Flawless Danger (The Spencer & Sione #1) (25 page)

What would have happened if he hadn’t gotten there in time to stop the Asian guy from hurting her? That “what if” plagued him, so much that it had driven him out of bed. The intrusive worries about Ms. Edwards forced him to check on her. She was probably okay, but Sione had to make sure. He needed to see for himself that she was resting peacefully in the guestroom.

Heading across the casita, wall sconces gave off dim light, preventing him from stumbling into anything as he made his way to the guestroom where Ms. Edwards was sleeping. At her door, he knocked softly and then opened it. “Ms. Edwards?” There was no answer. Ms. Edwards wasn’t in the room. The bed was empty and the bathroom light was off. Sione glanced at the bed again. The bed linens were in disarray, as though she’d gotten out of bed and pushed the covers back. Where was she?

Back in the hallway, Sione saw faint light coming from inside the bedroom at the end of the hall. Confused, he headed to the bedroom and slipped through the half-opened door. Drawn by the glow of light coming from the closet, he walked toward it.

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort – Owner’s Casita

“Ms. Edwards …”

Jumping slightly, Spencer turned and looked up, heart pounding.

John stood in the entrance to the closet, staring at her. “What are you doing in here?”

Staring at him, Spencer clutched the doll. “Nothing,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I was—”

“What are you doing with that doll?” John walked toward her, frowning a bit.

“I was, um.” She stared at the doll, trying to catch her breath, fighting to suppress the painful memories threatening to overtake her. “I was looking for something more comfortable to sleep in than this tank top and these shorts, and I opened this drawer and saw all those dolls.”

“Those are for the girls when they come over,” he said. “I keep all these things in that bureau drawer.”

Nodding, Spencer turned, then put the doll back in the drawer, and closed it.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I should have had someone get your things from the honeymoon casita.”

“That’s okay,” she said, not yet ready to face him, still fighting the effects of that horrible memory which shouldn’t have had the power to bring her to her knees. And yet, she was finding it very difficult to hold back her tears.

“Ms. Edwards,” John said. “Are you okay?”

Unable to speak, Spencer nodded again and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to prevent the tears from falling. Moments later, she felt his hands on her shoulders. Turning her away from the chest, he slipped his finger slipped beneath her chin and lifted her head.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” she insisted as she opened her eyes and a tear fell down her face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, gently running a thumb across her cheek. “Are you upset because—”

“Nothing, it’s just …” She sighed and moved away from him, afraid of what would happen if she got too close. “That damn doll.”

“The doll made you cry?”

Hesitating, she looked up at him as he gazed down at her, and she felt something strange and poignant, like maybe John might be interested in her. Which was ridiculous, she knew. John wasn’t interested in her. Not really.

Well, he might be interested in having sex with her, but he probably wasn’t interested in anything beyond that. He wasn’t interested in really getting to know her or understanding her. He wasn’t interested in what her hopes and dreams were. If he ever found out why she was really in Belize, all he’d be interested in was calling the cops on her.

“Of course not,” she snapped, swiping the tears from her face, worried she’d accidentally said too much. “It’s just something about those dolls reminded me of that hand I found in Maxine Porter’s closet.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through all that,” he said. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said and faced him. “I just want to know if you have something I can sleep in?”

Nodding, he said, “I have some T-shirts in my room.”

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort – Owner’s Casita

“Well, thanks for this,” Spencer said, walking out of John’s bathroom, where she’d just changed into one of his T-shirts, which drowned her, as she’d suspected it would. “And goodnight.”

Quickly, Spencer headed toward the double doors, wondering if she should risk checking the other three bedrooms, or—

“Ms. Edwards, wait a minute.”

Spencer stopped and then looked over her shoulder. John was walking to her.

“What is it?” she asked, facing him.

“I think you should stay in here,” he said.

“In your bedroom?”

“I don’t like it that you’re on the opposite side of the casita.”

