man is the devil incarnate,” she muttered under her breath as she dragged the bags to the porch.
“Oh, no, ma’am.” Coming up behind her to take the suitcase, Rosa gently shook her head. “Here on the island, we consider Mr. Paxton a saint.”
Inviting Trae inside while she made coffee, Rosa continued extolling the man’s virtues. Her family would be homeless, she claimed, had Mr. Paxton not helped them after last year’s hurricane. Not only had he provided them with cash, he’d come down there and helped rebuild their homes with his own bare hands.
Trae let her go on for a while because Rosa seemed sweet and it was only natural she’d feel compelled to defend her employer. Besides, Trae needed that second cup of coffee.
However, after fifteen minutes of listening to the woman drone on, not even the lure of caffeine could keep Trae in her chair. Actions spoke louder than words, after all, and that so-called saint had just stranded her on this island. Asking to use the phone, Trae decided it was high time she made her own plans to go after Lucie.
Upstairs, gazing at the huge four-poster bed, Trae realized she should have had the third cup of coffee, after all. Refusing to give in to the temptation to lie down, she made her calls.
Her first was to Quinn, who proved sympathetic after hearing about the night’s events. Technically, a passport was required to get off the island, she said, but fishing boats made the trip from the Bahamas to the States every day. Her advice was to try to charter one and, if worse came to worst, to call her immediately. She had a connection in customs who owed her a favor.
Hanging up, wishing for the hundredth time that she still had her cell phone, Trae decided to check to see if Lucie had tried to call her.
She had four messages. The first had come in late last night—Quinn, demanding to know what was happening. Next was Alana, wishing her luck. Then her mother, reminding her not to miss next Sunday’s family dinner. Rolling her eyes, she wondered how she could ever forget when the woman called twice each week with the same reminder.
On the fourth, she heard Lucie’s soft, breathy voice. Clutching the phone as she tried to decipher the garbled message, Trae felt the first, faint stirring of hope. Surely it was a good thing that Lucie wasn’t heading back to Rhys with her tail between her legs. That she was setting off on her own, determined to find a man she could madly, deliriously, head-over-heels love. The fact that said man wasn’t Rhys, that Lucie was still running away from him, reinforced Trae’s decision to help her.
When she replayed the message, though, her euphoria faded. What did Lucie mean, going back to where she had taken her first wrong turn? When had her life seemed less complicated?
And then with a sudden, sinking feeling, Trae knew Lucie was referring to her college days. And more specifically, to Bobby Boudreaux.
The ultimate bad boy, with his blond, surfer looks and slow, sexy drawl, Bobby was a far cry from the staid and proper Rhys Paxton. To a parent, Bobby might represent the ultimate nightmare, but for a young, sheltered coed like Lucie Beckwith, he’d been walking, talking excitement. For all Trae knew, Lucie might have stayed with him forever, if not for their brief stint in the Mexican jail.
Rhys had meant to leave Bobby there, Trae later learned. It wasn’t until Lucie had promised never to see him again that Rhys secured his release. Lucie had kept their agreement, insisting Rhys knew what was best for her, but she’d never stopped regretting it. She’d been asking herself what if? ever since.
Faced with the prospect of Lucie’s hooking up with Bobby Boudreaux again, Trae raced down the stairs two at a time. She had to get off this island immediately. Alone, vulnerable and naturally impetuous, her poor friend could land herself in a real fix this time.
Trae had to find Lucie before it was too late.
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