Chapter 11
ELEVEN
In the hour they’d been on the roof, Jaz had gotten little more than fragments from Kenzie—email addresses, company names, transaction records.
Nothing solid enough to grasp. Nothing that explained why Kenzie had been chosen as a mule for one of the Western Hemisphere’s most dangerous drug operations.
The Blue Fantasy was one of The Ghost’s yachts, Jaz was almost positive, and not just because of the similar names—Fantasy, Fantasma.
A tip had come through the DEA that The Ghost was moving drugs through St. Barts this week.
Jaz had already known the Blue Fantasy was part of some cartel’s network—Magras had directed him to hire men to load the yacht with drugs in the past. But since it wasn’t a transport he’d coordinated, he’d never known which cartel.
The DEA’s tip made him believe the Blue Fantasy was El Fantasma’s.
If he was right, then he was closer than ever to learning the man’s true identity.
“You’re saying none of these company managers ever asked to meet you in person?” Jaz needed to confirm.
Kenzie shook her head, the fake blond strands slipping from the bun she’d secured them in.
“That’s not unusual. I have a good reputation, excellent references.
” She leaned forward, her yellow sundress bright against the weathered chair.
“I’ve transported over thirty yachts in the last couple of years, and I’ve only met the owners a handful of times. ”
Perfect setup for a smuggling operation.
Find a reputable captain with the right credentials, pay well, keep communication professional but distant.
Maybe there was no other explanation than the fact that she’d been an easy mark—young, female, competent but naive enough not to ask dangerous questions.
His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the text from Laguerre.
Magras’s men are here. They’re headed to your floor.
Ice flooded his veins.
Jaz ran through what would most likely happen. They’d knock on the hotel room door. When there was no answer, they’d move along. They wouldn’t break in. He hoped.
“But Edwin told me that was totally normal,” Kenzie said, clearly not reading his face. “That I’d rarely—”
“Kenzie. Magras’s men are here.”
Her eyes widened. “What? How do you—?”
“No time.” His gaze swept the table—their breakfast remnants, his laptop with its search histories, his phone. Evidence of an investigation, not even close to what playboy Jaz and tourist Simone should be doing.
He grabbed the laptop and shoved it into the duffel bag. The rooftop patio had a small seating area with a rattan sofa and chairs near the far railing. He hurried over and shoved the duffel bag under the couch, where it would be partially hidden by the wicker that reached to the floor.
Footsteps came from the exterior corridor below. He tamped down the temptation to look. If that was them, then they had a minute. If that long.
He grabbed Kenzie’s hand and pulled her toward the sofa.
“What are we—?”
“We need to pretend,” he whispered, sliding his phone into his pocket. He tugged her down beside him on the couch. The thick cushions were still damp from morning dew.
Fifty seconds.
“Put your legs over my lap.” He kept his voice low, urgent.
Her eyes widened, and she leaned back, gaze flicking around the rooftop as if she might bolt. This woman who’d fought like a warrior to protect her crew was panicking.
Jaz reached for her legs and positioned them over his lap. She didn’t fight, but her body was rigid, the opposite of what he needed.
“Simone.” He used her fake name, trying to snap her into character. “We have to sell it.”
“I don’t…I can’t.”
“You must.” Jaz wrapped a hand around her calf. She flinched and tried to pull away, but he held on.
She didn’t relax. She was acting like a terrified hostage.
He moved his other hand to her shoulder, feeling the tension there. “I’m not going to hurt you. Please, help me.”
She was shrinking, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched.
Tick, tick, tick. His internal clock was getting louder. Any second.
Jaz shifted her so she faced him and tugged the fabric of her dress off one shoulder, exposing skin and collarbone. He heard her quiet gasp as he pressed his lips to her shoulder, trying to make the kiss gentle, apologetic. Trying to relax her. He was failing. And crossing a line.
She needed to play along.
“Sell it,” he murmured against her skin. “Please.”
“I-I can’t.”
Footsteps hit the rooftop stairs.
They were out of time.
Desperate to save both of them, Jaz cupped her face in his hands and captured her mouth with his, his hand sliding over her exposed shoulder.
She made a small sound against his lips—surprise or protest. Her hands gripped his shirt, confused, pushing or pulling, he wasn’t sure.
And then, she relaxed. For half a second, she softened against him and kissed him back.
He tasted coffee and sweetness on her lips. His sense of doom lifted, and all he could think about was this woman in his arms. This woman who seemed as if she belonged right there.
Then, a throat cleared loudly.
Kenzie went rigid. When she tried to pull away, he held onto her, keeping her in place as he glared at the intruder.
Knuckles stood ten feet away, arms crossed, face impassive, eyes assessing. He might be a thug, but he was smart and perceptive.
“You need to work on your timing, dude.” Jaz kept his tone casual despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
“Boss wanted to check on you.” Knuckles was the only person Jaz knew who could make a French accent sound ugly.
