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I laugh and let him put me in the shower, standing still while he washes me all over with a soapy sponge. I don’t know what’s best for us. Less for James to worry about would be best, I suppose, and another life, me having a baby, will be more for him to worry about. But for me?
I look down at my tummy, wondering.
Hoping.
Praying.
We walk down the beach to Danny and Rose’s hand in hand, James carrying the wine and my shoes, me carrying my purse. “I haven’t seen Goldie today,” I say, looking up to the bar where Zinnea sings. It’s her night off so the beach and half of St. Lucia are spared the sound of her dulcet tones so she can enjoy dinner with herfamily.
“Me neither,” James says, pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping his thumb across the screen before slipping it back in and reclaiming me.
“She didn’t say anything last night?” I ask.
“Oh, she said plenty, and none of it suited the dress she was wearing.”
I laugh, even if it’s misplaced. “I like girlie Goldie.”
“I think she’s going to be gone for a while.” He drops my hand and puts his arm around me, kissing my hair, and I hum my agreement, knowing the news we got last night will likely put Goldie back a few paces on her path to freedom. Brunelli, the man who raped her and turned her into the cold-hearted, emotionless female we all know and love, is dead, and she thought James had exorcised his demons, so a softer, more feminine woman—one who let her guard down, was starting to emerge. One who wore dresses and drank wine. I imagine she’ll be feeling quite crestfallen right now. But she won’t walk away. Not until she knows James can.
Because when The Bear dies, so does the merciless assassin that James became after his family was murdered. When The Bear dies, so does The Enigma. I’m not deluded enough to believe it stops there entirely, though. Like Danny, you don’t make a name for yourself and walk away as if you never tortured and murdered dozens of men, even if they deserved to die. Expect the unexpected. I have to live by that motto if I am to live with James, and I cannot live without him, so that is that.
“There’s Otto and Esther,” I say, motioning to the path that leads down from Esther’s place to the beach. “They’re surely not arriving together?” I saw Danny earlier. Today wouldnotbe a good day to piss him off. I find my pace increasing, wanting to get to them before they make it to Danny and Rose’s villa, to warn them about what they’re walking into. “Esther!” I yell, waving. “Wait up.” I grab James’s hand and start jogging through the sand.
“You need to stay out of it, Beau,” James mumbles. “Not our problem.”
“Do you want Otto to die?”
“Danny won’t kill Otto.”
I snort. I may not have known Danny Black for long, but I know him well. He’s unpredictable. Shoots from the hip. And today, he’s in a bad mood. “I’d rather not chance it,” I say, reaching them.
“Chance what?” Otto asks, looking between us. “What’s going on?”
“Danny.”
“What about him?” Esther asks, her voice high and worried. “Did something happen?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I went shopping with Rose earlier. She was weirdly cagey, and James said Danny hardly murmured a word while they were out on the jet skis earlier.”
“I imagine that’s because he drank enough Scotch last night to sink a fucking cruise liner,” Otto mumbles. “Understandable, given the circumstances.”
“You shouldn’t have told us,” Esther says, looking between James and Otto accusingly.
James laughs, and Otto rubs at his forehead. I won’t join them in openly expressing their thoughts on that, but I have to agree, it’s a crazy suggestion. Esther is basically saying we women are gullible. That we don’t know our men. That they could disappear for fuck knows how long to find and kill someone and we wouldn’t suspect a thing.For God’s sake.
“I mean it,” she affirms, pointing toward Danny and Rose’s villa. “If that bloody bear doesn’t kill my son, his wife will.”
“The Bear won’t kill him,” Otto says, and I smile at his gruff voice being all soft and pacifying. “I promise you that, Boo.”
“Boo?” James blurts, earning a scowl from Otto.
“Say a fucking word...”
James’s hands come up in defense. “Wouldn’t dream of it”—he backs up as Otto stomps off and Esther follows—“Boo,” he adds. I smack his arm, and he laughs again, as Otto slows to a stop.
