46. CASSANDRA

A week later.

“Okay, I admit it: coming to Grand Cayman in August wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.”

I can barely hear Carson through the giant floppy hat that’s doing an abysmal job of protecting my pale, increasingly freckled skin from the scorching hell of the Caribbean sun. But hey, at least the sunscreen is running off my body in rivulets, thanks to a constant supply of sweat.

Of course, it actually works in Carson’s favor. When he’s all sweated up, his physique glistens in the sun like an oiled-up bodybuilder’s. Except he’s not afflicted with their pig-ugly, veiny head.

“Whatever makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, plucking an ice cube from my gin and tonic and dropping it down my cleavage. If I’m suffering, I figure Carson has to as well.

Okay, it could be worse. The restaurant – and its blessed air-conditioning – is only a few steps away. And there’s a bit of a breeze coming off the ocean.

But my God, the humidity. I’ve read that it’s impossible for it to go above one hundred percent at sea level, but I’m seriously wondering if the hypothesis needs more research. If I could prove it’s possible, I could publish and go for my PhD.

Or I could stop being such a baby and finish my drink. That seems like the more viable option. And more pleasant. I down it in a gulp, my taste buds puckering at the bitterness of the tonic.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Carson says. “After we’re done here, we can fly to Reykjavik. Shouldn’t be more than sixty degrees there.”

I smile sweetly and stroke his cheek.

“Oh, honey,” I soothe. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to make up for this.”

He grins and drains his Corona. It joins the army of empties on the table. Dealing with this weather is thirsty work.

In the distance I see Tricia and Maksim trudging toward us through the sand. Neither of them seems all that put out by the heat, although it’s hard to tell with Maks. He sort of has a light sheen to his skin all the time, regardless of temperature.

“Who would have thought those two would get along?” I say as they approach.

Carson drapes an arm over the back of his chair, letting his shirt fall open to expose his torso.

“Maks is pretty easygoing,” he says. “Although, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if he’d come on this trip. The last time we hung out, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

“What happened?”

He looks at me over his Oakleys.

“He wanted to go out with you.”

An involuntary snort escapes me before I can stop it.

“Sorry,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy, but me and him? Especially when you’re in the picture? I don’t think so.”

“Actually, I think I owe him for driving home just how much I want you to myself.”

“Is that right?” I drop my own glasses. “Well, I guess I owe him then, too.”

Speak of the devils. Tricia and Maksim arrive at the table, shaking the sand out of their beach towels. Tricia’s compact curves fill out her wet one-piece nicely, while Maks’ kind of looks like most of his time in the gym is spent chatting up girls. Still, I guess Tricia knows what she’s doing.

“There were stingrays flying out in the surf!” Tricia says, grinning like a kid.

“I saw no fish flying,” says Maks. “I was only seeing lovely Patricia.”

She wraps her towel around her and sits at the table, plucking a beer from the ice bucket on the concrete.

“I appreciate the effort, Maks,” she says as she pops the cap off the bottle. “But it’s not going to happen.”

To his credit, Maksim just smiles and spreads his hands wide in a “what are you gonna do?” gesture.

Carson glances at his phone on the table and then up at me.

“I suppose we should get to the bank,” he says. “Money never sleeps, but bankers sure as hell do. It’ll be closed in an hour.”

I gather up my beach bag. We’ve been so busy being obscenely rich the last couple of days that I almost forgot I just won a multi-million-dollar prize. Carson suggested we come directly to Cayman to deal with the money, given the legal tightrope I’m walking with it.

We wave good-bye to our friends and hop in a passing taxi van that speeds us to the Grand National Bank of the Islands. A tall black gentleman in island business casual greets us in the deliciously frigid foyer as we walk in.

“Ms. Vincent, a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “Andre Moreau. We spoke on the phone.”

“A pleasure,” I say, taking his offered hand. “This is my friend, Carson Drake.”

Andre’s eyes widen. “The Carson Drake?”

“Well, a Carson Drake anyway,” he replies. He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll wait for you out here.”

I love that he’s leaving this to me. It means a lot that he’s not trying to horn in and give me advice. Mainsplaining, they call it. But Carson would never.

Andre ushers me into his office and we take a seat. He boots up his computer and begins typing.

“If I remember correctly, we will be discussing a sum of $2.75 million USD.”

“That’s correct,” I say.

Three days shy of the full $3.5 million, because of circumstances beyond our control, but Carson said he’ll reimburse me for his impatience.

“I’m interested in the best way to access it in the States in a lump sum for a business investment.”

After a few moments, he stops typing. His eyes narrow and his brows draw together as he peers at the screen.

It’s never a good thing when someone looks like they don’t believe what a computer is telling them.

“This is… unusual,” he says.

“How so?”

He looks at me with a mix of disbelief and sympathy.

“Madam, I’m afraid this account is empty.”