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“I’m sure someone does. There is another island farther off, about forty miles. Several luxury villas and a very small local population.”
“You keep in touch with it?”
“No. But they have a helipad, which means someone can fly there from the big island two hundred miles west.”
“Wanna take a boat to that island sometime?”
I smile at him and wiggle my eyebrows.
Archer’s smile is not so cheerful. “That would have to be with an army of guards. Kat, you know how it is on the mainland. Think of Port Mrei and the Ashlands. What do you think these small islands turned into?”
I didn’t think about it, true.
We circle the island for another minute, not getting too low—“We don’t want to get shot at, do we?” Archer says—and turn back toward Zion.
I don’t want to let him go, which is a slippery slope, considering I am here to do a job, and he considers me entertainment. Every fuck we share is closer to the end. And that slippery slope—I’m diving head in.
But it’s even more disappointing when we land and, as we walk toward his bike, his phone rings.
“Another meeting,” he says when he cuts the call. “Want me to take you to your place?”
“I’ll go to the Center and work for a bit.”
I still have a lot of paperwork to sift through, and later, I might go and crash some party. Archer doesn’t trust me with the residents’ files, so I have to make friends.
“How about dinner?” he asks as he helps me onto his bike, his words so seemingly laid back that for a moment, I am taken aback. He wants to have dinner? With me? “At my place. Eight o’clock.” He lets a smile out to play.
His voice is warm and husky. I like when he loses that edge he has around other people.
“Sounds nice,” I murmur, dizzy from the thought.
First, we do breakfast. Now we top it off with dinner. This is getting a bit complicated, and this complication makes the butterflies in my stomach go wild.
My hands are on his waist, feeling his every little move, his breathing as we ride through Ayana, and I squeeze him tighter so that he knows I am in. Wherever this is going.
We walk into the Center together, drawing glances from the employees. They all run their mouths, but I don’t care. When I’m gone, I’ll be history.
“Eight o’clock,” Archer reminds me as we part. “Later.”
My heart sinks.
I want to hear, “Later, kitten.” This sudden change in his attitude is annoying. He smiles at others in the office. Me, I’m like a dirty little secret.
And, of course, the Pink Medusa is leaning on the doorway to her office, her hand curling a pink strand, her eyes shooting arrows in my direction.
I smile widely at her and stroke the Cuban links around my neck just to fuck up her mood.
48
KAT
I’ve spentan hour fine-combing O’Shea and Cunnigham’s files when a message comes from Dad.
O’Shea’s house fire in Birmingham was arson, though they never found the culprit. That time, O’Shea was in Russia(red flag), then went to the Emirates without ever going to Birmingham(red flag). Stayed there for two years. Something is not right. I’m still waiting for my Russian connection to give me info about his son.
I want to tell Archer. He needs to know. His office is open, Pink Medusa standing at the doorway, though the blinds are closed.
I walk up.
