“Come on.” He placed a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder to guide her toward the bike, slowly. The front door closed with a deliberate slam.
“Jeez,” she said.
“Give it a sec,” he said, getting on the bike and waiting for her to settle in before he started it up and headed toward the road. At the last second, he turned toward the windmill.
“What are you doing?” Lizzie asked.
“I don’t want to leave yet.” He parked the bike behind the structure, where it couldn’t be seen from the house, and climbed off. “We’ll stay in here for a while and see what she does. If she leaves the property, we might walk through her house to see what gives.”
“What are you looking for?” Lizzie asked.
“I don’t know. She gave me a bad feeling.”
“No kidding. Who let her out of the bitch factory?”
He smiled, pushing the door open with one hand, peeking in before entering. The grind of gears and wheels echoed over the stone.
“This is a different kind of windmill,” he observed, peering up at the mechanism in the middle and then at the stone stairwell that lined the wall.
The door popped open with a crack and he whipped around, blocking Lizzie.
“Get the hell off my property.” This time, the bitch was armed. She raised a revolver, cocked and ready, and pointed it at him, earning a gasp from Lizzie.
“We’re just looking at the windmill,” he said, holding up his hands, considering what it would take to get her gun.
“You are trespassing, and I will shoot you both if you don’t leave this minute.”
He couldn’t take a risk with this madwoman. “All right.”
Still protecting Lizzie with his whole body, he led them out, never taking his eyes off her or the gun, ready to dive in front of a bullet if he had to.
“Get in the front,” he said softly, nudging Lizzie there when she gave him a questioning look. “If she shoots, it’s going in my back.”
She hesitated, then climbed on, and he got behind her, reaching forward to turn the ignition on.
Mrs. Bettencourt never lowered the gun.
Lizzie twisted the handle, her body bracing as though she expected the gun to go off any second, then she drove down the dirt path and onto the road to the village.
As soon as they were in the clear, she put a hand on his leg and squeezed. “Con, you’re officially off my shit list.”
“It’s about time.” But his mind was on that woman. She was scared of something, and it wasn’t a couple looking for a missing tourist. So what was it?
He wasn’t leaving this island until he found out.
* * *
She really, really wanted to hate him. It should be so easy.
Lizzie kneeled on the twin bed in the attic room on the third floor of Sousa’s restaurant, her elbows propped on the windowsill with a direct view of the rooftops to the sunset over the Atlantic Ocean.
Sitting on the floor, Con was making another phone call. On the last one, to New York, he’d ordered background information on Solange Bettencourt. Now he was talking to the pilot of their plane.
She turned to look at him, elbows propped on bent knees, sitting against the wall, his eyes closed as he spoke softly. His whiskers had grown in enough to give his angular jaw a menacing shadow. Long, strong fingers held the phone, and she couldn’t help studying those hands for a moment, remembering how he touched her, entered her, made her whole body—
“Do you want to, Lizzie?”
She pulled herself from sexual la-la land and blinked at him.
“Do you want to fly to Flores now? It’s bigger than Corvo, so we could fan out and check the hotels and inns there. Or we could stay here to get some rest and see if she comes back on the morning ferry, or even fly over at daybreak.” He closed the phone. “You look like you could use some rest.”
“I’d really like to talk to Gabby, too. Senhor Sousa said she comes back every night, even if she’s left for the day. She might know exactly where Bree is, saving us a ton of time and effort.”
He gave a quick nod and spoke into the phone. “We’re going to stay put for now, Captain. I’ll keep you posted.” He ended the call, then stood to stretch, his gaze on her. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Why?”
“You’re looking at me funny.”
“Am I? I was just trying to hate you.”
He laughed softly, dropping down on the bed next to her. “Anything I can do to help that along, just let me know.”
“That’s just the problem,” she said, scooting to lean against the headboard. “You do everything to help.”
“I didn’t come along to be a hindrance, Lizzie.” He reached over, closed his hand around her ankle, pulling one bare foot and then the other to straighten her legs. “Although you probably hate me because the room only has one little bed.”
He applied pressure with his thumbs on the balls of her feet, making her toes curl with the wonderfulness of the simple, strong massage.
“And a floor,” she said.
“You’ll do fine on the floor,” he teased.
“Right. You’d never make me sleep on the floor while you’re on the bed.”
“Who said I’d be on the bed?” He grinned. “And I might make you sleep down there, but I’ll give you the comforter.”
“No, you wouldn’t—and that’s just the problem.”
His fingers stilled as he frowned. “Not following, Lizzie. Why exactly is that a problem?”
She wiggled her toes and he got the message, rubbing again. “It’s really hard to hate someone who is so …” Thoughtful. Competent. Protective. Gorgeous. Smart. The list was laughably long, so she went for the obvious. “Good.”
He shook his head. “Just think about Judd and you’ll hate me fast enough.”
“I tried. Then you go and do something like sit on the back of the bike so you can take a bullet for me. How am I supposed to hate that guy?”
