth gaping, he watched Dominga disappear behind a door marked
Employees Only
.

“This just feels wrong on so many levels.” Ryder sidled up to him.

“Agreed.” He kept his gaze focused on the door, but his body instantly hardened in some kind of Pavlovian-response to her proximity and her intoxicating scent.

“What’s really going on here?”

Now,
that
was the billion dollar question. “Wish I knew.”

Dominga sauntered out, handed him a pale pink envelope and, without another word, wandered off toward a pair of older women excitedly discussing a teal teapot in clipped British accents.

Clearing his throat, he bought time by slowly turning the envelope over. The soft, feminine paper made him as edgy as if he
’
d held a damaged grenade with a loose pin. With care, he picked at the sealed flap, then slid his thumb across the opening until he could pull the note free.

Ryder scooted in closer, her bare shoulder brushing against him.

He flipped open the note. Four sentences in blue ink were scrawled across the unlined paper.

It figures that he’d send you to do his dirty work. You’ll never get the money back. Leave now or you’ll pay the price. The store’s bottom line isn’t worth your life.

“She’s looking out for us. That’s comforting.” Ryder’s frustrated words brushed against his ear. “You go ahead and take the jet home. I’ll find her and bring her back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” A twitch in his left eye—the one that usually announced an oncoming migraine—started in full force. “You may be the investigator, but I’m still running the show.”

Too bad it felt like the show was running him over. Exhaling a deep breath, he closed his eyes and counted to twenty. “Let
’
s check into our rooms at The Palm Inn. We have an hour before the opening celebration for Andol Fashion Week. It
’
s a traditional affair with costumes. Ours will be waiting at the hotel.”

He needed to get to the damn hotel, take his migraine medication, and figure out some fucking answers before another curveball hit him between the eyes.

God, he fucking
hated
surprises.

Chapter Six

“
It’s pathetic to have regrets about fashion.”

— Simon LeBon

Gritting her teeth, Ryder turned sideways and checked herself out in the floor-to-ceiling mirror next to the huge sunken tub in the suite at The Palm Inn that was supposed to have two bedrooms, but instead held only one large bed. By the time they
’
d checked in, all of the other rooms had been taken.

She couldn’t deny it, her nipples looked like she’d spent the afternoon in the Siberian tundra instead of traipsing from one end of this tiny tropical island to the other. As president of the itty-bitty-titty committee, her idea of a boob support usually meant the little shelf bra in her tank tops, which she had in abundance in twelve shades of black. But the diaphanous, soft yellow sarong didn’t come with a built-in bra, and the feel of the silky material against her sensitive flesh had her headlights flashing. That had to be the reason. The only other explanation was because she’d spent the day with Devin, and she wasn’t willing even to contemplate the implications of that. She still wanted to smack herself for telling him about Heath, but couldn’t deny that the unburdening had left her feeling lighter.

However, she still wasn’t crazy enough to enjoy this outfit that was in another time zone from her comfort zone. For the billionth time in the past three minutes, she considered refusing to wear the damn thing that tied around her neck like a filmy halter dress. But that would only serve to tip off the fashionable elite gathering in the courtyard to celebrate the opening of Andol Fashion Week that something was amiss with Devin and his new personal assistant. They couldn
’
t afford to have the gossips talking about them when they needed to get them to talk about Sarah.

Staying in hiding while the fashionistas gathered had to be driving Sarah nuts. From what Ryder had read in the brief, the older woman
’
s ego wouldn
’
t be able to take it. She
’
d have to show up. Hell, she might even be downstairs right now.

She smoothed her palms down the filmy material as if she could iron out the jumbled turns her stomach was taking.

You can go out there like this. You don’t have a choice.

Capturing Sarah was the fastest way to get Devin Harris and his drool-inducing ass out of her life forever. And that was worth enduring the sarong, nipple hard-ons and all.

Resolve strengthening her spine, she ignored the mirror and strutted out of the safety of the bathroom. She made it three steps across the sand-colored tile floor before she came to a dead stop.

Devin lay in the middle of the king-sized bed. He’d flung one muscular arm across his eyes, highlighting his square jaw and lush lips. He wore a matching yellow sarong, but his was draped low on his narrow hips, leaving his tattooed chest on full display. The man was a brick house of painted muscle and power.

Her tongue turned to lust-flavored sawdust and an ache began to build in her core.

A series of sharp beeps sounded, and Devin rolled over and sat up with his back to her. A giant oak tree climbed up his spine, its branches covering his shoulder blades. A set of initials were carved into the finely-detailed bark near the bottom of the trunk: J.H. Whoever she was, J.H. obviously meant something to Devin.

