A silence lingered. Eventually, I broke it. "I have to ask one more thing. You and Harris, on the flight over-"

She cut me off, standing up abruptly. "Nope. Nopenopenope. Not going there." She sucked her cheeks in and pretended to do a doggy paddle. "Look at me, I'm a nope-fish, swimming in a sea of nopes. Nothing happened. There's nothing to talk about. I don't know about you, but I think a bottle of wine or four is in order, to celebrate being on dry land." And then she was walking away again.

G.o.d, she was difficult. I let her go. I felt like I'd taken one step forward with her, and two steps backward. I knew why she was acting p.i.s.sy with me, but I still had no idea what the deal was with her and Harris-and there was a deal, no matter what she said-especially because of what she said. And I also had no idea how to keep her safe while letting her live her own life. She may have grown up in Detroit-I did have some idea what a childhood like that entailed-but she hadn't been through something like I had. Drug dealers, pimps, bullies, a.s.sholes, prost.i.tutes, teenage pregnancy...all that was rough and difficult and h.e.l.lish to grow up in, I was sure, but it wasn't the same as dealing with international black-market criminals like Vitaly Karahalios.

I was supposed to be planning a wedding. Yet, after that conversation with Layla, I didn't really feel like shopping for wedding dresses. Not without my best friend at my side.

I sat on the beach, thinking about a lot of things, as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, a fiery red ball that seemed a lot like Layla herself.

6.

THE DRESSMAKER AND THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.

I watched in fascination from one of the rear seats of the twin-engine floatplane as Harris walked Layla through the takeoff checklist. She had on the headphones with the mic, and she was flipping switches as Harris pointed them out, checking them against the clipboard balanced on her thigh. They were close together, shoulders brushing, Harris's right arm propped on her seat back. Once, as Layla shifted to reach a switch, Harris caught the clipboard before it fell, and his fingers brushed her thigh when he rebalanced it on her leg.

I watched her body language through the whole exchange, and she was digging it. Digging him. Letting him get physically close, letting him touch her. Little, innocent touches, incidental contact. But for Layla, letting him that close was a big deal.

Roth sat beside me engaged on his phone call, so he was oblivious to everything going on up front. But I wasn't missing a thing-they had my rapt attention.

"Okay," Harris said to Layla. "We're up and running. We're untied, we've been through the checklist, and now we're ready to go. Hold the yoke with one hand, and gently-and I mean millimeter by millimeter-push the throttle forward."

Holy s.h.i.t. Harris was letting Layla do the takeoff? Not just take the controls while we were in the air, but actually take off? Harris was a control freak, I was pretty sure, so this was a big deal.

The seaplane inched forward as the sound of the engines increased to a deafening roar. Harris talked her through guiding the plane away from the dock and out into the bay, toward the open water.

"Now gradually throttle up, bit by bit. Keep the yoke straight and level, pedals even. Great, doing great." He had his hands on the controls, too, I noticed, ready to take over. That made me feel a bit better. But, having flown a good bit with Harris by this point, I knew Layla was doing really well. "Okay, now you feel it pulling? She wants to lift, so all you're really doing is letting her do what she wants. Help her up a little, pull back. No pedal, no tilt. Just pull it back, inch it back. Nice and easy, no sudden movements. And...we're airborne! That was awesome, Layla. Very smooth."

Layla glanced back at me then, and she had a huge, s.h.i.t-eating grin on her face. "Did you see that, hooker? I took us off! Me! I'm flying a plane!"

"Yeah, and you have to focus, or we won't go far," Harris said. "Hold our angle of ascent right here, nice and shallow, and when we reach two thousand feet, level us off and bring us around to a southwest heading."

After that, it was a fairly uneventful flight. Layla was at the controls the whole way, Harris explaining and lecturing the entire time, pointing out dials and explaining their purpose, quizzing her on things he'd already explained. We were on our way to St. Thomas for the day, as Roth claimed the shopping on St. Thomas was better than on Grand Turk.

When we were about one nautical mile from St. Thomas, Harris took over, calling in our arrival over the radio, and then talking Layla through the landing, explaining what he was doing, how, and why. She was rapt, soaking it all in, hooked on every word.

