Page 93 of Savage Beauty

The vehicle stops, and as William gets out of the car, a hotel transport van comes up behind and William waves it on, motioning for the van to pass.

I’m not sure my bike will fit in his trunk. He comes up to my side and places his hand on my shoulder. “Sloane.” He pulls me into his arms and presses his lips to my hair. My muscles tense, and I pull back.

“I’m going to get sand in your trunk. If it even fits.” The black leather on his pointed business shoes shines in the daylight.

His hands press down on my shoulders. “Are you hurt?”

“I already told you no.”

“That’s not your blood?”

“No.”

“Good. Good. I’ve been so worried about you.”

He opens the passenger door for me, and after I sit, he tugs the seatbelt across me, buckling me in. He presses his lips to my temple, then backs up and slams the door closed.

I jump at the harsh sound. My fingers are freezing.

The trunk pops open, and in the sideview mirror I see I was right. My bike doesn’t really fit. The handlebars are a tight fit, and the back wheel hangs out the side.

“Why have you been worried about me?”

“You know I care about you, right?”

No, I don’t. Or I guess I do. We worked well together.

“The bike doesn’t even fit.” There’s no way it’s not getting sand in his trunk.

“It’ll do,” William says as he puts the car in drive. “We don’t have far to go.”

“I’m not going back to my apartment,” I tell him. “I need to get onto Church Street. Then it’s just a little way.”

“We’ll do whatever you want.”

“I need something at the villa.” I bend my head back against the headrest. This isn’t William’s car. He had a convertible. This looks like an island rental. “What’re you doing back?”

“Business.”

“Ah.” Business. That makes sense. “After we stop by the villa, can we go to the police station?”

“If that’s what you want.” He adjusts the rearview mirror. “I’m so relieved to see you.”

He’s dressed in dark tight-fitting jeans and a pressed button-down short-sleeve shirt. The shoes are work shoes, but he never wore jeans when he worked with us. He’s not dressed for time on the beach either. There’s a nervous air around him that reminds me of the way he was around me after we first had sex. If he thinks that’s what we’re going to do back at the villa, I need to set him straight. I’m no longer interested. “I met someone.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Is he back at the villa?”

“No, he’s headed home.”

“And you stayed behind?”

“Work.” Out the window, the palm trees and cinderblock homes pass at a rapid clip.

His fingers tap the steering wheel. If he hears music, I do not. I roll down my window with a flick of my finger. The messenger bag sits on my lap, and I toy with the flap.

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