This Year's Black (Killer Style 2)

“Oh my, did I annoy the wolf?” Nonplussed, Nigel leaned back in his chair and swiveled in her direction. “Is this your red riding hood? Is she in mourning for her grandmother or just sartorially challenged?”

She nailed him with her best bitch-please look. “I’m Mr. Harris’s personal assistant.”

“Ryder Falcon meet Nigel Mintus, former style maker and now… What little paper are you working for now?” Devin asked.

“I’m the fashion editor for The Daily Guardian.”

“Which comes out weekly.” Devin smirked.

She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. That burn served the asshole right.

“An unfortunate development,” Nigel snarled, then shot back, “Does your parole officer know you’ve left the country?”

She clamped her mouth shut to keep her jaw from hitting the floor. Questions ran though her head, each led by a big what the fuck.

She’d searched Devin’s background, looking for any bit of negative information she could find, and had never come across any criminal charges, let alone a conviction. She’d even pulled in Carlos, the Maltese Security computer guru, telling him to look up Devin’s background. Carlos could hack into the nuclear defense system if he wanted, but he hadn’t found shit on Devin. Who did he know to get his record wiped cleaner than Nonni’s pantry?

“I don’t have a parole officer.” Devin stiffened and his hands formed firsts, but he kept them lowered to his sides. The effort cost him, though, because his face turned as red as Sunday gravy.

“Oh, did I strike a nerve?” Nigel stood, raised an eyebrow, and pursed his lips into a duck face imitation. “Doesn’t your…ahem…personal assistant know you killed a man and nearly destroyed another? I always forget, did you kill your brother or the other teenager?”

All of the air whooshed out of Ryder’s lungs, leaving them aching. She whipped her head around to look at Devin. All the healthy color had fled his face.

Reaching down, he grabbed Nigel by the shirt front and yanked him out of the seat. “Get out of here before I shove one of those boots so far up your ass your teeth will be bedazzled.”

Ryder sprang to her feet, squeezing between the two men. The people around them fell silent, then the buzzing began as everyone whispered and tapped their thumbs against their phone touch screens, all wanting to be the first to get out the news. Devin released his hold on the other man and took several steps backward, everything about him as tense as a lion ready to pounce.

“I’m shaking here.” Nigel buffed his manicured nails against his jacket. “You better watch your manners. I’d hate to have to tell Sarah about your boorish behavior. You know she’d feel obligated to report it up the chain to George.”

“So, where is she?” The words tumbled out of Ryder’s mouth as her gaze darted around the crowd, searching for the diminutive older woman and coming up empty.

Nigel waved his hand in the air. “She’s holed up at her family pineapple farm, recovering from the party she hosted there last night for the top designers.” He smiled condescendingly at them. “That’s right, I didn’t see you there. So sorry you didn’t rate an invitation.”

The DJ stepped into his booth and a second later, a fast-paced house beat poured out of the speakers.

“Looks like you better find your seat.” Ryder sat down, relief making her lightheaded when Devin followed her lead—for once. “Are you on the front row, too?”

Nigel peered down his generous nose at her. “No. I prefer to have a more realistic experience with the actual consumers.”

“Of course you do.” She used the same voice as when her Newfoundland, Kermit, became convinced he was a lap dog.

The insult wasn’t lost on Nigel, who bared his teeth in an antagonistic imitation of a smile. “It was so nice to meet you…Ryder, wasn’t it? Just be sure not to let him drive. It’s safer that way.”

The bastard melted into the crowd hustling to find their seats.

Devin’s profile had turned to stone, except for the throbbing vein at his temple and the twitch in his left eye that had gone into overdrive. Guilt? Or resentment over being wrongly persecuted? He hadn’t denied Nigel’s accusations. Either way, she’d get to the truth.

But first, they still had to track down Sarah Molina.

…

Devin curled his fingers around the Jeep’s steering wheel tight enough that his knuckles whitened. For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure he could turn the key in the ignition. The remembered smells of burned rubber and Jack Daniels practically hovered in the air, mixing with the real life island scents rolling in on the waves. The engine’s roar might just take him all the way back to that night, and he couldn’t go back there.

Not when so much was on the line.

Clenching his jaw, he grasped the key already in the ignition and turned it. The rental’s engine sputtered to life.

Ryder yanked open the Jeep’s passenger door and slid in, her tablet in her hands. “Okay, I downloaded a live satellite feed of Sarah’s family farm to go with the map of it we already have. I’ll navigate, you drive. It’s at the heart of the island in the De Mis Promesas volcano’s shadow. Take the main highway and then a dirt road to the farmstead. It should take about thirty minutes to get there.”