Nothing going on, my a.s.s.

Roth and Harris trailed behind Layla and me as we ducked into store after store, shop after shop, trying on clothes, jewelry, hats, and trinkets. Neither of us bought anything, though. I was too irritated with Roth to be focused on shopping; he'd been sucked into his phone the whole time, physically present but mentally absent.

Finally, an hour and a half into the trip, he stuffed his phone into his pocket, looked up at our surroundings, checked his watch, and then set off at a quick pace, grabbing my hand and tugging me after him without a word.

"Roth! Where are we going?"

"We have an appointment," was all he'd say.

He pulled me into a shop, taking me to the back and up a narrow flight of ancient, rickety stairs. There was a door with white peeling paint at the top, a bra.s.s doork.n.o.b. Roth knocked three times, and then entered without waiting for a reply. I followed him in, curious.

The room beyond the door had a high ceiling, three wide-blade ceiling fans turning lazily, stirring the air, the three fans connected to each other via a long tube, one fan turning the other two. The walls had once been wallpapered in white and pink stripes, but the paper was so old and faded it was nearly invisible. The floor was faded as well, smooth and shiny in places from long wear. There were several seamstress dummies around the room, two stools, rolls and rolls of fabric stacked on the floor, leaning against the walls, and hanging on homemade wire racks that were screwed into the walls. There were clear boxes of pins on the windowsill, and at least one pair of shears that I could see, and measuring tapes everywhere.

"Ella!" Roth called out. "We're here."

A door opened somewhere, then closed, and a woman appeared. She was short and thin with black hair going silver at the temples, and a pair of gla.s.ses hung from a cord around her neck. She had a measuring tape in one hand, a mouthful of pins, and a length of fabric trailing behind her.

"Ah. Mr. Valentine. You come, good, good. So glad to see you, dear." She wrapped both arms around Roth and hugged him tightly. "I have not see you in too long. Where you go?"

"Oh, I've been busy, Ella. You know how I am." He kissed both of her cheeks, held her by the arms. "How have you been?"

Ella shrugged one shoulder. "I am well enough. Some days I am still sad, of course, but what can one do, hmm?" She turned to me. "And this must be your bride, yes? Oh...she is beautiful, Mr. Valentine. So beautiful. You say she is lovely, but you did not say how lovely."

I blushed. "Hi, Ella, I'm Kyrie." I extended my hand to her, but Ella pulled me into a warm, strong hug.

"Kyrie, so wonderful to meet you."

Roth took my hand once Ella released me. "Kyrie, Ella is Eliza's sister."

"You knew Eliza?" Ella asked, her sharp brown eyes going watery. "I miss her every day. Every day."

"I knew Eliza, yes. Not anywhere near long enough, but...she was amazing." I had to fight back tears.

"Every day after she finish working for Mr. Valentine, Eliza would call me. Just to say h.e.l.lo, to say I love you. We were very close, even though we did not live near for much of our lives. I am here, living here, working here, and she is in England for the elder Mr. Roth, and then she moved to America with the Mr. Valentine, but every summer Mr. Valentine, he give her three months off to come see me, to stay with me." Ella let out a long, quivery sigh. "And now she is gone."

Roth cleared his throat roughly. "I'll never be able to tell you how sorry I am, Ella. I'll never forgive myself for...for what happened."

Ella turned away from me, putting her palm to his cheek. "I forgive you, Mr. Valentine. I have already tell you this. I forgive you. And Eliza, up in heaven, she forgive you too. I know she does. She know you from when you just a boy. You are her family, Mr. Valentine. I forgive you, she forgive you, now you must forgive you." She smiled, patted his face, and then turned to me. "But we are not here for the chatter of a silly old woman, are we?"

She grabbed me by the shoulders, hustled me over to a stool and up onto it, and pushed my arms up and out and began taking my measurements.

I glanced at Roth. "What's going on, babe?"

"Ella is a dressmaker." He smirked at me. "You really think I'd allow you to wear something off the rack?"

