“Like I said. Take it up with your family.”
She stared down at the top of his head. His hair was already starting to curl. Those wild curls. Thick and rancorous. What kind of man had hair like that? She fumbled with the buckles on her life vest, so angry with him—with herself—she could barely unfasten them. She’d come all this way because of a kiss that she’d convinced herself meant something. And she’d been partially right. It meant that she’d lost her mind. She tore off the vest. “That’s going to be your defense, isn’t it? You were just doing your job.”
“Believe me. It wasn’t easy.” He stopped blowing into the bullet chambers long enough to take in her hair and the thorn and blood tattoo around her arm. “I hope none of that’s permanent. You look weird.”
“Screw you.” Viper would have said, “Fuck you,” but Lucy’s lips couldn’t quite shape the words. “I’m sure you liked that little job perk you picked up at the end? Nailing the president’s daughter has to give you bragging rights in the bodyguard locker room.”
Now he looked almost as angry as she felt. “Is that what you think?”
What I think is that I lost every shred of my dignity when I came here. “What I think is that you’re a professional, so you should have acted like one. That meant telling me who you were. More important, it meant keeping your hands to yourself.”
He sprang up from the dock. “I damn well did! All those days we were trapped in that shitty little hole on Caddo Lake. The two of us rubbing against each other. You running around in a piece of black cellophane you called a bathing suit and that pink top even somebody half blind could see through. I damn well kept my hands to myself then.”
She’d pierced his armor, a small bandage to her pride. “You knew all about me, Panda—or whatever your name really is. You had a dossier full of information on me, but you didn’t reveal one honest thing about yourself. You played me for an idiot.”
“I didn’t play you at all. What happened that night had nothing to do with the job. We were two people who wanted each other. It’s that simple.”
But it hadn’t been simple to her. If it had been simple, she would never have come here.
“I did my job,” he said. “I don’t owe you any more explanations.”
She had to know—had to ask—and Viper formed a sneer to hide the importance of her question. “Did your job include that pathetic, guilt-filled kiss at the airport?”
“What are you talking about?”
His confusion cracked another layer of her self-esteem. “That kiss had your guilty conscience smeared all over it,” she said. “You wanted some kind of absolution because you knew exactly how sleazy you were.”
He stood there stony-faced. “If that’s the way you see it, I’m not going to try to change your mind.”
She wanted him to change her mind. To say something that would make her feel better about everything that had happened since she’d jumped on the back of his motorcycle. But he didn’t, and she’d only inspire pity if she said more herself.
He didn’t try to hold her back as she left the dock. She stopped at the outdoor shower. With her clothes on, she shampooed the lake water out of her hair, then wrapped a beach towel around herself and went inside. A trail of wet footprints followed her across the kitchen floor. She shot the lock on her bedroom door, peeled off her wet clothes, and slipped into a black tank, her leather-belted green tutu skirt, and her combat boots. She took another few minutes to smudge her eyes in black and her lips in brown, and put in her nose ring. Then she stuffed everything she could fit into her backpack. The ferry left in half an hour. It was finally time to go home.
A late-model dark gray SUV with Illinois plates sat in the drive. Odd to think of him behind the wheel of a car. She climbed on the mountain bike and headed for town.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon. The summer season didn’t launch into high gear until the Fourth of July, but tourists in shorts and flip-flops were already mingling with the locals on Beachcomber Boulevard. The smell of French fries wafted from Dogs ’N’ Malts, a beach shack with a squeaky screen door and splintery picnic tables. She passed the Painted Frog Café, where just yesterday she’d picked up a cappuccino. Next door, a dog lounged in the shade by the entrance to Jerry’s Trading Post. As she took it all in, she realized how much she liked this place, how much she didn’t want to leave it.
Jake’s Dive Shop doubled as the ferry’s ticket office. It smelled of musty rubber and oily coffee. She bought a one-way ticket and stashed the bike in a rack at the municipal dock. Maybe Panda would find it there. Maybe not. She didn’t care.
