ZANE SHOOK THE WATER FROM his hair, swiping a towel over his damp body as he walked through his small bungalow. It wasn’t much, a large open space that contained a bed, a couch and a TV. A stove he hardly ever used had been installed in the far corner, along with a few feet of cabinet space. There was no fresh market on the island, but there was a five-star restaurant right down the path, so cooking rarely seemed the best choice.
In the opposite corner, two beige walls boxed off the bathroom. At least his predecessor had thought to request a large tiled shower, complete with a glass-fronted view into the wild jungle that skirted the property. Simon sure as hell hadn’t thought of that creature comfort on his own.
His place was set back from everything, giving him the illusion that he was on the island alone whenever he needed it. Simon lived in the middle of everything, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Zane, on the other hand, preferred some space for when the memories and guilt got to be too much.
Today, the solitude might be what did him in. He’d caught himself staring out into the lush foliage…and remembering Elle sitting on the sand, her toes dug deep and her eyebrows beetled in concentration. He’d watched her for several minutes, unobserved, as she’d worked frantically to capture the unruly beauty of the jungle.
She’d done a damn good job of it, too.
It was unexpected. Not her drive…or her talent, if he’d thought about it. Elle struck him as the kind of person who would excel at whatever she put her mind to. She was feisty and determined. He’d seen enough to know she wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection from herself. As much as it meant she would be a bigger pain in his ass, he admired her for that.
He hadn’t figured her for the artistic type, though. A cat burglar? Sure. Not someone who captured the perfection of a moment the way she had this morning.
Now that he’d discovered that little tidbit of information, the question was, did it change anything? He didn’t think so.
Elle Monroe was up to something. And he had every intention of finding out what. Back home, he’d have tapped her phones, set up surveillance, run background checks, gathered every speck of data he could find. He would have found her weakness and ruthlessly exploited it until he’d gotten the information he wanted.
The problem was that, here, he had no access to classified databases, no backup, no electronics. He was basically blind. Although, what he did have were some friends in the States. Friends who owed him. Friends he hadn’t spoken to in eighteen months.
But he supposed they’d understand. They’d been there when Felicity died. Worked her crime scene. Told him she’d been pushed to her death by someone he knew…someone he’d tried to put away.
The guilt overwhelmed him. Eighteen months ago, that well of emotion would have had him reaching for a glass and a bottle. And slamming the phone back into the cradle because he couldn’t face the pity that would be in the voice on the other end.
Today, he dialed.
“Mick, it’s Zane.”
Pressing the cordless phone to his ear, Zane walked lazily across the small expanse of his bungalow. He and the agent on the other end exchanged pleasantries. Mick tap-danced around asking the real question everyone wanted to know—how was he, and was he ever coming back?
Zane found himself staring through the bathroom, out the window and into the dank tangle of jungle beyond.
“Look, I need a favor. I need you to run a background check on Giselle Monroe. She lives in Atlanta. I think her father and brothers are all on the force there.”
Zane listened for a moment, insulated from that jungle and the world in the silence he’d created.
He should have felt alone. He had every single day that he’d been here. Felicity gone, his life changed forever. No agents, no cases, no friends except for Simon. Nothing but the mundane ease of watching guests party and laugh and lie in the sun.
Today, he wasn’t alone.
Today, he had the puzzle of Giselle Monroe. And he had every intention of having her…
solving
her. That’s what he’d meant.
INSPIRATION HAD STRUCK AS Elle walked back through the hotel earlier that morning. She’d stopped in one of the small sitting areas off of the main salon. The clear light of an early-morning sun had been streaming in the windows that lined the space. The bright patches of yellow had illuminated several pieces of art lined up along the far wall.
They were brilliant pieces. None of them priceless masterpieces, but several by lesser-known painters from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Technique was difficult to miss, especially when she’d had it pounded into her head by brilliant teachers whom she’d wanted to kill at the time but now appreciated.
It had gotten her thinking. Whoever had decorated the place definitely had an appreciation for art. They knew the hidden gems. The brilliant pieces that didn’t have a high level name and a higher-level price tag attached.
Surely this room couldn’t be the only one to house a few paintings. Well, she knew it wasn’t, because somewhere in the maze of rooms, buildings and bungalows another painting sat on another wall.
Could the solution to her problem be as simple as asking to see all of the art?
Once she figured out where the painting was, she could decide what to do next.
Stopping off at the front desk, Elle had asked to speak to Marcy. Considering it had barely been six-thirty, she’d expected to leave a message and receive a call from the woman later. To Elle’s surprise, Marcy had materialized from a doorway behind the desk.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Monroe?”
It took Elle a few moments to order the thoughts in her brain, to figure out the best way to ask her question without sounding too desperate, or tipping her hand.
“I was wondering if you could get something for me. From St. Lucia.”
“I can certainly try. They don’t have everything, but most things I can find. What do you need?”
“Painting supplies. A palette with pigments, a few brushes, an easel, a couple of canvases.”
