the bar parking lot. He revved the Ducati’s engine to get her soft lips and impossible words out of his head.
Didn’t work.
And wouldn’t Henry Brooker love that? Ian could only imagine the response of his opinionated, short- tempered liaison when they had their next phone conference.
No doubt she’d pay, but offering up his seed to some chick who wanted a baby probably didn’t qualify as the “legit labor” his UK Protected Persons Service liaison said Ian had better find if he wanted to stay in the States.
And he did want to stay here, one country away from…
He took a curve so sharp he practically ate the sidewalk and refused to give a shit. Physical pain was always welcome. It drove away the other kind.
Warm, tropical wind smacked his face as he made his way across the main road of the island town, passed a convenience mart, and drove into the parking lot of the Fourway Motel.
The place wasn’t as much of a dive as the name would indicate, but it wouldn’t work long term if he decided he wanted to stay for a while. This morning it had seemed like a good idea: sultry weather, off the mainland, and away from crowds, Mimosa Key offered a chance to regroup after the mess in Singapore, a place to wait—and wait and
But if tonight’s unfortunate encounter was any indicator what the locals were like, he’d have to get the hell out and find somewhere else to lie low and do his infernal waiting.
He skidded to a parking place, automatically scanning the empty lot for trouble. Damn, he was sick of hiding.
As he pulled the key from the ignition, the motel-office door shot open and a woman walked out, the light behind her highlighting blonde hair and a silhouette that looked…interesting. Except he’d blown his interest wad in that bar. Now all he wanted to do was stuff his head under a pillow and end this day.
“Excuse me,” she called. “Are you Mr. Brown?”
He was now. In Singapore, he’d been Sean Bern. Now he was John Brown. Who would he be next week?
The thought turned his already sour stomach. As the quick click of her high heels against the walkway accompanied her approach, he took in sharp features and a predatory smile.
“I’m Grace Hartgrave.” She gave him an obvious once-over, and he considered—and instantly discarded— the idea of her as a replacement for the woman he’d been so close to in the bar. “I own the motel.”
He frowned as he climbed off the bike. “Something wrong?”
“I have to ask you a question.” She reached him, and he could see that she was a few years past forty, the lines of a lot of drinks and a plenty of cigarettes etched on what was a passably attractive face. “My morning desk clerk said you…” She dropped her gaze, lingering on his chest, her brows lifting appreciatively. “And damn, she wasn’t kidding.”
“About what?” As if he didn’t know.
Another lingering glance on his body, then she met his gaze. “You paid in cash.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“It’s unusual.” But her ravenous eyes said she didn’t mind at all. Problem was, he wasn’t hungry anymore, and even if he was, this one wasn’t on his personal menu.
“I paid through the weekend,” he said, taking a step away so she got the message. “If I bolt, the money’s yours.”
She didn’t get the message, coming closer. “You a bodybuilder?”
“Not exactly.”
“What brings you to our remote little island?” She flipped some blonde strands over her shoulder, an invitation he’d seen a hundred times from a hundred blondes. Too bad he had brunettes on the brain.
“None of your business.”
She raised both brows, unfazed by his gruffness. “Everything that happens in this motel is my business. I own it.”
“So you said.”
She beamed at him. “I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot, Mr. Brown.” She reached her hand out. “Can we start over? Can I call you John?”
He didn’t move a muscle. “No.”
“Not very friendly, are you?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “If you don’t have any more questions, ma’am, I’m—”
“Ma’am?” Her laugh was a little too loud. “I might be a year or two older than you, but no need to ma’am- slam me, big guy.”
“Gracie!” The office door popped open again, and this time a monster of a man walked out, damn near as wide as he was tall. “Where are you?”
She glanced over her shoulder, then rolled her eyes at Ian. “And that right there,” she muttered under her breath, “is my ball and chain.” She cleared her throat. “Talkin’ to a paying customer, Ron.”
The man ambled over, the light casting a sheen on his dome, his dark eyes drilling right through Ian. “You the guy in 301?” he asked.
Ian nodded, a sixth sense for jealous dickhead husbands rising up and forcing him to brace for the trouble he’d been looking to avoid.
The man looked from Ian to his wife, distrust and disgust on plain display. “What’s going on out here?”
“I was telling him about the new diner that opened up, since we don’t have room service,” she said quickly.
Ian shot her a look. Why was she lying? Turning, Ian extended his hand to the man. “John Brown.” Maybe the gesture would allay the man’s misplaced jealousy.
“This is my husband, Ron Hartgrave,” the woman said, shamed into the introduction.
Ron nodded, offering a meaty and damp hand that probably carried a considerable punch. Not that Ian couldn’t crush him; he didn’t want to. Trouble was the last thing he wanted, especially after Singapore, where trouble had landed him in jail—and right on the radar of the man who wanted him dead.
The Protected Persons board wouldn’t be so understanding this time. Ian’s plea to at least be on the same continent as his kids would be ignored and Henry Brooker would ship his ass off to Corvo or Tasmania or some other remote section of hell. There were no third chances with Ian’s government liaison.
And no second chances with the gang members and bounty hunters scouring any lead for the identity and location of Ian Browning.
“Your mother’s looking for you, Gracie,” Ron said to his wife. “She wants you to close the store tonight.”
She blew out a breath, fluttering her bangs. “Of course she does, because my freaking cousin is still on her honeymoon.” She gave him a wide smile. “Duty calls from the Super Min,” she said, pointing to the convenience store across the street. “You let us know if you need anything, Mr. Brown.” She turned so her husband couldn’t see her face and winked at Ian. “Anything at all.”
Ian didn’t respond except for a nod to the big man behind her, then he headed toward his room, relieved to hear the sound of her heels heading in the opposite direction.
As he reached the door of his room, he glanced to see Ron Hartgrave still standing in the same place, staring at him.
Great. Like he needed this headache.
He turned the key, went inside, and fell onto the bed, not bothering to undress or turn on a light. Staring up into darkness, he tried to let his mind go blank, a trick he’d learned in the early days when the booze didn’t do the job and dark memories threatened to swamp him.
But his trick didn’t work tonight.
