Juan rolled his fingers together; Raul kept his eyes moving around the restaurant.
“Who wants to know?”
“Maybe I do.”
Raul scooted forward, his eyes blinking. “Information isn’t free, señor.”
The waitress returned with three beers and disappeared.
“You have information for me?”
Raul rubbed his upper lip again. Yeah, the man was dipping into some of Columbia’s finest . . . or perhaps cheapest. Hard to tell watching from the outside.
“If you have money . . . I have information.”
Remington removed two fifty-dollar bills from his pocket, made sure the man saw the hundreds packed behind them. “I need a name.”
“If I told you Picano is using the account?”
Remington lifted his hand holding the money away. “Don’t fuck with me, Raul. Picano is dead.”
Raul kicked back in his chair. “What about Mrs. Picano?”
Remington stood. The man was looking for quick money. He didn’t know shit.
Juan stood, along with Raul. “Wait, wait . . . I can get—”
“You can get the fuck out of my way. I don’t deal with people who waste my time, cokehead.”
“But . . .”
Remington nudged the other man out of the way and left the two bankers behind.
Back at square one. He pushed through the kids that circled him, bumping into him with their hands out. He shoved his hand into his pocket, fisted the change there, and tossed it several feet away. Like a flock of birds to crumbs, the children scattered to pick up what they could as he jogged across the street and disappeared.
He hustled up the filthy steps of the hotel and into his room. He shoved everything into the duffel bag and retrieved the cash behind the john. He patted his right back pocket, in search of his phone.
He froze, checked his left pocket . . . front pockets.
“Son of a bitch.”
Hunter wasn’t sure who was avoiding who. Both he and Gabi all but jumped on the opportunity to spend time in the nightclub instead of retiring in their private villa.
He didn’t trust himself.
Even with his head in a hundred different places, the one place it wanted to be was buried in his wife.
A dangerous thing, that.
For the both of them.
Across the room, Gabi danced with her brother. The two of them laughed and smiled . . . obviously caring for the other. Hunter couldn’t blame the man for being such a hard-ass. If he’d had a younger sister who had said yes to a temporary marriage, he didn’t think he would sit by and watch silently.
Meg slid up beside him. “You don’t seem the wallflower type,” she told him.
He allowed his eyes to leave Gabi.
“Just watching.”
“They look good.”
He nodded.
“I haven’t seen Gabi dance since before Alonzo died. Even at our wedding, she did what she had to, but she wasn’t happy about it.”
He couldn’t help but wonder why Meg was opening up.
“I never liked the man.”
“And why are you telling me this?”
She sipped her drink. “I’m not sure.”
He ran his fingers over the condensation on his glass. “Let me guess, your next words are a warning that if I hurt her I’ll have to answer to you.”
Meg lifted her eyebrows. “I thought about it. But no. I won’t have a chance.”
“Too many people in line in front of you.”
“Exactly.”
They both watched their spouses on the dance floor for a minute before he lifted his hand, palm up. “Dance?”
Women loved to dance. It was something Hunter learned about them early on. The music was upbeat enough to engage in a few twists and enough movement to avoid a lot of body contact. Still, he felt Val’s eyes on him as he led Meg through a few moves.
When the music changed, this time slowing down, Val tapped his shoulder and they switched partners.
The tropical scent of Gabi’s hair hit him first.
When her hand gripped his, her other reaching up on his shoulder, it took every ounce of power to avoid molding his body to hers.
After a few tentative steps, she leaned in close. “You’re a good dancer,” she told him.
He moved them around with style. “I dated a theater major in college. I had to learn or get left behind.”
Gabi smiled. “And how long did you date Miss Actress?”
“Two months.”
Her hand reached around his back. The feel of her fingers flexing on his shoulder distracted him enough to where he missed a step, but quickly recovered.
“Two months is hardly dating . . . more like a fling.”
“It was college.”
“But you kept that style of dating most your life.”
He glanced down, narrowed his eyes. “Part of your background check?”