“You need anything else, Mr. Jameson, you let me know,” Ratcliff said and then returned to his spot behind the bar, where he began polishing glasses as he stared at a cricket match on the small black-and-white television mounted on the wall.
“Sure thing,” the man said, clutching the shot glass with trembling fingers as he brought it to his mouth and took another sip.
He’d nearly gagged when she’d walked in, tall and lithe, nothing but dangerous curves beneath a clingy red strapless dress. A mane of luxurious raven hair tumbled down her back as she navigated the maze of tables, heading to the bar. He could scarcely believe it was her. Amal Shahin. For a moment, he’d thought the whiskey was giving him some sort of alcoholic hallucination, but no, it was Amal. He’d never forget the fierce, intimidating beauty.
He let out a long, shaky exhale, staring as she stood at the bar ordering a drink. Amal would kill him tonight. Pressing the barrel against his forehead, she would squeeze the trigger.
Amal Shahin didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer.
She looked like what she was perfect for—a fast and dirty fuck in the back of his car followed by a hasty departure with no need for awkward goodbyes. Hadn’t their first time together been quick and nasty? Tumultuous and explosive. Separation without explanation. No need for discussion when there were no ridiculous expectations like love or commitment, no need to let feelings get in the way of a good thing. And it had been damn good. Sexy and experimental, the best kind of decadent debauchery. Almost too much of a good thing.
Now, it was a good thing about to go very bad.
He took a drink but the whiskey which had soothed him moments ago felt like acid going down his throat and soured in his stomach.
His mind raced. He struggled to control his thoughts, to prioritize his current predicament. He needed to figure out his next move, but her presence, so alluring and tempting, had shocked him, and options eluded him. He didn’t have a plan, didn’t know what to do other than hope he could get away before she put a bullet between his eyes. Picking up the wine she’d requested, Amal turned and smiled at him, raising the glass.
Hopes fading, he downed the remaining whiskey, now more convinced than ever that this would be his last night alive.
1
It was a magical day, thought Vivian Thomas, smiling as she inhaled the salty ocean breeze and gazed toward the miles of pristine pink powdery sand and clear turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea.
Earlier in the week, there had been predictions of rain in St. Killian, one of the islands in the Palmchat Island chain, but the weather forecast had been wrong. Bright and sunny with brilliant white popcorn clouds, it was the kind of day the Palmchat Island Tourist Board would proclaim was perfect for a “money shot”—a photograph used on the island’s official website, designed specifically to entice and mesmerize.
Even more than the wonderful weather, the day was perfect because Vivian was in the company of one of her best friends in all the world, Amal Shahin, her closest confidant for the past ten years. They’d met in high school and had immediately bonded.
Seated around a table at Dizzy Jenny’s, the ritzy yet casual beachside restaurant popular with the yachting crowd and local dignitaries, they enjoyed appetizers as they rehashed old tales from their days in high school.
Amal had arrived on the island around nine this morning. Vivian had waved and jumped up and down as her friend hurried across the tarmac to the open-air terminal where she was waiting. Hugs and tears and laughs ensued. College and careers had separated them for stretches of time, but they made an effort to call each other at least once a week. Still, there was nothing like seeing her best friend in person.
Two weeks ago, during one of their weekly chats, Amal announced her intentions to visit the island—a trip that was long overdue. Amal had been trying to fulfill the promise she’d made to visit Vivian, but most, if not all, of her time was dedicated to Phoenix—the medical spa she’d opened two years ago. She’d been too busy to carve out time for a vacation.
A year and a half had flown by since they’d last seen each other, but Vivian clearly remembered the cold, snowy day in March. Hiding out at her mother’s winter home in Aspen, Vivian had been in the throes of self-imposed exile when Amal had shown up at the door, determined to convince Vivian not to give up on life. Vivian’s world had been shattered by disappointment and devastation, but Amal’s blunt, no-bullshit, tough love had been encouraging and empowering, rousing Vivian from the depths of misery.
After Vivian had instructed an airport employee to load Amal’s luggage in the back of her Range Rover, she herded her friend into the SUV. Anxious to share her island home, Vivian had taken the long, winding route, pointing out landmarks and scenic spots. Several times, she stopped the Range Rover and hustled Amal out of the car for photo ops in front of gorgeous seascapes. Four hours later, they arrived at Vivian’s spacious condo, where Amal would spend the next seven days.
“So, I know you don’t pimp the island for the Palmchat tourist office anymore,” Amal began, grabbing a goat fritter. “But, I read the guide you wrote—which was excellent, not surprisingly—and I didn’t see anything about where to get some good D on this island.”
Shaking her head at Amal’s amusingly crude comment, Vivian followed her friend’s gaze to the bar, where several young St. Killian wait staff clustered, laughing and talking with a trio of bartenders. It wasn’t the first time Amal had glanced toward the bar. Vivian wondered if Amal had set her
