An Uncommon Honeymoon Page 7

  The dealer pushed Quinn’s winnings toward her, retrieved the cards from around the table, and prepared to deal out the next hand.

  As Quinn stacked her chips, James leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You make life fun.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “So do you.” With an impish smile, she slid a small stack of chips across the green felt and parked them in front of him. “Here’s a little something for playing along. Go buy yourself something pretty.”

  This time, James didn’t hold back his laughter.

  When she finished tidying her chips, Quinn did a double take when she saw who had just filled the two seats vacated by Balding Guy and Barbara. It was none other than Rhys Townsend and Gibson Honeycutt IV. “Hey, fancy seeing you here,” she said.

  “Not really,” Rhys replied. “We come here quite often. There’s not a lot of nightlife on Provo.” Provo was the name most commonly used for Providenciales, Turks and Caicos’s most developed island.

  “We noticed that, too,” Quinn said.

  James extended his hand across the table. “James Anderson, Quinn’s husband.”

  Hearing him say those words sent a happy thrill hurtling through her.

  Rhys shook James’s hand. “Yes, I remember you from The Grove the other night. Rhys Townsend.”

  “Gibson Honeycutt,” the younger man said and clasped James’s hand. Quinn was glad to see Gibson looking clear eyed. She wasn’t so sure he remembered her from The Grove, though. Given his state at the time, that wouldn’t be much of a shock.

  The woman on the other side of Quinn jolted when Rhys said his name. She clearly recognized it. Based on the furtive glances others around the table sent his way, everyone knew exactly who he was.

  “So, James and Quinn Anderson,” Rhys started as he tossed a chip into the pile as an ante. “I assume you’re from the States.”

  “We are,” James answered.

  Rhys’s eyes tracked the cards as the dealer distributed them. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a librarian,” Quinn said.

  Rhys chuckled and nodded. “That explains the book you had readily available.”

  “It does,” she said with a smile.

  “What about you, James?”

  “I work for the government.”

  Gibson’s head snapped up from where he’d lowered it to check his hole cards. “In D.C.?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  “Do you know my dad? He’s a senator.”

  His words set off a ripple of whispers around the table.

  “Sorry, not personally. I’m just a drone. I’m way too far down the food chain to ever swim with the muckety-mucks on Capitol Hill.”

  “Eh,” Gibson said dismissively. “You’re not missing anything. Bunch of bores.”

  The poker hand got under way. Quinn chalked up the hush that descended over the table to the movie star in their midst. But as Quinn, James, Gibson, and Rhys chatted, others were drawn into the conversation. Before long, poker was secondary to the animated conversations taking place. Rhys had everyone howling with laughter when he told the story of a practical joke he’d pulled during the filming of Waltzing with the Enemy. The target of the prank—which had involved duct tape, cooked spaghetti, and a bicycle pump—had been a well-known actress, his costar, Jessica Santorini. Fortunately for Rhys, Ms. Santorini was a good sport and the threatened restraining order against him had turned out to be a joke of her own.

  “It was also during that shoot Rhys and I became friends,” Gibson said. “I was going out with the woman who played Edward Walker’s dog walker. I used to hang out on the set.”

  “Right,” Quinn said. “Samson the goofy pug. I love that dog.” She frowned and her voice crackled with pique when she said, “I couldn’t believe it when Manuela Guzman swiped him from Walker’s flat in One Death Away. I got so mad when she threatened to turn him loose all alone in North York Moors if Walker didn’t give her the location of the secret research lab.”

  Quinn caught the looks that passed between James and Rhys. Her chin jutted out. “I’m very passionate about the humane treatment of pets.”

  “I know,” James said and pecked her cheek. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

  Mollified, Quinn turned her face to his and caught his lips in a quick kiss. Her face was only inches from his when she murmured, “I love you too.” Neither of them moved. Was it her or had the room abruptly turned into a sauna?

  The muscles in James’s jaw worked. “What do you say? You ready to go?”

