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“What I’m trying to tell you is that there is a massive manhunt going on for you right now.”
She lifted a brow. “For you, as well, it seems.”
He smiled. And for just an instant she forgot that she didn’t find him handsome. “Point taken.”
He reached into the shorts pocket, drew out a wet crumpled photograph and held it out. Reluctantly she stepped close and took it, recognizing the man in the picture at once.
“You remember him.” It wasn’t a question. He’d seen her reaction to Simon Renton’s photograph. “He came into your art studio the night befor
e your gallery showing. He left something there. I need it back.”
So that was why she was still alive. He needed something from her. “And you think I have it?”
“I know you have it. Or at least can help me find it and end all of this.”
And she had a pretty good idea just how it would end.
She glanced down the beach. The tide was coming in. The surf pounded at the rocks off to her left. To her right the short sandy beach ended in a throng of mangroves. Her only chance was getting past Landry and making a run for it back up the trail.
But even if she managed to get past him, she knew she wouldn’t get far back in the brush and trees. And taking off swimming would be suicide even if he didn’t come after her and drown her. Not to mention, the person who’d been shooting at her could be waiting in the trees.
“Look, I know what you’re thinking,” he said, his voice softening. “But you’re out of places to run. There’s already someone on the island taking potshots at you. It’s just a matter of time before they kill you.”
This, at least, sounded true. She said nothing, just looked at him, wondering what it was he thought she had and what possible chance she had of surviving this.
“You have a problem?” he asked.
She glared at him, realizing she was beyond caring right now if he shot her or drowned her or broke her neck. “Kind of the same one. I don’t believe anything you tell me.”
“You have quite the mouth on you, Ms. Willa St. Clair.” He took a step toward her, backing her to the edge of the water, his gaze locked on her lips. “Quite a nice mouth, actually.”
She felt herself squirm under the heat of those dark eyes. She was at his mercy, completely alone with a man she knew was a killer. But she also sensed that backing down would only make her more vulnerable—if that were possible. She stood her ground as he stepped so close that she could see tiny gold flecks in that dark gaze and feel heat radiating from his body.
“If you expect me to help you, then I suggest you stop threatening me,” she said, surprised her voice could sound so calm with her pulse thundering in her ears. “All you’re doing is convincing me you’re exactly the man I think you are and certainly not one to be trusted.”
His hand came up so quickly it took everything in her not to flinch. His fingertips were cool and rough as they trailed across her cheek to her lips. He dragged one finger over her lower lip, his gaze never leaving her eyes, then trailed it down her throat, stopping at her collarbone.
She held her breath and wondered just how far Landry Jones would go to get whatever it was he thought she had.
He drew back his fingertips and stepped away.
She let herself take a breath, her body trembling, suddenly more afraid than when he’d held her under water. There were worse things than death.
* * *
LANDRY WAS LOSING patience—with this woman—and with himself. He was used to getting what he wanted. Even Freddy D.’s men knew better than to push him too far.
For most of the past two years, he’d worked undercover, using intimidation like a weapon. Maybe he’d been undercover and around men like Freddy D. for too long.
But this woman was also exasperating as all hell. She was nothing like the mild-mannered Willa St. Clair he’d asked out for coffee the night of her art showing. Funny how just a few days could change a person. Or had all this steel been under all that sweet innocence?
Well, if she’d changed, he had only himself to blame for it. Seeing a man shot down in front of her had to have an effect. Especially on a woman like Willa St. Clair. He’d had a friend of his on the force do some checking on the artist. He suspected she was as squeaky-clean and green behind the ears as she seemed to be.
Or had been. Now she was on the run and desperate. He knew from experience that that alone could change a person.
He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. “Let me lay it out for you. I infiltrated a crime organization operating out of southern Florida. After a while Zeke came in and then Simon.” He looked past her to the gulf, his eyes dark. “We worked for a man named Freddy D.”
“Freddy Delgado,” she said.
