A Mercedes Sprinter van waited for them right where the puddle jumper parked. The van was painted ocean blue, and in gold lettering, displayed the name of the resort. Two smiling employees stood ready, dressed impeccably in tan uniforms meant to appeal equally to casual and formal crowds. The woman was from the Indian subcontinent, and the gentleman was certainly part Pacific Islander.

  The gentleman spoke first. “G’day, and welcome to Tongata.”

  Chaucer grabbed Tempest’s hand, interlacing his fingers with hers and pulling her toward him. He felt a searing pain at the physical contact and resisted the urge to grit his teeth until the feeling passed. He thought he’d been doing better with the physical contact issue. Was it just Tempest that was his pain trigger?

  Tempest smiled at him and kissed the back of his neck. She looked up at him with eyes full of adoration.

  He was surprised how easily she fell into the role, and wondered how much of it was acting. For as formidable an interrogator as Malcolm Chaucer was, he had a serious blind spot when it came to Tempest MacLaren.

  But damn if this didn’t feel right—Tempest’s cheek against his shoulder.

  “Honey?” she said. “Thank you for taking me here.”

  He looked into her eyes, and he detected not a single lie. Chaucer smiled.

  CHAPTER 14

  They were still holding hands when the van turned into Tongata. They descended a steep hillside toward the oceanfront resort. Tongata was laid out along a quarter-moon bay of alabaster sand and water in every shade of blue God had created. A gentle surf rippled across the bay and splashed playfully against the shore.

  The resort itself was shrouded in trees, providing shady solace from an ever-shining sun. The hotel lobby was open-air on two sides, one of which offered the best view yet of the stunning bay. All in all, the place radiated both luxury and a kind of understated peace.

  Two sarong-clad servers arrived with chilled, damp towels and drinks they said were mango and breadfruit.

  Tempest went to drink hers when Chaucer pulled her to him and clinked glasses with her.

  “To you, darling.”

  She corrected him. “To us, honeybuns. Happy anniversary, pumpkin.”

  They downed the drinks in a single swig and embraced, putting on a show for anyone watching. Tempest hugged him tight and pulled her mouth to his ear.

  “Mirrors on the tops of all the columns. Hiding cameras. Three-sixty surveillance.”

  With that, Chaucer’s spell was broken. He was right back where he belonged—undercover, on mission. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel it in his stomach, a pang of want at the loss of the pleasant illusion.

  A host with a name tag reading Michael approached, all smiles. “Welcome to Tongata, Mr. and Mrs. Walsh.”

  Chaucer raised an eyebrow, surprised they had been spotted already, but Michael anticipated it.

  “Your luggage gave you away. It’s already been brought to your suite. If you’d like, I’d be happy to show you there now—or I could give you a tour of the grounds.”

  Chaucer and Tempest exchanged a glance.

  “I think the suite might be best,” Tempest said, pulling Chaucer closer to her.

  Michael showed them to a room on the east wing of the property. He was cheerful but brisk, sensing these second honeymooners wanted little chit-chat. The room was a standard suite, but to Chaucer’s eye it could’ve been the Presidential Suite. Everything was perfect. A large king bed with what looked like a cloud for a comforter, carved teak furniture, a bathroom that would make Maharajas weep.

  In mere moments, Michael explained what little needed to be known, and then he took his leave. Tempest pulled her hairdryer apart to reveal a bug sweeper and went to work.

  Tempest’s sweep turned up nothing—not a single listening device or camera anywhere in the suite. She showed Chaucer the results.

  He shrugged. “You really thought there’d be something in here?”

  Tempest put a finger to her lips and shot him a harsh stare. She spent the next five minutes doing a physical inspection of the suite while Chaucer sprawled on the bed and relaxed.

  Finally, she dropped onto the bed beside him. “You’re getting sloppy, old man.”

  Chaucer raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know Praxis. I trust their tech.”

  “Never trust tech, you idiot. Always confirm. Tradecraft 101. Jesus, it’s like you remember nothing from your operative days.”

  Chaucer knew she was right. It had been a long time. But that wasn’t what troubled him most. What troubled him was that part of him wanted this to be a honeymoon.

  It was a dangerous thought. Delusional. He killed it the moment he recognized it.

  “There’s an event schedule on the desk,” he said.

  “I saw it. So?”

  “Well, if we need to search this place without looking like we’re searching it, it would help to be one of those active couples. You know—like a former fitness trainer who owns three gyms?”

  Tempest frowned. “I was kinda hoping this could also be some R and R.”

  Chaucer beamed inwardly. She was right where he was. “Well, to keep our cover, we’re going to have to do what couples celebrating their anniversary at Tongata do.”

  Tempest stared at him, shocked—but pleasantly so. “You got a condom?”

  Now it was Chaucer’s turn to be shocked. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, hoping that hid his surprise. “They go swimming in the bay, Tempest. They go swimming in the bay.”

