Page 32 of For Your Eyes Only

Yes, silly girl.I don’t text that. Instead, I reply,Tonight, HMF at The Breakers, 7. Send me your address, and I’ll pick you up.

I wait, watching the gray dots bounce, and I anticipate her reply before it even appears.I’ll meet you there.

My molars grind. Still, I have no grounds to push against this, so I tease.I’ll have a white rose.

I’ll be wearing red.

Sliding my phone in the breast pocket of my jacket, I gaze out the window at the water below. From this height, it looks calm and still, nothing disturbing it. Only on the shore do you see the crashing waves, feel the strength of the current wanting to pull you down.

My phone buzzes, and I’m taken from my thoughts. Furrowing my brow, I lift the device, wondering if Gia is going to say more, change her mind, cancel.

It’s Hana, and I exhale, nodding at the message.I did what you said.

Quickly, I tap back.Feel better?

Gray dots float, and I watch a gull lifted on an updraft.Some. Still need a vacation. You’re smart to get away.

It’s not like Hana to be so open. She’s usually a complete mystery—or her memory really is for shit. She has a habit of developing convenient amnesia when situations get out of control or dangerous, or she’s done something she doesn’t want to (or can’t) explain. I’ve never been able to tell if it’s the truth or her version of my poker face.

Sounds like I made the right call, I reply, thinking of the mess I left at home.

More gray dots.Make good choices.

Her sign-off makes me chuckle, and I can’t resist.Don’t do drugs.

She doesn’t reply, not that I expected her to. It’ll take more than a text to get her to behave.

Pulling my shirt over my head, I have time to get some exercise before dinner, and the workout facilities in this building are first rate.

I spend an hour and a half on torque fitness, pull-ups, push-ups, and rowing, and I’m heading to the top floor a sweaty mess but with the edge off my appetites. I only have time for a quick shower and to towel-dry my hair, which is still too long. Rubbing my hand on my jaw, I decide just to trim the beard, make it neat, then I slip into my Armani suit.

HMF is named after the Breakers resort’s founder, Henry M. Flagler. It’s located in the massive ballroom of the hundred-year-old resort, and it’s a local favorite—for locals with money, of course. The south Florida bluebloods flock to this area, which is why our business is concentrated here. More old white men to relieve of their excess income.

Dress code is cocktail chic, the atmosphere is light jazz, and the expectations are high. No one steps out of line at the Breakers unless he or she wants to be escorted off the property and possibly to jail.

I check in at the gate and park the silver Lambo in the circle lot. Strolling up the red-brick pavement to the rambling, four-story resort, I chose this place for its Italian-inspired design, massive arches, and interiors. I hoped it would make her feel at home.

I don’t like meeting her. I would much rather escort her through the courtyards, past the grand ballroom, and into the restaurant overlooking the Atlantic. Still, I can work around that part, since the grounds are dotted with wrought-iron benches where I can easily wait for her to arrive.

I’ll order a drink, take a seat, and respect her wishes.

Vodka in hand, I watch the oversized fountain surrounded by twinkle-lit palm trees as black SUVs glide up the brick-paved circular drive to deposit wealthy visitors at the front door.

Tonight, I’ll get to the bottom of what’s going on with her. No more mysteries. No more secrets.

CHAPTER10

GIA

The music swells, and I’men pointein black booty shorts over a white leotard. Radiohead’sReckonerblasts through the speakers, and I swivel my hips extending both arms overhead before falling forward then rolling up through my shoulders.

My hair is secured in a ponytail, and I’m lost in the driving cymbals, the light guitar strumming. Curving my arm forward, I lean into the sway of the music. Bending down, I swoop up through my hip and kick my leg straight up to my ear before falling forward, another arc from my waist, as I rise and spin.

I’m one with the music. I’m shoulders, hips, arms, hands swaying to the waves of the ocean. Scampering across the length of the large room, I stop on point and extend both arms overhead then fall back.

When Misha danced with me, we’d do this choreography as mirrors of one another. Every spin and arc of my arms and hips, he would do the same. We were in perfect sync. It was our audition piece for the Ballet Company of America.

Now I dance alone.