  “I am,” she said, holding his gaze.

  They separated and began to gather their chips.

  “Ah, the honeymooners are in need of some time alone,” Rhys said with a knowing smile.

  The heat rose in Quinn’s cheeks when James gave him a sly look and replied, “Can you blame me?”

  “Not in the least.” Rhys turned to Gibson. “What do you say we invite the Andersons to our fundraiser on Saturday?” He returned his attention to James and Quinn. “We’re having a bit of a soiree to raise funds for hurricane relief at Gibson’s estate.”

  Her brows pulled together. “Was there one that came through recently we missed hearing about?”

  Rhys swept his hand through the air as if swatting away a fly. “No, no. But there’s always a nasty one blowing through the islands at some time or another. We’ve set up a fund and have these annual events to raise money beforehand.”

  In other words, a good excuse for throwing a party.

  James shot her a questioning look. She responded with a noncommittal shrug. “That’s a very kind offer, but—” James started.

  Rhys held up his hand. “Yes, yes. I understand. Honeymooning and all that.” Quinn caught his meaning when he looked at her and mimed writing on his palm. She dug out a piece of paper and a pen from her purse and handed them over. “If you decide you’d like to attend, call this number,” he said as he wrote. “Tell Grace I invited you personally. She’ll put you on the list.”

  Quinn took back the paper and pen and stuffed them in her bag. “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

  James and Quinn said their farewells and cashed out their chips. A few dollars richer, they stepped out into the warm night air and strolled hand in hand toward their rental car.

  “I hope you don’t mind us not accepting the party invite right away,” James said.

  “No, it’s fine. Although I do have to admit I’m curious about what the inside of Gibson Honeycutt’s estate looks like.”

  “We can still go if you want.”

  “Why don’t we sleep on it and see how we feel about it tomorrow?”

  He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. He kissed her hair and rumbled, “Or we can not sleep at all.”

  She smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. “That’ll work, too.”

  * * *

  Warm trade winds caressed Quinn’s skin as she reclined in her lounge chair dug deep in the sand. An umbrella—and a thick coat of sunscreen—protected her from the tropical sun’s scorching rays. She held her book open in her hands, but her eyes gazed over the top of it. The latest escapade of Edward Walker would have to wait.

  Using her finger as a bookmark, she closed the book and let her hand drop. With her other hand, she lifted her aviator sunglasses from her face and set them atop her head. She wanted nothing to alter the colors of the breathtaking vista before her. A few yards in front of her, white sand met impossibly clear, turquoise water. In the near distance, boats with brightly colored sails skimmed across the bay under white puffy clouds suspended in a vivid blue sky. She inhaled the scent of ocean and exhaled a sigh. This was paradise.

  Her view only improved when James rose from the water like Poseidon, only without the beard and trident. It was as if a spell had been cast over her, altering the passage of time as she shamelessly ogled him. He seemed to move in slow motion as he plowed his way through the surf toward her. She licked her lips as he drew clo
ser, his water-soaked board shorts clinging to his hips and thighs. When he slicked his wet hair back with his hands, she thought she might actually expire from sheer bliss.

  Time returned to normal speed when he stood over her and shook his head like a wet dog. Droplets of water went flying, eliciting a squeal of laughter from Quinn. Truth be told, the cool spray felt heavenly on her warm skin.

  James bent forward and gave her a salty kiss before reclaiming the lounge chair next to her. “You up for some snorkeling in a little while?” He swung up his long legs and slipped on his Ray-Bans. “The water’s incredible.”

  Quinn watched two bikini-clad teenage girls walk by. They almost tumbled over each other openly staring at James as they passed. She smiled. Who could blame them?

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Words a husband always likes to hear from his wife,” James said with a salacious grin.

  She laughed and whacked his arm with the back of her book.

  Quinn lowered her sunglasses and deadpanned, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to put more sunblock on your back before we go in the water, though.”

