Page 38 of Return to the Island

22

Juliet

I’d fallen asleep, exhausted from the physical activity of the past thirty-six hours. I don’t know what came over me when we returned. Sadness struck deep, and I couldn’t snap out of it, the foreboding feeling of the end wrapped around my heart, cutting off reason. I loved him, I told myself as I drifted off to sleep, and he loved me, I reassured.

The night passed too quickly as far as I was concerned, but when I woke without a trace of Tack’s return, I had new worries. Outside the balcony, the sky looked almost as dark as the night in the distance. Storm clouds filled the horizon. It wasn’t raining but the wind was blowing. The temperature had dropped considerably and the waves rolled angrily over one another in the ocean. I dressed after a quick shower, deciding I’d go in search of Tack.

I’d entered the lobby, heading for the front desk to inquire about the manager’s office when I was intercepted by Abby.

“Looking for Tack?” She eyed me, her blue eyes narrowed as if naturally that thin. Her blonde hair was perfectly pulled up to a high ponytail, in contrast to the wet mess at the back of my neck. She wore a stylish low-cut shirt with capris.

“I was hoping to find him in…” My voice drifted as she looped her arm with mine, leading me toward the lobby bar which doubled as a breakfast area. The lobby in general sounded busy, bustling with voices and the scrape of suitcase wheels over tile.

“Let’s chat, shall we?” I stumbled as she tugged me, her height taller than mine and I realized again that she and Tack made a striking couple, with her perfectly thin body and extra height. Her blonde tresses accentuated his brown locks, reminding me of models paired for their complementing features.

We sat at a small table for two, and Abby signaled someone for coffee. Then she jumped into her warning.

“Let’s get a few things straight. Tack and I have been betrothed since birth. We fit each other. We understand one another. I know things he’s done.” Her squinty eyes narrowed further. “I understand his little obsession with you. That Front Door business and all, but once Branson found you—”

“Branson found me,” I interrupted her. “What do you mean found me?”

“You didn’t know?” she asked, feigning remorse at telling a secret. Thin fingers covered her lips in a move perfected by movie stars. “Branson Marx is a private investigator from Baltimore.”

The air between us thickened, dropping lower than the temperature outside.

“Tack was looking for you,” she shrugged. “He had unfinished business, he said. But I think he’s only interested in your business.” Her eyes lowered, and she cupped the coffee mug that had been placed in front of her. I’d hardly noticed the waitress delivering the steamy liquid. I hadn’t touched mine. My hands gripped the edge of my seat, as if holding me to it so I didn’t launch over the small table and scratch out her weasel-like eyes.

“I don’t believe you,” I said, my voice cracking, but feeling braver than I sounded. “It’s so small compared to his.”

“He knows what you are. That’s why he calls you Mouse. You’re a rat. Vermin to be exterminated. He’ll destroy your organization, erasing you from his past.”

“Why would he do that?” I asked, too startled to think straight.

“Because he loves power.” She shrugged, as if the answer were that simple. “He’ll swallow it up and pretend it was his idea. A reformed man helping deprived woman. Brilliant, actually.” She sat back and crossed her arms over her middle. Her legs crossed as well.

My mouth moved, but no sound escaped.

She paused and leaned forward, wrapping her hands around her mug once again. “But what I want to know is, what were you doing in that club in the first place unless you were asking for something?”

“I worked there,” I blurted, offering too quickly the truth, noting it was the wrong answer. She would misunderstand, but I was too angry to care what she thought.

“Tack has needs, sweetheart,” she said in a condescending voice. “And only someone strong like me can give him what he wants, when he wants it.” Her brow rose, implying that she was willing to let him have her.

I pressed off the table, feeling it wobble under my weight.

“You’re the type of woman that makes other women hate being a woman.” I stepped away leaving her with that thought. I had no other words for her. As for her willingness to meet Tack’s needs, it wouldn’t happen without a fight.

I stomped toward the front desk, demanding to know where Marco’s office was. I was told that Marco wasn’t in his office but in Tack’s private suite on the third floor. Following the directions given, I took the stairs, hoping to release some negative energy before I reached his office.

I knocked just as loudly as Marco had rapped on my door this morning. Immediately, it was opened, and I was faced by Branson.

“Is he here?” I demanded, noting the surprised expression on Branson’s face, which quickly passed. His hard edge returned, but I was not intimidated by his looks. Fueled by my anger, I brushed past him for the inner office. My breath caught momentarily at the alarming view. Floor to ceiling windows in what was obviously a corner room gave a stunning picture of the wild weather happening off in the distance.

“Brenda, thanks for the…” Tack’s voice faded when he realized I wasn’t the bartender. “Mouse,” he said, rising from his chair and circling his desk. He reached out a hand for me, but I stepped back. Instantly, his face fell.

“Abby told me you’re engaged.” The words tumbled out, rocky and sharp.

“Branson, Marco—out.” Tack’s eyes turned a dark green flame I didn’t recognize, and the door clicked behind me. “She told me you were betrothed since birth. Family tradition and all,” I added, knowing Tack Corbin came from wealth, and that meant Abby Goodwin was a good match for him.