“I am overjoyed you decided to come, Mr. Quinn,” the Venezuelan said, stifling a giggle. He kept Garcia’s hand until Quinn threw an arm around her shoulder and tugged her away.
“This is a beautiful place, Mr. Zamora,” Garcia said, full lips parted slightly. She was very good at what she was doing.
“Call me Valentine, I beg you.” Zamora swept his arm around the grounds, narrowly missing Cathy standing behind him. He shot her a hateful glare, then smiled back at Garcia. “I have rented it every year of the past seven. It is modeled after a villa in Tuscany that I also rent during my trips to Italy.”
“You know,” Quinn said in spite of himself. “I’m in real estate. If you want, I could help you get into a place of your own so you don’t have to rent all the time.”
Zamora stared, his eyes narrowing to tiny slits. “I rent because I want to, Mr. Quinn. Not because I have to. It keeps me fluid.”
“He knows that,” Ronnie said, squeezing Quinn’s arm. “You should have heard him talking about you and your big entourage back at the track. All the way here he was Valentine this and Valentine that. You’d think he was your groupie.”
Zamora raised an eyebrow. Pleased. “Is that so?” Quinn shrugged, wishing he could drag the guy behind one of his manicured hedges and beat him to death.
“I have to finish an important business matter,” Zamora said. “Then you must let me show you around. Please enjoy the pool until then. Cathy, my darling,” he spoke over his shoulder without taking his eyes off Ronnie. “Please find Ms. Garcia a bathing suit.”
“It’s okay,” Ronnie said, opening her clenched fist to reveal the tiniest crumple of yellow cloth. “I brought my own.”
The corners of Zamora’s lips perked under his pencil-thin mustache as if he’d just spied his favorite entree on the menu.
“Most excellent,” he said. “Cathy will show you the changing room.”
Quinn gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Hurry back,” he said.
“You are a very lucky man,” Zamora said, watching the women walk away.
“Oh,” Quinn said. “I don’t know about that. I just have the one. You seem to have an entire harem.”
Zamora swept his arm again. “Pick any one of them. I won’t mind.”
“What about their dates?” Quinn asked.
“The only man here with a date is you, Mr. Quinn.” Zamora leaned in, confiding a secret. “And someone may try and steal her away if you are not very careful.” He stood back and clapped his hands together, holding them to his lips as if in thought. “Now, you must excuse me while I attend to the drudgeries of my business.”
Monagas remained a moment longer, giving them each a long up-and-down look. Scoffing to himself as if he couldn’t be bothered with speaking, he turned to join his boss.
“I’m feelin’ a need to whip that guy’s ass,” Thibodaux said as Zamora went to rejoin the men at the other end of the pool.
“Which one?” Quinn said. “Zamora or his thug?”
The Cajun shrugged, wagging his head. “I don’t know, either… both.”
“In time.” Quinn nodded. He consciously kept himself from staring at the Venezuelan for fear that his own disgust would be too obvious.
“There are way too many women here,” Thibodaux groaned.
Quinn frowned. “You’re not tempted, are you?”
“Hell no,” the big Cajun said. “Turn ’em upside down and they all look like sisters. My Camille is plenty enough for me.”
“She gave you seven sons,” Quinn chuckled. “I’d say that’s apparent.”
“What about you, l’ami?” Thibodaux looked down at him. “You can’t tell me Ronnie don’t tempt you a teensy bit. Aaiiee! I mean, she’s wearin’ that Bible dress and everything… ”
“Bible dress?” Quinn had worked with the good-hearted Marine for more than a year. Battle and blood had made them fast friends, but sometimes, he had a hard time understanding the man’s euphemisms.
Thibodaux tipped his head toward the departing Ronnie, sighing. “You know, a Bible dress.” He put his hands to his own chest as if holding up a particularly large bosom. “Lo and behold.”
“There is that.” It was Quinn’s turn to groan. In truth, he’d been battling the notion of Veronica Garcia all day long. Seeing her had brought back a flood of conflicting emotions. “I owe it to my daughter to try and work things out with Kim.”
“You mean the same Kim who bitched you out for saving her from a bunch of assassins?” Thibodaux shook his finger, scolding. “You know what you are, Chair Force? You are uxorious.”
“I speak five languages and I have no idea what that means.” Quinn scanned the crowd, arms folded across his chest.
“I accidentally made it when me and Camille were playing Words With Friends,” Jacques said. “But that ain’t the point. It means overly fixated on your wife.”
“Says the man two sons shy of a baseball team,” Quinn scoffed.
“Seriously, beb,” Thibodaux said. “One dude to another — you gotta stop frettin’ so much over the fair sex. It’s gonna get one of us killed.”
“I have an idea,” Quinn said. “You think we could focus on this little nuclear bomb problem instead of who I ride into the sunset with?”
“It’s your ride, brother.” Thibodaux shrugged. “Just pointing out some things you might be too… close… to… see… ”
The noise around the pool seemed to hush when Ronnie stepped out of the nearest cabana. Quinn closed his eyes, hoping to escape the sight of her.
“Good lord,” Thibodaux moaned. “You mean to tell me all that could be yours if you just said the word?”
“Shut up, Jacques,” Quinn said. “It’s not that simple.”
“Chair Force, you listen to me. There’s a lot of things in this life that’s complicated, but this ain’t one of ’em.”
Quinn gave a long sigh as Garcia padded barefoot across the pool deck, smiling at him as if they were lovers. Jacques had no idea what he was talking about. This was the most complicated situation in the world — and the swimsuit didn’t help matters at all.
Canary yellow, it stood out in warm contrast to her rich coffee-and-cream skin. On paper, Quinn was sure the thing had been designed as a modest one-piece with easily twice as much material as most of the suits around the pool. But the way Ronnie wore it made it anything but modest. The taut curves and swells of her body arced and dipped as if aching to escape the fabric. It covered everything — but hid absolutely nothing.
Ronnie did a pirouette to show off the suit when she got closer. It scooped low in the back, revealing a pale scar the size of a dime below her left shoulder blade, a reminder of another time when they’d depended on each other for their lives.
Zamora abandoned his poolside meeting as soon as he saw her, shoving aside anyone who dared get in his way.
“Come,” he said, taking her by the hand. “I want to show you the garden, though I must say, not a single flower is more vibrant than you.” He raised an eyebrow at Quinn. “With your permission, of course.”
Jericho shrugged, fighting the urge to split the Venezuelan’s skull. “Go for it,” he said. “I have plenty here to keep me occupied.”
“Remind me to pass you a slap if you let that get away,” Thibodaux said, eyes glued to the sight of Garcia’s swaying backside as she walked arm in arm with Zamora toward a garden of hanging flowers opposite the cabanas.
Quinn took a quick step back from the pool to avoid getting splashed by a team of piggyback couples wrestling for control of a volleyball. All six-packs and cleavage, these “beautiful people” were as much a part of the décor as the tapestries in the great room.
“Take a look over there if you can pry your eyes away for a minute.” Quinn gave a discreet nod toward the other side of pool. “Isn’t Farris bin Ushan supposed to be in jail?”