Don’t care. Doesn’t matter.

“We gotta get rolling.” Devin stretched, his back muscles undulating the tree branches like a stiff breeze. “Although, I don’t know if I can face anyone I know wearing this outfit.” He shut off the phone’s alarm, grabbed the room key from the bedside table, and started to turn around. “I have no idea where I’m going to put this—”

His light brown eyes widened, and their black irises dilated. The muscles in his shoulders bunched, but the rest of him became as still as a statue—the kind that would put David to shame. His gaze dropped from her face, and he gulped audibly.

Tension snapped between them like a rubber band, stinging her already warm skin. Everything except for her damn nipples went soft and pliant. Like a lazy cat, she just wanted to curl around his thick thighs and rub against him.

“I don’t suppose I’m really going to need this.” He held up the phone, his hand shaking just a bit. “I’ll leave the key at the front desk.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Her plan needed to be ignoring the hard body in front of her.

Good luck with that one.

Devin locked his jaw and brushed past her, stopping only when he’d reached the suite’s door. His shoulders rose on a deep breath and he turned the knob, holding the door open.

Keeping her gaze on the diagonal pattern of the tile floor, she held her breath and hurried out into the hall speedily enough that her sarong’s train floated behind her.

“Ryder.” Devin’s voice stopped her in her tracks and she turned. “You look really…pretty.”

Warmth rushed up her chest to her hairline. Men had called her hot or fine or sexy, but they’d never called her pretty. That descriptor was saved for sweeter girls than her. Emotional necessity after the Heath debacle had required her to create a hardened, bitch-please persona, and few people ever saw past it.

But Devin had. And she had no idea what to do with that bit of information.

…

A bellhop led them out to The Palm Inn’s large, private courtyard, overshadowed by the sleeping volcano, De Mis Promesas. Dozens of people sat at small tables scattered around the decorative brick patio. All were dressed in brightly colored sarongs of various tropical shades, the traditional garb taken upscale by the addition of enough diamonds to make even Harry Winston consider it overkill—and he
’
d owned the Hope Diamond.

Supermodels mixed with photographers, designers, and the lucky few able to afford the creations that would be displayed during Andol Fashion Week. Waiters carrying silver trays strolled between the groups, handing out fresh glasses of champagne, which was accepted immediately, and mouth-watering Hors d
’
oeuvres, which were not.

A long table sat in an open, grassy area and was covered in a beautiful white linen table cloth and dishes of exotic fruits and seafood. Ryder’s stomach growled and Devin’s echoed it. Considering the crowd, she
doubted anyone would be elbowing her aside to get seconds at the buffet table.

A broad-shouldered man who looked as though he spent his life surfing between modeling gigs hurried to their side. “Mr. Harris and Ms. Falcon, I am The Palm Inn
’
s manager, Borja. I
’
m so sorry about the room. To make up for the mix-up in accommodations for such honored guests as you, we
’
ve prepared a blessing ceremony for you. Please follow me.”

“Really, it
’
s not necessary,” Devin said.

“
But I insist.
” Borja turned and walked across the courtyard.

After exchanging a let’s-just-follow-along glance with Devin, Ryder followed the man past the table and through the sparkling crowd. At the edge of the brick patio, Borja removed his shoes. She and Devin followed suit. The cool grass pricked the soles of her feet and tickled between her toes as they crossed to a tall palm tree standing alone in the volcano’s dark shadow.

The other man clasped his hands together, his dark brown eyes misty with emotion.

Ryder’s insides bounced around just as they did before a sparring match at the gym with a determined opponent. Anticipation, nerves, and something undefinable skittered through her veins. As if sensing her unease as he had on the jet, Devin pressed close to her side. The move turned out to be as much of a torment as a blessing, as her body responded to his nearness with a hungry yearning.

“May our own De Mis Promesas watch over you and your futures. May the gods, both old and new, grant you favor.”

Borja withdrew a pair of thin bracelets from his pocket. The bracelets were made up of gold threads woven into a rope. He fastened one around Devin’s wrist, then turned to Ryder. It was like being in a dream where she watched herself hold up her right arm. The gold bracelet felt warm against her skin as he encircled her wrist with the threads and fastened it.

Smiling, Borja grasped their hands and joined them under his calloused palm. “Bless you and bless your future.”

A shiver danced up her spine, and she turned to Devin. Gone were the tension lines around his eyes and the grim set to his way-too-kissable mouth. They’d been replaced by something that looked a lot like awe.

“It is traditional for those who are blessed to exchange a kiss.”

