Page 8

By early evening, I was revitalized by a power nap followed by a shower and an espresso—thanks to Laurent, who’d had the wherewithal to inquire whether I’d like one when I came out of my room wrapped in the white waffle robe I’d found hanging in my bathroom, unable to shut off the shower.

He gamely followed me into the bathroom and cut the water with a pressing rather than a pulling motion, impervious to the spray that soaked through his white button-down, leaving it stuck to his toned chest.

He ran his hand through his wet curls as he stepped out of the shower and for a moment when our eyes met, I felt almost as though he’d reached out and touched me.

I turned away quickly, wondering as I led him to the door just how many women had asked him to fix their showers when they weren’t broken, and of those women, how many might not have kept their robes on.

I’d just finished dressing in a strapless black jumpsuit when there was a light tap on my door and I opened it to find Mr. Sexy Butler there with a freshly brewed espresso in hand.

He’d changed into a fitted black T-shirt that somehow looked even better on him than the button-down, the tail of a tattoo peeking out beneath his sleeve. “Tyson wants you,” he said.

It was fifteen minutes before the time Tyson had specified, but I was ready. I downed the espresso, then grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder as Laurent reached for it. “I can take that,” he said.

“I’ve got it,” I assured him.

I followed him into the onion-and-butter-scented kitchen where two white-uniformed chefs were preparing our meal, while on the deck, one of the staff lit candles in hurricane lamps as the light bled from the evening sky.

My heart rate increased steadily as Laurent led me down the stairwell to Tyson’s private terrace, where he rapped gently on the wide wooden door. After a moment that felt like a lifetime, the door swung open, revealing the man I’d once been in love with.

He was barefoot, dressed in loose natural linen pants and a matching collarless button-front shirt, a mixture of leather and silver jewelry around his neck and wrists, his dark hair Jesus-long.

He was gaunt, his formerly tawny skin sallow, the hollows beneath his eyes giving him a haunted appearance.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

I covered my shock with a smile as he ran a hand through his hair, looking me up and down without comment. “Tyson,” I said. “Good to see you.”

When he didn’t reply, Laurent filled the silence. “Dinner will be ready at eight.”

Tyson opened the door wider and retreated into the depths of his suite without a word, leaving me to throw a distressed glance at Laurent. “Don’t take it personally,” he said quietly.

I could smell sage burning somewhere as I crossed the threshold and closed the door behind me, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Only one side of the vestibule was open, so I went that way, coming around the corner into another full kitchen open to a dining room.

It wasn’t just the heavy blackout drapes covering the windows that made it darker down here.

The surfaces of the kitchen were gunmetal gray, the cabinets above sleek and black.

A modern brass chandelier burned low above a black walnut dining table, where Tyson was seated at the head of the table, a glass of something that looked like sludge before him.

The temperature was somewhere in the vicinity of iceberg, and goosebumps prickled my arms as I pulled out a chair and sat, placing my backpack in the empty seat between us. He looked at it as though it might contain venomous snakes. “Leave that outside,” he said quietly.

“It has my computer and my notebooks—”

“You don’t need it. Leave it outside.”

I frowned, assessing him. It wasn’t just his physical appearance; his whole aura was different. Darker. Still just as magnetic, but with a heaviness that hadn’t been there before.

I rose and hefted the backpack. Once I’d dropped it outside the door, I returned to the table, but he stopped me before I could sit. “Put your arms out,” he said, rising.

“What?”

He sighed as though exhausted. “I need to make sure you’re not wired.”

“Wired?” I laughed. “Would you have called me here if there was any chance I’d be wearing a wire?”

He held his ground, and I extended my arms, trying not to cringe while he felt around my torso.

He paused with his hands on my back, inhaling me the way a wolf does a rabbit, and I shuddered to think I used to crave those cold hands on my body.

“You’ll need to wash those harmful chemicals off your skin,” he said gruffly, letting me go.

“What?”

