Sin on the Run (14 page)

“They've been set in a necklace. The owner asked the hotel management to put them in the safe while he and his wife flew out for a few days. Every room has its own safe. So to ask the hotel to keep the piece meant it was worth big bucks. The hotel photographs everything guests leave. They keep an accurate record, right down to the weight of anything they hold, especially jewelry. One of the stones in the piece was lasered. When the hotel uploaded the picture into their mainframe, security spotted it and ran the number.”

“And they reported it?”

“No. The head of security is undercover for Interpol. For now, they'll allow them to keep the piece, so as not to arouse suspicion. We got lucky. They're going to attempt to trace the origin without the owner knowing.”

“Interpol or your team?”
And do you want to be part of that team?

“Both. Let's head into town.” He slipped on a pair of sunglasses.

There was more, but because he wasn't volunteering, Rhonda was reluctant to ask. Or was she afraid of the answer? His duffle bag was on deck, and when he bent down to zip it closed, Rhonda spotted the gun.

She felt ridiculous. They weren't some happy couple on vacation. They were hiding from a hired assassin. Would it be better that he hand her off to another of Ryan's men? And was it so wrong not to want that? At least with Blake, her life felt more like her own, like they were in this together. For now, she accepted his explanation and said nothing else.

Blake took her hand and helped her onto the dock. Rhonda looked down at their joined hands. How long could this fantasy go on? She glanced back at the boat then up at Blake. Beautiful Blake. Even with red hair and dark shades, he was gorgeous. It brought out the Scot in him. Which reminded her. “Make sure to drop the accent when you speak to anyone.”

“You mean use the accent.”

“No, I . . . yeah, right, use the accent.”

He squeezed her hand, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Sure babe,” he said in perfect American English.

“Can you do southern? Maggie has this thing for southern accents,” she said, unexpectedly missing her friend.

“Cajun, Texan or Georgian?”

She shrugged. “Doesn't matter.”

“Yes ma'am, Ah kin twang with the best of 'em. Cajun's tricky, though. I try and avoid that one,” he said, demonstrating his drawl.

“You call me
ma'am
again, and you won't have to worry what you sound like. I'll kick your ass.”

“Oh, honey girl.” He released her hand to drape an arm over her shoulder. “Ah love it when you talk dirty.”

She snuggled closer, making a mental note to tell Maggie she didn't know what she was talking about. Rhonda would take her honey's Scottish brogue over Christian's southern drawl any day or night. She loved how, when he got all lusty, it came out in all its rolling r's. But he wasn't her honey, was he? So how much longer could they go on this way?

“Where are we going first?” she asked, shifting the handle of her duffle bag to get a better grip.

“Office. I need to make sure everything's in place to dock the boat until someone picks it up. Then we'll get the rental key. We're going to hide in plain sight, in Old Town.”

“How long before we have to move?” She already missed the safety of the boat. Considering her seasickness, that was saying a lot.

“They'll let us know.”

Was that a note of resentment she heard? Or was she hearing things?

He stopped walking when they reached the chain-link gate exiting the dock area. “I don't want you to worry. Ryan has eyes everywhere. If we need to run, he'll tell us. For now, let's not spoil what we had on the boat.” He kissed her softly on the lips and left her as he went to the marina office.

While he might not want to spoil what they had, she'd bet he'd rather not be running, but hunting for the man who wanted him dead.

* * *

“I'm sorry,” he said, driving the rental car. “All this hiding can't be fun.”

“No, it's not. But it's the not knowing what comes next that's worse.” The only thing she did know was that when this was over, she and Blake would go their separate ways, if not before. Parting was inevitable. He hadn't promised forever, and she'd been okay with that. But a part of her hoped she could hang on to whatever this was for as long as she could. She didn't want to keep hiding. That would be insane, but it was nice, just the two of them. Sharing him with no one.

