The Villa Camilla Hotel in Panama is nestled between a silver-strand beach and a tropical forest on the Azuero Peninsula on the Pacific Coast. With only seven rooms, it’s a small but fabulously beautiful hotel.
When I arrive, it’s early afternoon, ninety degrees, and oppressively humid. I’m wilting in boots, a turtleneck sweater, and my heavy winter coat.
The attractive concierge greets me with a friendly smile. “Welcome to Villa Camilla, señorita. Are you checking in?”
Sweating, exhausted from twelve hours of flying with a connection through LAX, I drop my overnight bag to the red Spanish tiles and lean on the edge of the carved mahogany counter that separates us. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Would you like a tour of the property or one of the rooms? We do have two lovely suites available, both with ocean views.”
“Actually, I was wondering if you have any messages for me.”
“I can certainly check. What’s the name of the guest who left the message?”
“David Smith. But he’s not a guest.”
She arches her brows.
“It’s complicated. We were supposed to come here on our honeymoon, but…the wedding didn’t happen.”
The concierge puckers her mouth into a concerned O shape. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“It was a good thing. Turns out, he was already married.”
She blinks. “Dios mio.”
“Right? Asshole. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he left a message for me here. My name’s Natalie Peterson. Would you mind checking?”
“Of course.” She starts typing on her keyboard. “When would he have left the message?”
“This would’ve been just over five years ago.”
Her fingers fall still. She glances up at me.
“I know. It’s a long story.”
I can’t tell if the look on her face is curiosity or if she’s about to call security. In either case, she starts typing again, then shakes her head.
“I have nothing in the system for Natalie Peterson.”
Oh shit. “Is there like a physical place you’d keep messages or anything? A mailbox? A file?”
“No. Everything goes into the computer. That’s been our standard since we opened.”
I drop my head into my hands and groan.
All this way for nothing. Why the hell didn’t I call first?
What am I going to do now?
Then a lightbulb goes on. I take out my cell phone, ignore all the missed texts and voicemail notifications from Kage, and use the web browser to search for a name. Then I lean eagerly over the counter.
“Try the name Helena Ayala.”
The concierge has very eloquent eyebrows. Right now, they’re transmitting that she’s starting to become concerned for her personal safety because of the crazy lady in front of her desk.
I try to make my smile look as sane as possible. “It was an inside joke.”
It was actually the name of the jailed drug king’s wife in the movie Traffic, but I’m not going to tell her that.
After a moment’s hesitation, the concierge starts typing again. Then a look of relief replaces the concern on her face.
“Yes. Here it is.”
I almost scream, Holy shit! but restrain myself. “What does it say?”
She lifts a shoulder. “It’s just an address.” She quickly scribbles it onto a small pad, tears off the piece of paper, and hands it to me.
“Is this nearby?”
“It’s about a nine-hour drive.”
When my eyes bug out, she adds hastily, “Or an hour on a plane.”
Feeling every mile of the journey from Tahoe to here in my aching bones, I close my eyes and exhale. “Okay. Thank you. I guess I’m headed back to the airport.”
“There will be a ferry ride, too.”
When I open my eyes and stare at her, she takes a single step back.
My crazy must be showing.
“It’s an island, señorita.”
I repeat slowly, “An island.”
“Would you like me to get you a taxi?”
She’s already picking up the phone. Poor girl can’t wait to get rid of me.
I retrieve my bag from the floor, dig a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, and hand it to her. “Yes, please. And thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
I take mercy on her and wait for the taxi outside.
As it turns out, the concierge was either misinformed about the ferry or just fucking with me in retaliation for weirding her out, because there’s a direct flight from Panama City to my destination. By the time I disembark from the airplane onto the small, emerald-green island called Isla Colón in Bocas del Toro, it’s late in the afternoon and I’m delirious from exhaustion, hunger, and stress.
I’ve got hand tremors. Eyelid twitches. Stomach cramps. Plus, I’m hallucinating, because headless Viktor lurks behind every streetlight and palm tree, his severed carotid artery spraying blood onto passersby.
I hail a cab and tell the driver the address the concierge at the hotel gave me, hoping I’m not being sent on another wild-goose chase.
If there’s a bank and a security deposit box waiting for me at this address I’m headed to, I’m saying fuck it to this whole ridiculous mess and flying straight to Andorra to pick up my ten million dollars.
I’ll go live in Antarctica, where the only single males are penguins.
I close my eyes and rest my head back against the seat, wondering what the hell I’m going to say when I see David.
What could possibly be appropriate under the circumstances?
Hi! Been a long time, dickhead! Abandon any women lately?
Or—Great to see you, fuckface! Thanks for the hellish past five years!
Or—Die, scumbag!
Or perhaps I should keep it simple and just say, Surprise!
I can’t wait to see his face.
I also can’t wait to set it on fire and put it out with a hammer.
I don’t know which emotion I’m feeling the most, but they’re all gathered into a horrible knot in my stomach and are writhing around like a basket of poisonous snakes.
Worst of all, thoughts of Kage keep bossily shoving themselves to the forefront of my mind, insisting on staying even when I shove them back.
I always thought love and hate were two very different things, but right now, they’re inseparable.
I know it’s only shock and adrenaline that’s keeping me from falling completely apart.
Keeping my heart from completely breaking.
Keeping me from clawing my eyes out in pain.
I’d start a support group for women who’ve fallen in love with and been betrayed by the assassin who was sent to kill them, but the only member would be me.
Help. I’m going insane.
The cab pulls to a stop. I must’ve fallen asleep, but now I’m wide awake, staring out the window at a massive iron gate flanked by two tall stone columns capped with carved lions.
Behind the gate, up a winding gravel road, is a house, perched at the top of a hill overlooking the crystal-blue Caribbean Sea.
No. House is the wrong word.
It’s a palace.
Glowing white in the setting sun, the estate sprawls over several acres of manicured grounds. Tiered stone fountains splash into pools. Scarlet bougainvillea cascades over marble balustrades. A peacock wanders past, regally spreading his plumage.
And in the middle of it all, at the main entrance of the main building, two huge dark oak doors sit open wide.
A man stands in the space between them.
When I step out of the cab, he steps out from the doorway and begins the walk down the long gravel drive.
He’s tall, lean, and deeply tanned. His dark hair is kissed bronze at the tips by the sun. Wearing an untucked white dress shirt rolled up his forearms, a pair of khaki shorts, and flip-flops, he moves closer.
As he does, he watches me with sharp hazel eyes I’d know anywhere on earth.
And of all the things I thought I might do or say at this moment, of all the curses I wanted to scream and the insults I wanted to hurl, the only thing I find myself actually doing is sinking to my knees and fighting for air.
When my knees touch the gravel, David breaks into a run.