  Tempest shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  She stripped off her clothes without ceremony.

  Chaucer marveled at her—at her taut, lean, muscular body, and at the sheer brazenness of Tempest MacLaren. There truly was no one else like her. He gave himself permission to watch for one more minute as she pulled on what barely qualified as a bikini, fitting it over the subtle, graceful curve of her hips.

  Then he found his own trunks.

  The water of the quarter-moon bay was bathwater-warm, scented somehow with both salt and mangoes. Tempest and Chaucer walked out hand in hand until the water reached their chests, then swam and splashed like carefree tourists.

  Chaucer wondered how much of the joy on Tempest’s face was real—and how much was cover. For him, there was no acting required.

  Her long red hair glistened in the sun, perfectly contrasting the deeper blues of the bay.

  The moment seized him. He pulled her close and kissed her deeply.

  Tempest didn’t resist. She grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him in tighter.

  When she finally broke the kiss, she looked into his eyes. “The guy on the veranda?”

  “Huh?” Chaucer asked.

  “I clocked him too. He’s been watching us.”

  Chaucer realized this mission was going to be far harder than he’d expected. “Yeah, we’ve got to be careful.”

  There it was. Chaucer’s lie of the day. And Tempest believed it.

  They had dinner in the resort’s premier restaurant on a candlelit deck overlooking the quarter-moon bay, illuminated by the reflection of the moon itself. Chaucer had the miso-braised cod. Tempest had the veal sweetbreads.

  Even when eating, the woman was cruel.

  They shared a bottle of Riesling, somewhere between dry and sweet, perfectly paired to both dishes.

  It was, in a word, perfect.

  Afterward, they strolled along the beach, waves lapping gently at their feet, then headed back to the suite.

  Chaucer collapsed onto the bed, stuffed.

  Tempest conducted two more bug sweeps—one electronic, one visual—then lay down beside him. She said, “Let’s compare notes.”

  “There’s an elevator that goes to the basement,” Chaucer said. “There could be something down there. The rest of the main building is too exposed.”

  Tempest smiled. “The sweetbreads were amazing. The sauce was somewhere between a chutney and a gravy. I can’t even describe it.”

  Chaucer smiled back and looked deeply into her eyes. “This is going to be hard.”

  Tempest smiled her most mischievous smile. “I can deal with hard.”

  Then she pulled out a condom.

  CHAPTER 15

  Chaucer and Tempest set out again at midnight. The action around the resort had died down. Their target was the basement level, one of the few areas they had yet to set eyes on. They strolled slowly, hand in hand, and they definitely did not talk about what they had just done. They were in work mode now.

  They waited until the lobby was empty, and then they got into the elevator. A second later they heard, “Hold it, would you? Hold the elevator?” Tempest punched the door close button, but it was too late. Into the elevator toddled Betsy Clark. They knew this because Betsy wore a stick-on name tag, likely from the social game in the bar targeting singles.

  Betsy was all of five foot three, slightly plump, and she possessed an infectious smile and spirit. She was having the time of her life. “Can you believe this place?” she asked, with a British accent that placed her origins somewhere on the east side of London.

  Chaucer forced a smile onto his face. “Paradise.”

  “Oh, press three for me, darling. Look, you haven’t even pressed the button. I know what it’s like; I’m lost in a dream here too.”

  The elevator doors closed, and the world’s slowest elevator began its ascent. Betsy was not one for silences. She obviously felt the need to fill them at every opportunity. “I won a contest!”

  Tempest said, “Pardon?”

  “I won a contest! And believe me, I never win anything. I usually don’t even open my junk mail.”

  Tempest said, “Well, congratulations. That’s really great. How’s your husband liking it?”

  Tempest obviously missed the name tag clue. Betsy giggled as though Tempest had said the funniest thing she had ever heard. “Oh no, no, I’m not married. Not for lack of trying,” she said in a singsong manner. “No,” she got more serious, “my friends say that I’m too picky, but I don’t think that’s it. I think men find it easy to like me, but not so easy to love me. I have a bit of a beau back home, but, well, I still haven’t figured that one out. Oh, where are my manners?! I’m Betsy. Betsy Clark.”

  Chaucer and Tempest introduced themselves with their cover identities, and a second later, the doors opened, and Betsy left for her room on the third floor, humming to herself. She turned back for a brief second and regarded Chaucer and Tempest as if for the first time. “You two make a lovely couple, you know. I can always tell soulmates when they’ve found each other. You just—sparkle.” And with that, the elevator closed.

  Chaucer handed her the lock-picking tools, and in seconds she had unlocked the elevator controls and sent the elevator to the basement.

  The basement didn’t look like a supervillain’s lair. The basement level was pretty much what you’d expect: cinderblock walls, harsh industrial lighting, a laundry, a kitchen. They had explored that far when they were suddenly stopped by a severe, six-foot-three Norwegian man with a nameplate that said only “Carl.”

