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Cash. They all operate on cash. Which would also include his bar.
Money laundering, I’ll bet. One of the guys Russ used to hang out with at the bar, a guy I used to call Uncle Steve, even though he wasn’t my real uncle, once gave me a very confusing drunken explanation of it. The gist of it was, turning dirty cash to clean cash in a way that wouldn’t flag the IRS. Shell companies were one of the methods.
Swiping up my camera from the back seat, I snap a couple of shots of him before he enters the coffee shop, making sure to zoom in on the bag in a few of them. I don’t know why, except a part of me feels like I should document it. Mostly, I just think it’s shitty that the guy is so dishonest, but also, way to put his employees at risk. Once he’s stepped inside, I flip through the pictures. With his long strides and that wickedly sharp jawline, the guy reminds me of something out of a magazine. These shots could’ve been taken on the busy streets of New York and he’d have fit right in. It’s nauseating how incredibly handsome the man is.
I zoom in on his profile in one of the images, mesmerized for a moment.
The knock on my window jerks my muscles, and I drop the camera into my lap. Gaze snapping toward the passenger seat, I let out a gasp, my heart leaping up into my throat.
Standing outside the door, Bedroom Eyes lifts two coffees.
Choking back the mortification, I scowl, as if he’s the intruder, and open the door for him. Passing off one of the coffees to me, he slides into the seat, taking a moment to look around, his gaze seeming to catch on where a small glob of what looks to be dried tuna clings precariously to the glove box in front of him. From when I dropped my sandwich last night, no doubt.
Even I crinkle my nose at the sight of it.
The heat of the drink leaches into my hands, while a thick, uncomfortable silence hangs between us.
“Why are you stalking me, Miss James?”
Hearing him say my name aloud, even if it’s not my real name, is as fantastically unnerving as watching an ASMR video. “I’m not stalking you.”
“You weren’t taking pictures of me?”
With a snort, I shake my head, but before I can grab my camera, he snatches it off my lap. “Hey! Give that back!” When I reach for it, he swats my hand away and, to my horror, figures out how to scroll through the images. “You’re a money launderer.”
Tipping his head, he studies one of the shots I took of him crossing the street. My favorite one, but irrelevant. “And you’re obscenely good with the camera.”
“Is it drug money?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Do your staff know you do this? That you put them at risk?”
“Tell me, what do you suppose you’ll buy with the extra hundred bucks I negotiated for you this afternoon?”
“I was thinking a pair of pretty lace panties to wear when I have you kiss my ass. What do you plan on doing with a crossbow, anyway?”
He shrugs. “Give it away to someone. What were you doing with it to begin with?”
“Hunting snakes. Had I known there was a big one still roaming about, I’d have hung onto it a little longer.”
“Ah, well, good thing I took that one off your hands for you, as well. All these dangerous weapons, someone could get hurt.”
“If you think you’re doing the world any favors, I think you need to reevaluate your life. What are these different places, a front?”
“Where are you staying on the island?”
“Nice way to deflect the question. You’re giving me back my knife, by the way. Just so we’re clear. We have a meeting tomorrow, remember? Eight sharp.”
“Eight sharp.”
“And I have every intention of being there. With bells on.”
“And lace panties, I presume”
“Black to match your soul.”
“Bien. I look forward to seeing you. And them.” He casually sips his coffee, like every move the man makes is precisely calculated to the decimal.
