“According to Omid,” Navid said slowly, “all those aboard the catamaran survived the assault. They appear unharmed and have been released after questioning by the authorities.”
“So.” Izad swallowed the bile that burned the back of his throat. “Kazem failed.”
He felt that failure as keenly as if it were his own.Worse. Because his son would be devastated by it. And anything that hurt Kazem hurt Izad ten times over.
“What a disaster,” the American spat out.
“Shut your mouth,” Izad snarled, having reached his limit. “Or I will have my men shut it for you.”
The American glanced between Navid and Jamshid, the two of Izad’s security detail who had stayed behind, and proved that he was indeed smarter than he looked. He clamped his mouth shut. The only indication of what it cost him to do so was the muscle ticking spastically in the side of his jaw.
“One other thing,” Navid said with a grimace.
Izad felt his heart cave in on itself under the weight of the fear that spread through his chest. He could not draw breath for words. All he could manage was a nod of his head.
“The authorities are attempting to identify two bodies they pulled from the sea.”
Anguish had a sound Izad had not heard since the death of his wife issuing from the back of his throat. Then the import of Navid’s statement sank in and a small spark of hope ignited. “Only two?”
“It would seem from everything that Omid and Cas can gather, the authorities have yet to find the speedboat or the third man involved.”
“So Kazem could still be alive.” Izad clung to the possibility as a man lost at sea would cling to a life ring. “We will assume he is and that, even now, he is trying to get word back to us.” Determination hardened his jaw. “Which means now we must turn our attention to Mason McCarthy and how we plan to finish the job Kazem started.”
* * *
9:53 p.m.
“Stupid, nonexistent water pressure.” Alex cursed the hotel showerhead and turned up the heat until what it lacked in adequate water supply, it made up for with steam. As she lathered herself, hot vapor curled around her, opening her pores. What rushed in was anger.
Pure.
Unencumbered.
White-hot.
Damn Mason for first telling her he wouldn’t sleep with her because he was convinced she was after a husband and no way, no how was he up forthat. Double damn him for going back on that and telling her the real reason he wouldn’t sleep with her was because he was worried that once he started, he wouldn’t want to stop. And triple dog damn him for getting her hopes up because…
Lies! Lies! Lies!
In truth, he didn’t want to sleep with her because he was already sleeping with someone else. Donna of the dark hair and doe eyes. Donna of the sultry laugh and pouty lips and skin that didn’t appear to sport one single, solitary freckle.
Ooohhh! He could have told me the truth!
Anger gave her the wild-eyed, lock-jawed determination to do what must be done. Namely, killing off once and for all any tender feelings she had toward one Mason McCarthy.
“A pox on his penis!” she growled into the steam. “May he grow boils, sprout hair from his ears, and get fat and flabby!”
This time, she didn’t call back the curse. She let it sit out there, hoping some higher power would hear it and grant her every wish.
Stepping from the shower, she used the rough hotel towel to give her body a vigorous drying, feeling a little drunk on the rage running through her blood. Like most intoxicated people, she wanted to share her buzz. Maybe folks could get a contact high just by being around her.
Wouldn’t that be nice for them?
After dragging a comb through her wet hair and watching the curls spring into loose spirals, she slathered on some lotion, taped fresh Band-Aids to her forehead, and slipped on her glasses.
A quick peek at her reflection showed her eyes were bright and flashing, her lips were deep pink from the heat of the shower, and her jaw was set at an obstinate angle. The months spent on Wayfarer Island had given her pale skin a faint, rosy glow. No access to a regular stylist meant her hair was longer than it’d ever been in her life, reaching past her shoulder blades, and if she wasn’t mistaken, those were actual muscles in her arms.
She flexed and was surprised to see definition. All the swimming and diving and digging in the sand had done her some good. She’d never have Michelle Obama arms, but hers would do in a pinch.