I laughed. "I suppose not."

Ella spoke while measuring and jotting the numbers onto a pad she'd produced from somewhere. "I am not a famous designer, but I can make you a pretty dress to marry Mr. Valentine. I think, because this is the islands, you have something with no straps, something the wind can play with. It will be on the beach, yes?"

I shrugged. "I suppose. I'd marry him in a kitchen, if I had to."

Ella paused and glanced up at me. "A kitchen? Not so romantic, you ask me. I think he can do better than that, probably." She straightened, draped the measuring tape around her neck, and tucked the notepad into a pocket, the pencil stub behind her ear. "I have a dress all made for you, in my mind. Say...two days? Maybe less, but come here again in two days, I will have the most beautiful dress for you to marry Mr. Valentine."

We were at the door when Ella stopped Roth with a hand on his arm. "You shouldn't have done that, you know."

Roth kept a blank expression. "Done what, Ella?"

"Pay my debts. I am proud woman. I don't need no help." She looked almost angry.

Roth sighed. "It doesn't give you your sister back. It doesn't take away the grief. But...it's the only thing I could do."

Ella's face softened. "Well, thank you. I know you mean well."

"We'll see you on Friday," Roth said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

I watched as Layla tugged the hem of a dress down a little further, so it just barely brushed the tops of her knees. It was short, tight, low-cut, and everything Layla loved in a dress. So s.e.xy it was just this side of s.l.u.tty, fully emphasizing her remarkable a.s.sets. At five-foot-nine, Layla was a couple inches taller than me, and she was also a good bit heavier than me, all of it in her curves. Long, thick, curly black hair done up in a sloppy bun, flawless caramel skin, exotic, exquisitely beautiful features, t.i.ts and a.s.s that wouldn't quit...my best friend was stunning. I knew I wasn't homely by any stretch of the imagination, but when placed next to Layla I was the ugly friend.

I cleared my throat as Layla swiveled side to side, smoothing her palms over the bell curve of her hips. "Layla, babe. It's a wedding, not a night at the club. Can we go for something a little more...beach wedding and a little less 'f.u.c.k me in a limo?'"

Layla shot me a glare. "It's cute. And it does great things for my a.s.s."

"Your a.s.s does great things for your a.s.s, honey. You could fill out a burlap sack."

Layla shook her head. "You're just trying to ruin my fun."

"All I'm saying is, can you try on something that's past the knee and that you can actually walk in?"

She let out a groaning sigh. "Fine. You pick something, then."

I went over to the rack and flipped through it until I found something. I checked the size, and then handed it to her. "Try this one."

Layla held it up and examined it suspiciously. "Okay, but I'll hate it."

It was totally unlike Layla's usual style. Floor-length, bright yellow, cut straight across the chest, tucked in at the waist and flowing loose from the hips. Tasteful, but still s.e.xy, especially if the skirt was as sheer as it looked. Layla ducked into the changing room, tossed the dress she'd chosen over the top of the door and tugged my choice down over her head. I heard her suck in her breath when she first saw it on herself.

"I hate you," she mumbled, pushing the door open.

"Oh...my...G.o.d. Layla, you look-"

"Cla.s.sy, for once?"

I shook my head. "Beautiful. b.i.t.c.h, you're gonna steal the spotlight."

She really did look incredible. The skirt was nearly sheer from the waistline down, giving tantalizing glimpses of her long legs, hugging tight to her waist and bust. It wasn't a low-cut bodice by any means, but with Layla's build, she didn't need it to be cut low to have banging cleavage. The bright yellow of the fabric highlighted the caramel shade of her skin, making her look that much more exotic.

I reached up and freed her hair from the elastic of the ponytail holder, feathered my fingers through the curls, spreading her hair out around her bare shoulders. "There. A couple flowers in your hair, and it'll be perfect."

"I hate it," she declared, but her voice said she was lying.

"I'm so nice for buying you a bridesmaid-of-honor dress that you can and will wear again," I said.

"Bridesmaid-of-honor?" Layla asked with a laugh.

"Yeah, you're pulling double duty."

