Chapter 9
NINE
How was she this wrung out?
Or maybe it was simply the fact that she’d left West behind, in the darkness, his words like a sledgehammer in her chest.
Yes. I’ll bring her in.
And this escape was impulsive and maybe even futile, but—well, it wasn’t so much about her escape as it was about his betrayal.
Swim. Just keep swimming.
The water had hit like a wall. The impact had slammed into her chest, shocked the air from her lungs when she went under, and she’d gasped—swallowed water—choked.
Certainly he should have heard her.
But when she’d broken the surface, treading water, there he’d stood, on the stern of boat, still chatting up his friend.
She’d treaded water for one long moment, truth kicking her. Yes, maybe he was in over his head.
So she’d just taken herself out of the equation. She’d made it all morning in her disguise, and frankly, a soggy First Daughter was the last thing people would expect.
So she’d taken one last look at West, at his silhouette on the deck—facing away, looking out to sea—and with one hand clutching her dry bag, she’d kicked away from the boat.
Then she’d turned toward shore.
Light twinkled from houses scattered throughout Key West neighborhoods. Gold and white against the darkness.
She’d lose herself there, and when she was ready, she’d turn herself in. Free will. Not a captive.
Britta started swimming.
Her sweatpants turned to lead, heavy and lethal, fighting her with every kick. She considered stripping them off. But arriving half-naked on shore would certainly draw attention.
So she kept swimming. Awkward strokes. The dry bag making it impossible to use both arms properly. Her left hand clutched the bag. Her right arm pulled through the water. Her legs kicked—weak, uncoordinated, cramping already.
The cool water sapped her strength. Her teeth chattered. Her muscles screamed. Her lungs burned.
But she kept going.
I am not cargo.
The words became a rhythm. A mantra. Timed to her strokes.
I am not cargo.
Her shoulder throbbed where the window frame had scraped it. And when she looked up—No. The shore didn’t seem any closer.
Okay, she took it back. This was a stupid idea. Her vision blurred. Salt water or tears or exhaustion—she couldn’t tell. Her brain had disconnected from her body. She was just movement now. Just survival.
Her foot touched sand.
Britta gasped. Tried to stand. Her legs buckled. She crawled instead—hands and knees in the shallow water, waves pushing her forward, pulling her back. Finally she dragged herself onto the wet sand. Collapsed face down, her chest heaving.
The beach was empty. Dark. Just sand and the sound of waves and the glow of resort lights up the coast.
She rolled onto her back. Stared at the stars overhead. The same stars that had blazed above her when West kissed her.
That felt like days ago. A different lifetime.
But she could too easily remember the taste of him, the feel of his hand in her hair, his other locked around her waist.
Stop. That had been foolish.
Britta sat up. Opened the dry bag with shaking fingers. The phone was dry. Miracle. She powered it on. The screen lit up—harsh white light in the darkness.
Hers was the one number Britta knew by heart—they texted constantly. Now, she sent her a message.
Unknown number
It’s Starlight. Where are you? Need help.
She waited.
The phone buzzed.
Imani
GIRL!! I’m at the Bahama Mama Resort. Room 212. WHERE ARE YOU??
She’d seen the Bahama Mama as she’d driven to the wharf with the Secret Service two days ago. Just off the main square, with a giant tiki hut for an entrance.
She texted back.
Unknown number
Beach. Coming to you.
Then she stood. Her bare feet sank into the damp sand. Her legs wobbled.
But she started walking.
Then broke into a run, along the dark waterline.
Just like Eva, the heroine of her novel, would.
The lights of the resort glowed from down the shore, and she waited a few minutes, searching for surveillance, before she dashed under the tiki hut and into the lobby.
Britta blinked against the bright lights. Water dripped from her soggy sweatpants, leaving a trail across the polished tile. A couple near the elevators stared. She ignored them and opted for the stairs in the corner.
The hallway windows overlooked a courtyard with a pool, music, people on lounge chairs. She found room 212. A man stood outside the door—one of Imani’s royal guards, probably.
He looked at Britta, then spoke into his radio.
The door flew open.
Imani stood there, her dark hair in cornrow braids, wearing cutoff shorts and a white shirt, looking regal despite her casual attire.
She took one look at Britta—soaking wet, shivering, scraped, barefoot—and her eyes went wide.
“Oh my word. Get in here. Now.”
She grabbed Britta’s arm. Pulled her inside.
The air-conditioned room raised gooseflesh.
The suite was all cream and coral and warm light. Open floor plan with tile floors and high ceilings. A beige linen sofa piled with orange and yellow pillows sat in front of a dark wood coffee table, a wicker ottoman. A four-poster bed was visible in the adjoining room.
