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“That sounds dangerous for such a –”
“Are you guys talking about me?” Lucy asks, her music off.
“No.”
“Yes.” We speak at the same time, but I cut her off first. “Joe looks good covered in color,” I add, and Lucy agrees.
Felicity smiles at my fib. It’s worth it, even though I think the woman worries too much. That and the fact Lucy could take the feedback like a champion. But I’ll leave her drawing skills for Felicity. The girl’s supernatural skills are my responsibility to foster.
As soon aswe walk through the lobby of the all-inclusive resort, a boho but lavish spa of private bungalows and a bevy of first-class amenities, I see a familiar face and wonder if my travel agent was right. Apricot Islandisthe world’s ultimate destination.
It’s what I’m tempted to think seeing property owner Damien Vox, and what I assume is his family, passing us on their way to the beach. My mind flashes to the last of Vox’s three factories in Leviathsport as the chatting family leaves. I’d long given up getting a hold of any of his prime locations. But seeing him here now reminds me to seize the day.
Too bad he’s a family man, was Greiko’s words the last time Vox leased a spot we were looking at. A hookah bar and grille would have been perfect at the location, though Vox hadn’t agreed. I wonder if he remembers me and instinctively let out a groan that thankfully only Lucy and Felicity hear.
“Did the plane give you gas?” Lucy asks, leaning against the glass wall of the elevator with Joe Galaxy clutched under her arm. She lifts Joe’s head up to her ear as Felicity chastises her. “Joe wants to know if the plane gave you gas and also if he can have a brother.”
“You have an excellent view from your rooms, sir,” the vampire busboy helping us with our bags says. “And if we go through the hotel and out the opposite end, it’ll save you a sunburn.”
I tip him well, both for the advice and changing the subject. As soon as we’re in our sprawling bungalow, I tell them about Damien.
“We should create a diversion, then come at him all at once!” Lucy volunteers. Her passion is admirable, but her execution needs work.
“More like, endear ourselves to the family,” Felicity says, giving Lucy a half-curious, half-entertained look. Felicity looks up at me. “Right, Argoss? Maybe we bump into them and strike up a conversation.”
“Ooh! I can pretend I’m drowning and wait for someone to save me!” Lucy suggests.
“Too risky,” Felicity protests. “More like I order a drink and find a way to get it sent to his wife. Then I swoop and you follow.”
“You’d make a worthy adversary,” I tell my wife.
After dipping into his social media accounts, we’ve garnered just enough information about the family to make our next move. We’ll start simple – pretending we like the crap they do so they’ll talk to us.
13
FELICITY
Ihate to admit it, but coming up with schemes and then seeing them come to fruition is kind of fun, especially if the scheme is harmless. I had to shoot down Lucy’s suggestion to put herself or one of Damien’s daughters in danger so that Argoss could swoop in and rescue them.
Our plan is much simpler than trying to get hurt. I spot Mrs. Vox sitting by the poolside sunning herself while her daughters play in the water. Even though she has her face obscured by stylish sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat as she lounges, I can tell that she’s a tall, elegant woman.
I sit near her, but not too close. Leaving one lounge chair between us, I pull out my book from my overpacked pool bag, pretending to read it as I watch Lucy bound up to the two little girls and invite them to play with her. Within about a minute, they’re laughing and screaming in the water, playing a game of their own invention.
Argoss takes up his position at the bar. I see him gesture to the bartender and slip the waiter some extra cash.
It’s go time.
The waiter approaches with my preferred cocktail in hand and offers it to Mrs. Vox. “Your drink, ma’am.”
Mrs. Vox lowers her sunglasses. “I didn’t order a drink.”
“It’s courtesy of the gentleman over there,” he replies, pointing to Argoss.
“Oh, I think that’s mine, actually,” I pipe up. “That’s from my husband.” I wave to Argoss and he waves back.
The waiter’s eyes widen in embarrassment. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I wasn’t clear on where he was pointing. Here you go.”
“It’s okay,” I say, taking it and having a fortifying sip of the strawberry daiquiri he ordered for me. “Thank you.”