He put the car in Park in front of a two-story Conch cottage. A tall palm tree stood in the small front yard and a variety of ferns covered the lattice beneath a turn-of-the-century Victorian porch. Except for the yellow windows and shutters, it was white and gorgeous.

“Stay here while I open the gate.” Blake got out of the car.

“Hurry,” she said, regretting that coffee they'd stopped for.

She hadn't seen it at first, the palm trees flanking the property and the oasis-like plants camouflaging the driveway. When he returned, he drove the car down a narrow path that led to a tiny garage. No SUV for these owners. The small building, obviously once a carriage house, barely fit their car. Most people walked in Key West but when someone was trying to kill you a car was a necessity. Careful not to smack the door against anything, she got out and followed Blake through a side door.

The backyard held a clover-shaped pool adorned by a cedar deck. Underneath the second floor balcony of the house was a wrought-iron patio table and beside it, a stainless-steel grill and outdoor kitchen. Two teak lounge chairs sat by the pool, bordered by an assortment of exotic flowers. For a small backyard, it packed a punch.

“Come on.” Blake headed toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lower floor. “They said this key opens the patio doors.”

True enough, the sliding doors opened to create an indoor-outdoor living room. Rhonda had lived in apartments all her life, and not very nice ones at that. She'd moved into Maggie's condo building to act as den mother, and while the space was modern and cozy at the same time, it didn't compare to the romantic setting created by this cottage. She couldn't wait to see the rest of it.

“I'll grab our bags,” Blake offered. “The kitchen is stocked if you want anything.”

“I'm not hungry, but I can make something for you if you like.”

“Thanks, but I'm still full from breakfast. How about you pour us a couple of glasses of wine and we can sit by the pool after we check the place out?”

The rest of the cottage didn't disappoint. It wasn't as grandiose as Ryan's plantation, but everything in it was top of the line, from the Sub-Zero fridge to the airjet tub for two in the master en suite, something she promised herself she'd use.

“So, what's next?”

They sat at the patio table sipping white wine.

“We avoid being seen,” Blake said.

“You mean we're stuck here? We're in Key West and we can't enjoy it?”

“It's better if we stay in as much as possible. For now, anyway. You don't have to worry about getting seasick, so enjoy the pool—relax. Read. There's a computer in the house, but same rules apply. Nothing that can be traced. No Facebook, no online shopping, or whatever it is women do.”

“You know, that's not a bad idea. What if I ordered something and shipped it to Alaska?” she said, just to get a reaction from him. She liked doing that.

“No, don't do that,” he said, all panicked.

She wouldn't—because she wasn't
stupid
—but if he was going to make dumb comments, then she was going to have fun with it.

“Why?” She pretended not to understand.

“They can trace the IP address. They'll know you put the order in from Key West.”

“Ohhhh.” She took a sip of wine and smirked.

“You knew that, didn't you?”

“Duh.” Did he think she was stupid? Most men did. Most
everyone
assumed that, because a woman took her clothes off for money, she had either a low IQ or slept around. Why else would a woman degrade herself? Why, indeed.

“Hey.” He slid his chair closer, taking her hands in his. “I didn't mean to imply you were dumb. You're anything but.”

“Damn straight I'm not. I've been pretty much on my own since my mother died.”

“I know,” he agreed, smiling awkwardly. “Are you in the mood to fight?”

“No . . . maybe . . . I don't know.” And she didn't. Maybe this whole situation was starting to get to her. But normally she wasn't this moody. “What's the date?” And when was her last period and did the cottage have stocked tampons?

“The thirtieth. Why? Have a hot date I don't know about?”

“Yeah, that's it.” She stood. “And when you go to sleep, we're hooking up.”

He stood too, and pulled her into his arms. “Over my dead body.” He kissed her hard enough to make her lightheaded.

Damn, the man could kiss, and not just the nice feeling kisses, but the kind you saw on the big screen. The kind people remembered for years to come. With considerable effort, mentally and physically, she pushed him off. “There was something I wanted to do. Now you made me forget.”

