Page 120 of Ricochet

A gust of wind fluttered the note in my hand—the one I’d skimmed the night I’d awakened from being drugged. The last remnant I carried of the man I loved.

Or men, as it were.

In it, he spoke of a place he’d seen once. An island that was too perfect to be true, located just off the coast of Panama. In my new home, I’d found dense mangroves, powdery white sand, unspoiled coral reefs and hidden coves.

My own personal paradise.

I’d never planned to be surrounded by the very thing I feared, but such was life. Drowning and coming back had somehow put me at peace with the water again—enough that I found myself submerged in the silence of the ocean on nights when I felt most alone, dreaming of Nick’s hands coaxing my body to orgasm. My heart felt empty but at home in the private and secluded glass house, in the thick of century-old mango trees and exotic creatures. During the day, I picked avocados and bananas. At night, I watched the moon rise over the calm, placid waters.

A couple weeks after the ironworks explosion, when I hadn’t been under the microscope of investigators and specialists or bodyguards protecting me against retaliation, I returned to that abandoned mansion, where I’d been kept prisoner. I didn’t expect to find the envelope. Thought for certain they’d have found it as they dissected the house. There it lay, though, tucked inside the fireplace, where I’d left it, beneath the ash. When the noise around me finally settled, I’d read it in peace. Every word.

Nick had left me his bank account numbers—access to millions of dollars that I would never truly find the need to spend. I donated some of the money to local schools and a healing through the arts center in Panama City. He’d also given me instruction on what to say to the investigators and lawyers during the trials.

The chip held the greatest secrets. I’d taken the time to study the medical records and the heart wrenching diagnosis of his dissociative personality, thought to be a result of trauma, post traumatic stress.

There had also been two plane tickets, as though he might’ve changed his mind and come with me.

Darkness stole the light of day, and I reached down to my stomach, rubbing where the small bump had begun to show through my dress.

Yet another part of the man I loved, growing inside of me.

I whistled for Achilleus, my black Cane Corso, who bounded across the beach and wagged his tail, as he followed behind. Smiling, I clutched the letter to my chest, and made my way back toward the large thatched roof home just a few yards away from the dock.

Once inside, I set the letter on the granite countertop of the gourmet kitchen. The space had been designed with the most modern amenities— state of the art furnishings, mixed with a classic island appeal. Furniture had been imported from Bali, and local artists provided the breathtaking paintings hung throughout. Such an odd contradiction of civilization in an ancient world.

I ambled toward the bedroom, where a king-sized bed, handmade by woodworkers in Panama, sat empty, kempt by the maid who came by boat every other morning and shared stories of her family. She was a kind, older woman, who often brought me delicious meals. I’d never had much in the way of Latin food until I’d arrived there, and after the first bite, I didn’t know how I’d gone so long without it. Food for the soul.

One of the six bedrooms in the house, far too small for anything more than a twin bed, I’d converted into an art nook. There, I spent hours trying to capture his face—the shadows and dips from his prominent jaw and chiseled cheeks, and those eyes, slicing away at my heart while they came to life on the canvas.

Pulling my hair back into a bun, I stood in front of the oversized mirror, staring at my hardened nipples. The thin, red silk dress I wore had been tied loosely in front, allowing half of each breast to peek through the wide slit. I’d become a creature of simplicity, and if not for the caretaker who lived just a few hundred feet from the house, I’d have probably walked around nude most of the day, because I could.

A faint draft brushed against the back of my neck.

In the mirror’s reflection, my eyes caught on the slight gap between the thick double doors behind me. Sliding the gun from the top drawer, I spun around, tipping my head to be sure, and crossed the room, where I threw back the door to peer outside. On the deck, the hammock swung ever so slightly in the breeze, but everything appeared to remain undisturbed.

Achilleus would bark, I reminded myself.

The only other person on the east side of the island happened to be Mateus, the groundskeeper, who had his own quarters. In reality, crime wasn’t an issue, but the investigations into Michael’s affairs had resulted in the implication and arrest of notorious gang members and political figures. I sometimes worried they’d come after me, seeking retribution.

Closing the door, I conducted a quick, half-hearted sweep of the house, and once satisfied with my search, I set the gun on the nightstand and climbed into my bed.

From the drawer of the nightstand, I nabbed a book—The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty by A.N. Roquelaure.

Sliding my fingers beneath the hem of my dress, I read in silence, skating my fingers down, between my thighs while the Prince proceeded to stake his claim on Beauty. I’d found some twisted enjoyment in the loneliness, night after night, fantasizing about Nick. My heart refused to move on.

Minutes passed, and my eyes grew heavy, my mind slipping in and out of that state of wakefulness and dreaming. Heat pulsed through my body, warming my skin, and my muscles went soft, drifting, drifting.

A whisper of touch traced my hipbone, as I lay on my side in bed. I let out a sigh and lifted my arms above my head, surrendering to the dream that bled into my consciousness. Fingers slipped between my thighs, pushing aside my panties, and I couldn’t tell if they were mine, or my illusion of Nick.

Pleasure radiated from my core, to my toes and fingertips, in delicious waves that had my hips rocking in slow, agonizing circles. God, it felt so damn good. I don’t want to wake up. I wanted to stay in the dream, forever in the state of ecstasy, with Nick’s ghostly fingers pumping in and out of me, in perfect sync with the cresting of my orgasm. As if he knew my body better than I did.

“Nick,” I whispered. “You feel so … good.” I fondled my breast, my tongue sweeping across my lips as the intensity built heat within my muscles.

“I watched you touching yourself. You’re so fucking wet, so tight.”

Oh, God, his voice was so lucid, so vivid inside my head, the sound of it alone nearly forced me over the edge, but his finger slowed again, and the haze of sleepiness lifted. Desperate, I focused, not wanting to lose the moment.

No, please. Let me have this! I needed this release.