documents. “It’s not here.” “It’s nowhere else in her house. I looked in all the places where women keep things.”
Glaring daggers of accusation, she leaned forward. “If you doublecross me, you lying, thieving bastard, you’ll be sorry.”
“Calm down, Lola. I have to get to her another way than a B and E into her house or bar. I have to talk to her, which I would have easily done if that Bullet Catcher hadn’t beat me to it.”
“I agree, and I have just the thing to make her talk. Leave.”
“What?”
“Go out in the hall. I’ll let you back in. I want to show you something, but you need to leave first.”
He got up with an amused look on his face and walked out, closing the door with a solid click, but she followed him and double-checked the lock. You couldn’t trust a thief.
Then she headed to the wet bar, crouched down, and opened the cabinet, which, of course, didn’t contain a drop of alcohol.
Reaching into the back, she touched the digital pad hidden behind a false door and entered the passcode. At her desk, a soft snap told her it worked. She returned to her chair, placing her hands under the front of the desk and inching out the false bottom.
There were two items on the left side. She picked up one, a photograph of a boy not more than twelve. She closed the drawer, closed the wet bar door, too, then buzzed Con back in.
She handed him the picture. “Use this to get it.”
He glanced at the boy, then up at her, disgust in his eyes. “A kid?”
“I suppose you’d want more money.”
He set the picture down, making no effort to hide his disgust. “No, thanks.”
“Oh, please, you’re suddenly developing morals?”
“I’m suddenly developing a deep distaste for your style.” He picked up his phone and headed back to the door. Damn it, she had no choice.
“Seventy-five thousand,” she said quickly.
Con hesitated and looked over his shoulder, his silvery stare cold. “A hundred.”
“Fine.” What was a hundred thousand when she stood to make a hundred million? “Take it,” she said, waving the picture.
“I don’t need it.” He left without another word.
Alone, Lola sat back down, disappointment seeping through her. Not because of the money she’d just spent, but because she thought she had Viejo beat. But the momentum in the game was definitely not on her side.
She lifted up a crispy parchment deed, the marriage license, the birth certificate, and let them flutter to her shiny desk. Useless crap that didn’t . . .
For a moment, she didn’t breathe. She just stared at the words in front of her and felt her jaw loosen.
Constantine Xenakis might just have earned his ten thousand dollars. Because if information was power, this little tidbit was a nuclear plant.
Magdalena Varcek. You little vixen.
The game had just shifted Lola’s way.
CHAPTER FOUR
BY FIVE O’CLOCK on Sunday afternoon, Dan lost the fight.
He’d done really well, too. He hadn’t gone back to Smitty’s. He hadn’t gone back to Maggie’s little house less than two miles from the marina next to the bar. He hadn’t succumbed to what he knew was a very bad idea . . . one more night with her.
More specifically, one more night of sex with her.
If she somehow figured out who he was, she’d want to kill him. If he slept with her and disappeared again—well, nothing could justify that. She deserved better.
He’d even packed his bags and checked out of the resort, with every intention of getting into that rented Porsche by noon and heading straight up U.S. 1 to Miami to spend a few days with Max and Cori and little Peyton. Maybe he’d call the Bullet Catchers’ office and run a background on Constantine Xenakis. That’s all he needed to do.
Nothing had to be done . . . in person.
Yet, he turned onto the street where she lived. He still had that nagging belief that he recognized the vandal who’d broken into the car, so he just couldn’t leave. It wasn’t safe for her.
Then he turned the corner and saw her.
Man, it wasn’t safe for him.
She was splayed over the hood of a white truck, sudsy water rolling all over the place, her arms wiping furiously. Tiny jeans shorts barely covered her heart-shaped butt, a bushel of curls tied up like a palm tree grew out of her head, and the skimpy pink tank top had to be soaking wet as she laid her whole screaming-hot body over the front end