The Resurrection (Unlawful Men)

“Spittle,” Danny snarls, knocking back the rest of his drink.

“And The Enigma’s in Miami?”

Danny looks at me, and I slowly lean back, not liking the nervous smile on his face. “No, he’s not in Miami,” he says, and I relax a little. “He’s here.”

“What?”

“He’s here.”

“Here where?”

Danny motions in the general direction of nothing. “In St. Lucia.”

“Excuse me?” I splutter, my eyes darting around us. “You brought a stone-cold killer to our home?”

“And his girlfriend.”

I blink, my hand losing the grip of my glass. It plops into the water, and I watch as it sinks to the bottom of the pool. Sinking. Dazed, I hear Danny call Keith, and I look at him, seeing him pointing into the water. I follow his pointing finger and see my tumbler on the bottom. “The Enigma has a girlfriend?” I ask, blinking.

“Well,” Danny sniffs, pouting up at the sun, “this stone-cold killer has a wife.”

He thinks this is funny? I get up, exasperated, and immediately regret it. “Ouch!” Dropping back to my ass, I clench my foot in my lap, scowling at the sharp pain radiating through my heel.

“What is it?”

“Vera missed a shard.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Danny mutters, setting his drink on the ground and turning into me, taking my foot and inspecting it. He takes my foot to his mouth and licks the arch, smiling when I solidify. Then he sucks on my heel, hard, eyes on mine, thrilling in my condition.

“Why is The Enigma here, Danny?” I ask quietly, resting back on my hands, letting him do his thing.

“Because he wants to kill whoever wants to kill me.”

“Why?”

“Because they burned his family alive,” he says, so indifferent, focusing on the sole of my foot. “There’s someone moving in on Miami. Spittle got himself in up to his neck, as usual. Been saying things he shouldn’t be saying to people he shouldn’t be saying them to.” He gives me his eyes, and I positively hate what I see in them. Grit. Hate. “The Enigma is no longer an enigma. The Brit is no longer dead.”

Chills glide down my spine. “Who is The Enigma?”

“James Kelly.” He smiles. “British.”

Typical. “All the good assassins are,” I quip, and he laughs. He laughs so hard, dropping my foot and throwing his head back. It’s the kind of laugh that takes my husband from devastatingly handsome to lethally handsome. I smile, despite it being wholly inappropriate, letting him get his jerking body under control. He eventually sighs, reclaiming my foot and taking it back to his mouth, sucking. I watch him watch me, just waiting for what I might say next. I have a million questions. I honestly don’t know where to start. “So you’ve brought him here to devise your battle plan?”

“And so his girlfriend can recuperate.”

“She’s ill?”

“No, she got shot.” He raises his eyebrows as I recoil. “She’s a cop,” he adds, as if I wasn’t struggling enough to wrap my mind around this onslaught of information.

“A cop,” I murmur. “A cop and a killer.” Is he joking?

“Sounds like a fairy tale, huh?” He leans in and kisses my stunned face. “We’re having dinner with them on Wednesday night.”

“Dinner with the killer and the cop.”

He pulls back, smiling mildly. “We’ll skip the oysters,” he says, and I shake my head to myself. In the three years we’ve been here, every dinner date involves oysters. We’ve both learned how to swallow. How to savor the taste. How to make the most of their aphrodisiac qualities. Not that Danny and I need stimulating in that area. Every encounter is explosive. Hot. Dizzying. We simply and sickly love reminiscing about that time when I was his prisoner. Being held against my will but, at the same time, not.

I frown and look down at the water. “What’s her name?”

“Beau.”

“Age?”

“Early thirties, I’d say.”

“And she’s a cop?”

“Was. She quit after her mother, also a cop, was killed by the same man that killed James’s family.”

“Fucking hell,” I breathe, looking at him, stunned. “And I thought our story was a total fuck-up.”

He smiles and pulls me into him again, hugging me close. “Our story is ours. Theirs is theirs.”

“But they’re here, and you both want the same man dead.”

Danny says nothing, and I close my eyes, trying to brace myself for the worst. “You’re not going back to Miami, Danny,” I reiterate, automatically reaching down to my rings and turning them on my finger slowly.

“Take them off, we’ll be having serious words, Rose,” he warns, his tone deadly, his body tense against me.

I drop my finger and stare at the water, hating the long-lost feeling of helplessness rising from the deepest part of me. Danny would do well to remember that I will do anything to protect the people I love. Which means this isn’t going to turn out well for either of us. “If you’re going back to Miami, I’m coming with you.”