“Um, Mr. Tuiali’i—

“John,” he said, smiling slightly as he corrected her.

Pleasantly surprised at his use of her adopted name for him, Spencer said, “John, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I know that we, um … we kissed that one time, but we both had way too much to drink, and I really am not interested in—”

“Neither am I,” he interrupted. “But I am interested in getting some sleep, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that unless I can be sure that you’re safe and nothing bad will happen to you.”

Spencer hesitated, not sure what to say.

“Look, I know it may seem like I’m just trying to get you into bed,” he said.
 

“But you are trying to get me into bed,” she teased.

“So we can both get some rest,” he said. “And I’ll sleep in the chair if that will make you feel more comfortable.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, sneaking a peek at the California king. “Anyway, that bed is huge. I think it’s big enough for the both of us.”

Moments later, John pulled the duvet back, and Spencer stared at the crisp sheets, hesitating. Getting in bed with the resort owner was risky, like slipping into something both enticing and dangerous. Once she got into bed with John, Spencer had a feeling she would be enveloping herself into something she might not be able to get out of, something she wouldn’t be able to resist. Getting in bed with him might be getting too close. She was only supposed to get just close enough.

Maybe she was making too much of the situation. They were going to be sleeping together but not sleeping together. She wasn’t going to be making love with John. She would only be making it possible for him to get some rest. He was worried about her. He was afraid Tommy Fong might attack her again, and he might be too far to get to her in time to stop the assault.

Spencer climbed into the bed. As John walked around to the other side of the bed, Spencer pulled the covers up to her neck and tried to get settled beneath the duvet. The bed was warm, even though the sheets were cool and crisp and obviously expensive, probably a million-thread count or something equally ridiculous.

As she turned over onto her side and laid her cheek against the pillow, an intoxicating scent swirled around her, seeping into her. The smell seemed to manifest into something tangible, caressing her as she struggled to ignore the feeling.

There was a small click and darkness cloaked the room. John had turned off the lamp on the night table. The mattress moved and something very large seemed to have gotten into the bed with her. She tried to close her eyes and relax, but it was impossible to ignore John’s presence. It was overwhelming and magnetic, as though something was pulling her toward him.

She turned over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Light from the outdoor sconces on the terrace filtered into the room through the French doors, but she still needed a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Without turning her head, Spencer cut her gaze to the right, sneaking a glance at him. Horizontal, John seemed even more massive. It was like being in bed with a huge, hunky giant.

She felt very small and insignificant and, strangely, as though she needed protection, some sort of shelter, the kind she could only find in his arms, which was ridiculous, and yet … after a moment’s hesitation, she inched over onto her right side. Her heart jumped into her throat. John was lying on his side, facing her, but his eyes were closed.

She felt out of control, as though she might do something wild and reckless, like she might get too close to him. She couldn’t help herself. She was seeking the comfort of an embrace he hadn’t offered. Something was inviting her to come closer to him, and she moved beneath the covers, slowly and stealthily, praying she wouldn’t disturb his sleep. She stopped and waited, her heart pounding. A moment later, she scooted forward again, just an inch or so, moving even closer to him and farther away from where she’d been at the edge of the bed. Spencer slid closer to him. John’s eyes flickered, the lids lifting. She squeezed her eyes shut and went still.

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort – Owner’s Casita

Sione didn’t remember Ms. Edwards being so close to him. Hadn’t she been way on the other side of the bed? As far away from him as she could possibly be? When she’d first slipped between the covers, she’d huddled near the edge, and he worried she might roll over and fall to the floor in the middle of the night.

Sione knew she wasn’t too comfortable with sleeping in his bed. Maybe he shouldn’t have imposed his fears and worries on her, forcing her into a situation she wasn’t used to, an environment she wasn’t sure she could trust. He didn’t regret asking her to stay with him. Already, Sione felt his headache subsiding and the knots in his neck loosening, the tension fading. He was relaxed; sleep would soon claim him.