Devin went dead still next to her.

Borja winked and squeezed their hands. “Go on. You do not need to be shy at your own blessing ceremony.”

He continued to talk, but all Ryder heard was the
wah-wah-wah
voice from the Charlie Brown TV specials.

“Kiss! Kiss!” the small group in the courtyard chanted.

“No, really,” Ryder told Borja. “He
’
s my boss. I
’
m his assistant. We can’t do that. It’s against the rules.”

Borja smiled. “Don’t you think it’s good to try something unexpected?”

The volcano in the distance wavered a bit as the crowd’s catcalls and laughter became louder. Fine. As if in a hazy dream, she leaned in and brushed her lips against Devin’s. She’d give him a quick peck to silence the islanders.

He let out a strangled groan before his hands were tangled in her hair, his palms bracketing her face. The look in his eye was anything but professional—unless she counted the world
’
s oldest profession. He lowered his lips to hers, and the earth rumbled beneath her feet.

Her insides turned to warm, electrified Jell-O. So much…everything. Heat. Passion. Danger. Lust. Hope.
Possibility
. This instinctual-level connection…
this
was why she
’
d never returned his calls. She had no control over it, and that scared her right down to her bright red toenails.

Another quake jostled them apart. A cheer went up from the crowd.

“De Mis Promesas approves!” Borja cheered. “A stirring from the volcano is a very great sign! But we don’t want him to wake too much.” He giggled. “Come now, to the feast.”

Heart knocking around her chest like a bowling ball in a pinball machine, she kept her gaze trained on the tender green grass beneath her bare feet and followed Borja to the table. He seated her in one of a pair of chairs near the head of the table. Without a word, Devin slid into the one next to her. He grabbed the glass of wine already on the table and gulped it down. The crystal had barely touched the table cloth again when an older woman appeared and refilled it.

Before Borja could walk away, Ryder grasped the hotel manager
’
s hand. “Thank you so much for the blessings. I
’
d love to talk to you about your beautiful island and its people.”

“But, of course.” He smiled, showing off the deep smile-lines bracketing his mouth. “What would you like to know?”

She and Devin warmed him up with questions about the weather and the history. Then after Borja had finished a glass of wine and leaned back in his chair, his shoulders relaxed and his eyes happy, she hit him with the real questions.

“We visited Tea Time this afternoon. I
’
ve never seen so many teapots in one spot. I understand it
’
s owned by a local family. The Molinas.”

Borja
’
s eyes narrowed. “It is.”

The two word response after his loquacious previous answers meant she was on the right track, but had to be cautious.

“Do you know them?” Devin asked.

“
I don’
t know what information you
’
re after, Ms. Falcon and Mr. Harris, but a blessing ceremony won
’
t protect you from some of the worst dangers on this island.” He took her hand between his calloused ones, meeting her gaze. A sliver of determination shone through the sadness she saw in his dark eyes. “Please, don
’
t go looking for trouble. You won
’
t find many who will help.”

She squeezed his hand and slid hers from his grasp. “
Trouble can’
t always be avoided.”

“Then I will pray for you both.” Borja pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “Good night.” He left to mingle with the crowd.

“That got us bupkis,” Devin muttered.

“Not quite. We have an ally. He
’
s just not ready to talk, yet.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He said not many will help.” Certainty filled her. “He didn
’
t say
he
wouldn
’
t.”

Devin shook his head. “You
’
re parsing it pretty damn close.”

“As my dad always said, sometimes you have to go with your gut.”

Two men lumbered out of the hotel, hauling a large, heavy pot between them, and everyone at the table clapped.

“We have for you something very special.” Borja told the gathered fashionistas. “This is a
curanto
. It is a mix of clams, oysters, lobster, mussels, sausage, potatoes, the potato bread
milcaos
, and
chapaleles
, which are dumplings. We make it in the traditional manner. We dig a meter-deep hole into the ground and cover it with heated stones. The ingredients are added in layers. Each layer of food is covered with Chilean rhubarb leaves. There is nothing like the
curanto
made in The Andol Republic.” He spooned the
curanto
onto Ryder’s plate. “Enjoy.”

Spices and the scent of the sea wafted up from her plate. The heavenly taste exploded on her tongue and she couldn’t stop her moan of delight. Devin tensed beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his eye twitch had returned.

“Is it a migraine?” she whispered.

He gulped and shook his head, then shoveled the
curanto
into his mouth like a man who’d been fasting for a week.

So, they ate, talking to the other guests and asking if anyone had seen Sarah yet, but studiously ignoring each other.