“It’s bad for your health and the odor gives me a headache. Laurent should have told you.”

Gathering that he was referring to my perfume, I nodded, dropping into my seat. No wonder he smelled different now, his formerly ubiquitous cologne replaced with whatever herbs and supplements were leaking through his skin.

“Are you unwell?” I asked gently. That would explain a lot.

He snorted, those dark eyes flashing. “I’m healthier than I’ve ever been.”

I nodded, crossing my arms. So that’s how this was going to go. “Why am I here?”

He slid a long white envelope across the table to me.

I picked it up, noting it was addressed in neat block lettering to him here at Le Rêve.

There was no return address, but it was postmarked with my home zip code, which had been his parents’ as well until they sold their property after Hurricane Irma ripped the roof off their house and destroyed the orange grove. “Open it,” he instructed.

I lifted the flap and extracted a clipping of a newspaper article with the headline Latest Foot Identified as Missing Miami-Dade County Resident Ian Kelley .

“I’ve read this,” I said.

His eyes bored holes in me. “Why did you send it to me?”

“What?” I asked, thrown. “I didn’t send this to you.”

“Then who did?”

“I have no idea.” I placed the envelope on the table between us, shaking my head. “Wait. Back up. Is this why you called me down here?”

“What do you want from me?”

I blinked at him, trying to gauge where he was coming from. “What are you talking about?”

“Money? A job?”

“What? No. You invited me—”

“You may think you have the upper hand here, but we go down together,” he growled. “What would your sons do then, huh?”

I pushed back from the table, my chair scraping over the tile as I shot to my feet. “What the fuck, Tyson?” I was shaking. “I don’t want anything from you. And I didn’t send you that article. Though I do think we should talk about its contents—”

“Why, so you can record our conversation? Are you working with the feds?”

“The feds ?” I shook my head. Talk about paranoia. “I don’t know what is going on with you, but I had nothing to do with any of it. Keep your money. I’m going home. I’ll find somewhere else to stay for the night.”

Anger roiled in my veins as I stormed toward the door. To think I’d come all the way down here for him to accuse me of—what? I wasn’t even sure.

“You’re forgetting I have evidence,” he said without rising.

I spun to face him. “Of what?”

His face was placid. “The statute of limitations may be up, but you think the attorneys and law enforcement agencies your little firm works with will continue to trust you with their confidential information once they know you’re a thief and a liar?”

It was all I could do not to smack him. “I know your secrets too,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Yes.” He smiled. The asshole. He was actually enjoying this. “But it would be very difficult for you to spill them without implicating yourself. And once I destroy your reputation, who do you think people will believe?”

“Fuck you, Tyson,” I spat. “What do you want from me ?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He pointed at the chair opposite him. “Sit down.”

My knees wobbled as I sat heavily into the chair, staring daggers at him.

“If you want me to believe you didn’t send this,” he said, tapping the envelope, “then tell me who did.”

“I told you, I don’t know!”

“Discovery agent,” he scoffed, making air quotes with his fingers. “What does that even mean?”

I glared at him, cursing myself for being stupid enough to think coming here was a good idea.

He thrust the envelope at me. “Discover who sent this, and your secret is safe.”

“Why do you care?” I appealed. “It’s just an article. Public knowledge.”

“I think we both know there’s more to it than that.”

I shook my head. “Anyone who was around at the time Ian disappeared knows he’d been living on your property, and they know how successful you are now.

Someone is just fucking with you.” I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm myself.

“What we should be talking about is what we’re going to say to the police when they call us for statements. ”

“We already gave them statements.”

“Ten years ago, when it was a disappearance. There’s a body now. If they open a murder investigation, we’re going to have to answer questions all over again.”

“So, I’ll tell them what I told them then.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Unless you give me reason to change my story. You have five days to figure out who sent me this, or I’ll have to assume it was you.”

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let him manipulate me, and within ten minutes, he’d turned me into his bitch.