Brynn Kelly - Deception Island

After a cursory glance her way, he reached for a towel that was draped over the seat, and tossed it to her. She took the hint, and wrapped it around her torso. Crap, her underwear didn’t leave much to the imagination. She hadn’t meant to be that obvious. Maybe she’d pushed it too far, too soon. They had a few days on the island, he’d said. A few days to take his defenses from rock to Play-Doh.

If the ransom was paid, she could go on her way without him being any wiser to her deception. If not, she wanted him on her side when the shit went down. Maybe then, she could come clean. In the meantime she was safer to play princess and hope for the best.

“You shouldn’t have,” she said, shoving her hair into what she hoped was a sleek style.

“You were right,” he said, raising a glass of juice. “We may as well make the most of a bad situation. Cheers.”

She poured herself a juice and sat at the other end of the bench. Hmm. Just what did he mean by that? A bird plummeted into the water, a flash of orange and electric blue.

“Salute,” she said. “Or is it santé?” High school French hadn’t covered drinking etiquette.

He cocked his head, frowning.

“You speak French when you’re surprised. Or turned on.” She swiveled to focus on the food as heat rose up her face. What was that about? She never blushed, especially when she was on the job. Had to be the air temperature. “Are you French?”

“Uh.” He uncrossed and crossed his legs.

Stifling a triumphant smile, she began to assemble a sandwich—ham, lettuce, tomato, olives. Anything basic and relatively fresh made her drool like a mastiff after prison food.

“Are you French, Jack? I can’t pick your accent. And I swear your English is better than mine.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple rising and dipping. “I’m a lot of things, and nothing. If I was a dog, I’d be a stray mongrel.”

Just like her. “Guess that makes me a prize Chihuahua.”

The bench shook with his laughter, deep and throaty, and only half-bitter. It did gooey things to her stomach. Man, that was so wrong.

“Pampered but scrappy as hell,” he said.

“That’s me.” Half the truth, at least.

“Your foot—it’s bleeding.”

“Really?” Blood trailed from the arch of her foot, mixing with water and grains of sand. “It’s nothing. You should have seen what I did to the shark.”

He raised one eyebrow.

“I cut myself on the coral. No big deal.”

His forehead crinkled. “We need to wash it. Coral carries dangerous bacteria and toxins. And in the tropics the last thing you want is an infection. I’ll find a first-aid kit.” He disappeared into the cabin.

She bit into her sandwich, closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The sea washed in and out, the breeze teased her face. No matter what became of her in the next week, at least she’d had the simple pleasure of this moment. In prison right now she’d be lying sleepless on her bed, trying to zone out the unvarying soundtrack of cries, groans and jeers of the other inmates. If the senator’s people hadn’t approached her, she’d be fighting a bunch of other homeless people for a spot under a freeway bridge. Here there were goddamn frangipanis. There were worse places to die—not that she planned to.

We may as well make the most of a bad situation.

Yep. They might as well.

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