This Year's Black (Killer Style 2)

Ryder laid the tablet in her lap. “Carlos is putting a track on Sarah’s cell phone. That’ll give us her coordinates, as long as she hasn’t disabled the GPS or turned off her phone.”

“It’ll be on in the morning.” Devin sounded sure.

Ryder hiked a brow. “What makes you say that?”

“Her mother is in an assisted living center in Harbor City. She calls her every morning at nine sharp. Everyone on the executive level at Dylan’s Department Store knew better than to buzz George’s office between nine and nine-thirty.”

Finally a break. Even with her family connections, Sarah wouldn’t be able to hide out on the tiny island much longer. “I’ll let ‘Los know.” Ryder’s thumbs flew across the screen as she texted the update to Carlos. “We only have forty-eight hours until George has to open the books to MultiCorp.”

“We’ll find her.” His firm tone didn’t leave room for doubt.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. His right cheekbone had turned the same shade of purple as a fresh eggplant. “I hope there’s a first aid kit in the back, because you’re going to need some ice packs tonight.”

He cracked a smile with only the smallest of grimaces. “You’re not looking so hot yourself, sweetheart.”

Her responding wry chuckle caught on the island breeze as they passed the hotel and continued west, heading toward the coast. She didn’t even have to glance in the rearview mirror to know he was right. She snickered softly. Sylvie and Drea were always on her to wear more color…but she highly doubted this was what they had in mind.

Devin pulled off the highway at the sign for the Andol Nature Preserve. The road was a lot bumpier than the highway, jostling her as she fought to hold herself still so her protesting muscles wouldn’t scream as loud. They passed hikers weighed down with backpacks and reusable water bottles who were heading deeper inland. Pop-up tents in various shades of blue dotted the landscape like blueberries in a muffin.

“The preserve is a popular spot,” Devin said. “No better place to hide than in plain sight.”

“Good plan.”

“Wait, you’re not biting my head off for making an executive decision?” He shifted into a lower gear as the road hit a five percent incline. “Did that guy whack you in the head or something?”

“Very funny.” She rolled her eyes.

About five miles down the road, an outcropping of trees appeared on the right. A few miles later, one of the island’s ubiquitous rock walls ran along the left side of the road, a few yards in.

Devin pulled off and parked the Jeep behind the wall. “Figured we could hump it back to the trees to spend the night. They’re looking for a hot pink Jeep, not a small tent.”

“It’s not my idea of fun, but it’s better than dealing with the Molinas’ muscle before we get a chance to patch ourselves up.”

Before she could grab any of the supplies out of the back, Devin had gathered them. He had so many bags he looked like a pack mule walking on its hind legs.

She sidled up to him. “Give me some of that.”

“No. You’re banged up.”

“Like you’re not.” She held out her hand. “Give.”

With great reluctance, he handed over the sleeping bag and the first aid kit, keeping the tent and assorted gear for himself. Rolling her eyes, she turned and headed back toward the trees. Walking down the road as the first stars appeared wasn’t the best of options, but it sure as hell beat walking in the high grass and leaving a trail of bent greenery straight to their campsite.

Thankfully, the small pop-up tent assembled with a minimum of fuss, and within fifteen minutes, they were inside tending to their wounds.

Using the chrome camping coffee pot as a mirror, she swiped her face with a sterile wipe before dabbing antiseptic on the scrapes. The bruise looked a garish purple reflected in the funhouse mirror of the metal, but she doubted it would look any better in a real mirror.

Devin groaned behind her as he tried to pull his shirt over his head instead of unbuttoning it all the way.

“Here, let me help.” She shuffled over on her knees.

He brushed her away. “I can manage.”

He lifted his arms again and his face lost a shade or two of color.

“Not so much, Mr. Tough Guy. You can’t even get your shirt off. Now shut up and let me help.”

She undid his buttons as he sat cross legged, the light from the propane lantern glinting off her gold rope bracelet, and pushed the linen material away from his chest. Puce yellow, pea green, and a funky shade of darkest blue clashed with the tattoo panorama across his muscular midsection. She traced her fingers down his ribs. He’d promised her nothing was broken, but she wouldn’t put it past him to lie about it.