She joined the line of tourists just beginning to board. A mother jumped out of line to chase a restless toddler. How many times had Lucy imagined herself with Ted’s baby? Now she wondered if she’d ever have a child.
She wished she’d asked Panda more questions, like what kind of reputable bodyguard thought it was a good idea to toss his client on the back of a motorcycle and take off on a road trip? The person in line behind her moved too close and bumped her backpack. She edged forward, but it happened again. She turned and gazed up into a pair of cold blue eyes.
“What I told you was true.” His voice was gruff, his mouth unsmiling. “The bumper stickers were already on the bike. I didn’t put them there.”
He wore the same wet clothes she’d dunked him in, and his hair wasn’t quite dry. She was determined to keep her dignity. “I so don’t care.”
“And I only wore those T-shirts to rile you.” His gaze made its way to her tutu skirt and combat boots. “You look like a teenager turned hooker for drug money.”
“Lend me one of your T-shirts,” she retorted. “I’m sure that’ll polish up my appearance.”
He was receiving his customary amount of attention, and he lowered his voice. “Look, Lucy, this situation was a lot more complicated than you want to acknowledge.” He moved with her as the line edged forward. “The whole world was covering your wedding. You needed your own security.”
She wouldn’t lose her temper. “Three words. ‘I’m your bodyguard.’ Not complicated.”
They reached the bottom of the ramp. The chest-scratching doofus who’d picked her up had turned into Mr. No Nonsense. “Your parents hired me. They gave the orders. They knew you’d object to having private security, especially for your honeymoon, so they wanted you kept in the dark.”
“My honeymoon?” she nearly shouted. “I was going to have security on my honeymoon?”
“How could you not have figured that out?”
She handed over her ticket. He flashed his ferry pass. She stalked up the ramp, her boots clattering on the boards. He followed right after her. “Ted knew it was necessary even if you didn’t.”
“Ted knew about this?” She wanted to stomp her foot, throw a tantrum, throw a punch.
“He’s a realist, Lucy. And so are your parents. I called your father from the convenience store that first night. He told me not to identify myself. He said if I did, you’d figure out a way to ditch me. I didn’t buy it, but he was the one who hired me, so no, I’m not going to apologize for following a client’s wishes.” Lucy tried to walk away from him, but he grabbed her arm and steered her toward the ship’s stern. “As soon as your honeymoon was over and you got back to Wynette, we were dropping security. Except that’s not the way it played out. You took off and media was everywhere. It was too big a story. Too much attention focused on you.”
“Nobody recognized me.”
“They almost did, and if you’d been by yourself, they would have.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The ferry blasted a warning as they reached the stern. One of the male passengers regarded her with concern. She remembered how young she looked, how threatening Panda looked, and figured he was trying to decide whether or not to intercede. He chose not to risk it. She pulled away. “You said you and Ted were friends.”
“I met him three days before the wedding.”
“Another lie.”
> “I do my job the best way I know how.”
“You’re a real pro,” she shot back. “Is it standard bodyguard practice to stick a client on the back of a motorcycle?”
His jaw set in a stubborn line. “I’m not explaining anything else until you get off this boat.”
“Go away.”
“Look, I know you’re pissed. I understand that. Let’s get off, grab a couple of burgers, and talk this through.”
“Now you want to talk? All right, let’s start with your name.”
“Patrick Shade.”
“Patrick? I don’t believe it.”
“You think I’d make up my name?”
“In a heartbeat.” She shoved her thumbs into the straps of her backpack. “Where do you live? Because you definitely don’t live in that house we just left.”
“I have a place in Chicago. And if you want to know more, you have to get off the ferry.”
She did want to know more, but not as much as she wanted payback. “I’ll admit I’m curious. But I’m not getting off.” The whistle blew its final warning. “If you want to talk to me, we can talk right here. But first I need to find the ladies’ room so I can throw up.”
