“I don’t need to tell you what happens if she gets hurt.”
“No. I’ll handle it.”
“You’d better. Are you going to make it back to go with us to New York?”
Carmen’s father had a penthouse apartment in Manhattan that he flew to whenever a hurricane threatened South Florida. This one didn’t look like it would make it to Miami—Dade County wasn’t evacuating—but Heberto wouldn’t let that keep him from using it as an excuse for a change of scenery. “What time are you leaving?”
The rain began, loud as gunshots against the windshield. Roman could barely hear Carmen when she replied, “Sometime in the next few hours.”
“We’ll see.”
“Give me a call and let me know.”
“Will do.”
The call disconnected. Carmen rarely wasted time on goodbye. She wasn’t a big fan of hello, either, or of the sort of pleasantries that might slow her down. It was one of the things Roman found so appealing about her. Married to Carmen, he would be able to cut out so much of the bullshit.
He put his phone away and allowed himself a moment to appreciate the appeal of that life—the big, expensive house he didn’t own yet. The walk-in closet, his row of suits opposite hers, their dressing and undressing a neat, effortless trick that repeated itself endlessly.
They could talk business over the dinner table. Attend social events together. It would be secure, and it would be easy.
He looked out the window. The sky had disappeared, or perhaps encroached. Everything was gray, the palm fronds like open arms, thrashing toward the heavens. A helpless, unpleasant landscape that he would prefer not to enter.
But his preferences didn’t matter.
Roman got out of the car.
By the time he reached the palm tree, his socks were wet. The umbrella Noah had set up to protect Ashley from the weather had tipped even farther askew, dumping rainwater onto the back of her neck.
Her eyes remained defiant.
“The worst of the storm’s supposed to arrive by late afternoon, but I don’t know,” he said. Turning up one palm, he let the stinging rain pelt it and manufactured a concerned sort of wince. “I think it’ll be sooner than that.”
She pressed her lips together.
“It’s dangerous to be out here,” he said. “We could be killed.”
“In a Category Three? Ha. We’ll get wet, that’s about it.”
“It’s a Four now.”
Her forehead wrinkled, as he had known it would. This woman was carefree, not careless. She would evacuate for a Category Four, and it would never occur to her to wonder if he was lying.
“The situation has changed.” He made his voice gentle—tough to do, with the rain so loud, but he tried to project the feeling with his eyes, too. Sincere concern.
He dropped to his knees, allowing the water to soak through his jeans because he knew she would notice, and she would think it meant something.
Her nose twitched. She blinked rapidly, clearing water from her lashes. “Wow,” she said breathlessly, and he anticipated her capitulation.
Wow. you’re right.
Which is why it startled him when she said, “You are so full of shit.”
For a moment he forgot to be smooth, and he forgot to calculate. He just shot back, “I am not.”
“You are, too. you’re trying to make me think you care about me, that you’re actually worried for me. You. The man who ate two barbecued sandwiches right in front of the starving woman last night. How gullible do you think I am?”
“I don’t think you’re gullible. I admire your tenacity.”