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saw that.”
    Something in his voice sent a little shiver over her skin. Smooth and sweet and from way below the Mason-Dixon Line, and a little too damn sure of himself.
    “Yeah? Did you catch that ‘I’m gonna kill you’ look?” she asked.
    “No, I caught the barrel of a Walther 99 in the second-floor window pointing right at your head.”
    “And that’s why you got into the cab?” He was either extremely chivalrous or as scared as she was of guns. Her eyes took a quick trip over his rock-solid shoulders, his corded neck, his washboard-flat stomach. She’d bet on chivalry, ‘cause this dude wasn’t scared of anything. “Well, thank you, but I don’t need an escort.”
    “I didn’t join you to be an escort .” He added a killer smile, which under any other circumstances would be returned.
    Whatever he was doing at Bartholomew Nine, he wasn’t gay. No way. This guy drank testosterone for breakfast, chewed nails for lunch, and then made a meal out of whatever lucky lady offered herself up on a plate for dinner.
    Then what was he… Clive!
    She shoved Clive’s picture at him. “You know him, don’t you?”
    He took it, long, strong fingers brushing hers and sending a tingle straight up her arm. Unlike everyone else she’d shown the picture to, he didn’t just glance at it and shake his head. He angled it to the sun and truly studied the picture, taken in April when she’d gone with Clive to the Boston Marathon.
    He frowned, looking up at her. “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t help you.”
    Disappointment stabbed, familiar and sharp.
    “I take it he’s…”
    “A friend,” she said. “He came down to the islands on vacation a month ago and never came home.”
    His eyes widened in surprise. “Have you contacted the authorities?”
    “No.” Although after what just happened at Big Bad Bones’s house, she probably should. “He’s not in any danger. He just…dropped out. You’ve probably heard of people who go to the islands and decide to stay to find themselves, even though they’re already the best damn hedge-fund manager in New York City.” Bitterness darkened her tone.
    “Are you sure that’s what he did?”
    She pushed her hair off her face, hooking it behind her ears. “Yes. My boss talked to him, and I saw the letter of resignation, and I know his signature, or I wouldn’t have believed it, either. And he called his mother and left a message.”
    “But you’ve never actually spoken to him?”
    “I’ve had text messages.” Terse and weird but nothing to merit the look that said she was a complete idiot for not calling the island police.
    “And you’re here to, what, fetch him back home?”
    She smiled at the antiquated verb and the drawl it came with. “Yeah, I’m fetching him. Or, at least, I’m going to talk some sense into him. He’s given to mood swings. So for the last three days, I’ve been running around the islands trying to track him down.”
    “Literally running.”
    She shrugged. “That’s how I roll. Fast.”
    “I noticed.”
    Noticed? Was he some kind of stalker? “When?” she asked sharply.
    “About two minutes after you got off the boat.”
    Her stomach did a funny little flip. “You followed me here? Why?”
    “You’re Vanessa Porter, right?”
    Apprehension pushed her away, into the door. She could jump out if she had to; they weren’t going very fast.
    “How do you know my name?”
    He reached out a hand to shake hers. “Let’s make it official, ma’am. My name is Wade Cordell, and I’m in St. Kitts to find you.”
    She didn’t know whether to laugh or pop the door handle. Was he serious ? Maybe he’d been on the cruise. Or maybe someone from work had sent him? Did this have to do with Clive?
    “You are Vanessa Porter, right?” he asked when she didn’t respond.
    Instead of taking his hand, she put her fingers to her temples to quiet the sound of her rushing blood, but her ears still vibrated and buzzed. “Yes.”
    “I thought so.