I call back Murph at the shop and put him in charge of operations indefinitely. Then I order a taxi to pick me up from Dani’s. I have the driver make a stop by my bank, where I withdraw enough cash to live on for a month, then I tell him to get on Pacific Coast Highway and drive north until I say to stop.
“How you gonna pay, lady?”
I throw a wad of cash onto the passenger seat. He counts it, whistles, and turns the radio to a soft rock station.
I lie down on the back seat of the sedan and stare at the roof, replaying every moment in my memory as the miles fly by, hearing Callum’s words from the day we met in my head as if he were right here whispering them into my ear.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“I want you to marry me.”
“Let’s just say I find you interesting.”
When I let out a frustrated yell, the driver turns up the volume on the stereo, but otherwise ignores me.
Money buys a lot of leeway for bad behavior.
As I’m sure my lying, manipulative, scoundrel of a husband knows all too well.
I’m hurt, yes. I’m in shock, yes. And almost all of me hates him.
But there’s a part of me—a small, stupid part—that doesn’t.
I’m going to spend the next month beating that stupid part of me to death.
When the sun is setting, I finally sit up in the back seat and take a look around. “Where are we?”
The driver says over his shoulder, “Montecito. Rich people heaven. Prince Harry and Meghan Markle live here. Oprah too.”
Okay. Why not?
“Is there a Four Seasons Hotel?”
“Yep. Big one.”
“Good. Take me there.”
I’ve never stayed in a five-star hotel in my life, but today I discovered the man I married is an evil mastermind, so I’m thinking I deserve a nice long vacation.
The first few days are rough. Emotionally rough, that is. Not physically rough, because the hotel is the most beautiful place I’ve stayed in my entire life.
The suite is bright, spacious, and overlooks the ocean. Housekeeping places hand-made chocolates on my pillow with the turn-down service every night. The bed is huge and the linens are decadent, and I think I could spend the rest of my days here, if only to hide.
It’s not the days that are the worst, however.
It’s the nights.
I lie wide awake in that giant sumptuous bed staring at the ceiling, wondering why I can’t hate Callum. I want to hate him. But I don’t.
It makes no sense.
I check in with the shop every day to see what’s happening there. The answer is always “nothing.” Callum hasn’t gone in looking for me. It’s business as usual.
By the end of the week, I’ve cycled through the five stages of grief about a dozen times and have settled on anger. Denial is useless, bargaining won’t do any good, and acceptance is out of the question. I’m probably depressed, but am too pissed off to admit it.
I have more questions than answers, which I hate.
Overthinkers are tortured by unanswered questions. It’s our own personal version of hell.
When I can’t stand being cooped up in the suite any longer, I head down to the pool, where I float on my back and stare listlessly at the clouds as the occasional tear leaks from the corner of my eye like some Victorian heiress with a wasting illness sent off to recuperate away from polite society.
On day six, I realize with a jolt of horror that I miss him.
A bottle of rosé consumed poolside takes care of that.
On day seven, I decide that I’ll use the millions my deceitful spouse gave me to open a shelter for stray cats. I’ll live in the back, avoiding humanity, until I grow old and die, whereupon the cats will eat my shriveled corpse, allowing me to exist inside my furry friends for eternity.
On day eight, realizing my state of mind has dangerously deteriorated if I’m dreaming of being ingested by cats, I call around to local therapists.
Day nine is when I see the man in black.
I’m sprawled on a lounge chair by the pool. It’s late in the afternoon. I’ve been drinking Mai Tais since ten o’clock in the morning, so at first, I’m not sure it’s him because things are a little fuzzy. From my peripheral vision, I spot a figure in black leaning casually against the wall of the cocktail shack, one foot kicked up against it.
My brain sends me a ping of alarm. I ignore it at first, but then do a double-take and look closer.
Cowboy boots, leather jacket, mirrored shades. Check.
Arms folded over a massive chest. Check.
Palpable air of danger. Check.
It’s interesting how, even standing still, he exudes violence.
I suppose it’s all the Mai Tais that make it interesting rather than terrifying, but I’ll take it.
We stare at each other across the distance until I decide to go see what he wants. Standing, I wrap a towel around my waist. Then I pick up my drink and walk over to him.
He doesn’t move a muscle as I approach.
Even with sunglasses on, I can tell how good-looking this guy is. His dark wavy hair brushes his shoulders. His angular jaw is covered in scruff. Tattoos decorate his knuckles. He could be a movie star, except for that aggressive, dangerous energy of his that suggests something more along the lines of contract killer.
Stopping in front of him, I say, “Hi.”
His lips curve into a smile. “Hullo, lass.”
He’s Irish? God, that’s hot. Stop gawking at him, he’s probably here to murder you.
“Could you please take off your sunglasses? I’d hate to be strangled and thrown off a cliff by a guy wearing sunglasses. It seems so impersonal.”
He chuckles, surprising me. He removes his mirrored aviators and gazes at me with a pair of gorgeous dark eyes that remind me of Callum’s. They have the same piercing sharpness, a way of looking through you as if they can see straight down into your soul.
“Hi. I’m Emery. But you already know that.”
“I do. Pleased to meet you. And I’m not here to throw you off a cliff, so you can rest easy.”
