Page 41 of The Witness

I slowly put the phone back on the receiver. “Gunter’s on his way.”

She nodded. I reacted without thought, closing the distance to stand in front of her, tipping up her chin and cradling her jaw. I bent and kissed her.

The kiss was delicate and tasted of wine and offered her all the promises about her safety I wasn’t sure I could keep. That night after meeting with Gunter and another round of spectacular sex, we fell asleep tangled together basking in the afterglow of a new passion.

Chapter 19

Michael

The lobby of the Hotel Internacional sparkled that evening. Guests of the hotel were decked out in high end fashion. The women glistened, adorned with expensive jewels, and the men wore bespoke suits that made me glad I had packed my Prada three button. A bodyguard needed to look the part, and when I guarded a high-profile celebrity, some crap from Men’s Wearhouse wouldn’t cut it. The lobby buzzed with activity as tourists and fashionable locals moved between the bars and restaurants of the hotel.

I leaned against the teak bar, sipping my mojito and taking in the spectacle. According to my watch, I had five more minutes. Gunter and Sabrina were already inside the reception, hard at work. Her a server. Him a bartender.

I still hated the plan. Too many variables.

I sighed and stirred the ice in my drink with the stalk of sugar cane so hard a cube plopped onto the bar top. A moment later, the bartender swept it up with a crisp white cloth and a reproachful glare.

If only all my mistakes could be cleaned up that simply. I winced.

Sleeping with Sabrina wasn’t a mistake. Unprofessional? Probably. But not a mistake.

Burning up the sheets with her for the last twenty-something hours was like setting an explosive charge and not keeping track of how much time you had to get the hell outta the blast range. I knew the explosion was coming but had no fucking clue when.

So far it had been all honeymoon bliss, but no way that lasted, even if we’d proven to be utterly compatible in and out of bed. And the shower. And twice on the sofa. The stress of the Sandoval situation would ensure she and I had an expiration date.

I tipped back my drink and sucked it dry. I was getting ahead of myself. Until we dealt with Sandoval, there was nothing else to worry about.

Adding sex to this already stressful situation hadn’t helped me compartmentalize. I slammed my empty glass down, drawing another glare from the bartender who’d already cleaned up my wayward ice cubes once. With a crisp, military-style salute, I spun away from the man’s disapproving glower.

I wove my way across the lobby to where a discreet sign welcomed the members of the Caribbean Hospitality Conference to the opening night party. In front of the ballroom door, a long black-skirted table was staffed by a man and woman in evening wear. Both had conference organizer lanyards around their necks.

“May I help you, sir?” An elegant black woman gestured me forward when she finished helping another guest. Her words were heavily accented with the same French Creole as the Haitian guy that cut my hair before we left Miami.

“Michael Dumas, checking in.” I offered my best James Bond smile. It was the suit; it had that effect on me.

Her maroon-red fingernail scrolled down a typed page, searching for my fake name.

“Mr. Dumas from Monaco? My, you have come very far.” Her eyebrow arched high in disbelief as she checked off my name on the list.

“My hotel group is looking to expand. The Caribbean has much to offer. Good weather, beautiful beaches, and relaxed gaming laws.” I’d switched to French. There was something about speaking the language that made everything extra classy, even a lie.

She smiled in understanding, her teeth a flash of white behind her ruby red shellacked lips. Money made the world go round.

“Ah, you will not want to miss the casino redevelopment and growth strategy session on Sunday. Shall I put you on the attendee list?” She had queued up a booking program on an electronic tablet and was poised to add my name.

“Of course.” I nodded. If everything went to plan, I’d be on my way back to Miami with Sabrina long before that and Sandoval would be locked in a Cuban jail. Yeah, fingers crossed.

“No problem. Here are your credentials for the weekend. Your badge and wristband will give you access to all the conference events.” She passed me a manila envelope.

“Merci.” I reached in and retrieved the lanyard and badge with my fake name. I looped them over my head as I left the check-in table thinking about Alison Fairfax, the girl I had so wanted to sit next to that I’d signed up for my first French class. She’d been a redhead too. Just like Sabrina before the cut and dye job.

Even back in middle school, I had a type: petite, spicy redheads. Ugh. Why couldn’t Sabrina and I have met a year ago, or a year from now? I might have been a regular at her old food truck or new restaurant. Meeting like that would have been nice and normal and not fraught with fucking danger.

The wristband in my breast pocket, I crumpled up the empty envelope in my fist and chucked it in a discreetly placed brass waste bin.

An attendant in a hotel staff uniform opened the ballroom door for me. The soft strains of a string quartet and the murmur of voices poured out of the dimly lit space. Huge, live palm trees in oriental pots bigger than Volkswagen Beetles arched overhead. Clusters of sofas, tables, and wingback chairs were arranged in conversation groups beneath the tropical canopy. The candlelit space reminded me of a never-ending living room. It was nothing like the eight-person round tables with banquet chairs I’d anticipated.

The beautiful room was an operational nightmare. It had more shadows and hidden nooks than were logical for an event like this. I swept the softly lit room, my eyes lingering on every Latino man over thirty and under sixty, wondering if one was Sandoval. The grainy pictures Smith had shared and the description Sabrina gave were both of little help. Almost every man of average build with dark hair and a nice suit fit the shitty description.

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