“I don’t think you can do that to your brand-new wife.” She giggled.
“Mrs. Fitzsimmons, I promise I can and will do that, and so much more.” His hand rubbed the curve of her ass. “I booked the honeymoon suite at the Palm Inn so we’d have plenty of privacy.”
“Next!” The customs inspector’s clipped command stopped the couple before they could move into the soft-core-porn zone, and they walked to the clerk’s window.
Ryder shifted beside Devin, rebalancing the weight of her overstuffed bag with its stressed zipper. Looking at her wrist, anger tightened his gut. What he wouldn’t do for five minutes alone with her ex-boyfriend. He hated bullies. Growing up the son of one did that to a person.
He reached out. “Here, let me hold that for you.”
She gave him the side eye. “I have more than enough muscle to heft one little bag.”
He eyeballed the toned lines of her arms exposed by her filmy black tank top. His horn dog id flashed back to their night together and the way her biceps had glistened as she’d pressed her hands against his chest and ridden him. “I know very well how strong you are.”
Something in his tone must have tipped her off about his mental movie, and she blushed, turning her tanned, high-boned cheeks a rosy pink. She blinked twice and the blush deepened.
Devin wasn’t a betting man—at least not anymore—but he’d wager his Rolex that Ryder Falcon wasn’t a woman who blushed often. Being the man who accomplished that rare feat did something weird to his insides, as though he’d just guzzled a cheap beer on an empty stomach.
Before he could think about the why behind that reaction, the newly-minted Mrs. Fitzsimmons started squawking at the customs clerk. The blonde flung her arms in the air and her husband jabbed his finger against the glass box housing the uniformed agent, who only raised an eyebrow at the tirade.
“It’s our honeymoon, I just left the prescription bottle at home and brought the pills in the Ziploc baggie. I’m not
a smuggler!” Mrs. Fitzsimmons wailed. “Carl, baby, do something.”
Responding to his bride’s call to arms, Carl slammed his open palm against the glass with a thwack and proceeded to try to yank the door open. Security had him kissing the linoleum and cuffed in ten efficient seconds. As they hauled Carl away, Mrs. Fitzsimmons trailing behind, Devin made a note to connect Dylan’s Department Store’s head of security with whoever trained the airport police.
“Next!”
…
Half an hour later, Devin tossed their bags into the back of a Jeep Wrangler painted a shade of hot pink that was liable to blind anyone except an eight-year-old girl. Ryder stood next to the car rental agent, chatting him up. She wasn’t flirting, but judging by the way the agent stalled her with detailed explanations of how to read a map, the poor deluded fool was still keeping the faith.
“So, we’re hoping to run into a friend while we’re here for fashion week.” Ryder said. “She’s local and just returned home a day or two ago.”
“Perhaps I can help you find her.” The agent puffed up his chest like a peacock—as if the guy had a candle’s luck in a windstorm. “What is her name? I may know her family. It’s a small island.”
Devin deposited himself next to Ryder, close enough to touch her shoulder, and smiled down at the agent. Not to intimidate—well, not completely. “Sarah Molina.”
The man’s smile evaporated and his chest caved. “No, I don’t know her.”
“Are you sure?” Ryder asked, digging her elbow into Devin’s side to push him away.
The man looked over his shoulder at the small tarmac behind him, deserted except for a baggage crew working at the other end. Maybe it was because of his years dealing with MMA fighters, but he could practically smell the fear rolling off the agent. It was enough to make Devin check the perimeter for trouble.
“She is your friend?” The agent crumpled the map he’d been showing her.
“More of a work associate.” Ryder said, apparently sensing the man’s tension, too.
“You seem like nice people,” the agent whispered. “You should stay away from that family. They are dangerous.”
“What do you mean dangerous?” she asked, feigning a naïve look.
“Many have come looking for Molina family members, and not all have returned.” The agent backed up a few steps.
“But we need to ask her some questions,” Devin said. He pulled out his wallet and took out a hundred dollar bill.
The agent’s gaze locked on the greenback. “Questions?”
“She has something of mine.” He held out the money.