The Prey

“Oh, that’s fine,” Mara interjected, extremely surprised the company was going to this kind of expense just for her. “Really, I’m fine. This is fantastic.”

The pilot flashed her a smile, though his eyes seemed sad. “Good, then. I’ll radio the tower that we’re ready to go. I’ll leave the cockpit door ajar, in case you need anything.”

“Okay, thanks. Thanks very much,” Mara said. She settled back in the oversized, comfortable seat, a far cry from the narrow seats of commercial jetliners, and sighed contentedly as the pilot disappeared into the cockpit.

She would use the flight time to review the Wallace Hotel & Resort data she’d brought along for reference. Yet once the plane was in the air, she decided just to relax—she was confident she was up to speed on the company’s assets and corporate business model.

When the pilot gave her the all-clear, she unbuckled her seat belt and walked to the galley, where she found packets of gourmet cookies and chips, cold sodas and bottles of beer and wine. She selected some chocolate chip cookies and a can of Dr. Pepper and settled back down, staring out the window at the ocean below.

The flight was smooth and the pilot landed the jet with barely a bump. After a moment, he stepped out of the cockpit. “Welcome to paradise,” he said. He unlatched and opened the door while Mara retrieved her things.

As Mara came up beside him, the pilot pulled a lever and a set of stairs slowly unfolded to the ground. Stepping aside, he gestured toward the opening. “I’ll be returning directly to the mainland.” His grin faltered a moment, his face darkening as he regarded her, but then he shrugged, as if shrugging away an unwelcome thought, and smiled once more. “Good luck.”

Mara wondered at the man’s odd reaction and decided he was disappointed he wasn’t joining her in “paradise.” Nervous excitement bubbled in her gut as she stepped into the warm sunshine and climbed down the few steps of the plane. She drew in a deep breath of the damp, salt-laced air and looked across the pink sand at the beautiful blue-green sea. Heaven!

At the bottom of the stairs a dark-haired, swarthy man in a white shirt waited in a red golf cart with the words Pirate Island painted in gold on the side. As Mara approached the cart, the man jumped out and reached to take her things, which he stowed in the back seat of the cart. “Climb in,” he said as he returned to the driver’s seat. “I’m Ronaldo.”

“Mara Stevens,” Mara said in her professional voice, turning and extending her hand.

“Very nice to meet you.” The man’s eyes moved with undisguised admiration over her body and bare legs as he took her hand. Instead of the brisk shake she had expected, he held her hand several beats too long until she pulled it away, confused and put off by the man’s rude behavior. She made a mental note of his name, wondering if Mr. Wallace knew his employee behaved so unprofessionally with guests.

Ronaldo faced forward, a strange smile on his face. The cart began to move, its tires crunching over the shell-strewn sand. After passing between some dunes covered with undulating sea grass, they moved onto a wide, paved road bordered on either side by tall, stately trees beneath a deep blue sky.

The cart slowed but didn’t stop as a two-story building made of stone and wood with plenty of glass came into view. That must be the main hotel and reception area. Oddly, the place was deserted, not a soul in sight.

Moving past the wide circular driveway in front of the structure, Ronaldo steered the cart along a paved path to the right of it. Behind a riot of tropical foliage there appeared a large bungalow with white stucco walls and a red-tiled roof. He parked in a small driveway to the side of the house and got out of the cart.

“This way,” he said, waving toward the front door.

“My things?” Mara asked, taking a step toward the back of the cart.

“You won’t be needing them,” the man replied decisively. “Come along. Mr. Wallace is waiting.”

Mara wanted her briefcase, but Ronaldo was already heading toward the door. Uncertain, she decided he was right—she was wearing a sundress and sandals, dressed casually as Hillary had suggested. She would present herself as confident but relaxed, just the sort of image required at a beach resort.

Ronaldo touched a doorbell and Mara could hear its chimes. She noted the keypad set into the door just below the knob. After a moment, she heard the click of a lock being released. She drew in a breath and put on her professional smile as she waited for the door to open. Instead, Ronaldo turned the knob, opened the door and gestured for Mara to enter. She’d expected a suite of offices, but found instead a large, furnished living room filled with white wicker furniture, glass tables with vases of tropical flowers and a stone-tiled mosaic floor. The room was empty.