London sat back in her seat, amazed. He seemed to actually care about her. About her self-esteem, her growth, her happiness—at least to a degree. Because he wanted her to succeed? His intent stare made her wonder if it might be something more personal. She felt ridiculously lucky to work for such a kind, experienced executive. The fact that he was incredibly hot was just another perk of the job.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll learn and do better next time.”
“I know you will. I have faith in you.” He stood and glanced at his watch. “Normally, I would take a new assistant out for lunch on her first day, but I have an urgent, somewhat personal meeting that can’t wait. He’s due here at noon. Please be gone before he arrives. Don’t return before one.”
As Javier turned his back to her, she reared back and watched him close the door and return to his desk, breezing through his e-mails as if he hadn’t just built her up with one sentence, then shut her out with the next. She looked at the time in the lower right corner of her laptop. Ten minutes until Javier’s appointment showed up. She should probably get ready to go and try to talk herself out of feeling hurt by his sudden dismissal. It wasn’t like they had a relationship beyond boss-assistant. He owed her nothing but a paycheck.
As she put her computer to sleep and gathered up her things, a thirtyish man entered the office, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that read WELCOME TO SHIT CREEK. SORRY, WE’RE OUT OF PADDLES rippling across his considerable chest. Muscles bunched with every casual swing of his arms as he crossed the floor. Was Lafayette just populated with hot men? The first time she’d come here, she’d imagined it would be all swamp people and lots of crawfish stew. She liked this reality much better.
London gathered up her purse. “You are . . . ?”
“Nick Navarro, private investigator. Javier is expecting me.”
“Mr. Santiago is in his office. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
He reached across the space separating them and cupped her elbow. “Wait. Is he sober?”
She sat back in her chair, her thoughts racing. How long had her new boss been drinking? “Completely. I’ll be back at one.”
“You’re his assistant, right?” At her nod, he sighed. “You’re new, aren’t you? Look, don’t go too far for lunch. After I’m done here, he’s going to need all the assisting you can give.”
The thought of eating her sack lunch at her desk drifted through her mind, and she’d nearly decided to do just that when Javier stepped out of his office. “Hi, Nick. Thanks for coming. London, you may go now. Good-bye.”
He stepped back and admitted Nick into the inner office. The door shut behind them again. They shouldn’t, but Javier’s words stung. After all, his private business was none of hers, but it bothered her that he’d disregarded her completely. She could help him if he’d let her, listen and offer a sympathetic ear. She’d been through tough times, too.
But why would he confide in a girl he barely knew? He’d probably been blowing smoke up her ass earlier with all the talk about her self-esteem. Most likely, he saw her as being barely competent enough to walk across the street without someone holding her hand. She was a warm body he’d hired to answer his phones for five weeks, nothing more.
She would prove him wrong.
Shaking her head, London stood and made her way out the door. There was a drugstore down the street. Javier would likely need a few items this afternoon. She could shop there and eat her sandwich while she did, maybe call Alyssa and check in.
The problem was, all of that only took her twenty-five minutes. Then she found herself facing another thirty minutes or more of hundred-degree heat with ninety-five percent humidity. She even walked back to the office slowly, but made it to the door with half her lunch hour to spare. Javier wouldn’t be happy, and she was sorry for it, but she stepped into the air-conditioned comfort of the professional suite with a relieved sigh.
“Say that again,” she heard Javier snap.
“You heard me, man.” The other man hesitated. “All right. Go on torturing yourself . . . I’ve identified your late wife’s killer as a paid assassin. The images captured on the hotel’s security camera match this criminal. His actual name isn’t known in law enforcement circles, just his face.”
“An assassin? You’re absolutely sure?”
“Yep. A French national. He struggles to step foot on European or American soil without being arrested. Disguises don’t help much with facial recognition software these days. So he’s taken to living most of the year in Cuba. He spends summers in Laos, except when he’s working, of course.”
“Two huge shitholes. How would this man have met Fran? And when?”
“As far as I can piece together, they met in a bar a few weeks before he killed her. He took a rental house in Aruba that May and probably orchestrated the meeting because she’d already been marked. They became lovers the night they met. She returned home for a bit, and they started corresponding through Facebook. Then e-mails and Skype. She used her next trip to Aruba, ostensibly to hunt for a vacation home and hang out with her girlfriends, as an excuse to see him again.”
London watched through the little window as Javier sucked in a breath, reeling back as if Nick had physically hit him. She held a death grip on her purse. Javier’s late wife had been unfaithful? Had he known that before today? Why would she cheat on him? He had to be one of the most gorgeous men on the planet. Kind yet commanding. Rich, educated . . . What the hell else had the woman been searching for in a husband?
“The assassin used the alias Jacques Valjean,” Nick said.
“Like the last name of that character from Les Misérables?”
Nick smiled wryly. “Yeah, that one. Clever, huh?”
She peeked again through the interior window of the office to see Javier pacing. He looked agitated, furious. He grabbed a bottle of Cîroc. It was already over a third empty.
“What else?” he demanded.
“We’ve narrowed the time of death to somewhere between two and three the morning of June fourth last year. The cause of death was strangulation with a rope, as you know. As best we can piece together, her killer carried her body in a large suitcase down the back stairs, made his way to her rental car, then drove it and her into the ocean.”
“And how did he disappear afterward?”
The other man shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been too hard. And he was long gone, his lease on his rental house expired, before he became a suspect. Aruban investigators . . . not known for their prompt, quality work.”
Javier clenched his jaw, and London’s heart ached for him. He’d loved this woman, and while he’d believed she was searching for a vacation paradise they could share, she’d been unfaithful? Strangled and dumped like garbage by a professional assassin? The shock of her infidelity would be enough, but to know she’d been murdered by her lover who’d marked her for death all along. . . What agony Javier must be enduring.
“None of this answers my real question: why? Why was an assassin paid to target Fran in the first place? She was the daughter and wife of an executive. She knew nothing important. If her murder is related to corporate espionage, why not hit the direct target, me? I doubt whoever hired her killer wanted her Versace handbags. So what could he have wanted?”