Flawless Danger (The Spencer & Sione #1) (26 page)

Sione took a deep breath, trying to forget his own painful memories. Memories he could never share. As he glanced down at Ms. Edwards, he knew he wouldn’t have to. She was asleep.

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort – Owner’s Casita

Sione cracked five eggs into a glass bowl, then grabbed a whisk, and started to whip the yolks and whites into a frenzy. As they expanded into fluffy curdles, he thought of putting Tabasco in the mix and then quickly decided against it.

The spicy red sauce brought the damn dismembered hand back into his head. He’d seen it before. Not the hand in Maxine Porter’s condo, but a hand separated from its wrist. He knew what it might mean; he knew why the hand might have been left behind. But he might have been wrong. The severed hand might have been a message or maybe a warning. But a warning for who? Ms. Edwards? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t rule out that possibility.

As for who had severed the hand, he had suspicions. Actually, he had more than suspicions. He had actually seen someone chop a hand off. More than once. And the first time he’d seen it done, he’d been horrified, though he’d pretended that it hadn’t bothered him.

As he forced himself not to tremble, he pretended to understand why the hand had to be severed. The severed hand was a signature, he’d been told. Just as Picasso signed his paintings, the hand chopped from the wrist of the dead body gave credit to a specific killer. A killer Sione knew too damn well. A killer who might have murdered Maxine Porter and cut her hand off.

Nevertheless, suspicions weren’t proof. He didn’t want to make accusations which might potentially unleash the hell he’d managed to contain back into his life. Before he went to the cops, Sione had to know, without a doubt, who had severed that hand from its body. The only way to know for sure was to ask—

No, he couldn’t do that. He didn’t even want to
think
of doing that.

He forced his thoughts toward a different direction, to Moana and Peter and the envelope. Sione was still shocked and confused. He wouldn’t have even believed Peter’s story if he hadn’t found the damn envelope exactly where Peter had confessed to hiding it.

Last night, as he’d drifted to sleep, Sione had tried to figure out why the hell Moana would tell Peter to retrieve an envelope from a house in Jamaica and then instruct him to hide it in his casita. This morning, he wondered if the hidden envelope had anything to do with Moana’s claim that Richard had wanted her to steal something. Was that something the envelope from the house in Jamaica?

Moana had told him she’d refused his father’s request, but she could have lied. She could have turned his father down and then turned right around and convinced Peter to get that envelope for her. Knowing that Richard wanted the envelope, Moana might have decided to use it as leverage, some kind of bargaining chip to force Richard to help her get out of prison.

A dangerous move. Moana knew better than to try to play games with Richard Tuiali’i. Maybe she’d been desperate. Because of him, Sione realized. Because he’d broken his promises to her.

He stared at the eggs and cursed, realizing they were a bit overdone. Moving the cast iron skillet from the burner grate, he turned the stove off and turned to the glass doors on the opposite side of the kitchen, looking toward the terrace.

Sunlight flooded the room, but it was no longer welcoming. It was a harsh, glaring spotlight on all his failures and mistakes, highlighting the truth he tried to hide from himself, the truth he wished were a lie.

He really hadn’t wanted to help his ex-fiancée. He just wanted to prove to himself he could be the better person. He could turn the other cheek. He hadn’t been able to pull it off because she didn’t deserve the promises he’d made to her. And he never should have made them. Maybe he didn’t know how to forgive and forget. Maybe he didn’t know how to move forward without malice or spite.

He’d wanted to be compassionate and sympathetic toward her. He’d tried to follow the example his uncle had set for him, but he hadn’t been able to do it. Now, there was nothing he could do for her.
She was dead
. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes.

“Good morning …”

Startled, Sione took his hand from his face and let it drop to his side. Ms. Edwards stood on the opposite side of the large slab of marble, a hint of amusement in her eyes as she stared at him.

“Good morning.” He turned to the stove, grabbed the handle of a cast iron skillet, and then faced the island again. “I made eggs.” After putting the skillet on a bamboo trivet, he winced as his knuckles throbbed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah …” Sione made a fist, grimacing from the slight sting of abrasions not completely healed. “My hand is still a little sore. No big deal.”