He chuckled. “I see your dilemma.”
“Anyway, I thought the job for Paxton was done.” Lord, was she that pathetically attracted to him that she could forgive him already? He worked his way up to her ankles, his fingers melting her feet with each touch. Yes—she was that pathetically attracted to him.
“The job on the ship is done,” he said. “We’re here and the job is to help you track down your sister, and get the information you need and want regarding your great-times-many-grandfather.”
And she had to admit, he was going after that mission with determination and direction. She could never have done this alone. Not this quickly and efficiently.
“And deep down, to the bone, Paxton out of the picture … you really are one of the good guys.”
Something darkened his eyes. Pain? Regret? Longing? “No, I’m really not, honey.” But he looked like he wanted to be. “And let’s be honest; Paxton could never be out of the picture.”
“If he were…” When she let the words trail, he looked up from her feet to catch her gaze, his own suddenly smoky.
“If he were,” he finished for her. “We’d share this bed.”
Somehow, nothing could have been as flat-out sexy as that simple, straightforward statement.
The power of it shot right through her and rattled her nerves. She tried to swallow, but her mouth went dry, her heartbeat steadily increasing with each roll of his thumbs under her foot.
“But he is in the picture,” he said roughly. “I won’t lie to you about that again.”
Taking a slow breath, she held his gaze. How could she say this and save her pride? Could she say this and save her pride? Did she even give a damn about her pride anymore?
“What if we …” The words lodged in her throat and his fingers moved slowly, intently, as though he could coax the words out of her. “What if I were willing to forget about him? To put the whole Paxton thing aside. Temporarily.”
He released her feet and placed his hands flat on either side of her c
alves. Slowly, deliberately, he got onto all fours, then started moving forward, his eyes locked on hers like she was prey and he was a starving animal.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. His body was right above hers now, his face dark and set in an expression of control and intent. Breath caught in her chest, she lifted her head to hold his gaze, not certain what to expect, but knowing that whatever it was, she’d let him do it.
“Then …” He lowered his face, kiss close. “You …” One more inch, the heat rolling off him. “Would still be …” He put his mouth over hers. Not a kiss, just a whisper of a touch. “Very wrong … about what you think I am.”
“I don’t care.” She let her lips move against his, putting the words right into his mouth. “Right now, this minute, I don’t care, Con.”
He completed the kiss, sucking in her admission and her tongue. Instantly, she wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to pull him down, wanting all of him on top of all of her.
He resisted, breaking the kiss. “You will care tomorrow, Lizzie. You will. And you have no idea how not good I am.”
She searched his eyes, looking right into the depths of them. “I want to know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I want to know you.” She put her hands on his face, the whiskers scratching her palms. “I want to climb right inside your head and figure you out.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Would you ever let me? Would you ever let anyone?”
He opened his mouth, clearly ready to say no, but then he stopped.
She seized his hesitation. “Would you, Con? Because if the answer is yes, I want it to be me.” Tears burned behind her lids. “I want to know who and what you are, and why you think it’s so critical to hide it from me.”
“Who I am?” Under her fingers, his jaw clenched. “I am Constantine Xenakis. What I am?” His eyes narrowed. “For the past six years I’ve been a professional thief.”
Pain splashed in her chest, but she didn’t move. She had to know this.
“And why it’s critical to hide it from you? Because you deserve better.”
He rolled off her and stood, leaving her cold and bereft and confused.
A professional thief. It fit perfectly. At least it fit with what he was able to do, but not with what he was doing right now.
And she did deserve better.
“Then what are the Bullet Catchers?” she asked.
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “It’s exactly what I told you—the best security and investigation firm in the business. I’m trying to join the company.”
“And they hire former thieves?”
“They might. That’s what I want.”
“Why? To clean up your act?”
“So to speak.”
A million questions formed and she went with the first one. “What did you steal?”
“Whatever people like Gerry Dix wanted. Art. Information. Jewels. Money.” He lifted one eyebrow. “Treasures.”
The word punched her chest. “Why? Just for money?”
“Because I could,” he said gruffly. “Because I learned how as a kid, and after my brother Alix died, I left the SEALs, and the first thing I did got screwed up by somebody else. I got accused of stealing, because that’s what I was, so that’s what people thought I would always be.”
“So you thought, what? Can’t fight ’em, then be one?”
He shrugged, his defensive walls up so high Lizzie could practically see them. “More or less.”
“I suspected something,” she admitted. “Not that, exactly, but you know an awful lot about stealing stuff.”
“I know everything about stealing stuff. I’m wanted in four states, and well connected to some of the people you hate most in the world—Judd Paxton and others like him, private collectors rich with money and greed.” He gave her a sharp look. “You wanted to know, Lizzie. And now you do.”
She certainly did. “Have you …” The words wouldn’t come out. Did she want to know this?
“Have I what?” he prompted.
“Ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
Relief rolled through her.
He smiled. “So maybe there’s hope for me yet.”
“I appreciate the honesty.”
