Mr White landed the plane in a strip of barren land.
There were an awful lot of dead guys on the plane.
Bee guided a sleepy Oliver down the jet’s steps and set him up underneath a nearby tree. Mr White hobbled off, and Bee – very generously if she did say so – let him go. She tied Hogarth’s leash to a low-hanging branch by her son – eyes shut again – and joined the rest of the team. Adam pillaged the suits for weapons. Malika and Bee dumped every personal item they’d brought with them for their new lives out of their luggage – save for Malika’s laptop, the gaming system Oliver had gotten from Cassie and his set of Percy Jackson books – and transferred Alvarez’s cash from the boxes into the duffle bags.
Then they lit the whole thing on fire and stood by Oliver to watch it burn.
‘Look at us!’ Malika held Adam’s hand and wrapped her arm around Bee’s shoulders. ‘Duffle bags of gangster cash at our feet. A private jet filled with anonymous corpses burning brightly before us.’ She sighed. ‘One big happy murder family.’
‘Yeah, this is much bigger than I thought it would be,’ Bee said. ‘It’s going to draw attention.’
‘Yeah, we should definitely not be standing here,’ Malika agreed. ‘Come on – before we get caught. Again.’
‘On your feet, Olly.’ Adam dragged the boy into a standing position.
He yawned. ‘All right, all right. I was just getting comfortable.’
They walked for a few minutes in silence, each person dragging a duffle bag filled with gangster cash behind them. Hogarth peed on an ant hill.
Oliver said, ‘I had the weirdest dream that Uncle Banks was a vampire.’
They boarded the nearest bus in separate groups to avoid attracting attention: Malika and Oliver and Hogarth, with Adam and Bee following behind. But it was pointless. At that time of night, no one but the bus driver was in need of transit.
The bus stopped twice. At the third stop, the signs all written in Spanish, Adam rose to his feet and the others followed.
Bee shook the driver’s hand and left $100 in his palm with a wink.
He nodded, grinning.
Everyone spoke the language of a bribe, no matter where they were born.
The fleabagiest of fleabag hotels had two connecting rooms available and a hostess who didn’t care to ask questions. Of course, the rooms were on the second floor. And also of course, there was no elevator.
Malika carried a sleeping Oliver in her arms, groaning with every step. ‘He needs to go on a diet,’ she said. ‘Or, I don’t know, never get drugged again so he can walk up his own stairs. Listen, I got the news report on the bus. Charlie’s in the hospital. Feds found him in the cemetery, shot in the back three times. He’s critical but stable.’
Bee blinked rapidly, surprising herself. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh. Good.’ And surprising herself again, she meant it. ‘If only he’d listened to me, Alvarez would’ve gone to jail thinking Charlie was dead.’
‘You did what you could,’ Malika said. ‘And more than he deserved.’ She opened her door with an actual metal key and said, ‘I’m gonna put him down in my room.’
Bee froze. ‘Are – are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’ She didn’t smile, but she sure looked like she wanted to. ‘Could use the company.’ She laid him down on the bed furthest from the door.
Bee took his sneakers off and kissed his forehead. ‘I love you, buddy.’
He said, ‘Mmm puff mmm,’ and yanked the covers over his head.
Hogarth tried to jump up on the bed with his boy but, after three failed attempts, sat on his butt and looked up at her, tongue lolling out and panting. She rolled her eyes and took pity on him, hoisting him up on to the mattress. ‘You keep our boy warm, yeah?’
He spun around and plopped on Oliver’s feet, hiding his face in his paw.
‘Good night, Malika.’
Malika toed her shoe off and tossed it underhand at Bee’s calf. ‘Goodnight, boss.’
Bee unlocked the door to the adjoining room, unsurprised to find Adam had already opened the door on the other side. She closed it with a click and found herself very much alone with the man who’d saved her life.
She could still see the man who’d opened her kidnapper’s car door buried underneath all his bumps and bruises. And if she looked real close, she could see the man who’d kissed her when they’d danced under the stars in Ibiza.
Bee moved with more confidence than she felt to the bathroom – fake it till you make it and all that – and ran the shower. Adam hovered outside the doorway, unsure, and she offered him a smile.
And then she took his jacket off.
Realization dawned over his face, along with something else, something that made her cheeks burn and her hands shake. She focused all her attention on unbuttoning each of his shirt buttons, careful not to rush.
She was going to enjoy this even if it killed her.
Adam didn’t say anything. He stood still, watched her undress him and only made a noise of relief when he was under the warm water.
Bee bit her smiling lips and tried not to stare. She peeled her bloody shirt over her head and dropped her pants to the floor.
Adam pulled back the shower curtain and let her in.
