Until We Meet Again(48)

be left unturned. No clue deemed trivial.

“I want to be with you tonight,” I tell her, brushing my fingers through her soft hair.

“Later,” she says. “This is more important.”

“More important than spending my final week with you?”

“We’ve spent all day together. Besides, you’ll have a lot more

than a week if we take this seriously.” She presses her lips to

mine in a swift but wine-sweet kiss. “You do some digging

tonight. Get me information I can use, and I’ll be here on the

beach, waiting for you.”

I don’t argue. The girl has me completely besotted. I head back

inside to freshen up in my room. Looking in the little, round

mirror on my wall as I comb my hair, I think about her, about

the softness of her skin, fragrant as a rose petal. Like music, the

first lines of a poem drift into my mind. My gaze falls to the

blank sheets of paper on my desk. They’re serving dinner downstairs, but a few lines can’t hurt. I need to get this down.

I’m just scratching off the final lines of the poem when a

knock raps at my door. I sit up with a start. The dim light from

my window betrays a later hour. Who knows how long I’ve

been writing? Ned’s certainly wondering where I am.

“Coming,” I call out as I jump up from my desk and

straighten my tie.

Walking down to the library, I rebuke myself. Ned’s bound

to become suspicious of that beach with me going there so

much. I have to be more careful. The last thing we need is for

him to start paying attention to what I’m up to. And what if

he really investigated those suspicions? It could be a disaster.

At the polished wooden doors to the library, I resolve to be my

usual, chipper self tonight. But when I step into the room, the

sight I’m greeted with throws me for a loop.

I expected Ned and this Jerome Smith character, but the library

is nearly full. At least a dozen men stand scattered about, sipping brandy and smoking Ned’s best Cuban cigars. I don’t know these men. They aren’t Ned’s usual crowd. These aren’t uppercrust Crest Harbor men. They seem to have money. Their sharp, tailored suits proclaim that much. But something about them

makes me think they know their way around the rougher streets.

“There he is!” Ned’s voice booms across the room. “Lonnie,

come on over here.”

I force a polite smile as I head over to him, but my eyes dart from

one face to another. In the corners of the room, I notice four men

who have the unmistakable air of bodyguards. They’re big and

stone-faced, and watching every move I make. My throat tightens.

Am I being paranoid? Has knowing that I will be murdered

in a week made my brain turn everyone into a murderer?

Ned passes me a brandy, which I happily tip back. The warm,

spicy drink sizzles through me, calming my nerves a bit.

“Lon, I want you to meet Kip Hawkins.” Ned slaps his hand

on the shoulder of the slight man beside him and gives me an

overly jovial smile. “Jerome Smith couldn’t make it. Had some

business. You know how it goes.”

I nod, though I can’t help but feel the significance of this

apparent slight, and it puts me all the more on edge.

Kip Hawkins extends his hand with an oily smile. “Pleased to

make your acquaintance.”

“Lon here is the one I was telling you about, “Ned says,

beaming. “Has quite the promising career ahead. Top of his

class at prep school. And star of the basketball team too!”

“My uncle likes to exaggerate,” I say, forcing a smile.

Ned laughs. “Nonsense! Bright kid, our Lon. With a bright

future. College and law school, and once he’s done with that,

it’s straight to the top firm in New York. Business law. Just like

his old man.”

Kip Hawkins nods and smiles. “Excellent. Maybe you can

teach your uncle a thing or two.”

Ned laughs loudly—too loudly—at the comment. “Ain’t that

the truth? Yes, sir, this kid’s a champ. And a real catch with the

ladies. Good thing too, because, boy, did he get himself a prize

gal. Isn’t that right, Fay?”

My brow lowers, but I follow Ned’s outstretched hand. At

his gesture, a crowd of three men near the fireplace glance

over at us and then part. Fay is perched on one of the big,

burgundy armchairs, talking quite closely with a big, muscular fellow in his twenties with black hair and olive skin.

Italian, I think. When the men around them move, her eyes

snap to me.

Fay always looks beautiful, but tonight she’s dressed to kill in

a tight, red gown that cuts low on the top and rides high up her

slender legs. She takes a casual puff from a long, slim cigarette

holder. The smoke curls like a white snake from her scarlet red

lips. With a little smile, she hands the cigarette holder to the

muscular fellow she had been speaking with. He doesn’t take