“Nice to meet you,” I say almost reluctantly. I’m not that interested in getting to know Elliot’s ex’s current life.
“The pleasure’s mine,” he responds. “Your name?”
“An”—I catch myself—“Belle.”
“A pretty name for a pretty lady.”
Annabelle turns to Stanton. “Love, this area doesn’t seem to get good light.” She pouts. “It’s going to be hard to tan here.”
“You want to move?”
“If you don’t mind.” The smile she gives him is dazzling. “Pretty please?”
He laughs. “All right.” He waves good-bye, and he and his wife leave.
Watching them go to the opposite end of the pool, I breathe out. The knot in my chest finally loosens. I don’t like her, and I’m not sure about her husband. He seems to dote on her, but what do I know about a man who marries a woman young enough to be his daughter?
I sit for a while and stare at nothing. Sometime later, Elliot joins me, rubbing a towel briskly over his body.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
Should I say something? But if I do, it’ll undoubtedly ruin our last full day in St. Cecilia. Annabelle Underhill is a woman from Elliot’s past, and that’s where she belongs.
I smile. “Nothing.”
“So. Let’s go to the villa.” He sits next to me and nuzzles the back of my neck, sending hot shivers down my spine. “Unless you don’t mind public sex?”
I laugh and take his hand. “You’re incorrigible.” I don’t want to risk running into the Underhills again. “We can go. And we can stay there until we have to leave the island.”
Chapter Twenty
Elliot
No matter how carefully you plan your vacation, the day after you come back is always hectic. My assistant has triaged everything, but a lot of it still requires immediate attention.
Then there’s the thing with Paddington. He sent me a huge envelope.
While my wife naps—tired from the trip—I go to my office to review what he found.
The folder inside is over an inch thick with documents, most of them paper trails, and hundreds of scanned photos, some of them poor quality. A yellow sticky note says, “Call.”
I dial his number.
“Elliot,” he says. “Did you get my package?”
“Yes.”
“Your sister-in-law signed for it.”
“I wasn’t home.”
“I should’ve waited then.”
“It’s fine. She isn’t the type to dig into my stuff.” One of the things I can say about her is she’s consistently polite and nice. It’s hard to believe she’s a teenager.
Paddington makes a noncommittal noise deep in his throat. “I’ll give you a very brief overview, although if you want to dig into more detail, you can read what I sent you. The photos of your wife and Dennis Dunn were taken by PIs who are on Stanton Underhill’s retainer.”
The news makes me blink. My mind works furiously to reconcile what he told me and what I suspected, but it doesn’t make sense. After days of thinking, I assumed it was Dad trying to drive a wedge between me and my wife. That would amuse the old fart. “Underhill? That doesn’t make sense.”