Page 106 of Lochlan

There's tapping on the door. We look at each other. “I thought you said those guys are meeting us in the bar.”

Livi shrugs, then bounces over to the door to answer. She looks through the peephole. It's not the guys on the Mexico team. “All I can see are a bunch of flowers.” She opens the door to a guy who's wrestling with a bouquet in a vase.

“Flowers, for Ms. Kenzie,” he says.

I search in my duffel bag for a few dollars. “You can put it over there,” I say and point to the table. The massive bouquet takes up much of the corner of the room.

“Thank you,” I say and offer the bills.

He grins. “Thank you. If you need anything else, let me know.”

Livi gives out a long whistle after I shut the door on the delivery guy. “Who's it from?”

“Don't get excited; it's probably from my dad,” I say, walking over to look for a card. I find a tiny envelope attached to a little plastic fork nestled among the blooms and open it.

Kenzie, I've been watching you on the television. Congratulations on your wins. You're pure magic on the sand, Geordie.

“What did your dad say?”

I leave the card propped against the flowers. “It's from Geordie.”

Livi's eyes narrow, a sly smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, that cute Scot you've been promising to introduce me to. Sounds like he kind of likes you.”

“Geordie is a good friend. He's never missed sending me a note of encouragement. You'll meet him when we're playing closer to home.”

Livi waves a dismissive hand at me. “Whatever. I think you're keeping the cute ones for yourself. She turns towards the closet and pulls out a sundress, strips off the T-shirt and shorts we changed into after our match, and shimmies into the dress. “I'm going to meet the guys downstairs in the bar. Join us or not, it's okay with me. I'm not opposed to keeping two men company.”

Left alone, I sit on the bed cross-legged and turn on the TV to do some channel surfing until I find a music station. Livi doesn't understand that I need time to myself after we play to decompress. I'll probably join them downstairs in an hour after I do a replay in my mind of our game. Even when you win there are errors; no one plays a perfect game.

The one hour of reflection has turned into two. It's too late to join them. If they're drinking, I'd need to do catch-up. It's no fun being the only one without a buzz. I could throw on a sundress and look for them, but knowing Livi, they've already gone to a party.

I push my duffel off the bed with my foot. It lands with a thump when it hits the tile floor. The white envelope that contains the fan notes is sticking out of my bag at an awkward angle.

Snatching it up for a dose of fan love, I rip open the top of the envelope and spill the letters onto the bed. A few are from event sponsors congratulating me, with invitations to parties or drinks. I set these aside and read the rest of the nice fan mail. The last letter is from handwriting that I recognize. I squint at my name scrawled in a thick, bold hand. I finger the envelope open and read the card.

Kenzie, I've been here for a few days and saw your last two matches. I didn't want to intrude until you finished the event. I'd like to take you to dinner tonight to celebrate. We have a lot to discuss. I'll send a car; the driver will call for you at the reservation desk at your hotel. If you don't want to see me, send him away. Lochlan.

CHAPTER45

RECKLESS HEART

LOCHLAN

The cloudless brillianceof the blue dome sky meets the sparkling clear turquoise of the Pacific Ocean. The darkness of my sunglasses slightly diminishes the grand view. It’s a necessary defense from the sun that seems brighter in this part of the world.

I’m on the deck of the Manuela, a sleek, seventy-seven-foot yacht, standing at the entrance of the salon, what they call the living room area on the boat.

I take another sip of whiskey when I catch sight of the black limo I’ve been waiting for. The driver emerges from the car. Suited in gray, he runs a hand down the front of his already perfect jacket, but he doesn’t open the passenger door.

He walks stiff-legged up the gangway to the dock. Every step his foot hits the wood brings a heavy dread of what he’s about to deliver. Before addressing me, he takes off his cap and removes his sunglasses. The driver does it as a courtesy when speaking to a client. I’d rather he keep them on; the sun’s glare is harsh.

I move to the railing to have this conversation.

“Mr. MacTavish?”

“Aye.”

He shifts his weight, anxiously clutching the rim of his cap before he begins. “I’m the driver from the service you hired to pick up Ms. MacGregor. I waited for her at the hotel for an hour. Before I left, I asked someone at the desk if they’d seen her. I was told Ms. MacGregor joined two men in the hotel’s bar for drinks. She was not there when I searched. I left a message for her at reception with your location; they assured me they will give it to her when she returns.”

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