“And I appreciate the desire to … what was it? Get inside my head and figure me out.” He lifted one shoulder. “Now that you have, no doubt you’d like to get right back out again.”
Had she figured him out? She knew his past now, and it was ugly.
But the man in front of her was still made of something good. Wasn’t he?
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I don’t like what you’ve done, But I like the potential for what you could be.”
He said nothing, but his face said it all. Gratitude. Surprise. Hope.
Outside the door, loud footsteps broke the moment, along with a hard rap on the door. “Miss Dare?”
“Gabby!” Lizzie rolled off the bed as Con let her in.
Gabby filled the little doorway, shouldering a large bag and greeting them with a concerned look. “I heard you didn’t find your sister.”
“Mrs. Bettencourt said she left on the ferry to Flores.”
Gabby glanced at Con, then back to Lizzie, frowning. “That’s not possible. I was on the ferry this afternoon and just came back. That ferry’s small, maybe twenty people.”
“She said she left this morning.”
Gabby shook her head. “The morning ferry was canceled because of high chop in the seas, or I would have been on that one. She was not on the ferry.”
“Could she have flown out?”
“No,” Con said. “I already checked that. We got the names of every person who left via the Corvo airport today, remember?”
“There’s no other way to leave the island, unless she had a private boat.” Gabby frowned. “I don’t like it.”
“What do you mean?” Lizzie asked. “What don’t you like?”
“That woman, Bettencourt, is certifiable. And I seem to be the only one who thinks Ana’s trip off the top of the windmill was not the suicide everyone’s claiming it was.”
“Think we can get that scooter again?” Con asked.
Gabby nodded. “No problem.”
“I’m going up to pay a visit to Mrs. Bettencourt.” He reached under the bed and got his Glock. “This time I’ll be the first to pull the gun out.”
“I’m going with you,” Lizzie announced. At his look, she held up her hand. “Don’t even think about it. She’s my sister, and I’m going.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
WHITE-HOT PAIN BURNED Brianna’s shoulder, a vicious, blinding hole of hurt that seared through from front to back.
Which meant she was still alive.
Digging deep, she attempted to open her eyes, fighting the darkness of unconsciousness, desperate to awaken. She blinked, but that didn’t clear her blurred vision. Shades of gray swam before her eyes, the smell of earth and sea and something metallic filling her nose.
Gunpowder.
The thought forced her head up, causing a suctioning sound as her face separated from a sticky, wet floor. Sticky with … blood. Her blood.
“Oh, God,” she whimpered. She’d been shot by that lunatic.
Where did she go? Was she standing over her right now, aiming that gun at her head, ready to push Brianna into that grinder thing that belonged in a horror movie? Why didn’t she say something?
Using every drop of strength she could muster, Brianna lifted her head higher, a wave of dizziness and nausea rolling over her as the sound of a gear a few feet away passed by then headed around the other side.
She managed to tilt her head back, her knees digging into the stone floor, one hand smashed against her wound. The bitch missed her heart, but left a hole in her shoulder. Was the bullet still in there?
She couldn’t tell. And she couldn’t see where that woman went. The door to
the sweeps was closed, blocking out light. But she could see the ledge, only six inches away. And if she fell over it …
The nasty gear groaned as it rolled by again.
The teeth of the two gears meshed on each pass, crushing anything caught between them. Not the way she wanted to go.
Crazy Lady appeared to be gone. Brianna forced herself up on her knees, finally letting go of the wound, another whimper escaping her as she stared at the blood all over her hands.
But she was alive. And if she was alive, she could get the hell out of here before her killer returned. She didn’t dare call for help. Solange might have left her thinking she was dead. She might just be planning to let her rot up here.
No one ever comes up here.
But what about Gabby? Maybe she’d come back. Had she sent the e-mail to Lizzie, telling her all was fine?
Lizzie. A whole different kind of pain gripped her. This would be Lizzie’s worst nightmare: Brianna being impulsive and adventurous and getting herself killed.
Just like Dad.
No. She wasn’t going to die like this! The thought was all she needed to ignore the pain and push herself higher, her knees sliding on blood.
The wheel moved by again, like a beast reminding her that he was right there to bite her. Carefully, she pushed herself up higher. The knife of pain cut through her shoulder again, making lights burst behind her eyes.
With a grunt, she slowly pushed up, her legs wobbling, her one sneaker slipping on the blood, the toe right at the edge of the ledge. She flailed, fighting for balance, the movement firing pain in her arm.
That sent her right back to her knees, cracking them on the stone.
“Son of a bitch!” she hissed, tears soaking her face.
She’d never make it to the damn door and down all those stairs. Despair clutched her, and she squeezed her eyes shut to push it away. She couldn’t think never. She had to get out of this place.
Outside, the giant sweeps made a higher pitched whine that turned to a shriek when the wind gusted. Could she climb down the side of the windmill? The stones were irregular and jutted out here and there, and it wasn’t that high. Not more than a three-story building.
She had no choice. That way, there was less chance of running into Solange and her gun.