He decided not to push her. “All right. We’ll talk here.”
“See if you’re competent enough to find us a place to sit where everybody won’t stare at you.” She headed into the ship’s cabin, knocking her backpack against a fire extinguisher as she ducked around a corner. She wedged through the door on the other side and raced down the ramp just as they were getting ready to pull it up. Moments later, she was standing in the shadows by the municipal dock sign, watching the ferry chug away with Panda on board.
Knowing she’d gotten the best of him felt good, but it would have felt even better if she weren’t stuck here until that same ferry returned, undoubtedly bringing Panda along with it. This was the kind of situation Meg got caught up in, not Lucy, but she couldn’t regret it. At least she’d recovered a small measure of pride.
The dark gray SUV with Illinois plates she’d last seen at the lake house was parked in the municipal lot. She had an afternoon to kill until she could leave again, and she wasn’t doing it in town.
As she biked back to the house, she passed a playground. She’d carried her infant sister ten blocks to a playground like this the day after their mother had died just so she could push Tracy in a baby swing—a fourteen-year-old’s idea of what a good mother should do. Tracy had screamed the whole time.
Patrick Shade … What kind of name was that?
If she chartered a boat to take her to the mainland, she wouldn’t have to see him again. Expensive, but worth it. She turned the bike around and went back to the dive shop.
“We’re booked for the rest of the day,” the guy behind the counter told her. “The Mary J and Dinna Ken are out, too. But if you want to go tomorrow …”
“That’s okay,” she said, even though it wasn’t okay at all.
Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with Panda again. She’d made her point, and he wasn’t the kind of man who explained himself more than once.
The house smelled faintly of cooking gas and the hamburger she’d made for dinner last night. How could he own a place like this and not put a single personal mark on it? She traded in the combat boots for flip-flops, grabbed a book she’d picked up in town yesterday, and carried it down the rickety steps.
He’d pulled the kayak up on shore. She sat on the edge of the dock, but she couldn’t read, couldn’t do anything except try to quell her panic. What would she do once she was back on the mainland? Where would she go?
A noise distracted her. She looked up and saw a man who definitely wasn’t Panda coming down the steps from the house. He was tall, with a large frame. The steps were wobbly and he took his time, his carefully styled light brown hair glistening with an undoubtedly expensive hair product. “Hey there!” he called out cheerfully.
Although he was good-looking, everything about him was a little too loud—his voice, the crest on the pocket of his designer sports coat, the heavy gold bracelet and big college ring any intelligent man would have gotten rid of after his frat boy days ended. “I heard Panda’s back on the island,” he said, taking in her tattoo and hair as he came toward her on the dock. “But nobody answered the door.”
“He’s not here.”
“Too bad.” With a broad smile, he thrust out his hand. “I’m Mike Moody. Big Mike. I’ll bet you’ve seen my signs.”
She shook his hand, then regretted it as the pungent scent of his cologne clung to her skin.
“Big Mike’s Island Brokerage,” he said. “Anybody who buys or sells property on this island—house or boat, big or small. Hell, I’ve even sold a couple of horses. I take care of it all.” His straight teeth had an iridescence achievable only in a dental chair. “I sold Panda this house.”
“Did you?”
“I didn’t catch your name.”
“I … go by Viper.”
“No kidding. That’s some name. You’re one of the hippie girls.” Like a good salesman, he sounded more admiring than critical.
“Goth,” she replied, which was beyond ridiculous.
“Yeah, that’s right.” He nodded. “I stopped because I’ve got a boat I thought Panda might be interested in.”
Lucy was a big believer in being cooperative, but Viper didn’t share her principles. “Come back after the six o’clock ferry gets in. I know he’ll want to talk to you about it. Maybe bring a pizza along. That way the two of you can have a long chat.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Big Mike said. “Panda’s a great guy. I don’t know him well, but he seems like an interesting character.”