“Then it couldn't be that important. How about you and I have a hot date in that pool? Let's go skinny dipping.”

Date
. She remembered. She needed a calendar. If she was getting her period, she didn't want it to happen in the pool. “Keep that thought. I'll be back in a minute.”

She ran upstairs to the master bedroom. After stopping to pee, she found the laptop and typed “August calendar” in the Google search bar.
Shit
. She recounted the days. She was late. Not unusual, considering her stress level. Right? Right.

What if it wasn't stress? No way. Life could
not
be that unfair.

R
honda was on the pill. They'd used a condom.

She had nothing against kids—as long as they weren't hers. She'd just gotten her life back. She told herself not to panic. Her cycle was just screwed up. She'd give it a few more days.
Then
pull all her hair out. No way could she be pregnant. She liked the sound of her biological clock. She and it were pals. She didn't want a baby—something else to take care of. To be responsible for. She'd abort. That's what she'd do. The quicker the better. But how? How was she going to find a doctor in Key West?

Blake. Should she tell him? What if he wanted to keep it? What if he didn't believe her? Girls like her got pregnant all the time. Strippers. And ones from the wrong side of the tracks. He was an aristocrat, for God's sake. That was it. He wouldn't
want
the baby. Damn, who was she trying to convince? Blake wasn't like that. She pressed her hand to her heart, now in panic mode.
Breathe
.

If she had to, she'd find a doctor herself. She wasn't a prisoner here. He'd trust her to let her out of the house. No, she wasn't that kind of girl. He had to know. If she was the unluckiest person in the world, and she was pregnant, she'd tell him. Then deal with it regardless of what he said. But what if he
did
want it? She groaned and squeezed her head, trying to stop her thoughts from racing. She took another deep breath and saw her reflection on the computer screen. Reaching out, she touched the image of the month of August.

If they'd made a baby, it could've been the day of Maggie's wedding, that amazing night, or the awful morning, in Vegas. She pulled her hand away, clenching her fist and trying like hell not to touch her stomach. She would
not
get sentimental about this. It didn't matter that she could be carrying Blake's child. It wasn't important. It didn't matter that it would be the only thing she'd have of him after he left. She
didn't
want a baby.

This was her time. She wanted, no, needed to experience freedom. Freedom to make decisions for herself and herself alone. Free to make the wrong choices and not worry how it would affect someone else. Free to get back all the years she'd lost. This was
her
time
, God damn it.
Tears stung her eyes.

This was stupid. Her period could just be late. She stood and closed the computer screen. She'd wait a few more days, then find a way to get her hands on a pregnancy test. Calmly, she went into the bathroom. She opened every drawer in the room, disappointed to find anything and everything she could need. Including tampons. Even the shampoo she regularly used was among the supplies.

“Maggie,” she sighed, “I never thought I'd miss your nagging.” Maggie would know what to do. She always did. Rhonda had watched her with other girls. Never judgmental, always supportive, she'd be there to help. It didn't matter if they wanted to end it, keep it, or put it up for adoption, the girls could count on Maggie. Wouldn't she just laugh to discover Rhonda needed her help? No, Maggie wouldn't laugh. She'd hold her hand and tell her she wasn't alone. They'd do this together. But her friend wasn't here. And Rhonda never felt more alone. She couldn't have a baby. She just couldn't.

* * *

For the life of him, Blake couldn't figure out what was up her beautiful, sexy ass. Hell if he'd know, because this morning she wasn't talking to him. In fact, in the last week, she barely looked at him, and whenever he'd try and ask, she'd change the subject. Something was bothering her. And he didn't like it, didn't like seeing her upset.

They shared the same bed, so he couldn't have done anything to piss her off. She'd just stopped . . . being Rhonda. At first, he thought maybe it was a female thing, but he hadn't seen any evidence of that. But what did he know? He wasn't a woman. He considered asking and thought better of it. The last thing a guy should do is ask a woman if she was PMSing. So he stayed out of her way. Not for his sake, but hers. His mere presence seemed to depress her. Bloody hell, all he wanted to do was hold her. If he couldn't make it better, he wanted her to know he was there.

