“And don’t even get me started on the carriage house renovation,” Beatrice adds, pressing a hand to one flushed cheek. “I swear, I tear up every time I think about it.”
“No, you have to spill,” Zan says. “You know how much I love a big project. As long as it’s not happening in my house while I’m trying to avoid frostbite.”
Beatrice makes a sympathetic noise. “Your poor parents. They mean well, but they never think things through, do they? My mother thought you were all going to freeze to death that winter. Thank goodness you still have all your fingers and toes. How are Charles and Viv?”
“Still not thinking things through, but their living situation is much improved. Nick’s brother funded a full restoration of the estate, with reputable contractors this time. Mother and Father have walls to hold in the heat and will for years to come.” Zan takes another sip of her drink, grimaces slightly, making me wonder if hers is as tart—and strong—as mine. “But what about the carriage house? What’s the plan? Yoga studio? Guest apartment? Office space for when you need a break from the barking to balance the budget?”
“Oh no, of course not.” Beatrice waves a breezy hand. “I never need a break from the barking. We’re actually building more kennels, big ones, so we can take in larger dogs, too. I’ve had to turn away so many over the past few years. It’s going to be amazing to have a place to put a Saint Bernard, you know?”
Something flickers behind Zan’s eyes, and her focus shifts my way for a beat before returning to Beatrice. The moment of connection only lasts a second, maybe two, but it’s long enough to make it clear she’s thinking what I’m thinking.
Cages big enough for a Saint Bernard would also be big enough for a human being. And Beatrice’s estate is the kind of isolated but centrally located property that could prove exceedingly valuable to a man in the business of trafficking people.
As the women’s conversation moves on to the waterfall excursion Stefano has planned for tomorrow—the one to which we’re both invited—my thoughts skip ahead to the inevitable conclusion of Beatrice and Stefano’s relationship. He’s clearly hiding his criminal activity from her now, but once he starts locking women up in cages in her carriage house, that’s going to get a hell of a lot harder.
Which means he’s planning one of two things. Either he’ll ensure he and Bea are away from her estate when the need to use it for criminal enterprise arises.
Or he’ll arrange for Bea to be out of the picture in some other way.
Perhaps permanently.
A voice in my head argues that he wouldn’t chance it. Beatrice is a member of a high-profile royal family with friends and connections who would notice if she suddenly disappeared and a drug lord took over her estate.
But another voice in my head assures me that if Stefano wants something badly enough, he’ll find a way to make it happen.
But why risk increased scrutiny by setting up a base at Beatrice’s estate when he has the money to buy a similar property outright?
That and other questions swirl through my head as the salad course comes out, and Stefano still hasn’t returned to the table. We’re halfway through a delicious fish curry when Thom swings by to make Stefano’s apologies. Something’s come up with his business in the States, and he needs to be on the phone with his financial team when the markets open in an hour.
“But we’re still on for poker?” I slur slightly, though I’ve barely touched my mojito. But I know how much Thom likes to take my money when I’m seemingly drunk.
“Hell yes, my friend,” he says, laughing as he claps me on the back. “See you at the bar at ten? We’re going to have enough people for two tables.” He nods toward Zan. “You can bring your lady, too, if you want. Some of the girlfriends are coming to hang out in the hot tub while we play.”
“Thanks, but I think I should head to bed,” Zan says, slurring her words as well. She rubs her brow. “I think I got too much sun or something.”
“Or something,” Thom echoes in a knowing voice as he nudges me with his elbow. “You two ordered the mojitos, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Why?” I ask, glancing at my still-full drink, fear creeping in on spider feet.
“Somebody spiked the sugar cane juice with opium,” he says, still chortling. “People have been passing out in their food all night.”
I look around to discover he’s right. Several finely dressed people are out cold, drooling onto the tablecloths while the people around them take pictures. How I managed not to notice is nearly as troubling as the fact that someone thought it would be funny to drug people without their knowledge.