The honeymoon suite.
No part of Delilah’s reaction was amusing.
The white linen couch facing the gas fireplace seemed to have caught her attention. I didn’t know if she was wondering like I was why the hell there was a fireplace in a beachfront resort, or if everything being a shade of white, cream, or ivory had caught her attention. The boring color scheme was broken up by teal green accents but not nearly enough to cut through the bland decor.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid to walk any farther in.”
The woman was killing me. I wasn’t sure if I was pissed or if my heart was breaking.
“Shower!” My clipped demand was rude as hell and I didn’t give the first fuck that she was staring at me like I was a total dick.
Her eyes dropped to the cream carpet and her shoulders sagged.
That pissed me off, too.
“I’m—”
“Don’t apologize to me. I can’t say I know what’s going on in your mind but I have spent weeks in the field. I know what it feels like to be covered in grime and guck and have it in places that are uncomfortable. You’ll feel better after you shower. You take as long as you need. I’ll order room service and we’ll get some real food in you, that’ll help, too.”
“I don’t have clean clothes.”
Finally, something I could give her that might make her feel human. I rolled my pack off my shoulder and walked to the couch. Unlike Delilah, I didn’t give the first fuck if my dusty pack left a mark on the fabric. I might’ve if the asshole checking us in hadn’t curled his lip at the sight of Delilah. I might’ve if I hadn’t caught a bellboy backing away from us. The couch could be cleaned—the memory of how those people recoiled couldn’t be washed from Delilah’s memory. So fuck them.
I unzipped the bag and pulled out a sundress I’d bought her while I was in Los Mochis. And as strange as it was I’d bought undergarments as well. The underwear was just that, something to wear under her clothes. And the bra was more of a tube top. I could disassemble and reassemble any weapon you put in front of me. I could do it quickly and blindfolded. What I couldn’t do was guess a bra size for a woman I’d never met in person. I also pulled out the cotton shorts and t-shirt I bought and laid everything out on the couch.
“Will any of this work until we can go shopping and get you proper clothes?”
I stepped to the side so she could get a better view of the haul. When seconds ticked by and she hadn’t answered I turned to look at her.
She was standing where I’d left her but now her arms were wrapped around her middle like she was holding herself together. I didn’t know how long her hair was because it was in a knot on the top of her head. There might’ve been a rubber band in there somewhere piling it together but now there were literal knots that looked more like matted clumps. I knew from her picture her hair was dirty-blonde and at one time it brushed past her shoulders in healthy, shiny strands, but right then the strands looked more brownish than blonde. She was way too thin and her cheeks were slightly sunken in. And those greenish-brown eyes were so full of pain I wanted to carry her into the shower and help her scrub away the nightmare.
Yet with all of that she somehow still managed to look beautiful.
“You’re killing me, sweetheart. Say something.”
“Thank you.” I shook my head but she got in there again before I could speak. “For thinking of clothes. That was thoughtful of you, Myles. And I want you to know I’m grateful—for everything you’ve done so far. I’ll find a way to pay you back.”
“The way you can pay me back is by coming over here and picking up your clothes. Then you can thank me by usin’ up all the hot water in this joint. Then you can thank me by eating the food I’m gonna be force-feeding you over the next few days. You do all of that, we’ll call it even.”
Finally, she smiled.
My gut tightened and my heart constricted. And I knew I’d buy her a hundred more dresses to see that smile.
“Not sure if it’s possible to use all the hot water in a place like this, but I’ll certainly try.”
I watched her walk across the cream carpet with her head held high until she reached the couch, then she bent, picked up the clothes, and straightened. She’d taken two steps before she stopped and said, “The letter’s in my back pocket. You mind getting it out?” She was holding the clothes out in front of her so they didn’t touch her dirty shirt. “I don’t want to mess up the clean clothes.”
My gaze dropped to her ass and I saw the corner of the paper peeking out of the pocket. I did my best not to linger—not my hand in her pocket or my eyes. Both tasks were hard, and only one I accomplished.
With one more smile, this one tentative but still a grin, Delilah made her way to the bedroom and closed the door. I waited, and just like I thought she would, I heard the lock turn.
Good girl.
I unfolded the crumpled paper.
Keep her out of sight and out of the way. You will know when it is safe for her to go home.
Two sentences. That was it.
The script was neat and in all capital letters. No salutation or signature, but it didn’t take a genius to deduce who left the note.
Tamir Cohen.
No explanation of why he’d called Tex. No explanation of why he took her, and while he didn’t treat her with kindness, he hadn’t physically harmed her.
More questions than answers.
I pulled out my phone and called Zane.
“You at the hotel?”
“Yeah, and I gotta tell you, normally, I find your wife’s pranks the highlight of my day. But this bullshit of putting us up in a swank hotel when I got no option but to make a woman who looks like she just crawled out of a sewer pipe and doesn’t smell much better walk into the lobby and have people fucking stare and back away from her…not finding that shit fucking funny.”
I heard a gasp, and I closed my eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Myles,” Ivy wheezed. “I wasn’t thinking about that. Shit, I didn’t think at all. Is she okay?”
“Would’ve been nice to know I was on speaker. I could’ve cushioned that, brother.”
“I don’t need anyone cushioning anything,” Ivy resorted testily. “I screwed up. I wasn’t thinking about you being there by yourself. Did people really back away from her?”
I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the crystal blue ocean and took a deep breath.
“Yeah. It was pretty fucked. Once I got her into the room she seemed better.”
“No, she wasn’t,” Ivy called me out on my lie.
Damn.
“You’re right, she wasn’t better. But she will be after she cleans up and gets some rest.”
I checked my watch and had a hard time computing the number of hours I’d been awake—a testament to how sleep deprivation slowed your mind. Even the simplest mental math was becoming difficult.
“We’re in for the rest of the day,” I declared and turned away from the beautiful view. “But before I let you go, I read Tamir’s message.”
I rattled off the short note and heard Zane grunt.
“I fucking hate riddles. Whatever happened to good old-fashioned communication? You know, say what you mean and mean what you say. Is that a threat? What happens if we don’t keep her out of the way? Is he going to kill her? Maybe write us another note? I miss the old days when assassins assassinated their targets and didn’t take them on a two-month joyride. And how the hell will we know when it’s safe for her to go home? Is the fucker gonna shine his bat-light and hope I see it, send a smoke signal, an email? And when the hell did I become the king of the castaways?”