woman mopping the kitchen floor didn’t look like a good prospect for conversation, but after days of isolation on the primitive island resort off the Washington coast, Diego hungered for any kind of human contact. He was an extrovert by nature. This much time alone was making him loco.
He stepped across the threshold. “Need some help?”
She jumped, placing a palm over her heart. “You scared me.” She shot him a hard look before returning her attention to dragging the mop across the floor.
So she wasn’t exactly amistosa. He didn’t care. Even a hostile conversation would be better than pacing the floor of his cabin. Three days ago, he’d been a confidential informant for the FBI, working his way up the ranks through years of undercover work until he’d gained the confidence of the number two man dealing drugs in the Northwest. Someone had outed him, putting his life in danger. The Bureau responded by holing him up in no-man’s-land until they could find the source of the leak.
Until the woman had disembarked from the ferry yesterday, the only people on the island had been Diego and a caretaker, an unfriendly old man named George who spent most of his time wandering into the forest with an easel and paints. George informed him the island was designed for people who wanted to detox from electronics. Diego suspected they didn’t have the green to update, so being low-tech became the new marketing angle for the run-down getaway. To Diego, it meant no cell service and more boredom.
When Diego stepped toward the woman, her back stiffened. He smiled at her anyway. “So you’re in my old cabin,” he said.
She turned her back to him and slammed the mop in the bucket. “What do you mean?” Every word held a tiny punch, an effort to push him away.
“I started out in that cabin, but picked a different one. The view is better in the one I’m in now.” The truth was the sight lines for the first cabin were bad. He was pretty sure the Bureau knew how to hide a man, but if he was found out, he wanted to see his assassin coming so he’d have time to grab his gun and defend himself.
She turned so he saw her profile. She was pretty, in an uptight, prep school sort of way, hair the color of dark honey, delicate bone structure. Despite the effort at dressing down in a flannel shirt and turtleneck, the clipped tone of her words and that perfect posture said she’d been raised uptown.
He’d grown up on the streets of Seattle and come up through the gangs. The gift that had kept him alive and now helped him with his work was his ability to read people. Seven years ago when a gang member’s stray bullet had taken his madre’s life, he’d come back to the God his mother had prayed to every day. Becoming a CI was his way of righting all the wrong he’d done as a teenager and maybe saving another homeboy’s mother in the process, since he couldn’t save his own.
“I like the cabin fine.” Her gaze bounced briefly at him and then she stared out a dusty window. “I’m not here for the view. I’m here to do a job. In two days, the catering company I work for will arrive for a destination wedding. I’m getting paid extra to come early and set up and clean.”
So she was from money, but she had to work minimum wage for a living. Now he was curious. What was her story? “Look, I’m going a little crazy here. Far as I can tell, you, me and that caretaker are the only ones on the island,” he said.
“Spring is the off-season. I guess this place is really busy in the summer, so this was the only time the couple could get this wedding booking.” She rearranged the cleaners and sponges in the supply-cart holder. “I’m sure they have a bigger staff then.”
Her voice had a soft lilting quality that made his heart beat a little faster. “I was wondering if we couldn’t eat a meal together or build a campfire. We’ll see if we can get the old man to join us.” George would probably not be interested, but he didn’t intend for her to feel unsafe or wonder about his motives. He only wanted someone to talk to. He held out his hand. “So what do you say? My name’s Diego Cruz.”
She spoke slowly, taking a step back. “I’m...Samantha.” She glanced down at his outstretched hand, but didn’t take it. Feeling awkward, he let it fall to his side. “I’m really busy with work. I didn’t come here to build campfires.”
He couldn’t understand her hostility. She didn’t even know him. He knew he should probably just take the hint and walk away, but he couldn’t stand the thought of spending even more time with no one to talk to.
He stared out the window at the building next to the cafeteria. It was generously called the community room. It consisted of dusty furniture, tattered board games and stacks of National Geographic. The rest of the resort, and he was using the word resort loosely, consisted of five cabins and lots of trees. Samantha might not be a laugh a minute, but she was still the most interesting thing he’d seen on the whole island.
In two days when the ferry came back this way, maybe an agent would bring word what his next move was. Maybe the Bureau would tell him he could catch the ferry back to civilization. In the meantime, this kind of isolation and inactivity ate at his gut. He’d walked the island half a dozen times, memorized every fir tree and rock and explored the broken-down lighthouse at the edge of the island.
“You want to play a board game over in the community room?”
She lifted her chin and met his gaze with a look of cool disdain. Just more proof that she came from money—he’d got that exact look from more rich people than he could count.
“I’m really not interested in recreating with you,” she said. “I came here to do a job.”
Though she attempted to keep her words flat and emotionless, he’d picked up on the heavy intention of each syllable. She turned away from him, but not fast enough for him to miss the glazing of her eyes. She acted almost afraid of him.
“Look, I’m sorry. I just—” He stepped toward her.
She turned to face him. Her eyes grew wide with fear. She took a swift step back, accidentally brushing a full spray bottle off the counter. The cap must have been loose, because the cleaner spilled out across the concrete. She dived down to the floor.
“Let me help you with that.” He grabbed a rag, knelt down beside her and started to sop up the liquid.
“I’ve got it. Thanks,” she said.
“I don’t mind.”
His hand bumped against hers. She let out a small gasp, making eye contact for the briefest moment before jerking to her feet. She turned her back to him again. “Like I said, I don’t want to visit. Please, just leave me alone.”
“Suit yourself.” He didn’t want to upset her further, even though he saw now that the hostility was an act designed to push him away. Why?
She whirled around. Again, she gave him a look of hardened steel, narrowing her eyes. “I will.” She brushed past him and raced out of the kitchen, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. Diego shrugged and decided not to chase after her.
He stood on the threshold of the kitchen. Moonlight allowed him to see her racing across the grounds to her cabin. Though he couldn’t see her cabin through the trees, he heard her door slam. He stood for a long moment, shaking his head.
A mechanical and distinct noise filled the air. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The noise grew louder, and he was able to discern what it was. A motorboat. Someone was docking on the island. This