“Are you the detective Callum has had spying on me?”
He curls his upper lip. “Detective? Bloody hell. Do I look like I’m on a police payroll?”
“Actually, no. You do not. I apologize. I wasn’t trying to be insulting.”
He chuckles again. For such a big, intimidating guy, his tendency to do that is pretty disarming.
“How many of those cocktails have you had, lass?”
“About forty-seven, but it’s still early. Who are you?”
“The name’s Killian. Killian Black.”
When he doesn’t reveal anything more, I say, “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I have to apologize again, Killian, but you’re kind of irritating.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing out loud. Dark eyes sparkling, he says, “Callum was right. You are a handful.”
“I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about you. You were at the grand opening of ValUBooks a while back, weren’t you? And standing outside again the other day?”
“Aye.”
“Why?”
“To make sure you were all right, lass.”
I make a face at him and sip my Mai Tai.
Clearly amused by my state of gentle intoxication, he says, “I’ve been watching over you every time your man’s had to go away on business for years now.”
“He’s not my man. And back up. Years?”
“Aye.”
Oh fuck. That’s right. I saw this guy at my father’s funeral.
“Wait, what do you mean watching over me?”
The humor fades from his gaze, and his smile dies. “Making sure you’re safe.”
Despite the heat of the day, a chill washes over my skin. “Why wouldn’t I be safe?”
“Because life is full of unexpected dangers.”
“Very true, but not an answer to my question.”
“That’s all the answer you’ll get.”
I was wrong. He’s not kind of irritating, he’s extremely irritating. I demand, “Are you a hitman?”
“No. But if you’re asking if I kill people, then yes. Sometimes. Not if I can avoid it, but when necessary, it’s part of the job.”
“What’s the job?”
A hint of humor creeps back into his eyes. “Saving the world.”
“Ah, yes. Saving the world! So you’re one of those good bad guys Callum thinks he is. Or was it a bad good guy? Morally ambiguous? I can’t remember, I was traumatized at the time, but my point is that…”
Something occurs to me that makes me stop and gape at him in horror. “Oh God. Does Callum kill people too? Did I marry a murderer?”
“Callum doesn’t kill people. He’s on the administrative side of things. And murderer sounds a bit judgmental, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think. When you kill people, you’re a murderer. Like, by default.”
“Or maybe you’re a social engineer. Or a vigilante, righting the scales of justice. Or a man who chooses to do unsavory things for the greater good.”
I say flatly, “That’s called rationalizing.”
Killian shrugs. “Either way. Murderer brings to mind images of a rampaging sociopath with no self-control running around with a chainsaw.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re a sociopath with excellent self-control, is that it?”
He grins. “Precisely.”
I look down at my empty drink and sigh. “I’m gonna need another one of these.”
“Listen to me, lass. I’ve got something important to say.”
I peer at him suspiciously.
Gazing straight into my eyes, he says, “Callum loves you.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, he does not.”
“He does. I’ve known the man for years, and he absolutely does.”
“No. He lied to me. He manipulated me. He set me up!”
“His methods might be unorthodox, but…” Killian shrugs again. “Love is madness.”
For a killer, he’s awfully nonchalant. I might bash this empty glass against his nice straight nose and break it. “I notice you’re wearing a wedding ring. What would your wife do if you did to her what Callum did to me?”
This time when he smiles, it transforms his face. Light beams from it, as if he’s lit from within. “Ah, my sweet Juliet,” he says softly. “She’d probably chop off a body part of little importance. A pinky toe, maybe. But she’d soon forgive me.”
“She’d forgive you,” I repeat doubtfully.
“How could she not?” He makes spokesmodel hands at himself. “I’m me.”
“You sound exactly like Callum. Smug overload and cockiness galore.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Still smiling, Killian pushes off the wall, puts his sunglasses back on, and gazes down at me from behind them. Bright sunlight glints off the mirrored lenses, blinding me.
“I’ve kept him away for over a week now, lass, to give you some time to think things over, but I can’t keep him away any longer. He’s going bloody mad. I came to let you know that he’ll soon be darkening your doorstep.”
The thought of seeing Callum again makes my stomach tighten and my breath catch. “Then I’m packing up and leaving.”
“There’s nowhere on earth you could run that I couldn’t find you.”
He says that as a matter of fact, without a trace of his former cockiness. For whatever reason, I believe him.
“Have it out with him. Make him beg if it makes you feel better. But don’t leave him hanging. Don’t punish him with silence. Despite what you think, that man worships you. You’d do well to give him a chance.”
He turns to go, but then turns back. “Oh, and I left you something in your suite. Something that might make your decision about him a little easier.”
I say crossly, “How’d you get into my suite?”
Ignoring that, he withdraws from a pocket inside his jacket the passport I stole from Callum’s dresser. Waving it at me, he says, “I took this back too. Sticky fingers you’ve got there, little book lover. That might come in handy if you decide to join the cause.”
“What cause?”
“Your man will tell you if you ask him to.” He turns and ambles away, disappearing around the corner of the cocktail shack.
“Hey! Wait!”
I run after him, but stop in my tracks when I round the corner and discover that Killian has vanished into thin air.
