Page 25

The vibe of the restaurant perched on the hill overlooking the port was more house party than fine dining establishment, with low lighting and plush couches in the bar area arranged to encourage conversation among the attractive clientele.

Electronic lounge music thrummed over the speakers, and waiters maneuvered deftly between candlelit tables of tanned, laughing patrons dressed fashionably and imbibing decadently.

“Stop it,” Jennifer said, swatting at my hand as I tugged at the too-short hem of the powder-blue spaghetti-strap number she’d lent me. “You look amazing.”

It was true the dress fit me like a glove, the cutouts on either side displaying the tan I’d picked up by the pool today, and paired with the diamond waterfall earrings she’d insisted I borrow, I had to admit I looked good.

Good enough that I’d been sorely disappointed when someone who was not Laurent showed up to drive us to dinner.

I’d convinced myself it was better that he wouldn’t be there, but clearly I hadn’t done a sufficient job, because when I heard Allison raise her voice in greeting and glanced over my shoulder to see Laurent, I felt a rush of excitement.

He looked appropriately devastating in a crisp white button-down with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up, and was talking to Allison and Cody, but his eyes were fixed on the hem of my dress.

My gaze collided with his and my body immediately betrayed me, producing a thrill that blazed all the way down my spine.

Trying in vain to snuff out the flame, I turned my attention to my phone, but the message I was waiting for from Rosa still hadn’t come in. I fired off a text:

Any word on that arrest record?

Her reply came immediately:

Did the pix I texted not go through?

I gave her text a thumbs-down and asked her to email them, but a moment later when I checked my email, I couldn’t access the attachment. The files were too large for the spotty cellular service on the island. I needed Wi-Fi.

I sidled over to the bar, signaling the bartender. “Excuse me,” I said. “Is there Wi-Fi here that I could hook up to?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Put your phone away,” Jennifer teased, pulling me back toward our group. “Just be here.”

Not wanting to look like an asshole, I acquiesced, stowing the device in my purse. When I looked up, my gaze again caught Laurent’s, and I flushed.

Would it be such a bad thing to have a fling with Laurent? A very small, very discreet fling. Yes, he worked for Tyson, but what did it matter, really? I’d never see him again after this week, and Tyson hated me already.

Maybe I didn’t need to always color inside the lines quite so faithfully, I thought as we followed the hostess to our table by a window open to the balmy night air.

Maybe the lines were a prison of my own making, that held any power only because I gave them power.

There was a whole philosophy based around that, wasn’t there?

“What are you thinking about?”

It was Laurent, his voice husky in my ear, his hand coming to rest lightly on my hip as I turned toward him, grazing his chest as I kissed him on the cheek.

My breath grew shallow at his scent, a scent I now realized wasn’t just his cologne but the unique blend of his skin, fresh out of the shower, and his aftershave.

Hormones and pheromones, as my mom used to say.

My cheeks grew hot. I definitely couldn’t tell him what I’d been thinking about. “How do you know I’m thinking?” I asked instead.

“Your eyebrows go like this,” he said, imitating my furrowed brow.

I laughed, fishing for something I could say without showing my hand. “I was just trying to remember which philosophy says life has only the meaning we give it,” I said. A bit pretentious, but close enough to the truth.

He raised his brows, pulling out a chair for me.

“You are thinking of existentialism,” he said as he sat next to me. “The confrontation of meaninglessness, in which you are the artist of your own life. Life does not give us meaning, we give it meaning.”

The noise of the restaurant retreated to a quiet hum as he laughed. “Don’t look so shocked,” he said, his eyes dancing. “I am French. Also, I specialized in philosophy in university. Which is of course how I ended up in hospitality .”

I liked how he flipped back and forth from English to French when he talked to me. It made me feel like we had a secret language. I smiled. “No, it’s—I don’t think I’ve ever heard it defined so simply. I honestly don’t know that I’ve ever really understood it before.”

“Ah, yes. It is a very misunderstood philosophy,” he said with a glimmer of a smile. “Many people confuse it with nihilism, the belief that nothing matters, and life has no meaning. But existentialism gives us responsibility, whereas nihilism removes it.”

“Was it Sartre who said that every man is condemned to be free?” I asked.

“Yes. Because he is responsible for everything he does.”

I nodded, pointing. “Existentialism.”

He shrugged. “ But within existentialism, there are many different interpretations. I prefer this humanist view, it is the more positive way to look at it. You can go very deep and things become not so clear.”

“The murky depths.”

He took a sip of his champagne. “Yes.”

I thought I might like to explore the murky depths with Laurent, and the way he was looking at me, it seemed that he might like it as well. But we were at a table with five other people, so that would have to wait.

As the champagne worked its magic, everyone loosened up, egging Allison on as she regaled us with tales from the Olympic Villages in London and Rio, where she’d learned to play poker between events and won jerseys off athletes from five different countries.

I’d been looking for some weakness in Allison, but the more I got to know her, the stronger she seemed. She was smart, focused, driven to succeed. Perhaps a shade too driven. Maybe that was her weakness.

“Talk about a walk of shame,” she concluded a story that had featured a late-night strip poker game. “I had to wear an Italy basketball jersey home. My shirt never did turn up.”

“Allison, I have never seen this side of you,” Samira said.

Her cheeks reddened. “This is why I don’t drink champagne.”

“Everyone should drink champagne,” Gisèle declared, and we all clinked glasses.

I’d begun the evening responsibly, imbibing slowly and drinking a glass of water after each glass of wine, but by the time we finished dinner, I’d stopped counting how many times my glass had been topped up.

I’d learn more about this group the closer I got to them, I justified.

Besides, without Tyson there to sour the mood, I was actually having fun.

Until I opened my phone to see a text from Rosa:

FYI just heard from Deanna they’ve officially opened a murder investigation into Ian’s death. I told her you were out of the country but expect a call from them tomorrow. They’ll want a statement when you get back.

Suddenly the room seemed too crowded. I needed air. Swiping my wineglass from the table, I pushed back my chair, mumbling something about the restroom.

Of course there was going to be an investigation, I reminded myself as I wove through the restaurant, swigging wine to dull the shockwaves radiating through me. I knew that. And of course I was going to be interviewed.

I pushed open a side door and stepped into the balmy night. Thankfully, the small patio overlooking the street behind the restaurant was deserted. I leaned against the stone wall, taking big gulps of air.

I’d been through this once before. The difference was that now I had a lot more to lose. And now Tyson was threatening to—how did he put it?—“change his story,” if I didn’t prove I wasn’t the one who’d sent him that damn article.

An alibi is only worth anything if everyone stands by it, and he’d made it very clear that if he felt threatened, he’d have no qualms about throwing me under the bus.

It was up to me to make sure that didn’t happen.