"Do you think-" Layla started, but then cut herself off with a shake of her head.

"What? Do I think what?"

She shook her head again. "Nothing. I'm just being an idiot." It was too hard to tell with her dark skin, but I was pretty sure she was blushing. I'd have bet money her cheeks would be red as apples if she had my fair skin.

"Layla, say it before I smack it out of you."

Layla tossed her head again, swiveling to get a look at herself from the back. "Hooker, you hit me and you'll be getting married in traction."

"Layla."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to face the mirror, adjusting her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and then fluffing her curls so they sat on her shoulders just so. "You really are a b.i.t.c.h, you know that? All I was going to ask was if you thought..." She trailed off, and then mumbled the rest under her breath in a rush-"...IfyouthoughtHarriswouldlikeit."

"HA!" I laugh-shouted. "I KNEW IT!"

"Don't make me regret saying anything, Kyrie. I swear to G.o.d I'll never talk to you again if you make fun of me."

"You used my actual name, which means you must be really serious."

"Serious as taxes, babe."

I stepped up behind her, hugged her hard. "Layla, I'd never make fun of you. Not for real. You look absolutely gorgeous, honey, and I think Harris is going to have trouble breathing when he gets a look at you. I want you to be happy. I don't know if Harris is the man for that particular job, but as far as I'm concerned, you have my blessing to give it a shot. He's an amazing man, he's just...hard as diamonds, cold as ice, and a complete mystery."

"When you say he's cold as ice, what does that mean, exactly?"

I'd never really told her much about my desperate mission to rescue Roth from Gina's clutches. Harris had been the one to get it done. I'd seen a side of Roth's bodyguard, pilot, driver, personal a.s.sistant-and, I suspected, best and only friend-that I suspect few ever saw in action. Being an ex-Army Ranger, he was lethal, cunning, capable, without doubt and without mercy. I'd watched him calmly walk up to a man who'd been chasing me, trying to kill me, and I'd watched Harris put two bullets in the man's skull from point-blank range. Harris had wiped the blood from his face without expression, and had driven us away.

I'd watched him kill again and again in the process of getting Roth back, and every time he'd done so coolly, confidently, and quickly, without any sign of remorse. Of course, every man he'd killed had been a ruthless criminal who had probably done more than his fair share of evil, knowing the kind of people Vitaly employed, but still. Watching someone gun people down without even flinching...it makes you wonder what goes on in his head, and then you think maybe you don't really want to know.

Did I want to communicate any of this to Layla?

I wasn't so sure. I shrugged. "I just mean that Harris is the kind of man who will do whatever it takes to get the job done. I'd be dead if not for him, and Roth would still be a prisoner on that island."

"You won't ever tell me what really happened, will you?" Layla asked.

I shook my head. "No. Some stories are best left untold. You said you grew up rough, but...the things I saw, the things I did..." I had to choke back a lump in my throat. "It wasn't pretty. I wouldn't wish any of it on anyone. I'd do it all again to save Valentine, mind you, but...s.h.i.t got ugly, Layla."

"And Harris?"

I shrugged. "Harris was my rock through it all. Kept me sane, kept me going. He never wavered, and never hesitated." I let out a breath. "I don't know much about him. I don't think anyone does. Just...if you decide to see where things go with him, just be careful, okay?"

She must have heard something in my voice, something that spoke louder than my actual words. "I don't know what's going on between us. He's not easy to get to know, you know? Getting him to say more than a single sentence at a time is like having a root ca.n.a.l without Novocaine. I'm intrigued, I guess you could say, 'cause he's something totally different than what I usually go for. But I'm not gonna chase him out of his sh.e.l.l. He's gotta come out to meet me, since I've got a sh.e.l.l of my own."

"He's different with you, from what I've seen. He's usually all business, b.u.t.toned up, silent, Mr. Stoneface, you know? And with you, he's...human."

"I'm done talking about this," Layla said, sweeping past me and into the changing room. "It's not going anywhere, and besides, you're getting married, and then I'm going back to Detroit. So for now, let's just focus on making you Mrs. Kyrie Roth."