hand, she stuffed it in her pocket. “I don’t suppose he took anyone with him?” she asked, to distract him from noticing that she’d taken his paper.
Beau shook his head, the grin sliding into a leer. “Plenty of chicks wanted to go, though. Especially that blond that came looking for him a day or so back. Pretty little thing. Man, wouldn’t I love to get a…”
“You said blond?”
With visible effort, Beau did his best to focus. “You… her…hey, y’all used to hang around with Bobby years ago. I remember you.”
His leer deepened. Trae edged back another few steps.
“Hey, where ya going? Got a six-pack I’m willing to share. We can, uh, hash over old times.”
“It’s been a blast seeing you again, Beau, but I’ve got to run. Places to go, people to see. Flight to catch.” This last was uttered over her shoulder as she hurried down the street. Behind her, she could hear Beau calling, first pleading then turning increasingly nasty as she rounded the corner and ducked out of sight.
Did he honestly think she’d step one foot inside that dive he and Bobby called an apartment? Hadn’t her quest to find Lucie already been enough of an ordeal?
It had taken her over two days to get here from Rhys’s estate. She’d been forced to wait for Rosa’s grandson, Raymond, to return with his boat. Convincing him to turn around and go back to Florida had taken considerable patience and tact, not to mention a serious depletion of her funds. And then, once she got to Miami, she’d spent the rest of the time in bureaucratic hell while Quinn and her government contact straightened out the mess of her missing passport.
And now she had to grab a flight to California.
Hailing a cab, Trae fought off a growing uneasiness. Her funds—even with Quinn and Alana’s supplement—were rapidly dwindling. She eyed the backpack she’d stuffed with Lucie’s loosest clothes and necessary toiletries, and the three hundred dollars she’d found jammed in a pocket. She’d brought it along, figuring her friend would need the cash, but unless she found Lucie soon, Trae might have to use the money herself.
It would be a loan, used only in an emergency, but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared. Bad enough to imagine Lucie in New Orleans, a place they knew from their days at Tulane, but the prospect of her friend wandering around the streets of Hollywood was even worse.
And what about once she did find Lucie? Back when she’d started this search, Trae hadn’t thought past the moment they would connect. How there would be two mouths to feed, two bodies needing shelter, two fares for the long journey home…
Then again, Rhys had been in the picture, she realized as the taxi sped to the airport. Rhys, who always took care of everything.
Entering the airport and walking to the gate, she found herself thinking about him, wondering where he was, what he was doing. Probably still spinning his wheels back in Miami, she thought with a grin. His stubbornness would never allow him to admit defeat. She wondered if he’d figured out yet what a mistake it had been to leave her behind, to underestimate her abilities. He would eventually, when she was the first to reach Lucie.
See how you like it then, Paxton, she thought. Not fun, is it, being left in the dust?
Watching her from the other side of the concourse, Rhys felt anything but dusty. On the contrary, he felt at the top of his game. All things considered, he could be pleased with his progress. Okay, maybe it had been sheer luck, spotting Trae on Bourbon Street last night, but the difference between success and failure lay in how a man played out his hand. With skill and decisiveness, he’d tailed her. Undetected, he might add, to the dingy apartment on Esplanade that somehow seemed familiar.
Granted, he’d heard little while she’d grilled the drunk at the door, but he’d been in the perfect position to overhear her instructions to the cab driver when she left. From there, it had been a snap to follow her to the airport, where he’d found her flopped in a seat, waiting on standby for a flight to Los Angeles.
Which still wouldn’t take off for at least another hour. A full hour in which he could be working, he thought in frustration. Hoping to maintain a low profile, knowing even a carry-on would slow him down, he’d opted to check his laptop with his luggage. All he had left was his BlackBerry. And the Times Picayune, which he held up to shield his face.
Peering over the top of the newspaper, he had to marvel at Trae’s stamina. Most women he knew would have given up long ago, or gotten someone else to do the job for them. But there Trae sat, in her tired green blouse and rumpled black jeans, her posture betraying her exhaustion as she continued to gut it out.
He was suddenly reminded of Mexico, when he’d escorted Lucie and her friends back to college. Refusing to be anywhere near him, Trae had sat across the concourse then, too. She’d claimed she didn’t want any more lectures, but he suspected it had had more to do with her pride. She’d hated that she couldn’t afford to pay the fine, that she had to rely on Rhys instead—as evidenced by the check he received five months later. Certainly Lucie had never repaid him, or that bum of a boyfriend, either.
And all at once, Rhys remembered how he knew the Esplanade address, having paid a small fortune to get Boudreaux out of jail.
Sitting up straight, he began to put it together. This changed everything. Clearly, Trae knew Lucie’s whereabouts.
The question was, what to do next?
It wasn’t as if he could become her stowaway. Most likely, he couldn’t even follow Trae. With all the freeways branching out from LAX, all she had to do was hop in a cab. And there would go his only link to Lucie.
Not good.
Rhys resettled himself in the chair, thinking hard. Managing his father’s company had taught him that the key to success often lay in an ability to recognize change, to adapt to it. When you hit a snag, sometimes you had to forge new partnerships. Not permanent ones, necessarily. Make it a brief alliance, make it last only long enough to get what you wanted. And what he wanted—no, needed—was to find Lucie and make sure she was okay.
Eyeing her over the paper, he decided that he and Trae would have a little chat.
Hours later, Trae shifted in her aisle seat, stirred from the strangest dream. She’d been in the jungle, with a bare-chested Rhys Paxton carrying her over a wide, swollen stream. It had been hot, August-in-Miami hot, a nd not just from the humidity. A considerable amount of the heat had been generated between them.
Half-awake, she could still feet the rush, the anticipation, the excitement as they’d gazed into each other’s eyes. “Trae,” she could still imagine him whispering, his breath warm and soft on her cheek and the subtle scent of his aftershave lingering in the air. With a strange reluctance, she opened her eyes.
And there, mere inches from her face, was Rhys Paxton.
She popped up so quickly, she nearly clipped him on the chin. Seeming as startled as she felt, he straightened and took a step backward. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he said stiffly. “But it’s imperative that you and I talk.”
Talk? Trying to shake off the effects of the dream, she stared at him. Nothing could be further from jungle attire than the charcoal-gray suit he now wore, with a cobalt-blue shirt and what was, for him, a rather dashing burgundy striped tie. With his freshly shaven
