Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Oh, he definitely minds.
His lips flatten in a seething line, holding back all the ways he wants to tell me off. Then he looks at her. His face softens, and he reluctantly hands over his phone.
I scroll through his most recent messages. Texts from Sirena about media sightings in town—or lack thereof. Another text states she heard we were at Tipsy Sailor, and she’s on her way inside. Other messages go back and forth with various colleagues and assistants, nagging him to sign off on documents and reschedule meetings that he missed. Then there’s a conversation with a guy about flight school.
I hold that one to his face, lifting my brow in question.
“It was just an inquiry.” His nostrils flare. “If you’re not interested…”
“We can discuss it later.” I continue searching for the messages I don’t see—the cryptic ones to Frankie.
“There’s nothing here.” I pass it back to him. “Empty your pockets.”
“No.” He scowls.
“Then I’ll search you myself.” I step closer.
“The hell you will.”
“I’ll do it.” She stands, drawing his furious gaze. “Please.”
He works his jaw then gives her a curt nod.
I stiffen, hating the idea of her going near him. I already know she won’t find anything.
“Forget it.” I reach out to halt her.
She slips away from me and circles Monty’s rigid frame.
He turns to stone as she pauses behind him and sweeps her hands down his hips. My blood simmers as she frisks the front and back pockets of his jeans, stroking his goddamn ass.
He closes his eyes, throat bobbing, clearly savoring her pat down.
“Wallet.” She shifts to his front. “Keys…and…”
Her fingers go still.
Right beside his dick.
His eyes slowly open.
As I lunge forward, she holds up a finger, demanding me to stay back, to trust her.
Goddammit.
She presses on his pocket, and a wrapper crinkles.
“Condom.” She clears her throat.
“Tell me, wife,” he says through his teeth, grinding each syllable, “why would I have a condom?”
“Not my business.”
“Everything I do is your business. Remove it from my pocket.”
“No.”
“You started this.” He stands taller, his posture challenging. “Finish it.”
Fuck me. She never backs down from a dare.
Stabbing her hand into his pocket, she yanks out…
A Band-Aid?
One of those large square pads in a wrapper.
“Oh.” Slowly, her eyes lift to the one on his neck.
He holds out his palm, and she sets the bandage on it.
“No.” He pockets the Band-Aid and extends his hand again with a firm, drawn-out command. “Your phone.”
She gives it over and slumps onto the couch.
He doesn’t waste time reading the texts, his face contorting with rage.
“You thought this was me?” he roars, his temper boiling over. “These messages are fucking disturbing. Threatening. They’re from someone who knows her, who knows us.”
“They knew she was with Rhett.” Kody hardens his eyes. “That narrows it down to the four of us and the security guards.”
“And anyone Rhett might’ve told.” She rubs her head. “I was missing for nine months. For all I know, he told the entire hospital he was coming to see me.”
“Text him. Ask him who he told.” Monty sets her phone in her hand and stalks to the port side, staring out the windows at the waterfront. “Anyone with a camera phone could’ve zoomed in and watched Rhett board the yacht.”
A sharp intake of air burns my throat.
“If I had to guess,” he says, “the sender used SMS spoofing. The number was probably a temporary number used by the spoofer for a short period and deactivated after the spoofing attempt.”
“That would explain why I couldn’t respond.” She purses her lips.
“Somewhere between obsession and compulsion is impulse.” Monty paces the cabin, cursing under his breath. “That’s a Pushkin quote.”
“How do you know?”
“When I found the book of poems in my father’s office, I acquainted myself with the poet’s work.”
He freezes and turns toward a side table. With a guttural bellow, he swings his arms and sends a lamp crashing into the wall.
She flinches, and Kody shifts, putting himself between her and Monty.
Gripping the back of an armchair, Monty straightens, rolls his neck, and with a startling switch in his demeanor, he takes control of the situation. “We’re returning to the safety of the island. Right fucking now.”
My raw nerves fray as he storms off toward the helm, his gait decisive and controlled.
“It could still be him,” Kody mutters.
“Do you think his reaction was an act?” I look at her.
“No.” She chews on her lip. “He can pull off stoic and distant. But when he’s upset, his temper flies just like yours. That—” she points in the direction he went “—was Monty under duress.”
With resistance, my gut agrees.
If the unknown number isn’t him, who is it? And what do they want?
The tension heightens as we prepare to depart. The yacht’s engine roars to life, and Monty navigates us out of the harbor.
As we gather at the helm, Kody takes over the controls for the short ride back. I imagine he’ll be operating his own boat soon, maybe a little cruiser like Frankie’s.