The water was warm, and the shower was small. Bee closed her eyes and tipped her head back under the spray. Adam was in there with her. He was right there. Her elbow brushed against his chest when she fanned her hair under the water.
She heard a click and cracked an eye open.
He squeezed a dollop of hotel shampoo into the palm of his hand. It shook, ever so slightly, in his fingertips.
Bee dropped her arms, her shoulders relaxing underneath the shower head.
‘Turn around.’ His voice, low and quiet, trembled when he spoke. He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll, uh, I’ll wash your hair. If you want.’
Poor thing was nervous. Well. She supposed she could go easy on him.
Bee turned. The water hit her chest, rolled down her stomach. Adam worked the soap into a lather in his hands then massaged her scalp. Her eyes slid closed.
He worked her hair between his hands, worked his fingers through the knots.
Then dropped a kiss on her shoulder.
She sighed.
He rinsed her hair under the water, shampoo bubbles running down her back, pooling around her feet then swirling the drain. His fingers ghosted over her neck, glided over the small of her back. Adam wrapped his arms around her stomach and held her against his chest; kissed her other shoulder.
She grinned. ‘It’s your turn.’ Bee plucked the hotel soap off the indent in the wall, left his embrace and faced him. With her teeth, she opened the wrapper. Adam watched her mouth. Bee tossed the trash on the floor and lathered the white bar in her hands.
Soapy hands caressed his pecs, and wow, were they ever so nice. She ran her hands down one arm, cleaned the blood off his hand and repeated the action with the other. The clear water turned to rust by the time it reached their feet.
‘Turn,’ Bee squeaked. She swallowed. ‘Turn around.’
Now it was his turn to grin. Bee cleaned his back, careful of the dark, angry bruise on his ribcage.
‘You want me to wash your hair?’ She giggled. ‘I’m not sure we have your brand.’
Adam spun round so fast she squealed. His hand on her cheek guided her back against the cold, yellowing tile. His lips found hers. Soft and careful, unimposing. Asking for permission.
Bee gave the permission with a groan that deepened the kiss, arms around his broad shoulders, holding him to her.
His palms slid down her back. With a gentleness that never ceased to surprise her, he grabbed her rear and lifted her to his hips.
‘Adam! Your rib!’
‘Yeah,’ he ground out. ‘Yeah, this was a bad idea.’
He flipped the water off and yanked back the shower curtain, the metal rings scratching over the rod. ‘It’s fine,’ he panted. ‘I’m fine. It’s fine.’
Bee laughed.
He stumbled out of the bathroom and set her gently on the bed. She giggled. Adam crawled over her, forearms on either side of her head, chest to chest but keeping his weight off her.
She smiled so bright her eyes crinkled. His thumbs were on her cheeks, pushing her wet hair off her face. His breath fanned out across her nose, and honestly, it could be better, but she was so happy it didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered except that this was real. He was real, and he was with her. Her son and Malika were safe in the next room.
She was safe in Adam’s arms.
‘You think Ibiza needs bookstores?’ she asked.
Adam’s face lit up with happiness. ‘What’s their view on extradition?’
She giggled again. ‘I have no idea. We’ll have to ask Malika.’
‘You want me to go get her?’ Adam sat high up on his elbows. ‘You wanna call a meeting?’
‘Shut up!’ She grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him to her. Skin to skin, still wet from the shower, the motel’s sheets beneath scratchy and uncomfortable, she’d never been happier.
His kiss this time was open and languid, luxurious. A kiss that could last as long as they wanted.
He pulled back to press his forehead to hers.
Bee blinked her eyes open. She loved the color of his eyes. Had she ever told him that? How lame would that be right now? Her hands had a mind of their own, roaming from the back of his head to his neck, along the ridges of his shoulder blades. In the dim lamplight, the scar under his collarbone looked like a shadow. She lifted her head to press a kiss to the wound that had saved her life.
Adam hissed in a breath.
She kissed along his collarbone, up the column of his neck. On his pulse point she sucked – then licked away the mark she left.
Bee lay flat against the bed and pressed one hand to his cheek; ran the pad of her index finger over his bottom lip. ‘You never told me about this one.’
‘Eh, this one?’ He touched the half-moon scar in the center of his bottom lip with a knuckle. ‘Yeah. Got into a fight with a guy wearing a ring.’
‘Is that all? I was thinking there would be more to the story.’
‘He was trying to make off with the Van Gogh self-portrait I’d recovered.’
Bee gasped.
‘It’s gone now, Bee. Long sold.’
‘Hmm.’ She traced the scar over and over again. ‘To whom?’
His mouth moved under her fingers when he smiled. ‘That’s my girl.’
Then he kissed her, and all thoughts of what she would steal next were chased away.