Kiss Kill Vanish (35 page)

Silence.

“Still there?” I ask.

“You're not . . .” He trails off.

“Of course I am. But if you don't believe me, raid Vizcaya before midnight. The police and the press will all have copies before tomorrow morning, and I'm sure they'll be more than happy to let you listen to it.”

He curses.

“Don't freak out,” I say. “I'm not going to screw this up for you. I want to see Papi go down as much as anyone else.”

“Really?” he says sullenly. “I never took you for the vengeful type. You were always such a daddy's girl.”

I was. It's true, but I can't think about that right now. “I've seen too much,” I say shortly. “Oh, and one more thing, Emilio. I want my mandolin back.”

“It's not yours,” he mutters.

“It is now.”

Marcel and I devour breakfast in bed, silver room-service trays propped on pillows around us, their dome tops scattered upturned on the floor. I'm halfway through my second omelet before I stop for a breath.

“Glad I ordered three,” Marcel says, handing me a napkin.

I wipe my chin. “I didn't even know I was hungry.”

“Adrenaline. You're crashing.”

“I guess. Are you going to eat that?” I ask, pointing to his bacon.

He hands it over. “So let's talk about tonight.”

I nod, taking a bite. He's right, but I'm too jittery for details. “Did you hear me tell him to shut up? It was perfect. I told him to shut up, and he actually shut up.”

“Good job. Now tonight.”

“Tonight we go to Vizcaya.” I pull a cream cheese Danish from one of the silver trays and sink my teeth into it.

“Maybe,” he says.

I chew.

“What if you go to Vizcaya, and I go to your yacht and screw up the drop-off?” he asks.

I swallow the lump of Danish. “That sounds stupid and dangerous. We're going to call the police and tell them it's coming like we talked about.”

“But then the police seize the drugs, and Emilio gets credit. I don't see how that's revenge.”

“Emilio's going to be plenty pissed off when my father gets away, and my father is going to lose the millions and his ability to do business when the drugs are seized. Everybody loses.”

Marcel pushes his plate away. “Not enough.”

“What do are you suggesting then?”

“Did I ever tell you how I got kicked out of boarding school?”

“No.” I picture the black-and-white newspaper photo of Lucien and Marcel in their school uniforms. “You told me you chose to come home when Lucien graduated.”

“Oh. Actually, I chose to get kicked out.”

“Nice.”

“I had no choice,” he explains.

“Of course you didn't.”

“I didn't want to stay there without him, and my parents wouldn't let me come back. So I set a few fires.”

“Tell me you didn't hurt anyone.”

“'Course not,” he says. “I'm an expert at recreational, nonlethal arson.”

I nod. I already know the answer, but I have to ask. “And that will help us how?”

“I'm going to set fire to Victor Cruz's yacht.”

I turn and survey the ravaged trays. He's watching me, waiting for my reaction.

“If that's okay with you,” he adds.

If it's okay with me? The yacht is my childhood, my sisters, vacations to the Virgin Islands with Papi—all the things I used to want to remember.

But it's already worse than ashes. I'll never again set foot on the yacht without thinking of the smell of Emilio's skin, his hands circling my wrists, his breath in my ear. Or the closet and the blood flower.

I repeat Marcel's words in my head.
If that's okay with you.

“It is,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Burn it down.”

My wardrobe issues don't occur to me until after breakfast settles and Emilio announces he's going out to buy pyro supplies and something black to wear. I look down at my own outfit. Emilio's T-shirt, Marcel's cargo shorts, no shoes. It's all I have.

“Hold on,” I say, swinging my feet off the pillow. “I need to come with you.”

“You need to stay off your feet if you plan on walking tonight. How do they feel, by the way?”

“Good.”

He picks up my feet and puts them back on the pillow. “Liar.”

“But I have to buy a dress and some shoes and some makeup.”

“So make a list.”

“What?”

He takes the hotel stationery and a pen from desk and hands them to me. “I can handle the dress and shoes. Just write down your sizes, and what makeup you want me to pick up.”

