A Player for A Princess: Dirty Players Duet #2 (12 page)

T
he G650 is waiting
when I arrive at the airport. Logan has texted he’s onboard and in the cockpit chatting with our pilot. Hajib lets me out at the tarmac, and just before I go, he touches my shoulder.

“Good luck, sir.”

I cover his thick hand with mine and give it a firm squeeze. “Thanks, Hajib.”

“No Odd Job?” he says with a smile.

“Reggie suggested we might be offending you with our old nickname.” I say, feeling the need to send good Karma ahead of me.

“It always made me laugh, sir. No offense taken.”

Pressing my lips into a smile, I nod. “I’m glad to hear it. We never meant any harm.”

“I’ll be glad to see Miss Wilder again.”

My stomach tightens. Anxiety has become my constant companion. “Me, too.”

With a fortifying breath, I jog across the space separating the town car from the gleaming silver private jet and up the short flight of stairs. Our flight attendant is waiting when I arrive.

“We’re all onboard, your majesty,” she says. “As soon as you choose a seat we’ll prepare to leave.”

“Thanks,” I say, ducking inside the aircraft and planning to sit in the first open spot.

I stop in place when I see my uncle already at a window seat with a glass of champagne in front of him.

“Reggie!” I hesitate before going forward. “What are you doing here?”

“Your brother told me where you were going. I’m coming with you.”

My brow lines and I walk quickly down the row and take the chair directly across from him. “Rowan told you where I’m going?”

“He said you’re flying to Tortola. I hope you don’t mind I changed your flight plans. We need to stop in Miami first.”

Gripping the arm of my seat, I lean forward. “What happened? What do you know?”

“It seems the criminal is returning to the scene of the crime.”

He pauses for a sip of wine, and I barely manage a calm, “Please continue.”

“Ronald Delahousse in Miami heard about a man with an exaggerated southern accent working roulette wheels on the cruise circuit. I’m willing to bet it’s Mr. Hines.”

My throat tightens. It’s such an incredible break in the case if we’ve found him. “But… would he be so careless to return to Miami?”

“I don’t expect Mr. Hines is aware we’re working together, and as such, I’m sure he expects your focus has shifted.”

The flight attendant steps into the small cabin. “We’re cleared for takeoff, your grace. May I get you something to drink?”

“Scotch neat, thanks,” I say, sitting back and considering this new development. “If he’s working cruise ships, are we sure we’ll catch him in port?”

Reggie nods, and glances at the magazine on the table in front of him. “The ship he’s currently on returns to Ft. Lauderdale tomorrow. He’s been sticking close to the dock, renting rooms under an alias and leaving again within days. We’ll have to act quickly, but we’ll catch him this time.”

Pulling out our flight plan, I survey our schedule. We stop once to refuel in three hours, then the remaining eight are spent over the Atlantic. We’ll arrive in Florida tomorrow morning. Sliding my palms down my legs, I try to relax, something I haven’t been able to do since this ordeal began.

My uncle looks up from his magazine. “There’s a bed in the back. You should try to sleep. We’ll want to be alert when we get there.”

I glance up at him. “I’m afraid the chances of me sleeping are slim to none.”

The flight attendant returns with my tumbler of scotch, and I nod my thanks. She takes her own seat as the plane picks up speed for takeoff. It’s a smooth ride for a small jet, and it isn’t long before we’ve reached our cruising altitude.

Reggie looks out the window, his voice thoughtful. “The night I met Zelda Wilder, I was impressed by her brains. She sees every angle.”

I still haven’t decided how I feel about my uncle’s involvement in this affair, but I agree with his statement.

“You’re right.” Leaning forward, I rub my hand over my mouth as I think. “She’ll keep her eyes open.”

He nods, looking back at me. “She’ll survive.”

It’s the one thing I’ve been holding onto as we’ve scoured manifest after manifest, as we’ve gone from hotel room to hotel room. I’ve held onto that fact through every day that has gone by with no word.

“She
will
survive,” I repeat. “And we’ll deal with the men who’ve hurt her.”

Reggie makes a noise of assent then he leans back and stretches his legs. “I wasn’t thinking of you when I hired her to do this job. Despite everything that’s happened, Zelda is controlled. She takes responsibility very seriously.”

