James Patterson - Honeymoon

I looked back at the others—and saw that Olivia had begun to cry. “She’s such a good daughter. Such a love.”

Chapter 111

NORA STROLLED OUT to her private terrace in the afternoon sun, wearing nothing but a pale blue bikini bottom and a brilliant smile. She sipped from a bottle of Evian, then pressed it against her cheek. She’d yet to tire of the view of the Baie Longue beach and its glowing white sand, the way it seemed to melt into the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. She couldn’t have designed it any better herself.

La Samanna on the island of St. Martin had a well-deserved reputation as an exclusive hideaway resort. Nora was employing the hideaway part. During the day, behind her Chanel sunglasses, she was a rich socialite lounging by the pool. And at night—well, the way she and Jordan had been heating up the bedroom, dinner was always courtesy of room service.

In fact, on some days, like honeymooners, they never left their villa. Thankfully, La Samanna also had a great room-service menu for breakfast and lunch.

“Darling, do you want the Duval-Leroy or the Dom Pérignon today?” Jordan called from the bedroom.

Decisions, decisions…

“You pick for us, honey,” said Nora.

Jordan Mauch, Dallas real-estate tycoon, was a born decision maker. The one that had made him the most money was recognizing Scottsdale, Arizona, as the next West Palm Beach before anyone else did. His latest decision involved his personal life. What a good move to hire Nora Sinclair to decorate my new house just outside Austin and then reward her with a little trip to the Caribbean.

He called to her again from inside the bedroom, the lunch order placed. “Darling, do you realize that you’re not exactly dressed out there?”

Nora replied, tongue in cheek, “I’m just trying to even out my tan lines.” She listened to him laugh. “Besides, this is the French side of the island, honey,” she said.

Earlier in the week, she and Jordan had driven up past Grand Case, over to the nude beach at Orient Bay. Were it up to Nora, she would’ve stripped and made herself at home. Not Jordan. Nothing doing. That was one local custom he had no intention of partaking in. Nora didn’t even try to talk him into it. She’d already come to learn that very rich men with overseas accounts never want to take their clothes off in public. No doubt it has something to do with shielding their assets.

Nora went back inside the villa and slipped into one of the resort’s fluffy white robes. It felt cozy against her skin. She climbed into bed with Jordan and snuggled up against his broad chest.

There was just one problem.

She couldn’t get John O’Hara out of her head. His smell, his taste, the way he seemed to get inside her head better than any man she’d ever been with.

And it made her angry. She didn’t want these thoughts, she didn’t want to be in the arms of someone else, Jordan Mauch or anyone, and be thinking about O’Hara. It hurt too much. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t fall in love.

“Earth to Nora…,” Jordan said.

She snapped out of her faraway gaze. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “I was just thinking how perfect everything is.”

He smiled. “Just another day in paradise.”

They shared a kiss, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Lunch had arrived.

Jordan climbed out of bed and pulled open the door. “Thank you,” he said as the room-service attendants wheeled in their large serving table. They were wearing the usual Docksides and shorts, with linen shirts and large straw hats.

Suddenly, off came the hats.

“Hello, Nora. I told you we’d meet again,” said O’Hara.

“Don’t you dare talk to her!” snapped Susan. She drew her gun and took perfect aim at Nora on the bed. “You’re busted, you bitch!”

Then she turned to Jordan Mauch. “And you… you’re the luckiest man alive.”

Chapter 112

THAT AFTERNOON A VERY strange and unexpectedly nice thing happened—I got some time off, and I got to spend it with Susan. We wisely decided to check out the beach at La Samanna, which was long, wide, and dazzlingly white. There was even an old shipwreck down the shoreline.

“Are we sure we can trust these local guys?” I asked Susan as we caught a few rays.

“You’re acting like they’re the Keystone Kops, or something,” she said.

I was referring to the gendarmerie, the police on St. Martin.

They’d taken Nora into custody until the extradition papers could be finalized for her return to New York.

“Maybe it’s just me,” I said, “but it’s hard to put a lot of faith in policemen who wear shorts. We’re not even talking about normal ones, either. Did you see those things? They were so tight, I could tell their religion.”

Susan turned to me with an incredulous stare I’d seen many times before. “Shut up and drink your drink, John.”

She had a point. As she always does.

Our police work there was done. Nora was safely in custody, and the case was closed. We’d even checked in with John Jr. and Max back home to see that they were okay with their grandparents, Susan’s mom and dad, who still sort of liked me, in spite of everything.

If just for a little while, Susan and I deserved to be sitting right where we were. Side by side on comfy beach chairs at this unbelievably ritzy resort, watching the sun go down against the backdrop of a beautifully illuminated orange sky. Hell, we’d even gone for a swim together.

I reached over with my mai tai. “Here’s to Nurse Emily Barrows.”

Susan clinked my glass with her piña colada.

I leaned back in my chair and sighed deeply. I felt a sense of satisfaction and an equal amount of relief. I also felt a twinge of something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it wasn’t very comforting. Let’s call it guilt.

I glanced over at Susan, who looked incredibly pretty and serene. I’d caused her so much pain and I felt horrible about it. She deserved better.

I took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I am so, so sorry.”

She squeezed back. “I know you are,” she said softly.

And there it was. A happy ending if there ever was one. Me with a mai tai in one hand, the first woman I ever truly loved in the other. And Nora Sinclair soon to be serving a life sentence for the murders she’d committed.

Of course, I should’ve known better.

Chapter 113

THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY I was in Susan’s office in New York. I had been summoned. She’d just gotten off the phone with Frank Walsh.

“O’Hara, I don’t even know how to tell you this.”

“Straight up, I guess. I made my own bed, didn’t I?”

“It’s not that, John. It’s… they’re dropping the charges against Nora Sinclair.”

The news hit me like a sucker punch. Hard, painful, and completely unexpected. It took me a few seconds before I could even string together a sentence.

“What do you mean, they’re dropping the charges?”

Susan stared at me from across her desk, unblinking. I could see in her eyes how upset she was, but it was a very controlled anger.

Unlike mine.

I started to pace and curse and threaten everything I could think of, beginning with going to the New York Times.

“Sit down, John,” she said.

I couldn’t sit. “I don’t understand. How could they? She’s a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I know she is. She’s an incredible snake. She’s psycho.”

“Then, why would we let her walk?!”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated? It’s bullshit. It’s unacceptable.”

“I don’t disagree,” Susan said in a measured tone. “And if yelling and screaming now is going to make you feel better, be my guest. But when you’re finished, it’s not going to change a damn thing. It’s a done deal upstairs.”