He wasn’t ready to close his eyes. He wasn’t ready to stop staring at Ms. Edwards, even though he couldn’t really see her features. The light from the terrace was behind her, and he couldn’t tell if she was awake. From the even rhythm of her breathing, he figured she was sleeping. Despite himself, Sione reached his arm toward her and laid his palm on her shoulder. She didn’t stir beneath the weight of his hand.

Her lack of movement made him feel bold and gave him the courage to slip an arm around her. Driven by instinct and desire, he pulled her closer to him, enticed by the silkiness of her skin and her breasts beneath his T-shirt, large and round and soft with the nipples like pearls, pressed against his abs.

For some crazy reason, Sione felt as though she belonged next to him, as though holding her was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t understand his feelings; they were hard to process, unable to be qualified or quantified. He didn’t understand the need to have her next to him. Cursing softly, he sighed, pissed by his thoughts. Maybe he was suffering strange effects from the trauma of the day. Maybe—

“John.”

Sione froze, waiting for Ms. Edwards to realize he had his arms around her and then demand to know why the hell he was holding her. He suspected she would insist he take his damn hands off her and maybe she would slap him. A moment later, she moved her head to rest against his chest.

“Yeah,” he said, holding himself still as she settled next to him.

“I didn’t tell you the truth about the doll.”

“What?”

“You remember when you found me in the closet and I was crying?”

“Yeah.”

“It was because of those dolls,” she said. “They didn’t really remind me of that bloody hand. The dolls made me think of something sad that happened to me a long time ago, when I was seven.”

He felt her leg on top of his thigh, sliding up and down against his skin, and he tried not to think about how much he wanted to make love to her.

“My grandmother gave me a doll for Christmas,” she said. “It was a Barbie doll, a black one. My grandmother said I was as pretty as that doll.”

Prettier than a doll
, he thought, staying quiet and wondering how her story would end, though he suspected she was coming to a moment of sadness and heartbreak.

“I sort of fell in love with that doll,” she said. “I played with that doll every day until … one day, my mother got upset with me because she’d told me to go to bed and I was still in my room with the light on, playing with my doll. She came into my room and screamed at me … and then she grabbed my doll and … she pulled the arms off, and then she pulled the legs off, and she pulled the head off … and then she threw it at me …”

Sione wasn’t sure how to respond or what to say. He had thought she would tell him she’d lost the doll. He never would have imagined her mother had destroyed the doll in an act of irrational rage. What the hell kind of mother would do something like that? Sione had no business judging the woman, even though he hated what she’d done to her daughter. He knew about rage; he knew how anger could get the best of you and make you do things you never thought you would do, committing the most heinous acts, leaving you confused and ashamed.

“When I saw those dolls in the drawer, that memory just …”

He waited, holding her closer.

“Guess it doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t even know why I told you that.”

Sione wasn’t sure about the reason for her confession, but he suspected she was suffering the effects of the trauma she’d experienced in the condo on Ambergris Caye. If not for the trauma, Ms. Edwards probably wouldn’t have been so open and honest with him about something which was obviously so painful for her.

Sione wanted to be supportive and caring. He wanted her to know he could be trusted with her painful memories. He needed her to realize he was available if she needed someone to listen, to hold her, or even wipe away her tears. For some reason, he felt obligated to share one of his own painful childhood memories, but he didn’t have any. As a child, he’d been blessed with parents who’d been both loving and attentive.

Only after his thirteenth birthday did things change. Not with his mother, though. Carmen Camareno had always, and still to this day, loved him more than life itself. His father’s affection had become manic and confusing.

Richard’s love began to feel obsessive, more feral than instinctual. Motivated by his hopes and schemes of turning Sione into a version of himself, Richard became consumed with teaching him lessons in cruelty and terror. Lessons Sione had never wanted to learn, though he’d paid close attention to his father’s violent tutelage and had lived up to those destructive expectations.