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DANNY
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St Lucia – Present Day
* * *
I don’t know why I’m smiling. I’ve not long found out that someone wants to kill me, and that’s a fucking achievement, since I’m supposed to be dead already. But it’s this place. The sound of the sea. The salty air. The turquoise waters that can be seen for miles.
And the fact that my beautiful, savage wife is waiting for me to get home from my trip to Miami. The trip she refused to allow. The one that, if I went, would result in her filing for divorce. She knows what’ll happen if she so much as dares. The divorce papers will be stuffed up the arse of the lawyer who delivers them, right before I ram a shotgun up behind and blow them to smithereens.
I shut the Escalade door and stare at our villa, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. I’ve smoked more in the past three days than I have in three years. Finding out you’ve been resurrected will do that. I pull a long drag and exhale slowly and thoughtfully. “Time to face the consequences, Danny,” I say quietly, throwing my bag over my shoulder and trudging up the path.
I don’t use the front door, diverting around the back, leaving my bag on the terrace. I kick off my shoes and head down the path to the beach, coming to a stop at the top of a dune when I see her standing on the shore, staring out at the sea. I can hear her thoughts, hear her worry, even from here. Her arms are wrapped around her midriff protectively, her long hair billowing in the breeze, her willowy, tan body shimmering under the blazing sun. I groan under my breath, rolling my shoulders back, the urge to do what we do best—fuck—overcoming me. And we will fuck. Right after I’ve appeased her.
One of our staff appears, rounding the pool with a hose pipe coiled around his arm. “Mr. Black,” he says, nodding his respect. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks, Keith.” I look back to Rose on the shore, bracing myself for our reunion. It’ll be both electric and dangerous. “How’s she been?”
“Quiet, Mr. Black.”
I nod, not hearing anything I didn’t already know. Quiet, yes. I know that because she’s ignored my fucking calls. Refused to reply to my texts. I’ve resorted to checking in with the head housekeeper to make sure my wife is alive and hasn’t left me. I understand she’s pissed off with me, but she’s made her point. I’m about to make mine.
I force my feet to move, taking one last drag of my cigarette and flicking it away, my eyes never moving from Rose. I know the moment she senses my presence, her shoulders lifting, her back straightening. But she doesn’t swing around and welcome me home with open arms. She doesn’t dive at me, ravage me, tell me she’s so thankful to have me back in one piece. Alive. The silent treatment. Bring it on. I’ll soon get some noise out of her.
“You remind me of someone I used to know,” I whisper, reaching forward and pulling the tie of her bikini top. It unravels, the ends falling under her arms.
“Don’t,” she says to the water, her arms unmoving, holding the material to her body.
I move in, resting my mouth on her shoulder, tasting salt mixed with her familiar fragrance. She’s been swimming in the ocean. Up and down, killing time. But I’m back, and I could do with some appreciation and distraction from the shitstorm that’s brewing in Miami.
Circling my arms around her front, I take her wrists, pulling them away from her body, feeling her defiant resistance. I put my mouth at her ear. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Then you shouldn’t have gone.”
“You want me dead?”
“No, that’s the fucking point.” She jerks, wrenching herself out of my grip. “You shouldn’t have gone.”
“So you do want to fight?” I ask, looking at the clear blue sky. “Come on then, baby. Let’s get this over with so I can fuck my wife brutally.” That was the hardest thing about being away. Not the death threats. Not the appearance of an assassin, The Enigma. Or James Kelly, as I now know him. Not even the few fucking murders that went down. I simply missed Rose. But now she’s playing hard to get. There’s only so much rejection a man can take. She’s deliberately pushing me. She knows the outcome of this situation.
She turns, unfolding her arms, and as a result, her bikini top falls to the sand. I quirk an eyebrow, my eyes falling to her breasts and imagining all the things I plan on doing with them. “No,” she breathes.
I dart my eyes up. “What?”
“I said no,” she grates, reiterating her low blow. “No, Danny. No, no, no, no—”