A flicker of hurt flashes across her face, the jab landing harder than I’d intended.
Shame hits me square in the chest.
“You need to fix this, Isla.”
She exaggerates a wince. “Which brings me to my next predicament—I can’t exactly make a statement tomorrow in the same clothes I wore today. It’ll raise a red flag. It’s best if I gohome, sleep this off, and try again when I’m not so thoroughly railed by trauma.”
Nice try.
“You’re not leaving theRequiem,” I growl. “You can sleep in one of the cabins. I’ll arrange for your father’s driver to collect your things.”
“Like hell you will. I’m not letting Fletcher snoop through my drawers. He’d die of shock. I’ve got a stockpile of things in there that vibrate.”
I arch a brow, unsure if the admission is another tactic or the alcohol talking. “Sounds like quite the collection. Please accept my deepest condolences for the lackluster love life.”
“My love life is just fine, thanks. But even if it wasn’t, the sex toy industry exists because men like you have no fucking idea how to make a woman come.”
I’ve kept a close enough eye on her to know she doesn’t date. But the time for taunts is over. We need to find a resolution.
I step closer, hoping the proximity provides the necessary intimidation. “Who do you suggest I send for your belongings?”
She perks up. “My best friend has a key to my apartment and lives in the same building. Grant me cell service and I’ll call her.”
I level her with a flat look. “Cute. Give me your phone. I’ll send a text.”
Her expression turns sullen.
“Now, Isla.” I bridge the space between us and hold out a hand.
“Suit yourself.” She pulls her cell from inside her blazer, unlocks it, then passes it over. “Be my guest.”
It’s bait. I take it anyway. “What can I send that won’t raise suspicion?”
She rolls her glazed eyes. “I’m on a yacht with a man I publicly humiliated. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“What’s her name?” I snarl.
“Quinn,” she says saccharin sweet. “Q-U-I?—”
“I can spell.” I glare and pull up her friend’s contact details. “It’s notmylack of intelligence that got us into this.”
I draft the message carefully:
Isla
Hey, I need a favor. I’ve decided to take a quick reset escape. Can you do me a solid and drop an overnight bag at North Cove Marina? Just clothes and the essentials. Will text when I have service again.
I read it twice for good measure and determine it’s Isla coded. Then I deactivate the signal jammer, hit send, and watch as the message status changes from delivered to read to those three dots of impending reply.
“She’ll need to feed Nyra, too,” Isla states with misplaced authority.
I scowl in question.
“My cat,” she clarifies.
I feel the groove between my brows deepen as I start texting again.
Isla