It had to be their situation. She was growing tired of hiding, of being cooped up. “How about we go out tonight?”

“Really?” Her green eyes lit up.

Was that it? She wanted to go out? “Sure. It's the weekend. The place will be crawling with tourists. We can get lost in the crowd.”

“Great. There are a few things I'd like to pick up in town.”

“Did they forget to stock something?” He couldn't see how. The place was bursting with supplies.

“No, I was thinking more like girly stuff. To make me feel more like myself.” She stretched out her feet under the patio table. “I haven't painted my toes in like, forever. Maybe some nail polish . . . from a drugstore? There isn't anything you need. Like a book? Or something?”

“You want to go shopping?” Was
that
it? She needed to feel normal?

“I wouldn't mind browsing through a store or two. I've been looking on line. There are some great little shops in town.”

“Okay, shopping it is.” He smiled, hoping this would do the trick, and he'd have his Rhonda back.

He understood how dangerous it was to think of her that way. She wasn't his, not permanently anyway. If his family life were different, she might be. And maybe just maybe his brother could have another child. Then everyone could be happy.

That evening they walked arm in arm along the palm-lined streets, with their historic Victorian mansions and Conch cottages. Blake realized that if a guy couldn't be romantic here, he was a lost cause. He missed making love to Rhonda, missed the feel of her skin, the smell of her hair when he kissed her neck. It wasn't even the sex, which blew his mind every time, but just being near her. This was the first time in a week he'd held her this close.

“Where do you want to go first?”

“I don't know. Let's see where our feet take us,” Rhonda suggested.

Blake couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something was off. She seemed happier. She even put her arm around his waist. Maybe it was the gun tucked into his waistband? But she had to be used to that by now. She was smiling, pointing things out. And yet this wasn't the woman he'd come to know. Whatever had made her moody back at the house continued to do so now. She'd just gotten better at hiding it. Why? Why, not tell him what it was?

“My mother would love it here,” he said, trying for small talk.

“Has your mother been to the United States?”

“Only New York. My grandmother doesn't approve of the colonies.”

“You're kidding.”

“Wish I were. She's never gotten over losing the Revolutionary War.”

“Wasn't that a bit before her time?”

“No,” he said, stone-faced.

She smiled for the first time in a week. “You always make me laugh.”

Then why did she look so sad?

They reached a drugstore. She asked him to stay outside while she browsed for nail polish.

“As much as shopping for nail varnish pricks my manhood, I don't want to leave you alone. Come,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “I promise not to look bored.”

They were safe for now. But what if they were wrong and Sorrentino didn't have the stones? Blake and Christian had screwed with his first known attempt to score big with diamonds, and Maggie, unbeknownst to her, had fucked with his second. With this third incident, Blake hoped the thug wouldn't be patient about fencing what he had left.

The stones in Dubai came from a private jeweler in London, who turned out to be legit. He bought and sold estate jewelry and, on occasion, as with the Dubai piece, he'd reset the stones. He only dealt with brokers and he'd purchased several pieces from a woman fitting the dead model's description. But it didn't make sense. Madison Scott had a famous face. Why would anyone risk her being recognized?

Rhonda didn't argue about his going in with her, but he'd gotten the distinct impression she'd wanted to.

“Find what you want?” he asked, after ten minutes of staring at the same display shelf.

“Yup.” She grabbed a small bottle of dark polish. “Secret Sin.”

“Interesting name.” Who came up with those?

“It's either this or ‘Heaven's Fall.' But I thought my usual black doesn't go with my disguise.” She waved her hand over her body.

“What's the difference?” he asked, pointing to the bottle.

“This is purple.” She held it up for him to see.

He took a closer look. “If you say so.”

She snapped the bottle away and headed to the cash register.

Perhaps shopping for varnish
was
a personal thing. “I'm adding snotty to your list,” he called out to her.

