This Year's Black (Killer Style 2)

Such a smartass.

He grinned despite himself. “Sarah’s exact GPS coordinates.”

They got out of the Jeep and crossed the raised boardwalk to Tea Time’s display windows. Ryder peeked in. There was no way the woman could pass as a tourist. Dressed in head-to-toe, tight-fitting black, she looked one hundred percent badass business and zero percent vacation. What he wouldn’t give to strip her out of those clothes and talk her into making it a naked vacation. His cock certainly liked the idea.

She eyeballed his reflection. “So, if this is such an open-and-shut, grab-and-bag case, why did you need Maltese Security’s help?”

Guilt’s strong fingers squeezed his chest like a stress ball, and he considered taking the chicken’s way out. He could make up an excuse. He opened his mouth, but his tongue refused to form the lie. “You’re here for the same reason that I’ll go down if the merger fails.”

A warm island breeze teased loose a long strand of dark brown hair from her braid. The strand batted against her locked jaw as she thinned her full lips. “Maltese is the scapegoat.”

“If George has taught me anything, it’s always to have a backup plan.”

“Sweet guy.”

Devin grunted. What could he say? It wasn’t like he could deny it. George might look like a slightly slimmer, beardless Santa, but when it came to business, the man was as cold and calculating as Jack Frost—something Devin had learned firsthand as the old man’s protégé.

George had taught Devin everything he knew about surviving in the ultra-competitive fashion merchandising world. He thought he’d seen cut-throat players when he played tight end at Stanford, but Dylan’s Department Store’s pocket-sized head buyer, Betty Webster, would have made the three hundred pound linebackers quake in their cleats. And the number one lesson George had taught him was: always watch his back. Always.

“Come on.” He rested his palm against the small of her back to guide her into the tea shop. Electricity, strong and sure, surged up his arm and straight down to his dick. “Let’s see if a

nyone inside knows where Sarah is.”

Ignoring the world-weary sigh Ryder let out, he pushed open the door and marched after her. A blast of arctic-level air conditioning and the trill of a bell welcomed him into the Earl Grey-scented store. A pair of elderly women in flower-print dresses puttered around the teapot displays, while the men he assumed were their husbands loitered by the door. Each held four shopping bags in his liver-spotted hands.

Wordlessly, Devin and Ryder split up, taking opposite routes around the crowded shop. He turned down a narrow aisle and came face-to-face with a young woman in an orange Tea Time golf shirt.

Her almond-shaped eyes widened at the sight of him. “Is there anything particular I can help you find?” She swept back her long, straight black hair and revealed the name Dominga embroidered on the shirt.

Bingo.

He plastered on his most charming smile—the same one that had gotten Ann Ackerman to slide off her panties in the back of his Beemer during their sophomore year in prep school. “I’m sure you can.”

Dominga’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Devin Harris. She said George would send his lackey for the money. Stay here. Aunt Sarah left you a note.”

A bird could have pooped on his head and he wouldn’t have been as surprised. Mouth gaping, he watched Dominga disappear behind a door marked Employees Only.

“This just feels wrong on so many levels.” Ryder sidled up to him.

“Agreed.” He kept his gaze focused on the door, but his body instantly hardened in some kind of Pavlovian-response to her proximity and her intoxicating scent.

“What’s really going on here?”

Now, that was the billion dollar question. “Wish I knew.”

Dominga sauntered out, handed him a pale pink envelope and, without another word, wandered off toward a pair of older women excitedly discussing a teal teapot in clipped British accents.

Clearing his throat, he bought time by slowly turning the envelope over. The soft, feminine paper made him as edgy as if he’d held a damaged grenade with a loose pin. With care, he picked at the sealed flap, then slid his thumb across the opening until he could pull the note free.

Ryder scooted in closer, her bare shoulder brushing against him.

He flipped open the note. Four sentences in blue ink were scrawled across the unlined paper.

It figures that he’d send you to do his dirty work. You’ll never get the money back. Leave now or you’ll pay the price. The store’s bottom line isn’t worth your life.

“She’s looking out for us. That’s comforting.” Ryder’s frustrated words brushed against his ear. “You go ahead and take the jet home. I’ll find her and bring her back.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” A twitch in his left eye—the one that usually announced an oncoming migraine—started in full force. “You may be the investigator, but I’m still running the show.”