Ms. Edwards walked around the island, stopped in front of him, and took his hand, staring at it.

“It’s really not that bad,” he said, uncomfortable with her attention to the abrasions and his swollen knuckles.

“This looks bad. Where’s the first aid kit?”

Worried the bruises might remind her of how violent he’d been, he said, “Don’t need—”

“John, you don’t want these cuts to get infected.”

He sighed. “In the cabinet under the sink.”

“Okay, you go sit down.”

“Ms. Edwards, you don’t have to—”

“Just go sit at the table, please,” she ordered, smiling a little.

Reluctantly, Sione did as he was told. He didn’t like being fussed over, but watching her gave him a feeling of domesticity. There was something about the way she looked very serious, as she walked to the table, holding the first aid kit. It made him feel as though he was being looked after by a wife, which was stupid. He liked the feeling, but he didn’t want to or even think he should.

Sione tried to remember he didn’t really know anything about her, except what she’d presented to him, which may or may not have been true. He tried to look at Ms. Edwards from D.J.’s jaded, suspicious point of view. He couldn’t.

She took a seat on his lap, which was nice, then put the kit on the table, opened it, and took out one of the bottles and a few cotton balls. Looking apologetic, but determined, she examined his cuts and bruises, and he wondered what it might be like if they were together. As crazy as that was. After soaking the cotton ball, she gave him the prettiest smile and then pressed a cotton ball on the gash across his knuckles. A fiery sting spread into the wound on his hand, damn near knocking him out.

“Motherfu—”

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

Snatching his hand away, Sione bit his lip so he wouldn’t scream.

“I’m sorry!” Ms. Edwards jumped off his lap and grabbed the bottle she’d poured liquid from onto the cotton ball. “Oh, no!”

“What?” Sione closed his eyes, trying to ignore the fierce burn, wondering if it would ever go away.

“I accidentally used alcohol instead of peroxide! I’m so sorry. Does it hurt bad?”

“Worse.”

“God, I’m so stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” he said, opening one eye to glance at her. “It was an accident.”

“I should have been paying attention,” she grumbled. “It’s bad enough that your hand is all cut and bruised because of me, and what do I do? I make it worse!”

He stared at her, astonished by the contrition in her gaze, the self-recrimination in her slumped shoulders. Not the badass, aggressive apathy he’d expected. The only reason he hadn’t screamed was because he figured she would chide him, tell him to suck it up and deal with it. Her remorse made him feel bad for her.

“Come here …”

She hesitated, then stepped to him, and settled on his lap again.
 

He slipped an arm around her waist. “You didn’t make things worse.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Okay, you did,” he admitted and then smiled. “But not on purpose.”
 

She didn’t look convinced.

“Why did you say my hand was bruised because of you?”

“You only hurt your hand because …” She looked down before lifting her gaze to him again. “You were fighting because of me.”

“I was fighting for you.”

She frowned. “Because of me.”

He shrugged, not surprised she was uncomfortable with his wording. Probably thought it sounded too “heroic.”

“Yesterday was the second time I fought.” He stopped, noticing the wariness in her eyes, and then said, “because of you. It’s kind of becoming a habit, I guess.”

“A habit you should break.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need anyone to fight my battles,” she said. “And didn’t your cousin tell you not to bother trying to save a slut like me?”

“You heard us talking?” he asked, wondering exactly how much she’d heard them say.

“He said you shouldn’t try to play the hero for me.”

“He shouldn’t have said that,” Sione said. “And I don’t feel the same way he does. As far as fighting because of you, I don’t mind.”

“You should mind,” she said, dropping her gaze toward the table. “You don’t even know me. Maybe I’m not worth all the scars and bruises on your hand.”

“Well, maybe I would like to find out if you’re worth—”

“What were you doing there?” She cut him off, scowling.

“What?” he asked, disappointed by her sudden change of subject, which he suspected was her attempt to put a barrier between his interest and her reluctance.

“Why were you at Maxine Porter’s condo?” she asked. “You never told me.”

“I was there to meet with the owner of the complex,” he said. “As I was leaving, I thought I saw you, so I decided to find out if it was really you.”

