Angelina smiled at the thought of Mick and then changed the subject lest she become maudlin. “Anything in the bathroom?”
Croix shook her head. “Sector One, clear.”
Angelina spotted Mason’s bag on the ground and stooped to unzip it. She slipped a hand into each pocket, finding nothing but a small black box.
She opened it.
“What’s that?” asked Croix, peering over her shoulder.
“Box of photos.”
Angelina straightened and they looked through the pictures together. Most featured a young man and a woman, all faded and muddy.
“Are these from nineteen thirty?” asked Croix.
“More like the eighties.”
“So everyone was blurry then?” Croix plucked a photo of a woman in a bikini from Angelina’s hand. “Is that Shee?”
“Yes. And that’s him.”
Croix whistled. “She was hot.”
“She’s still hot.”
Croix handed back the photo. “I guess. Mom hot.”
Angelina’s annoyance level climbed. “Mom hot? Shee’s gorgeous. You should be so lucky to look like that at her age. Age makes people more hot because they’re wiser.”
Croix laughed. “That’s what old people say to make themselves feel better.”
“Yeah, well, young people are assholes.” Angelina snatched the photo from the girl’s fingers and returned it to the black box. She slipped it back into the side pocket and then jerked her hand from the bag.
“Ow!” She popped her index finger into her mouth.
“What is it?”
“Something cut me.” She reached back into the pocket, moving slow, until she felt something hard. Gripping it, she slid it out to reveal a shining strip of metal in a faux leather sheath.
“Is that a scalpel?” asked Croix.
“Yes.” She scowled at the girl. “Could he be hot and a surgeon?”
“Maybe. Or a serial killer.”
Angelina slid the scalpel back in the suitcase and inspected the tiny slice on her fingertip. “Hopefully, it was sterile.”
Croix rolled her eyes. “It was in a suitcase. It isn’t sterile.”
Angelina zipped the case and stood to survey the room. Fresh out of places to search, she headed into the hall with Croix on her heels.
“No smoking guns,” she mumbled.
Croix hit the elevator call button and the doors slid open. “Maybe he keeps them in his car.”
“We’ll check when he gets back.”
The elevator dumped them back in the lobby. Croix returned to reception, Harley curled up in her bed and Angelina sat at her own desk, staring out the front door, chewing her lip.
“He’s up to something,” she said.
At her station, Croix nodded.
“Yep.”
&&&
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shee made it to A1A before she realized she had nowhere to go.
I just can’t be there. With him. Not yet.
Jerking the wheel right, she parked in the public beach parking lot and rested her forehead on the steering wheel.
No part of her imagined coming home would be easy, but this was ridiculous.
I should have stolen his dog.
Curling up somewhere with her arms wrapped around a fluffy mutt sounded perfect. Maybe a cocktail. A citrusy Bahama Mama, a dog...what else? The sound of the sea lapping against the shore...
She looked up.
Well, at least I have the ocean.
Shee exited the car and made her way to the sand, already dotted with seasonal tourists.
She walked along the water’s edge to the fishing pier. The stroll seemed like a good idea until the clouds burned off and she felt her flesh baking like a tray of cookie dough.
Retreat.
Shee wiped her beaded brow and started back. Little girls in bikinis ran giggling into the sea as she basted. The only good thing about slowly evaporating into a cloud of steam was it made concentrating on her problems difficult.
I have to tell him.
Do I? Why tell him now?
I am literally melting.
I’ve avoided telling him for nearly thirty years.
How can it be this hot?
Why tell him now?
Because he deserves to know.
My hair is going to catch fire.
Her thoughts shifted to ripping off her clothes and swimming to England.
She could rip off her clothes. It was Florida. No one would even blink.
A yellow Labrador retriever ran after its ball, and she stopped short to avoid collision. Jupiter Beach was the only dog beach for miles.
Maybe I could steal that dog...
She found it odd Mason had a dog. Having a dog meant having a whole life. In her mind, when she allowed herself to think of Mason at all, he’d always been twenty, humping through faraway lands in full gear. Now, her mind flooded with new images—Mason eating breakfast, brushing his teeth, food-shopping...
It was less painful to think of him as a young, hot, two-dimensional soldier.
A small, pointy-eared mutt trotted toward her and Shee squatted for some loving. She told herself the dog wanted kisses, but he probably just wanted the salt off her cheeks.
Good enough. I’m not picky.
Half a gallon of sweat and two dog pets later, she made it back to the car. Blasting the air conditioning, she drove slowly back to The Loggerhead Inn.
Mason’s truck was gone.
A strange mixture of relief and disappointment settled over her. She parked and nodded to Bracco as he opened the door for her to enter.
“Sponge,” he said, grinning.
She squinted at him. “I look sweaty?”
He nodded.
Hm. Maybe his word choices aren’t entirely random.
“Princess is back,” said Croix as she entered.
Shee stopped and turned. “Why am I Princess?”
“Oh, you know, everyone around here’s always waiting on you. Mick, Angelina, now the old hunk...”
“Right. I have it so easy. What are you? Twelve? My bad. I forgot you know everything.”
Croix sneered. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Shee leaned in.
