Page 29

“Brock—”

A knock at the door interrupted whatever she’d been about to say.

“Room service,” a cheerful voice called. “Complimentary breakfast!”

Brock groaned. “I didn’t order anything.”

“Honeymoon package,” Elena guessed, climbing out of bed. “Probably automatic.”

The breakfast cart held enough food for four people—fresh fruit, omelets, pastries that smelled like butter and heaven. They ate on the terrace, the resort coming to life around them. Early swimmers in the pools. Joggers on the beach. The day promising heat and sunshine.

“We should find Nate and Eden,” Brock said eventually. “Figure out the plan.”

Elena dressed in a coral sundress that made her skin glow, the fabric light and flowing in the tropical heat. She left her hair loose around her shoulders, added just enough makeup to look polished but natural. When she emerged from the bathroom, Brock’s eyes darkened in a way that made her pulse kick.

He wore khaki shorts and a navy polo that stretched across his shoulders in ways that made it difficult to concentrate. His aviator sunglasses hung from the neck of his shirt, and he looked every inch the relaxed tourist.

They found Nate and Eden at the main pool an hour later. Eden wore a simple black one-piece that should have been modest but on her looked elegant and dangerous. Her long black hair was pulled into a high ponytail, diamond studs—probably fake, but convincing—sparkling in her ears. Nate wore board shorts and a tank top, both of them the picture of a couple enjoying paradise.

“Sleep okay?” Nate asked, grinning as they approached.

“Fine,” Elena said, sliding into a lounge chair beside Eden. The cushion was thick and comfortable, the umbrella overhead providing welcome shade. “What’s the plan for today?”

“Be honeymooners,” Eden said, adjusting her sunglasses. “Lounge. Swim. Look disgustingly in love. The Jeep excursion to check the golf carts isn’t until four this afternoon. Until then, we maintain cover.”

It felt wrong to sit by a pool while Marguerite was captive. But Elena understood the necessity. Drawing attention would only put her niece in more danger.

So she let Brock rub sunscreen on her shoulders, his hands lingering longer than necessary, his touch both protective and possessive. Let him pull her into the pool, his arms around her waist, his body warm and solid against hers. Let herself laugh at something Nate said about Eden’s inability to relax even on fake vacation, the sound genuine despite the fear curled tight in her chest.

The resort’s main pool was a masterpiece of design—multiple levels cascading down natural terraces, each one flowing into the next in an endless waterfall. Swim-up bars served frozen drinks in colors that didn’t exist in nature. Couples lounged on submerged ledges, drinks in hand, the picture of vacation bliss.

They had lunch at the beachfront grill—fresh fish grilled to perfection, cold beer, chips and salsa that tasted like summer. The thatched roof provided shade while the ocean breeze kept the heat bearable. Other couples were scattered around them at weathered wooden tables, all in various stages of vacation romance. No one paid them any attention.

Perfect.

It was when they were walking back to the pool area, Brock’s arm around her waist and her body fitting naturally against his side, that Elena’s phone buzzed.

Her heart stopped. She pulled it out with steady hands—years of training keeping the tremor from showing.

The image filled her screen. Marguerite in that stone cell, her white habit torn and dirty, her face showing bruises Elena hadn’t seen before. But her eyes. God, her eyes were fierce. Defiant. Not broken.

The message that followed was simple. Dos días.

Two days.

Elena showed it to Brock without a word.

His jaw tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere private.”

He guided her back to their suite, his hand steady on her lower back. The moment the door closed behind them, Elena felt the careful control she’d been maintaining crack.

“Two days,” she said, her voice shaking. “We have two days.”

“Then we’ll do it in two days.” Brock pulled her close, then released her and headed for the terrace. “I need to call Atticus. Tell him what’s happening.”

“He’s going to be furious.”

“Probably.” Brock’s smile was wry. “But he’ll get over it. Come on—you should hear this too.”