More importantly…Magras wanted to check on him? More like he wanted to make sure Jaz’s story held up.
Another thug—Pizza Face—joined them on the rooftop. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t look amused.
Kenzie shifted in Jaz’s lap, and he let her go. She swung her feet to the floor and straightened her dress, pulling up the fabric over the shoulder he’d exposed and tugging the hem to cover her knees.
She kept her gaze down, the picture of embarrassment. It was a perfect performance, even if it was mostly genuine.
“You can tell Monsieur Magras I’m fine,” Jaz said.
Knuckles’s gaze moved to Kenzie, a gleam of interest sparking in his dead eyes.
“As you can see, we’re fine.” Emphasis on we. Translation: hands off, she’s mine.
This whole relationship was supposed to be an act, but his protective feelings were not faked.
“Boss wanted me to remind you to be at the marina bar tonight,” Knuckles said.
“I’ll be there.”
“Just don’t let anything”—again, his gaze flicked to Kenzie—“make you forget what’s important.”
“I’ll touch base with him later.” Jaz kept his tone light and casual. He nodded toward Kenzie as if to say, You’d be distracted too.
With a grunt, Knuckles turned and headed back toward the stairs. Pizza Face glared at him for a beat too long, then followed Knuckles.
Jaz didn’t move, just listened as their footsteps faded. He counted to thirty in his head before letting himself relax against the sofa.
Kenzie launched to her feet and walked to the table where they’d shared breakfast. She didn’t sit, though, just stared out at the water.
Two realizations hit him.
First, Magras was still suspicious. Five years of Jaz’s undercover work hung by a thread.
Second—and this one hit harder as he stared at Kenzie’s back—he’d kissed her, against her will. Kissed her without even warning her. She’d been terrified, trapped, and he’d done it anyway.
He’d had a reason, yes. If the thugs hadn’t bought Jaz and Kenzie’s story, they’d be on their way back to the resort right now.
Jaz might survive, only because Magras thought his puppet strings were unbreakable.
But the boss had zero reason to keep Simone alive.
And many reasons to kill Kenzie, if he realized they were the same person.
So yes, Jaz had had his reasons for what he’d done. But still…
The man his parents had raised would never have done such a thing. The child he’d once been, Jasper Aylett of Driftwood, Virginia, might’ve been mischievous. He might’ve been a risk-taker and a troublemaker, but he’d never have touched a woman without her permission.
Maybe Jaz had saved them both, but it had come with a cost.
Salvation always does.
The words were whispered in his soul. True, but the differences between what Jaz had done and what Jesus had done were as far from each other as night from day.
Jesus had sacrificed himself to save Jasper.
Jasper had sacrificed someone else to save his own skin. Hers, too, but still.
He forced himself to approach the railing and stopped beside her, though he kept a few feet between them.
Her arms were crossed, and she bent over them as if he’d physically wounded her. Her face was pale, making her freckles stand out starkly against her skin. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, and she was breathing fast and shallow.
“I’m sorry.”
Her gaze flicked to him, then back at the blue Caribbean. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. Nothing about this was fine. “It’s not,” Jaz said quietly. “Don’t say it is.”
The breeze caught a strand of the blond wig, reminding him of how deep he’d sucked her into his world.
He should have just left her on that Coast Guard ship. He might not have gotten the answers he needed, but at least she’d be safe.
“I crossed a line.” He kept his voice low. “I should have found another way.”
“What other way?” Kenzie turned to face him, her golden-brown eyes unreadable. “What would you have done differently?”
The kiss had been a calculated risk. He’d assumed whatever guard showed up would be distracted, catching them in an intimate embrace.
It had worked. But that didn’t make it right.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’m still sorry.”
“I know why you did it.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear it over the distant traffic.
He shifted a little closer.
“I froze.” She hugged herself a little tighter. “I couldn’t… I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to pretend.”
“You’re doing fine.” He leaned his forearms on the railing. “For what it’s worth, I think they bought it.”
She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Great.”
“We should go,” he finally said. “It’s not safe here anymore.”
“Where is, then?”
Nowhere on this island, not for Kenzie. He’d been a fool to bring her back here.
He’d taken her to the party the night before because he’d felt he had to. He’d never dreamed Magras would want to meet her.
Now, she was on the man’s radar. If he found out who she really was, her life would be over.
So would his, but that felt inevitable. The moment he’d become indebted to Magras and turned informant, he’d figured his days were numbered.
His goal had been to save innocents from various cartels’ evil webs.
Not trap them in his own.
“Jasper.” Kenzie sounded angry. “Snap out of it. What’s the plan?”
“Sorry. You’re right.” He scanned the rooftop. “Grab my laptop and duffel. I’ll get the trash.”
“And then?”
“And then… And then I need to get into your apartment and get you off this island.”