He waited, hoping she’d provide a few details, and Viper decided to cooperate. “He’s a lot different from the way he was before he went to prison.”
Her troublemaking didn’t go over nearly as well as she’d hoped. “Everybody deserves a second chance,” Big Mike said solemnly. And then, “Holy cripes, but you look familiar.”
While she speculated on what kind of man would say “holy cripes,” Big Mike gazed at her more closely. “You been on the island before?”
“No. My first trip.”
His gold bracelet gleamed as he stuck his hand in his pocket. “It’ll come to me. I never forget a face.”
She hoped that wasn’t true. He looked like he wanted to linger for a chat, so she nodded toward the steps. “I have some things to do in the house. I’ll walk with you.”
He followed her, and when they reached the top, he pumped her hand again. “Anything you need, you let me know. Big Mike’s services don’t stop with the sale. Ask anybody on the island, and they’ll tell you that.”
“I’ll remember.”
He finally left. She began to walk toward the house only to stop as she heard a rustle in the trees that didn’t sound as though it came from a squirrel. A branch snapped, and she glimpsed a bright red T-shirt.
“I see you, Toby!” she called out. “Stop spying on me!”
She didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t receive one.
She made a sandwich, but tossed it out after only a few bites. She sent Meg a text that revealed nothing important, then did the same with her parents. She wanted to send Ted a text but couldn’t imagine what she’d say. With hours still to kill, she wandered into the sunroom.
Three walls of dirty, square-paned windows extended in a large square bay from the wainscoting to the ceiling. Lumpy couches, wing chairs upholstered in fabrics popular in the early nineties, and scarred tables sat haphazardly around the big room. This must have been the family’s primary indoor gathering place. Built-in bookshelves displayed the detritus that ended up in summer homes: yellowed paperbacks, videotapes of old movies, board games in broken boxes held together by dehydrated rubber bands. There was something about this house she’d loved from the beginning, and her inner Martha Stewart wanted to toss out all the junk and clean those windows until they sparkled.
She picked up a ratty dish towel she’d used to wipe up a Coke spill and rubbed one corner of the glass. Most of the dirt was on the outside, but not nearly all of it. She blew on the pane and rubbed again. Better.
Cooking wasn’t the only homemaking task she’d observed during her White House years, and fifteen minutes later she was equipped with a squeegee she’d seen in the upstairs bathroom, a bucket of clean water with a few drops of dishwashing soap, and a stepladder from the pantry. Before long, she’d finished one section of the sunroom windows. She reached for a spot she’d missed, and when she was satisfied, climbed down only to trip on the bottom rung.
Panda stood just inside the door, a can of Coke in his hand, combat in his eyes. “I’ll bet you were real popular with the Secret Service.”
Chapter Eight
SHE SHOULD NEVER HAVE COME back to the house, and she certainly shouldn’t have let him catch her washing his filthy windows. She grabbed the ladder for support and tested Viper’s sneer again. “Did I hurt your pride?”
“Destroyed it,” he said dryly.
“Excellent. It’s not every day I get to outwit a trained professional.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘outwit.’”
“I would.” His clothes had dried, but he kicked his shoes off, and she could have sworn his dark stubble had grown since she’d given him the slip. “The ferry’s not due in until six.” She patted her tutu skirt back in place. “Obviously you had better luck chartering a boat than I did.”
“The gun helped.”
She had no idea whether he was serious or not. She knew nothing about him. He ran his thumb around the curve of the Coke can and propped a shoulder against the doorjamb. “Now I see why your father was so insistent about me not identifying myself. You’ve had practice pulling your disappearing act.”
“I’ve only slipped away a few times.”
He jabbed his Coke in the general direction of her face. “If I’d really been on duty, you wouldn’t have slipped away at all.”
True. He wouldn’t have let her out of his sight. Which meant her family really hadn’t rehired him. “Who tipped you off that I’ve been staying here?”