“Do that,” she said with a hand gesture. He smiled. Now that was his Rhonda.

Outside, Rhonda kept a few steps ahead of Blake, pretending to admire the many dressed windows along the way. She maintained an even pace, trying her best not to come across as agitated. She'd wanted him to remain outside, giving her time to grab a pregnancy test. She'd had time to think about it. No matter how much she didn't want to be a mother, she couldn't bring herself to end the pregnancy, if there was a pregnancy to end. And as much as she stuck by her father when he needed her, she couldn't be there for a baby. Giving of herself that much again wasn't in her. So, somehow, someway, if she had to, she'd find a fantastic home, one with two devoted parents. People who wanted to make the sacrifices needed to raise a child.

“See anything you like?” Blake asked, stopping to peer into the same window as she.

She blinked, not having realized she was standing in front of a baby store, its window showcasing a beautiful nursery. “I was wondering how long it would take Maggie to squeeze out one of these things.”

“A nursery?”

She swiveled her head in his direction. “Yeah, that's it. On a good day she could push out a stroller.”

He whistled. “Christian is one lucky guy.”

“Do you want children?” Rhonda inwardly cursed. Why had she asked
that
? She didn't care if he did or didn't.

“Do you?”

“No,” she answered honestly.

“I don't mean right now,” he explained. “I mean in the future.”

“No,” she repeated. “You?”

“It's complicated.” He glanced back at the elegant nursery with its cherry wood crib and white frilly bedding.

“What baby isn't complicated?”

“Oh, it's not the baby,” he said. “It's the having.”

“I don't understand.”

“Come.” He took her arm and drew her away from the window. “Would you like to go get a drink?”

“I'd rather have ice cream.” Why wasn't he giving her a straight answer?

“Ice cream it is.” He motioned to the parlor across the street.

“Let me guess,” he said, when they stood at the counter. “Chocolate.”

“Nope, I prefer lemon sorbet.”

“I'm a soft cone man myself. I didn't get to buy ice cream cones when I was a kid. My grandmother said licking in public was undignified.”

“Your grandmother sounds very uptight.”

“Uptight? That would be one way to put it.”

He ordered their cones, paid for them, then led the way to an empty booth. “Perhaps now would be a good time to tell you about my family and their . . . issues.”

“And
why
having babies is complicated?” She had her own reasons, but she wanted to hear his.

“Sure.” They sat. “Remember my brother got the title?” He licked his cone and waited for her to nod. “Well, what he didn't get was the money, not all of it. My grandfather's fortune was independent of the title. Sometimes the two go hand in hand, but in our case, it doesn't,” he explained. “Colin inherited Oakley Manor. It's tied to the title, but without the funds to go with it, he won't be able to afford its upkeep for much longer. He'll either have to try to turn the house into a tourist attraction, which my grandmother is not in favor of. Or he can continue to eat up his trust fund.”

“I don't understand. Why would your grandfather do that to him? And why doesn't your brother just sell it?”

“My grandfather wasn't born with money, only the title and the manor house. But he was a smart businessman. He saved the family home and believed that, with a little determination, a person could have whatever they wanted, and my grandfather was very specific about what he wanted. And Colin can't sell it.”

“I still don't get it. What's he supposed to do with the house if he can't afford it?”

“Try harder to earn its upkeep.” He snickered, shaking his head. “The old sod.”

“I am so confused.” Why were his poor brother's money problems funny?

“Ah, wait. I haven't even gotten to the good part. My grandfather left a trust fund to take care of my grandmother until she died. And his family jewels and another trust fund went to my mother and one to my brother and me.” He ran his tongue slowly over his dripping cone. “But just over two billion pounds, roughly three point four billion dollars, is up for grabs. Sort of.”

She'd been considering not asking him anything else simply to watch him lick his ice cream, but as her jaw was now on the floor, she wouldn't be able to form a question even if she wanted to. 3.4
billion
dollars.