That makes me almost laugh. “And I don’t?” My eyes cut to his, and he does a little frown.

“Up until now, you’ve had the well-deserved reputation for irresponsibility. Even when you were on active duty.”

I trace my finger around the lip of my glass. “You’re right again,” I say, and all of my indiscretions filter through my mind. “I was a royal fuck-up. I didn’t have a reason to care. Rowan has always been on track to lead the country. My position has always been redundant, superfluous.”

“The threat of something happening to him, of an assassination attempt or an accident, has always been there. You are far from an extraneous member of the monarchy. If Miss Wilder has helped you to find balance, I’m glad I brought her into this mess.”

Inhaling deeply, I try to remember the day I changed. It didn’t happen all at once. It crept up behind me when I was holding her, kissing her, laughing with her, and making love to her.

“When I met Zelda, I wasn’t thinking about balance. I was thinking about excess.”
Excessively indulging in her arms.
“She is responsible—you’re right—but she’s also sassy and passionate, and quite fun. The more time we spent together, every time she spoke of leaving, I couldn’t imagine going back to the way I was before.” I slip my hand in my pocket closing my fingers around the engagement ring I’m carrying with me. “I can’t imagine my life without her.”

Reggie studies his own empty wine glass. “I’m sorry she’s been caught up in this crisis. I want to help get her out of it.”

Logan emerges from the cockpit, and his expression is determined. He’s dressed in his usual dark suit, and his phone is in his hand.

“Sir,” he takes the seat across from me, in front of my uncle. “We just heard from your brother the crown prince. Satellite imagery has identified five small islands off the northern coast of Venezuela. We’ve engaged a local service to scout them and report back any findings.”

My chest tightens. “How long before we know something?”

“They have to travel by boat, considering the islands are very small and largely unpopulated. Still, they’re starting immediately.”

I’m impatient with his answer. “A day? Two?”

“Some of them are fifty or so miles apart.”

Reggie reaches across the aisle and holds my arm. “Seth will know where they have her. We’ll have her location in the next twenty-four hours.”

Now it’s my turn to look out the window and say a silent prayer. It’s what we’re counting on making this unexpected stop.

T
he Ramada
across from Port Everglades is as fast and dirty as they come. “It’s like
déjà vu
all over again,” I murmur, walking toward the two-story beige building.

The only difference is instead of raining the sun is beating down on us, and the air is so heavy with humidity, it feels like a warm washcloth against my skin. We’re so close to the port, I can hear the drill of the ships anchors being raised and lowered, and the smell is wet pavement mixed with gasoline and rotting garbage in the side-by-side dumpsters.

Logan and I split off from my uncle, him taking the left and me right. Reggie will do the honors of pretending to need a room, then he’ll let us in the back door. Unlike last time, we don’t have a room number for Seth.

Walking through the narrow, two-lane parking lot, I pass a man loading a small bag into a faded white Jeep with a bed like a truck. Our eyes meet briefly, and I nod, not wanting to appear suspicious.

He doesn’t return my greeting, and I make a quick note of his appearance—tall, pale blonde hair and flat blue eyes. His grey tee is stained with sweat and has
Fish Aruba
on the front over a cartoon wave. It draws my eye to a spatter of what looks like oil or mud on the hem. All of this is seen in a moment, but I don’t stop. The noise of a truck door slamming and an engine turning over tells me he isn’t stopping either. In fact, he seems in a hurry to leave.

My watch thumps, and I look down at my wrist. It’s a text from Logan saying,
Room 220—STAT!

Breaking into a sprint, I jerk the back door open without even stopping to think it should be locked. I take the stairs two at a time and burst through the metal doors, making my way fast down the hall toward the open door. Reggie is in the hall looking down, phone in hand.

“What happened?” I’m breathing fast when I reach him.

My uncle’s face is grave, and he nods toward the room. “See for yourself.”

Using my elbow to avoid fingerprints, I push inside and stop in my tracks. “Oh, shit!” The smell of blood and vomit hits me in the face, and my stomach roils.

Looking around, blood is spattered on the walls. A large portrait is on the floor, smashed into three pieces. Glass is everywhere. Logan is in the bathroom, and his phone camera flashes twice.

