38

I HOPE YOUR COMPANY LETS YOU VISIT THEIR INVESTMENT EVERY NOW AND then, Jenny.” The real estate agent winked at Allie, who had left her name in California and was going by Jenny Jackson here in San Salvador, Bahamas. The realtor was about sixty, very tan, and seemed to always unbutton his shirt one button too far. He probably considered himself a roguish flirt, and he may even have been one twenty years ago.

“San Salvador is a beautiful island.”

“You’ll fit right in.” Another wink. “It’s known for its beautiful women.”

She smiled. She hardly felt beautiful. As part of a comprehensive effort to change her appearance, she had cut her hair short, dyed it red, and gotten rid of her cat tat (which had hurt way more than the tattoo removal place had promised). She felt like she should be driving a minivan to soccer practice.

“Well, here you go.” He handed Allie the keys to the small, white beach bungalow in front of them.

“Thanks.” Allie took the keys and weighed them in her hand. She wondered how long she’d be living in the Bahamas. A year? Ten years? Forever? How long would it take for Blue Sea and the Kansas police to forget about her? She suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to be alone.

She shook his hand quickly and grabbed the handle of the larger of her two rolling suitcases. “Goodbye, Mr. Thornton.”

He took the handle of the other suitcase and began to follow her. “Not so fast, Jenny. Let me help you get these inside.” He grinned. “Also, I left a little house-warming gift in the refrigerator. What do you say we open it and toast your first night in your new home?”

Allie retrieved her other suitcase from the arthritic lothario. “Thank you, Mr. Thornton, but I’d like to be alone. Besides, it’s the company’s house, not mine.”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing sadder than a pretty woman drinking champagne by herself.”

Allie could think of a lot of sadder things. Drinking champagne with him, for example. “Goodbye, Mr. Thornton,” she repeated.

She opened the door and walked in, pulling the bigger suitcase over the threshold after her.

Mr. Thornton didn’t follow her, but he also didn’t walk away. “Well, you know you’ll never need to buy a drink when you’re in Nassau, Jenny.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” She pulled in the second suitcase. “Goodbye, Mr. Thornton,” she said a third time.

She shut the door and took a deep breath. A window was open and she could hear Mr. Thornton’s footsteps finally retreating toward his rental car.

The last time she had seen the bungalow, it looked like the set of an early 1960s period movie. Wicker furniture, a fondue set, framed Mondrian prints, black rotary dial phone, the works. It even had a record player and a stack of dusty jazz albums. She could almost smell the Brylcreem.

Now it was bare and empty, except for a few major appliances that she insisted stay behind. She walked over to the fridge and opened it. As promised, it held a bottle of champagne. Good stuff too—Taittinger. It had probably set Mr. Thornton back forty dollars. She felt a little bad about not letting him come in for a glass. Not bad enough that she actually regretted her decision, though. Not even vintage Dom Perignon would have done that.

She looked around for a glass and saw two plastic champagne flutes on the counter. She popped the cork and filled one. She took a sip and the taste suddenly and powerfully evoked the memory of the last time she had tasted wine. At Wente. With Connor.

She closed her eyes and saw him at the airport—bright white shirt and smile, oh-so-professional brown hair mussed by the wind, intelligent gold-flecked brown eyes lingering on her. She remembered the feel of his hand in hers as he helped her out of the plane and the smell of Armani mingled with old leather when she stood next to him on the plane’s wing.

The scene in her mind switched to dinner—his easy grace, how he lit up when she liked an appetizer or a wine he’d ordered, the candlelight reflected in his eyes. She’d never thought of him as stunningly good-looking, particularly not compared to Erik. She would have put him against George Clooney that night, though. And not just his looks—he was the whole package in a way no other guy she’d dated had ever been.

And then she remembered the surprised look on his face when she kissed him. Well, that had surprised her too.

The plan had been to have a fun evening, nothing more. They’d go flying, go to dinner, and maybe flirt a little, but that was it. A nice last memory for both of them.

But then the thrill of flying—really flying, not just sitting in an airborne bus—got into her blood, coloring the rest of the evening with a sort of reckless exhilaration. Then she’d had a little too much wine because he kept insisting that she taste this or that reserve vintage.

After that, she’d found herself telling him her deepest, darkest secret. She hadn’t realized how much she wanted to let it out—how much she needed to. Confessing it had been such a relief. She’d never been able to before, but the wine and the fact that it was her last night brought the words gushing out.

Then when she’d finished, he told her she was a good woman. Just like that.

All of a sudden, she had been on the cusp of telling him everything. Erik’s drug dealing and her complicity in it. The dead boy in Kansas. Blue Sea’s blackmail. Even the fake invoices she had planted at Deep Seven to buy time while she planned her escape strategy.

Fortunately, she had stopped herself. Once he knew, he’d never let her disappear to the Bahamas. He’d insist on doing all sorts of impossible things: fighting the good fight against Blue Sea, talking to the Kansas police, and confessing her fraud on Deep Seven.

She smiled and shook her head. Then she lifted her flute. “To Connor. You’re too good for my good.”

She drained her glass and refilled it. The bungalow suddenly felt stuffy and dead, so she walked to the sliding glass door that opened onto a spectacular beach. She slid it back and stepped out into paradise.

She slipped off her shoes and socks on the small wooden deck behind the house and walked down to the ocean. The wet sand was cool and fresh on the soles of her feet and between her toes. A breeze blew in over the pale blue sea, bringing a wild salty scent and scraps of conversation and laughter from a boat of tourists in snorkeling gear about a hundred yards offshore. “This is heaven. I love being here,” she insisted to herself.