Further muddying the waters for her was the fact that, although murder was supposed to be the ultimate no- no, altogether he seemed like a far more decent human being than any of the scum her mother had dated. On the scale of badness, which weighed the heaviest, murder or abuse?
The law said murder. But, damn it, there were some people who didn’t deserve to live, and it stood to reason that if a drug lord hired Simon to kill someone, that someone was likely a rival drug lord. How could that be a bad thing? Anything that depleted their numbers had to be good for humanity. Was it bad because Simon made the kills for money rather than out of any notion of bettering the world by lowering its scum-to-human ratio? Motivation couldn’t be everything, because there were a lot of people who, with the best of intentions, did a world of harm.
This wasn’t something she was going to figure out in an hour, and she was too tired to keep worrying at the details. The good news was that she didn’t have to do anything right now. She didn’t have to decide anything about Simon, and she didn’t have to do anything about Rafael. She was free to-
Her thoughts hit a dead stop.
So, just because
No. The answer in her gut was immediate and emphatic. She had more of an obligation than anyone else on earth, because she had lived off that money, benefited from it, and because she was in the unique position of not only knowing Rafael as well as she did, but she was the one person on earth whose presence would goad him into doing something stupid, something that could give the cops a solid charge to hang on him.
She had to do it. No matter what the risk, this was something she had to do.
Her thoughts circled back around to Simon. He now felt obligated to protect her, which could play hell with any plans she made to poke a figurative stick in Rafael’s eye. She didn’t want Simon involved in this; it was her debt, her obligation. How he would see the situation, however, was something else entirely.
Would he try to stop her? Beyond a doubt. Even worse, she suspected that he usually succeeded at whatever he set his mind to. She didn’t have to stretch her imagination at all to see him holding her captive somewhere, or whisking her out of the country so she couldn’t get to Rafael.
Same old song, different verse: she had to get away from him.
Reassured that she wouldn’t run, he’d relax his guard, she thought. Maybe not right away; he was wily and suspicious, and he might watch her from a distance for the next couple of days. So she’d hang around, make a few preparations, lull his suspicions until he felt safe in leaving. She had no way of knowing exactly when that would be, but he was human; he might be tougher and smarter than most, but he was still human, and he still had to eat and sleep and pee just like everyone else. He had to occasionally let his guard down. With luck, even if he was still hanging around, she could be on a plane and gone long before he realized she wasn’t there.
He’d be able to track her; so far, he’d seen through every move she made, every step she’d taken to change her appearance and identity. She had no hopes that he’d suddenly turn stupid and she’d suddenly turn into a talented escape artist, but all she needed was a couple of days’ head start, maybe not even that long, and she would be in New York.
She would contact the FBI. Rafael had to be under almost constant surveillance, and surely the feds were frustrated by their inability to put together a solid case against him. Surely the agent in charge would jump at the opportunity to use her in some way.
Once she was in the FBI’s hands, she would be beyond Simon’s reach.
28
WHEN HE GOT TO HIS HOTEL ROOM, SIMON BOOTED UP HIS laptop and checked her location, just to be certain he’d convinced her she was safe and she wasn’t already on the road running for what she thought was her life. Good-both the Explorer and her cell phone were where they were supposed to be, and stationary, so the odds were she was in bed. He set the program to send a message to his cell phone if the locators began moving, just in case she tried to pull a fast one.
He’d like to be there with her, but when he kissed her he’d felt a reserve on her part that said she wasn’t going down that road with him again, at least not yet. He didn’t like waiting, but he would-for a while, anyway. He’d raised patience to an art, honing it into a form of weapon as he outwaited both man and nature in the hunt for each target, but now that the veil of secrecy between him and Andie was down, his instincts told him to move fast and hard. She had gotten by in life by making herself pleasing to men, by submerging her own needs, her likes and dislikes, and mirroring back only what the man wanted to see. She needed time, yes, but she also needed to be wanted for herself. She needed to be courted, pursued, the tables turned; she needed a man to curry
Patience was just another form of persistence. Maybe that meant he was a bastard for not getting out of her life and leaving her alone, after all he’d done and all the pain he’d caused her. So what? He’d rather be a bastard and have her, than be a gentleman and let her get away.
If she hadn’t responded to him at all he’d have dealt with the loss and left her alone, but she’d been all but squirming in her chair, and he knew enough about women to know she’d been remembering how it had been between them. He knew enough about her, gleaned from the afternoon they’d spent together, to know how she looked when she was turned on. She wanted to be indifferent, but she wasn’t, any more than he was indifferent to her. He’d wanted to be; he’d wanted to forget her as soon as he walked away from her. For the first time in his life, that hadn’t happened. He dealt in reality, not in roses and wishes, and what was between them was real- unexplored, undeveloped, but real.
Reassured that she was staying put, at least for the time being, he got out his first-aid kit and carefully disinfected the bite wounds in his arm, then sprayed the area to numb it. The analgesic was only topical, but it took enough of the edge off the pain that putting in the stitches didn’t bother him. He’d had splinters that hurt worse. After he dabbed an antibiotic on top of the stitches, he slapped a couple of adhesive bandages over them, then carefully repacked the small kit, taking note of which supplies needed to be replenished. The first-aid kit went everywhere with him, and had possibly saved his life a couple of times. In the tropics, an open wound, no matter how minor, could fast become life-threatening.
Then, yawning, he popped a couple of ibuprofen before stripping off his clothes. Turning out the light, he sprawled across the bed. His phone would signal the arrival of a message, and wake him, if she decided to make a run for it, but he was fairly certain she wasn’t going anywhere tonight. If she had anything in mind, she’d probably try to fake him off by staying put for a few days. She was sneaky, but he was sneakier. He went to sleep knowing that, for now, things were under control.
ANDIE SLEPT LATE-big surprise there-and finally stumbled to the kitchen for coffee at half past eleven. She had a headache, maybe from the adrenaline crash, or maybe she just needed a dose of caffeine. She was usually out of bed around eight, giving her time to do her chores or errands before going to work, so she was about three hours past the time she usually had her first cup of coffee.
She took two aspirin, then took her coffee into the living room. Turning on the secondhand television she’d bought, she curled up in the corner of the sofa, at the moment not wanting to do anything more than sip her coffee and wait for the aspirin to start working on her headache. She watched a little of the noon news, enough to learn that more thunderstorms were expected that afternoon, then, despite the coffee, she nodded off again.
Two sharp raps on her front door woke her. Maybe it was the neighbors, she thought sourly, belatedly concerned enough by all the banging around last night to find out if she was all right. She could certainly hear them thumping around, so she knew they should have at least heard when she knocked the chair over. But had anyone checked to see if a burglar had broken in, or anything? If she’d heard the same noises from their side, she’d have at least beat on the wall and yelled to ask if everything was all right.
She paused before unlocking the door, raising a slat of the blinds and looking out. She found herself staring straight at Simon, because he stood square in front of the door. Her breath wooshed out of her lungs at the impact
