Navajo Echoes. Cassie Miles
standing to the side and observing the crowd. But sometimes a man had to go with his instincts. “One dance won’t hurt.”
When he grasped her small hand and pulled her toward the other couples who were barefoot on the sand, she frowned. “Are you sure about this?”
“When is the next time I’m going to be on a Caribbean island with a beautiful woman?”
She slipped off her sandals, and he did the same. The sand was soft beneath his feet. It had been a long time since he’d been dancing and that had been in a country-western bar with boot heels stomping on a hardwood floor. This exotic calypso music was different, more sensual. He allowed the drum beat to resonate inside him, stirring his blood.
Lily’s movements were supple and graceful. A ripple started at her hips and rose through her torso and shoulders. Definitely sensual.
When the guitar player took over with a slow ballad, Lily drifted into John’s arms. Her upturned face in the glow of moonlight and tiki torches was ethereal. The face of an angel.
“One more dance?” she asked.
“At least one more.”
Her body molded against him. Despite the thirteen-inch difference in their heights, they fit together well. Her head rested below his shoulder. Her breasts rubbed against him. As they shuffled together in the sand, her thighs touched his, and he felt himself becoming aroused. Not the reaction he wanted, but he couldn’t help it. She was too enticing, too delicious.
He tried to concentrate on other things, mentally dissecting the music into individual numeric tones, trying to remember the names of the surrounding flora. Orchid. Hibiscus. Periwinkle.
But Lily was pressing more tightly against him. No matter how much he wanted to control himself, it wasn’t going to happen. He was erect and hard as stone.
Leaning back in his arms, she gave him a sly smile and lifted one eyebrow. She knew exactly what kind of effect her nearness was having on him. “Payback,” she said.
“For what?”
“Your little striptease in the honeymoon suite.”
But he hadn’t been trying to seduce her. All he wanted was to wash off the sea scum. So what was her message? If anybody was going to be sexually intimidating, it was her? “I don’t want to play this game.”
“Do I win?” she asked.
“Hell, no.”
“Game on.”
When the ballad ended, they separated. Trying to regain his composure, John scanned the crowd. A group of new arrivals seemed out of place. They were dressed in silk business suits instead of casual beach clothes, and they didn’t look like they’d come to party. The tallest was a heavyset black man with a goatee, clearly the leader. His gaze focused on John. When their eyes met, he didn’t look away.
Beside him, Lily was alert to the potential threat. In a whisper, she asked, “Do you recognize him?”
John leaned down, pretending to kiss her ear. “He sure as hell seems to know me.”
As they danced closer to the well-dressed group, John overheard an introduction. The tall, barrel-chested man was the appointed governor of Cuerva, Ramon St. George.
Edgar had warned them about the governor’s possible involvement in smuggling and money-laundering through the offshore banks. He and his entourage of four—two who were obviously body-guards—seemed to be at this party to meet and greet, encouraging the tourist trade.
John approached the group. He introduced himself and Lily. “Cuerva is a beautiful island. We’re going to tell all our friends to come here.”
Ramon’s lips spread wide in a voracious smile. “John Pinto is an unusual name. May I ask your heritage?”
“I’m Navajo. I grew up on the reservation in Arizona.”
“An American Indian.” His accent was part British and part local, and he sounded thrilled, as though John had told him that he’d arrived from Mars. “Well, John Pinto, you might be the first Navajo to visit our little island. Do you still live in Arizona?”
“Denver,” John said.
“A grand coincidence,” Ramon said.
Lily dug her elbow into John’s ribs, reminding him that she didn’t believe in coincidence.
The governor continued, “We have another visitor from Denver. His name is Drew Kirshner.”
“Small world.” One in which a governor of a Caribbean island was linked with a businessman connected to the Russian mob in Denver. Why would Kirshner be here? Several possibilities presented themselves. All were negative.
Lily kept the conversation going. “We’d really like to try some of the local foods. Do you recommend any restaurants?”
He waggled a forefinger at her. “I cannot choose just one. The others would be insulted. But I can warn you that many of our dishes are very spicy.”
“I love hot food. And all these wonderful fruits. Mangos and guava.”
She played the role of innocent tourist to the hilt, leading the governor and his entourage through a litany of small talk, even soliciting a recipe for curried goat that was used by the governor’s housekeeper.
John wasn’t sure where she was headed with this chat until she slipped in a casual question. “I’d really like to know how to make that dish. May I stop by and talk with your housekeeper? If it’s not too much of an imposition.”
“I have a better idea,” Ramon said. “Tomorrow afternoon at four, I am hosting a cocktail party at the governor’s mansion, where many of our local specialties will be served as appetizers. I would be pleased to have you join us.”
“Thank you, Governor,” Lily said. “You’re so gracious. We’ll be there.”
After a few more words, they rejoined the throng of dancers on the sand. John leaned close to her ear. “Nice work on wrangling that invite.”
“Like Sun Tzu said—keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“You think the governor is an enemy?”
“He’s suspicious, especially since he knows Kirshner.”
John agreed. When Lily put her mind to the task, she had the makings of a damned good agent. Not that he intended to tell her so. She had plenty of ego without his compliments.
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK, THE NIGHT was still warm, but Lily was glad that she’d purchased a couple of black sweatshirts to cover their colorful island clothes. They needed to be subtle and careful as they headed out for their midnight meeting with Robert Prescott.
As soon as they left the hotel, John pointed out the small, dark man who followed them at a consistent twenty-foot distance, stopping when they stopped and starting up again when they moved on. They meandered along the main road in town, crossing from one side of the street to the other. Most of the storefront shops were closed, but the restaurants and taverns were still open for the tourists. She paused to look in a window and turned her gaze toward the street behind them. For a moment, she thought they’d shaken their silent pursuer. But no. “He’s still there. Who sent him?”
“Your new best friend. The governor.”
“Because I wanted the recipe for curried goat?”
“You know why we’re being followed,” John said.
Because they might lead the way to Robert Prescott. In spite of the easygoing Caribbean atmosphere, she was aware of the long grasp of danger that reached all the way from Denver to Cuerva. Other agents at PPS had been threatened. They had lost one of their own.
The reappearance and return of Robert Prescott signaled the end game. The final solution. And