“You aren't serious.”

“You think I can't pick out a dress?”

“That's exactly what I think.”

“How about this: If you don't like it, I'll take you to pick one out yourself.”

“You know we won't have time,” I mutter, and scribble on the edge of the pad to make the pen start.

“It won't matter. You'll love it.”

I write a short list of cosmetic staples and my sizes and hand it to him. “Not slutty.”

“We'll see.”

“I'm serious. And I need a wig. I don't even know where you'd find one, so good luck.”

“A wig?” He folds the paper and puts it in his back pocket. “Is that really necessary? I thought you were going to be hiding in a room or closet somewhere.”

“I am, but I have to get into the party in the first place.”

He gives me a hard look.

“Don't worry. I'll leave as soon as you call to tell me your part's done. Which reminds me, I'll need a phone.”

He takes the paper out of his pocket. “Adding it to the list.”

I work through the timing in my head one more time to make sure it checks out. Papi should get a call from his people telling him the yacht's on fire the same time as I hear from Marcel. He should take off without ever seeing me or knowing that I'd saved him. That would be best. But if he's still there and it's getting close to midnight, I'll have to tell him who Emilio really is.

“What about your sisters?” Marcel asks.

“I'll find them and make them leave with me.”

“How?”

“I'm still working on that. So, the dress. I need you to find me something amazing. Can you do that?”

Marcel puts his hand on the doorknob but doesn't twist it. “It's him. You want to look good for him.”

He's staring at the potted orchid on the table beside the door, a white blossom with petals like pearls.

“Yeah,” I say.

He twists the knob, turning away from me.

“Marcel, stop,” I call, and he does, letting the door catch on his shoulder. “I hate Emilio more than I've ever hated anyone in my entire life. I mean it. Buy me a dress that makes him want to kill himself.”

He smiles. “Done.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

R
ain.

I wake up to the roar of it, but when I open my eyes, sunlight is flooding through the gauzy curtains.

Not rain. The shower.

I glance at the clock. 3:11. A Nordstrom dress bag lies draped over the chair, and several smaller bags—Sephora, Saks, Nordstrom—sit on the coffee table. Curiosity pulls me out of bed and over to the chair. I don't remember my feet until they touch the floor and pain pulses through them. Gingerly, I stand. It's not that bad. Not that bad. I repeat it a few times before hobbling over to the chair to inspect the dress. I unzip the bag. It's navy-blue silk, the color and sheen of the ocean right at the moment that dusk becomes night. I pull the dress off the hanger and hold it up to inspect. The cut is simple and elegant—a halter with a dangerously low back and a slight flare at the hem.

I'm holding it up to my chin, checking length, when Marcel's voice startles me. “Is it okay?”

I jerk around, like I've been caught stealing, and find him standing there in a towel, dripping wet. “Beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”

This shouldn't be awkward. I've seen him in a swimsuit too many times, but something is off between us. He feels it too, or maybe he feels me staring at him. I look away.

“I wasn't sure what kind of shoes you could even wear with your feet all cut up, so I bought two pairs.” He gestures to the bags on the table.

“Oh. Thanks.” I pull the box from the first bag and slide off the lid. Steel-colored stilettos. They're perfect. The second, navy ballet flats.

I peek into the last bag and discover a rust-colored swirl of hair. I take out the wig. “How did you know I've always wanted to be a redhead?”

“Lucky guess.”

I twist my own hair on top of my head and pull on the wig. I make my way over to the mirror and examine my reflection. It's not unnaturally red, but that deep auburn that makes me think of horses and foxes and autumn leaves. I tuck my loose dark strands up beneath the red, then run my fingers through it. “I don't look like myself, do I?”

“No.”

“I was worried you'd come back with something blond,” I say. The hot tub girl in her gunmetal bikini appears in my mind, and I push her away.

“Blond wouldn't look good on you,” he mumbles.

I fiddle with the wig a little more, then lay it out on the coffee table. “So I guess I shouldn't have doubted you.”

