Page 102 of Savage Beauty

“I suppose.”

The desire to pull away rises, so I do.

“Hey. She’s nothing for you to worry about. She could be the last woman on Earth, and I wouldn’t get back together with her.”

“Does she know that?” The response comes out too quickly, and I cover my lips with my fingers. “Forget I said that. What needs to be said is that I don’t like the idea of you going back to her. I don’t have a right to not like it, but I don’t like it.”

“Duly noted.” His hand returns to my back, and when I look over my shoulder, he’s grinning.

“What?”

“I really like that you tell me what you’re thinking. That’s all.” And then he leans forward and brushes his lips across my cheek up to my ear. “You’re the only one I want, Sloane.”

A warmth infuses me, and it’s from his words. The fact is easy to discern. And I’m about to let him know I feel the same way when the door to the outside swings open, and a man in a suit with a shaved head and a short salt and pepper beard approaches, extending his dark hand. I rise from the wooden chair and take his hand as he says, “I’m the Detective Superintendent. I’m given to understand you’ve come into some trouble on our fair island.”

His hold on my hand is firm, his skin rough. His nails are cut short and filed evenly. The contrast of our skin color is striking, his deep ebony, mine pale and ghostly white.

He releases my hand and takes Max’s. “And I understand you’re with a company based in the United States? Maxwell Hawkins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a gentleman from Interpol waiting to speak with you. Well, he would like to speak with you both, but I’m hoping to get some time with Ms. Watson.”

The Detective Superintendent’s shoes are polished black leather with dusty creases. His suit hangs loose, and the lapels are creased unevenly in two locations, like maybe a heavy object weighed down on the suit coat and wrinkled it.

“Ms. Watson and I are together,” Max says.

“Oh, in a professional or?—”

“She’s my girlfriend.” It’s the first time anyone has ever called me their girlfriend, and my face warms, quickly followed by a warmth blossoming in my chest cavity.

“Ah, I see. Well, unless you’re married?—”

“I’m not leaving her.” Max’s palm flattens on my lower back, and I fight the impulse to lean into his side.

“It’s okay, Max. I’ll be all right.”

A tall, lithe man with black hair brushed back from a widow’s peak enters the open room. His suit fits him perfectly, a sharp contrast to the detective’s loose-fitting, wrinkled clothes. He’s familiar. It takes me a second to place him. It’s the man from the hospital.

“Charles, why don’t we let them stay together?” The man possesses an air of superiority.

He steps directly to Max, hand extended. “Tristan Voignier. Interpol. A pleasure to see you again.” His distinct European accent sets him apart from the others in the police station.

“Max visited Cayman Brac recently,” Tristan says to the detective.

He did?

“Ah, yes. He was part of the team that trespassed at St. Luke’s Hostel, was he?” the detective asks.

Tristan says only, “Not without reason.”

I’m confused. Why did Max visit a hostel?

“So you say,” responds the detective. He’s smiling, as is the tall man, and I get the feeling I’m missing out on a joke.

“Charles, did you say you have a private room for us to meet in?”

“Oh, yes, my office. Right this way.”

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