It’s posh as hell, even swankier than the Von Bergen’s private jet.
“Pool first?” Nick turns back to me, drawing me into his arms. Until we have a chance to sweep for surveillance equipment, we agreed we should keep up the lovey-dovey act inside our room. “Or should we nap? I confess I wouldn’t mind spending an hour or two in bed with you.”
I put my arms around his neck, leaning into him as I purr, “How about pool, then shower, then nap? No offense, but you smell like you took a bath in sandalwood-scented wood chips.”
He chuckles. “You can definitely smell Tony coming.”
“And going,” I agree. Nuzzling my nose into his neck, I whisper, “I’ll do the bathroom while I change into my suit.”
“And I’ll check in here.” He kisses my cheek before stepping back. “But don’t take long. I’m dying to see you in that bikini.”
I fight the urge to pull a face or stick my tongue out at him. The bikini he picked out—a silver sequined number I can’t see holding up in the water for more than a few hours—is scratchy and obnoxiously sparkly and very, very small. It’s like the designer tied pieces of a shattered disco ball together with dental floss.
I haven’t tried it on yet, but I’m positive it’s going to look obscene. I don’t wear lingerie often, but when I do, I stick to the designs Lizzy gifts me from her collections. My sister is a professional panty-maker and an expert on which pieces set off a woman’s assets to their best advantage.
She taught me that ample coverage is best when it comes to a larger bust. Coverage and support keep things classy and sexy. Bandage-sized bra cups are going to make me look like a porn star.
But Nick is right. The more I play up the dumb bimbo routine, the more likely I am to blend in with the rest of the women here.
From what I spotted by the main resort pool as we crossed the property, porn-star-chic is the choice of nine out of ten drug lord wives and girlfriends. And the tenth, the only woman in a one-piece, was at least seven months pregnant, and therefore outside the control set.
As I discreetly sweep the luxurious bathroom for cameras or listening devices with the electronics detector hidden in the bottom of my can of hairspray, I worry about that woman, along with the children I saw splashing by the beach.
There are innocent people here who could be hurt or even killed if this mission goes south. One contingency agent is planted in the resort staff, someone whose identity Nick and I won’t learn unless we’re in serious danger. Hopefully, there will be no need for that, let alone for calling in more backup.
We need to finish this alone. We need to get the information we came for and get out before anyone suspects we’re not what we appear to be.
That, of course, will be easier if we’re not watched while we’re in our room.
So far, so good on that front. There’s nothing in the bathroom but marble countertops, a massive tub for two, a multi-headed shower larger than my entire bathroom back home, plush towels so soft I’d use them as library cozy blankets, and delicious, tropical-flower-scented toiletries.
Once I’m sure the space is clear, I quickly change into my suit.
A glance in the mirror confirms that I should be on the cover of a circa 1980’s Muscle Cars Magazine, but I allow myself only a single, soft gagging sound before I grab one of the light cotton robes from a hook on the back of the door.
Once I wrap myself in the pale blue fabric, I pad barefoot into the room to find Nick already changed into his suit and stretched out by our balcony pool.
I circle his lounge chair, doing my best not to stare as his bare torso comes into view. But damn it, the man looks good with his shirt off. Really good, with the kind of defined abs and delicious hip indentions that make a girl want to trace his muscles with her tongue.
Forcing my gaze back to his face, I perch on the edge of his lounger and arch a brow.
He gives me a discreet thumbs-up and wiggles his brows in return.
“All clear in the bathroom, too,” I say, relief loosening my shoulders.
“I told you. They trust me,” he says. “Great job on the way over, by the way. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were just another ditzy blonde out to score free drinks and a winter tan dark enough to make your friends jealous when you get home.”
I sniff. “Well, I’m sure you have plenty of experience with those.”
“I tend to date bookish brunettes, actually.”
I snort. “Bookish?”
“Well, they know how to read. Mostly,” he says with a laugh. His gaze dips to the close of my robe before returning to my face. “What about you?”