The desk chair is in the center of the room. Stepping closer, I see fibers from what appears to have been a yellow, nylon rope caught in the cracks where the arms meet the metal base. The smell of vomit is strong, and looking down, my eye catches something on the floor. I almost lose the small breakfast I had this morning when I recognize it’s a fingernail. The base is bloody and it appears to have been ripped out at the roots.

Straightening, I step back and hear a soft crunch under my boot. Looking down, I see another fingernail. Then another…

“Jesus,” I hiss, moving away from the macabre scene.

Logan steps out of the bathroom, and his face is pale. He walks straight to the door and leaves without a word. I hear the heavy thud of his boots, and I realize he’s jogging down the hall in the direction of the exit.

My stomach is tight as I walk carefully toward the bathroom. Whatever is in here made a definite impression on my retired military partner.

“I’m not sure you need to go in there,” Reggie says, peering his head into the room. “In fact, I think we should leave this place at once. They obviously knew we were coming for him. Police could be headed this way now, and we can’t afford the delay or exposure.”

“They knew we were coming, or they were looking for something,” I argue, continuing toward the small facility.

The closer I get, the stronger the stench of urine and vomit grows. I take a cloth handkerchief from my pocket and hold it over my nose and mouth. The door is cracked, and Logan left the light on. In one quick sweep, I see enough to shoot our threat level to fire-engine red.

Seth is in the tub, and his face is blue-purple and bloated. The whites of his eyes are crimson, and what appears to be clear nylon fishing line is wrapped repeatedly around his neck. The tips of his fingers are bloody stumps, and rust-colored lines streak the skin.

It appears he fought to free himself until he died. His clothes are soiled with urine and feces, and foam is at the corner of his mouth.

I stumble out of the bathroom, still clutching the handkerchief over my face. Looking up, I lock eyes with Reggie.

I push off the wall and head for the door. “We’ve got to find Zelda. NOW!”

My uncle is right behind me, and we waste no time getting out the back door. Ronald Delahousse, our local contact, has the black SUV waiting in the parking lot, engine running. Logan is in the passenger seat, so Reggie and I take the back. As we’re slamming the doors, he begins to speak.

“The jet is fueled, and the pilot is filing our flight plans. We should be ready to leave within minutes of arriving at the airport.”

We set off at a fast clip to cover the short distance to Miami. My mind is racing, and I keep going back to the man I saw in the parking lot. It could be a coincidence. The hotel is located in a sketchy part of town. Still, fishing twine, “Fish Aruba”…

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Reggie says slowly. “Why torture him? Murder, yes, but torture? It’s like they were trying to get him to confess. Looking for answers. But to what?”

“Maybe they were trying to send a message,” Logan says in a grave voice.

“Can we get the satellite images of the islands?” My mind is still on fishing and Aruba.

“I have them on my laptop on the jet,” Logan answers. “Why?”

“I want to start with the ones closest to Aruba.”

He turns in his seat to face me. “Any particular reason?”

Passing my hand over my mouth, I see the dead blue eyes of the man in the parking lot.
Fish Aruba
.

“It’s a hunch,” is all I can give.

It’s all it is, but I have a strong feeling he’s connected. Fishing twine, polypropylene rope, skinning pliers…

We make our way quickly to the waiting airplane, and I’m settling in my seat when Logan strides down the aisle, laptop in hand.

“I have the images here,” he places the device on the shiny wood table and takes the seat directly across from me. “You can see how the islands are positioned in relation to Aruba, Venezuela, Curacao…”

His words trail off as a message alert from my brother flashes on the screen.
Must speak to Cal immediately
, it says.

My phone is out of my pocket and I’m touching my brother’s name as Logan clicks on the envelope to open the message. The message opens, and my chest grows tight. Inside is a photograph, and I’m on the edge of my seat, leaning forward to see her. It’s difficult to breathe.

The bruises are gone, and her cheeks are flushed. She’s looking up and another damn newspaper is right below her chin. I can’t see her beautiful neck or shoulders, and I have to trust they’re not battered and bruised.

Longing aches in my chest, and for several moments, I simply look at her beautiful eyes. I study her full lips. I need to touch her. I have to find her.