“Hi, it’s me,” I say, staring into her eyes.
“Who’s me?” she asks, her head tilting, a small, unsure smile on her lips.
“James Kelly.”
“What do you do, James?”
“Love you,” I whisper. “That’s all I want to do.”
“And when our kids ask us how we met?”
I sigh, taking the tops of her arms and stroking my way to her wrists. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Is the bridge far away?” She looks tentative, and I smile, unsure as she nibbles her bottom lip.
“It’s close, but we need to make sure it’s safe to cross.”
“I think it’s safe.”
“Are you an expert ex-bridge builder, as well as an ex-cop?” I seize her hips, edging forward. So the bridge is Beau’s body, and while it’s stronger, I’m not sure it’s ready for the strain of a pregnancy. “We should talk to Doc.”
“I feel okay.”
This is all good and well, but . . . “What about the marriage part? Are we skipping that bit?”
“I can’t marry you,” she says, her fingertip tracing the edges of the bandage on my shoulder. “Because you killed Dexter.”
Sledgehammer, meet my face. I stare at her, mute, as she watches me closely for my reaction. I know I’m giving her what she wants. Guilt. “I killed him before you asked me not to.” What the fuck am I saying? “How did you know?”
“Ollie called me.”
I am in no position to be agitated or pissed off. And yet here I am, really fucking agitated, and massively pissed off. “Where’d he find the body?” Or more to the point, how? Because Danny assured me it could never be found.
“He didn’t.”
“Then . . .” I pause, as Beau’s eyebrows slowly rise. “There’s no body, is there?” Of course there’s no fucking body. It’s undoubtedly been ripped to shreds by sharks.
“Only yours if you don’t tell me what happened.”
“Burrows didn’t call you?”
“Yeah, he called me. But not about that.”
What the fuck kind of conversation is this? “Beau, why are you saying things to intentionally stoke my temper? What did Burrows want?”
“You know what he wants. Me alive and you dead. Now tell me how you killed Dexter.”
“You really don’t want to know,” I assure her, and she withdraws, looking like she doesn’t know if she wants to know. “Really,” I reiterate.
“What did you do?”
“I killed him. That’s it. An eye for an eye, Beau. The end.”
“Did Danny know?”
Fuck. “No.” Fuck, fuck, fuck. “We need to get ready for dinner.” And I need to put an emergency call in to Danny. “Come on.” I ease her off my lap and put her on her feet.
“That’s it?” she asks as I turn, making me halt halfway. “End of conversation?”
I close my eyes and gather myself. “I don’t know what you want from me, Beau. I can’t turn back time. I can’t change that, same as I can’t change him shooting you.”
“An apology, maybe?”
I face her. “For killing him?”
“No, James, for lying to me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say on an exhale. “All day long, I’m sorry.” For lying, yes. But for killing him? Certainly not.
Pushing past me, she enters the bedroom, saying nothing, leaving me full of doubt on the terrace. So now what? “I want you to block Burrows’s number.” So I say that? You fucking dumb-arse, James.
She looks back at me, amused but insulted all at once. “I need to get ready for dinner.” Going into the bathroom, she closes the door. Translated: don’t join me. It’s probably safe for both of us.
But neither Beau nor I have ever been all too keen on playing things safe.
I push my way into the bathroom, finding her pulling her knickers off. She slowly unfolds her body. Watches me, waiting for what I’m going to say or do. “Let’s make a baby,” I say, holding out my hand. “Now. Here.”
“I don’t know if you’re ready to be a father,” she replies, leaving my hands hanging. Ouch.
“I wasn’t ready to be yours either, Beau. But I am, and I’m so here for it.”
Her smirk is too fucking cute. “Don’t lie to me again.”
“Never.”
Wandering forward, she reaches up on her tiptoes and breathes into my face. “Let’s make a baby,” she whispers, slipping her hand past my boxers. My torso folds, my back teeth biting down hard.
“Get on the bed,” I order, and she drops me, sauntering past and crawling onto the mattress, raising her hands above her head. I pull my belt off the back of the chair and straddle her chest, strapping her to the wooden headboard. “Don’t fight the bond,” I say quietly. “You ready?”
“More,” she whispers huskily, arching her back.
* * *
We could have taken the short route, but Beau wanted to feel the last of the sun on her face. So we took the beach, all the way along the shore to the small, winding path that leads to the restaurant. Hand in hand, both of us barefoot, both quiet. My white shirt is fastened by one button, my loose trousers damp at the hem, my hair, frankly, wild. I feel her head rest against my upper arm, her hands clinging on, and my eyes fall to her scarred arm.