“Apology accepted. Although I had to ask the lady at Sephora to put all the makeup together.” He leans over to get his own clothes from a shopping bag. I've never noticed that tiny mole on his back before, right below the ridge of his shoulder blade. “But I chose the dress myself.”

I pull my eyes away from his back to the dress. I rub the fabric between my thumb and my finger. It feels like a petal. “It's gorgeous.”

“Aren't you going to try it on?”

I'm dying to. “I think I'll shower first.”

I take the dress with me to the bathroom and hang it on the back of the door. The mirrors are still fogged, and the mugginess clings to me, beading on my skin as I remove the T-shirt and shorts. I unwrap my feet and inspect the damage. The bleeding has stopped, but they still look pretty bad—worse than they feel. They probably need air and to be elevated more than anything else, but that can wait till tomorrow. I'll ask Marcel to put more bandages on after my shower.

I take my time washing and conditioning my hair with the hotel's high-end products, scrubbing every inch of skin with green tea exfoliating scrub. Definitely not the Holiday Inn.

Once I'm clean and dry, I take the dress off the hanger and slide it over my head. It falls down around me, cool and slippery. The fit is perfect. I don't need a mirror to tell. The back feels low but not indecent, and the rest is snug but not tight.

I leave the bathroom, suddenly nervous. There's nothing more awkward than watching someone watch you, so I glance at Marcel and then don't let myself look back. “Is there a full-length mirror?”

“By the door.” He's on the couch, flipping channels with his feet propped on the coffee table. I feel his eyes follow me across the room.

And when I see myself full length, wet hair, navy halter, I recognize the dress. But not as a dress. “Oh. It's like Nanette's swimsuit. I didn't realize . . .”

“You like it?” he asks.

“Of course.”

I finally look at him. He's wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, bare feet. He turns off the TV and puts down the remote. “If he has to see you in that tonight and know that he can't touch you ever again, he'll want to kill himself. Trust me.”

My mouth is too dry to speak. And what would I say, anyway? My hair is dripping water down my back, into the dress. I should go change.

No, I should kiss him.

“Let's leave Miami,” he says, and he looks so serious, I almost want to consider it. “You could still call your father and warn him about tonight.”

“So he can just keep on doing what he's doing? I don't want that.”

“But how are you going to stop him?”

“I'm not. I'm just going to talk to him.”

Marcel says nothing, grabs a magazine from the coffee table and flips pages.

“I know,” I say. “I sound naive. But I have to tell him that I know who he really is and what he really does and what I think of him. He has to know that I've seen pictures of what he's done. His victims aren't even . . .” I break off. I can't describe the picture of Yolanda to Marcel. “Plus, if we leave, Emilio wins.”

Marcel's jaw tightens and the pages flip faster.

“So we stay,” I say.

“We stay,” he says.

“I'm going to change out of this.”

He looks at his watch. “We have a few hours. You shouldn't be walking around. Your feet.”

“I'll elevate them after I change.” I walk toward the bathroom, then turn around again. “Remember that time when I kneed you?”

“Couldn't forget it if I tried.”

“Right. Well, I'm sorry.”

He stops flipping pages. “I thought you said you were never going to apologize for that.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I didn't mean it.”

The rest of the afternoon passes like melting ice—slowly, slowly dripping, then it's gone and I don't know how it happened.

We sit side by side on the couch and go through every detail of the plan: he leaves before me, around nine, in his car with the equipment he bought—kerosene, pliers, metal cutters—and my map to the marina in Coconut Grove where Papi docks the yacht.

“You're sure it'll be there?” he asks.

“That's where he always docks when it's here in Miami. As far as I know.”

“And who will be on it?”

“I don't know. Everybody will want to be at Vizcaya, so probably just a few thugs. I only know what Emilio told me—that the shipment came in this morning, and that the FBI isn't seizing it until his guys move in on my father at Vizcaya. They can't have word getting to him before he's in handcuffs.”