The space smelled like plumeria and salt air and luxury—the kind of place where people came to forget the real world existed.
Yes, she’d come to the right place. Her legs nearly buckled.
“I’ve got you,” Imani said. “Sit. Right now. Sit.”
She guided Britta to the sofa. Britta collapsed onto the edge. Her body shook.
“Pippa!” Imani called toward the bathroom. “I need towels. And warm clothes.”
Her security, Pippa, emerged from another adjoining room—blonde, elegant, somehow perfectly put together even at this hour. She saw Britta and her expression shifted. Concern. Action.
She disappeared into the bathroom. Returned with fluffy towels. She wrapped them around Britta’s shoulders.
“What happened?” Imani knelt in front of Britta. Her hands rubbed Britta’s arms through the towels. Trying to steady her. “Where have you been? The entire Secret Service is looking for you. They said you were missing. They said—”
“I wasn’t missing.” Britta’s voice came out hoarse. Raw. “I was with West.”
Something clicked in Imani’s expression. “West.”
“West Young. Jones, Inc., operative.” Britta stopped. Swallowed. “There was a bombing. On the yacht. Yesterday—but it feels like days ago.”
“I know. We arrived last night and saw the fire on the water. Fraser has been with the Jones, Inc., team all day. But you disappeared. We thought…” Imani’s mouth tightened. “If your man West hadn’t checked in today, I think the entire country would have been shut down.”
Your man West.
Hardly.
“I’m fine.” Then she ran through the events from the yacht explosion to West’s helping her escape. The safe house. The fight. The dive boat.
The kiss.
Her voice broke on that word. “He kissed me. Or I kissed him. Both. It was—” Britta stopped. Closed her eyes. “It was perfect. The kind of kiss I write about. The kind that changes everything.”
“But?” Imani’s voice. Gentle.
“But then a man showed up. And I went belowdecks because West freaked out. And then I heard—” Her voice cracked. “I heard the man tell West to bring me in. To the Secret Service. And West agreed.”
Imani’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “So you left.”
“I panicked. I was so angry, I climbed out the cabin window. Swam to shore.”
Imani looked at Pippa, back at Britta. “He must be out of his mind with worry.”
“He made me promises, and then just like that, he was done with me.” Britta ran the towel through her wet hair.
“Or,” Pippa said carefully, “he made an impossible choice to keep you safe.”
“By handing me back to my father? After I told him I didn’t want that?”
“Sometimes love looks like letting go.”
The word love hung in the air.
“Let’s not get carried away. This isn’t about love. It’s about washing his hands of me.”
“Britta,” Imani said. “You know we both come with complications.”
“He made it pretty clear that he didn’t want complications.”
And there it was, the truth. Her fantasy, the fiction, destroyed.
Back to real life.
And maybe Imani knew that, because she stood and took the clothes Pippa had gotten from her suitcase—a clean T-shirt, leggings, a hoodie, socks. “Have a shower. Get changed. I’ll order room service and we’ll figure a way out of the whole West debacle.”
Britta smiled, gave Imani a hug. “We should probably tell someone I’m not lost.”
“I’ll let Fraser know,” Pippa said. “He’ll know who to tell.” She folded her arms. “My guess is that we should brace ourselves for your detail to show up.”
Yes. Britta nodded. Sighed. Went to the bathroom to shower and wash the ocean out of her hair.
When she emerged, Imani had made hot cocoa, was sipping her own cup.
Britta took the proffered cup. “Hot cocoa in Key West. Feels wrong.”
“I can order you a margarita—”
“No. This is better.” She blew on the mug, then took a sip. The warmth soaked through her, steadying her.
“So.” Imani patted the space beside her on the sofa. “Are you in love with him?”
Britta stared at her. “No. What? We went through this—I’ve known him for three days. I’m not a child.”
Imani just looked at her. “I fell for Creed the day I met him. The rest was just me confirming that my heart was right.”
“Yeah, well…” Britta looked at the cocoa. “Fine. Maybe I love him a little. West is very…”
“Protective?”
“Sweet.”
Imani raised an eyebrow.
“I guess I thought—I thought the kiss meant something. The way he looked at me. The way he held me. Like I was—” She stopped. Swallowed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”
“Did you ask him what he wanted?” Pippa’s voice rose from where she stood by the door. She definitely possessed a bodyguard aura, the way she stood there, arms folded, her mouth tight.
Britta stared at her. “What?”
“You left without talking to him. Swam to shore. Ran. Did you give him a chance to explain?”
“I heard him agree—”
“You heard part of a conversation. Out of context.” Pippa unfolded her arms. “I’m not saying he made the right choice. I’m saying maybe there’s more to it.”
Britta looked away.
The door opened.