“And you just followed me inside?”

“When I finally figured out which unit you’d gone into,” he said, “I heard the scream.”

“And you just rushed right in to save the day?”

“I rushed in to save your day,” he said, teasing.

She rolled her eyes, but then she smiled, and it was like an invitation. Eager to accept, he leaned forward, anxious to feel her mouth on his, and—

“Good morning, cousin!”

Sione groaned, annoyed by D.J.’s deep, booming voice. Spencer squeaked, jumped up, and dashed around to the other side of the table.

“Ms. Edwards.” D.J. gave her a curt nod and a stare that was suspicious, at best. “How are you this morning?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” she said, inching around the table in the direction of the wide opening leading out to the hallway. “Considering everything that happened yesterday.”

“Speaking of what happened yesterday,” D.J. said. “I wanted to ask you—”

“Can it wait?” she asked, walking backward, away from them. “I was just about to go and take a shower.”

D.J. turned toward her as she continued her retreat. “Actually—”

With a smile and a wave, Ms. Edwards turned and dashed out of the kitchen.

Looking at Sione, D.J. asked, “Was it something I said?”

San Ignacio, Belize

Belizean Banyan Resort - Owner’s Casita

Remembering her mental blueprint of the casita, Spencer walked quickly but quietly down a long, wide hallway, turning several corners and navigating more dimly lit hallways.

When John’s cousin had walked into the kitchen, looking as though he could think of nothing better to do than interrogate her about the severed hand in Maxine Porter’s condo, Spencer had decided she couldn’t stand the heat. She had to get out of the kitchen before John’s tall, imposing cousin intimidated her into confessing to something she would never do in a million years.

On her way to the shower, she’d decided to take a detour to John’s casita office to search for the envelope, which probably should have been the first place to look. Where else but an office would an envelope be kept? Closing the doors behind her, Spencer crossed to the large desk in the center of the room and sat down in the huge leather chair. Spencer stared at the papers and files strewn across the surface and hesitated even though she couldn’t waste time.

John’s conversation with his suspicious security expert cousin would afford her the opportunity to search his office without the fear of being caught looking for the envelope. But they weren’t going to talk all day. Eventually, John’s cousin would leave, and then John would probably come back to his office, judging from all the paperwork he seemed to have left behind.

Why the hell was she stalling? Why the hell wasn’t she searching like a crazy woman? Finding that damn envelope would mean she’d completed
Step Three
. Why wasn’t she tearing the office upside down?
Step Three
could be the final step. Then this crazy nightmare could be over, and she could leave Belize, and … and never see John again.

Her stomach clenched at the thought, although she didn’t know why. What did she care if she never saw the tall, handsome, muscular resort owner again? It wasn’t as if she’d flown to Belize to be with him, so why should the idea of never seeing him again unsettle her?

She should be anxious to get
Step Three
done so she could get back to Houston, back to her normal life. She should have been ecstatic about being able to leave the country with her debt to Ben paid, free from his threats.

She couldn’t seem to stop thinking about John. She couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d kissed her after they’d come back from that first trip to San Pedro, how perfect his lips had felt against hers, how much she’d wanted to drag him into the bedroom and let him do all sorts of nasty things to her, and—

Pushing the thoughts away, Spencer pulled the desk drawer out, delving a hand in the sea of paper clips and business cards, pushing aside a letter opener, a thumb drive, a pair of scissors, and a small calculator, but no lambskin envelope with a dragon motif wax seal.

Frustrated, Spencer yanked the drawer out farther, spotting a staple remover, “Sign Here” tabs, an eraser, rubber bands, neon highlighters, and the top corner of a blue file folder. Peeking at the file, she read the label: EDWARDS, SPENCER. Confused, she grabbed the file and opened it.

A small avalanche of papers fell out, floating to the floor. Placing the file back on the desk, Spencer crouched down and picked up the papers. She flipped them over. Her confusion gave way to uneasiness and shock. It was a photo of her. Standing with her arms crossed, she stood just outside the ragged circle of about fifteen people surrounding a tour guide. A photo of her on the tour she’d taken to the Mayan ruins.