  “That’s a shame,” he replied in a tone matching hers. “You know how much I dislike it when you rub your hands all over my back.”

  “Yeah. It’s real drudgery for me, too.”

  From the corner of her eye, Quinn saw a figure sit on the empty lounge chair on her other side. Rather than stretching out, he sat facing her with his forearms on his knees and hands clasped as if waiting for her to notice him.

  Quinn turned her head and sized him up in an instant. She put him at about forty years old. His short brown hair sported a few flecks of gray while the neatly trimmed beard covering his square jaw had none. Lean and fit, he wore khaki shorts, a T-shirt with the Turks and Caicos flag on the front, and black rubber flip-flops.

  Puzzled, she looked into his hazel eyes and gave him a polite smile.

  The man blinked once and said, “Aldous Meyers says hello.”

  Chapter Eight

  Quinn stiffened, but managed to keep the pleasant smile plastered on her face even as alarm bells clanged in her head. How did this man know the name of her and James’s supervising officer at the CIA? Until she knew what the hell was going on, she wasn’t going to give him anything. “I’m sorry. You must have me confused with someone else.”

  James was already out of his chair and coming around the end of Quinn’s lounger. She folded her legs up to make room for him. He sat next to her, his muscles rigid with tension.

  “I don’t believe I do, Quinn.” The man’s eyes darted to her husband. “Don’t worry, James. I’m not going to hurt either of you.” He sat straighter and smiled. “I understand congratulations are in order. Aldous tells me you two are on your honeymoon. May you enjoy a lifetime of love, joy, and happiness together.” She caught a Texas twang in his words.

  “Thank you,” James said, his voice tight. The man’s affability had in no way diminished the tautness in James’s posture. He was coiled and ready to pounce on the interloper at the first sign of ill intent. “You have us at a disadvantage. You seem to know all about us. We don’t know anything about you. Care to share?”

  “You bet. We should talk someplace a little more private.”

  The hair stood up on the back of Quinn’s neck. “We’re not going anywhere until we know who you are.”

  “The name’s Dave Flores. I used to work with Aldous Meyers.” He took his phone from his pocket and held it toward Quinn. “Go ahead and call him. Ask him about me.”

  Her nostrils twitched. “How do we know you aren’t with some kind of cabal who kidnapped him and are just waiting for this call? He says you’re his BFF only because he’s got a gun to his head.”

  “Fine. Call him yourself,” Flores said, returning his phone to his pocket.

  James reached into Quinn’s beach bag sitting on the sand between their lounge chairs. He retrieved his secure phone and touched the screen. “I’ll call his office. If he’s not there, his assistant should be able to verify his whereabouts.”

  James put the phone to his ear. After a brief pause, he said, “Good afternoon. Is Aldous Meyers in? This is James Anderson.” He turned to Quinn and snapped a nod. “Thank you.”

  Internally, Quinn stepped down one DEFCON level.

  From the look of concentration on James’s face, Quinn knew Meyers was speaking.

  “Yes,” James said. “He just contacted us.”

  Meyers never was one for idle chitchat.

  While James listened to their boss, Quinn kept her stare pinned on Dave Flores. To her surprise, his eyes never drifted lower than her face. She was wearing a bikini, after all, and an admittedly skimpy one at that. She always wore shorts and a T-shirt whenever she and James walked from their hotel room to the beach. Even then, she garnered open and long stares from the male population. And yet now, here she sat with very little fabric covering her and Dave Flores’s gaze never dipped once.

  “Yes, sir. We’ll take it under advisement.” A small smile formed on James’s lips. “We’re having a great time. Thank you.”

  And now Quinn lowered to DEFCON 3.

  James ended the call, but kept the phone in his hand. Like her, James had relaxed some, but his undercurrent of wariness remained. “Meyers says we can trust you. He also said we have every right to remind you we’re on our honeymoon and tell you to take a flying leap.”

  “He said that?” Flores asked.

  James stared hard at him. “I embellished the last part. But the sentiment is the same.”

