Page 119 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“Because he’s got too much money and a fetish for things that blow other things up. And things that go fast. And boobs.”
Connor chuckles. “Yeah, I checked out his site. That dude is living every teenage boy’s wet dream. His father’s some kind of media billionaire?”
“Telecom and cable. They’ve got all of Europe wired.”
Armin and I have kept in touch. He keeps pestering me to sail up to Monaco with him, says there’s a lot to distract me there, but I’m not in the mood for the kind of distractions playboy gazillionaires like.
Connor and I chat for a few more minutes. Neither of us mentions the part of the report about the human remains recovered from the wreckage of the yacht. More specifically, the bits of human remains. They were so badly charred and in such small pieces that the only thing the forensic anthropologists were able to identify was a section of splintered femur bone from a Caucasian male in his sixties.
That had to be Reynard, considering his age and that he vanished without a trace after the phone call with Mariana. He must’ve been on the yacht, too, Moreno’s surefire lure to get her there.
Of Mariana and Moreno, there was no trace. One of my recurring nightmares now is of sea creatures munching on barbequed body parts.
But there’s a lot of ocean out there. I’m bracing myself for the day when I read in the paper that pieces of a female skeleton washed up on some remote Italian beach.
At least I’d have something then. I don’t even have a picture of her. I’ve got nothing left but memories and a hole in my chest big enough to drive a tank through.
“Another bottle, sir?”
The waitress stands tableside, holding up my second empty bottle of champagne.
I actually hate the stuff, but it’s what Mariana said we’d have when we came here, so I’m having it.
When I nod, the waitress leaves without another word or a bat of her eyelashes. She knows I’m just getting started. All the waitstaff know me now, and know to put me in a taxi and tell the driver the name of my hotel when I can no longer walk at the end of the night.
I tip good, so nobody complains.
“All right, brother, I gotta go,” I tell Connor, squinting into the setting sun. It’s a gorgeous day, warm and clear, a hint of crispness in the air. The leaves on the trees are starting to turn bronze and gold. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower glints like a jewel.
“Go and get drunk again?” Connor asks.
“Yes, Grandma, go and get drunk again.”
“I’m worried about your liver.”
“You’re worried about everything. Stop it. I’m a big boy.”
There’s a fraught pause. “You’re my best friend. You’re my brother. And I love you, man. Don’t forget that, okay?”
I love you. Three words Mariana and I never said to each other. Three words I’ll never be able to hear again without being swamped with pain and regret.
“Yep,” I say, my throat closing. “Call you later.”
I hang up without saying goodbye, because I know how my voice would crack. He’s already worried enough as it is.
The waitress returns. She sets a big glass of milk on the table in front of me and turns to leave.
“Wait.” I gesture to the glass. “I didn’t order this.?
?
She shrugs. “I was told to bring it.”
She walks away without a backward glance, leaving me in a fizzy champagne haze. I glance around at all the tables nearby, wondering which asshole thinks I’ve had too much to drink and should be switching to milk, but no one’s paying any attention to me.
Then a gentle breeze stirs the leaves of the trees shading the patio, and a ray of light hits the glass in a way that illuminates it from behind.
I’ve never seen milk sparkle before. Rainbow prisms dance over the white tablecloth before disappearing as the wind shifts the leaves again.