Marcy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. Elle supposed her requests weren’t the norm. Maybe vibrators and personal lubricants were what the front desk usually received requests for. Although, she’d bet the ever-efficient Marcy had those boxed and stacked in perfect order, just waiting to be wanted.
“Well…I have to admit, I’m not sure whether I can get those things, but I’ll be happy to call over to our supplier and see what I can do. I’m sure you realize that they might be more expensive than you’re used to paying at home.”
Elle shrugged. She had struggled for years, but over the past couple of years had begun to do well. She had some mad money to play with. Besides, it was an investment. If she was lucky, she could not only find her grandmother’s painting but also manage to produce a few of her own.
“I didn’t realize the island would give me so much inspiration. I expected to find myself lying on the sand, a drink in my hand and fuzzy thoughts running through my brain.”
Marcy smiled. “You strike me as the kind of woman who finds sitting on her rear dull…and impossible.”
An answering smile touched Elle’s own lips. “You know, I think you and I could be real good friends. If I wasn’t going to be leaving soon.”
“Something tells me you’re right. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.” She turned to leave, waiting until she was three steps away before turning back. “Oh, I noticed the artwork in several of the common rooms. I was wondering if maybe you had a tour of them. For guests?”
Marcy straightened her spine and cocked her head to the side for a moment. “You know, no we don’t. But that’s a brilliant idea. I’m ashamed I never thought of it myself.” Grabbing a portfolio off of the front desk, she flipped it open and glanced at whatever was inside. “If you’re free this afternoon, I could have someone escort you around.”
“That would be great.”
“Around three o’clock? In the main salon?”
Elle had easily agreed. Even if she’d had something else planned—and she didn’t—she’d have changed it.
So, here she was, standing in the center of the silent main salon. Alone. Waiting for whoever would appear. She was restless, a mixture of anticipation and expectation bouncing through her body. She tried not to show it, but wasn’t sure she succeeded.
Zane walked in, pushing an extra shot of energy into her already buzzing system. It was like giving espresso to someone who’d already been drinking coffee all day.
Instantaneous overload.
Her mouth went dry. Her sex grew wet. And an insistent ache began to throb between her thighs.
Damn, she did not need this right now. She didn’t want it, this awareness and desire for the man.
Zane moved farther into the room. Elle scooted behind one of the chairs, conveniently putting it and a brightly polished mahogany table between them.
He hadn’t spoken, and she suddenly felt the need to fill the empty space. “I’m meeting Marcy. She’s going to show me the resort’s art collection.”
“Wrong. I’m going to show you the art collection.”
“You?” Elle tried not to let her surprise color her words. “Why you?”
“Because she asked me to.”
“Don’t you have better things to do? Other guests to accost?”
He chuckled, the low rumbling sound rolling through her tummy and tickling her already sensitive nerves. “Probably. But I promised to keep an eye on
you
. In any case, aside from Simon, I know the collection best.”
Now, that puzzled her. She wondered if Zane’s knowledge of the resort’s art collection had to do with personal preference or his job.
“Why?”
“I told you. Because Marcy asked me.”
“No, why do you know the collection so well.”
“I had to inventory it for insurance and security purposes. When I got here, Simon had works of art worth hundreds of thousands of dollars hanging in the front hallway. No alarms. No protective glass. Hell, he barely knew the real value of what he owned. He’d bought pieces when he liked them, caring little for their value.”
Or their provenance apparently, but Elle wasn’t going to be the one to bring that up.
“So you swooped in and saved the day?”
He frowned. She didn’t care.
“No. I did what he needed me to do. I identified the pieces that had greatest value and implemented a security protocol. Learned a few things while I was at it.”
“Bully for you.”
“I could do without the sarcasm.”
“I could do without living inside a fishbowl.”
All day, she’d felt his eyes on her. At the pool, she’d wondered if he could see her in her bikini. And whether he preferred that to the soaking-wet dress she’d worn last night. Or the casually comfortable shorts and shirt she’d thrown on this morning. As she’d chatted up a couple of women inside the restaurant at lunch, she’d wondered if he was listening to their conversation.
All day, the man had haunted her every thought. Her every move.
And here he was again. Only, this time, he was flesh and blood and not some phantom that floated over her shoulder.
Which begged the question, could she keep her hands to herself? She certainly hoped so. She had no desire to end up back in those cuffs…or maybe she did.
5
“ART, HUH? HOW’D THAT happen?”
Zane stood next to Elle, his arms crossed over his chest and watched. Something was wrong. While she gave every appearance of being engrossed with the pieces they were seeing, her body was strung tighter than the electric guitar Simon no longer played but refused to get rid of. Zane’s gut told him something else was going on here, but he wasn’t sure what.
When Marcy had told him she planned to take Elle on a tour of the art, alarm bells had begun to ring through his head. Marcy had been so excited about the potential for setting up the tour for other guests that she hadn’t really stopped long enough to consider the security implications. But then, it was his job to protect the resort and the people who lived on and visited Île du Coeur.
He’d chastised her for not telling him sooner and then immediately cast himself as tour guide. He might not know anything about the pieces, but he could fake his way through.