  “Fair enough. And I get you’re on your honeymoon and all. I wouldn’t be bothering you if this wasn’t really important. Please”—his voice turned pleading—“give me a half hour. That’s all I ask. If you can’t or won’t help me after you hear me out, that’s fine. I’ll go away and you won’t see or hear from me again. I promise.”

  A wordless conversation comprised of raised eyebrows, shrugs, pursed lips, and nods took place between James and Quinn. After they’d exchanged winks confirming they had come to an understanding, James turned to Flores. “Whatever all this is about, it’s not an imminent threat to national security. Otherwise, Meyers would have told us to drop everything and help you. So, we’re not going to interrupt the rest of our day for you. Come to our hotel room tonight at twenty-one-hundred hours. We can talk freely there.”

  The relief from Flores was palpable. “Thank you.”

  James dipped his chin in acknowledgement. “And now if you’ll excuse us, we have some important snorkeling to do.”

  Without another word, Dave Flores stood and strode off.

  Quinn watched his retreating form and let the tension leech from her muscles. “We had a normal honeymoon there for a little while.”

  “We did.” James put his finger on her chin, turned her face to his and gave her a kiss. “But then again, with the way our first date went, would you expect anything less?”

  She smiled. “It was a doozy, wasn’t it?” After another kiss, she added, “What you’re saying is normal is overrated.”

  “Exactly.” After one more kiss, he stood and pulled Quinn to her feet. “Now come on, Mrs. Anderson. Let’s go swim with the fishes.”

  * * *

  James handed Quinn an unopened bottle of water and flopped down on the sofa next to her.

  “Thanks.” She twisted off the cap and took several long pulls. Being out in the sun and salt water all day gave her an epic thirst. Her cells soaked up the water like a dried-out sponge.

  James guzzled down half his bottle in one breath. He set it on the table, angled his body toward her, and rested his arm across the top of the back cushions. “We have no idea what this guy wants from us. So if he asks us to do anything you’re not okay with, that’s good enough for me.” He rubbed lazy circles on her shoulder with his fingertips. “I don’t want this to ruin the rest of our time here.”

  “That goes for me, too. If you’re not fully on board, we pass.
”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Quinn glanced at her watch. “Nine o’clock straight up. The guy’s prompt.”

  James went to the door and opened it.

  Quinn stood when Dave Flores entered the room carrying a wine bottle with a red bow wrapped around the neck. After they exchanged greetings, he handed the bottle to Quinn. “My wife insisted I bring you a gift since I’m crashing your honeymoon.”

  “Thank you,” she said and took the bottle. “Is she here with you?”

  “No, she’s home with the kids. This is business, and she never travels with me for that. Most of the time I’m in parts of the world she’s better off not being in.” He breathed a quiet laugh. “When she found out I was coming to Turks and Caicos, though, it was a little harder for her to stay home.”

  “I’m sure. It’s a beautiful place.” Quinn indicated the armchair with her hand and set the wine on the table. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.”

  James and Quinn settled on the couch again. She nestled into his side when he draped his arm around her shoulders.

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Flores?” Quinn asked.

  “Please, call me Dave.” He rubbed his hands together nervously. “I don’t know exactly where to start, so I’ll just dive right in. I’m former CIA. That’s how I know Aldous Meyers.”

  “We kind of already had that part figured,” Quinn said.

  “Yeah, sorry. I left the agency a couple of years ago, after an op where . . .” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Where we ran across a human trafficking ring.”

  Quinn flinched. “That’s awful.”

  “I left the agency and founded a non-governmental organization called Rescuing Lost Innocents. We work to rescue people caught in human trafficking. We also go undercover to compile evidence to bring down these rings and their exploitative customers.”

  “That’s admirable work,” James said, “but I’m not sure how we can help you.”

  Flores scooted forward in his chair and sat on the edge of the cushion. “Here’s the thing. There’s someone here on Provo we believe uses the services of one of these rings. And you’ve met him.”