  “What are you doing down here? Guests are not allowed down here.”

  Tempest laughed, dropping right into character. “You’re telling me. We’re just, we’re just—where’s the bar?”

  Carl’s eyes searched both Tempest’s and Chaucer’s, as if trying to suss out the truth. Chaucer simply shrugged. “It’s our honeymoon.”

  Carl pointed them back down the hall and said, “Elevator to G.” Tempest stumbled just a bit as she turned around, and the two of them walked back down the hallway to the elevator, feeling Carl’s eyes on the backs of their heads the entire way.

  Back in the room, Tempest wouldn’t let Chaucer speak until she had done both an electronic and physical sweep of the room.

  “Three times in twenty-four hours?”

  Tempest glared at him for daring to speak before she had finished.

  When Tempest finished, she paced with her hands on her hips. “Let’s talk about Carl.”

  “Let’s talk about Betsy. That girl’s a hoot.”

  Tempest stared at Chaucer until he got serious. “He didn’t have the build of someone who works in a resort.”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if being in shape was a requirement here.”

  Tempest frowned. “No. That’s not what our Carl was. No glamour muscles—only functional. And his eyes.”

  Chaucer nodded. “That’s what I noticed. He went through a routine. An assessment. Checked us for obvious weapons, and then he seemed to analyze demeanor and temperament.”

  “Do you think he thought I was drunk?”

  “I think he thought it was plausible you were. I think he was mostly calculating the odds that the elevator malfunctioned.”

  Tempest glanced out the window. “I think we should do our own thorough assessment, raise the possibility that we were made.”

  Chaucer said, “I think we need to do a reality check first. There was a maximum of two more rooms in that basement that we didn’t see. The odds of them being big enough and private enough to do what we’re looking for are extremely remote. Now, is Carl trained? Yes. Would that be out of place at a remote resort catering to the wealthy? Not at all. I think Carl could just be one of their security guys.”

  “He wasn’t dressed like a security guy.”

  “True enough. But maybe they don’t want their guys too visible. Security can be off-putting to folks. Or maybe the resort’s understaffed and they needed him to help out in another area. My point is, we still have nothing. We’ve been here a day, and other than one slightly creepy staffer, we’ve got nothing to hang our hat on.”

  Tempest sniffed. It was one of her tells. It meant she wasn’t happy. “So your threat assessment is nothing confirmed? We stay at zero?”

  Chaucer nodded. But he knew damn well that Tempest had moved their threat level to at least two. The honeymoon was over.

  Tempest was up at the crack of dawn, which meant Chaucer was up at the crack of dawn. Sure, he could’ve slept in, but a couple of well-placed elbows to the ribs disabused him of that notion. He groaned, “What?”

  “There’s a boat.”

  “We’re on an island. I suspect we might see several.”

  “No. It’s the resort’s. Why didn’t any of their literature mention that they have a boat?”

  Chaucer rolled over and propped his head up on his pillow, realizing it was a fair question. “Let’s find out.”

  Chaucer showered, shaved, and brushed his teeth in fifteen minutes, and five minutes after that they were the first couple seated at breakfast. Their server was a Filipino man, barely twenty years old, named Ramone.

  Tempest approached the subject. “Ramone, this morning I saw a boat in the bay. The resort’s boat. We would love to take a boat tour of this part of the island.”

  Ramone shook his head and smiled. “Sorry, ma’am. The concierge desk can arrange a boat tour for you, but that boat isn’t for the guests right now. It only goes to Olana.”

  “Olana?”

  Ramone continued, “A small private island the resort owns. Just a short ride to the south. But it’s not operating right now. They’re doing a big renovation on it.”

  Chaucer asked, “How long have the renovations been going on?”

  Ramone shrugged. “As long as I’ve been here. It’s supposed to be really nice. I think. I’ve never seen it myself. Coffee?”

  Chaucer shared a quick glance with his ex-wife. Their eyes said the same thing.

  Bingo.

  CHAPTER 16

  After a delicious breakfast of coddled eggs, lingonberry pancakes, and hickory-smoked bacon, Tempest suggested they take one of the small sailboats into the bay. The tide was low, so Chaucer had to lift the Sunray and set it into the water. There was a gentle breeze passing from north to south—not much, but enough for a leisurely cruise.

  Chaucer took the helm. After all, he was Navy. He tacked against the wind, climbing up one side of the bay to make a downwind run. He also chose this angle to get outside of the bay, hoping to spot the mysterious Olana.

  They rounded the rock outcropping marking the end of the bay, and the seas got choppier. But there in the distance, less than three miles away, was Olana. The island couldn’t be more than a mile around, with steep rocks leading up to some sort of extensive structure. From here they couldn’t see any beach, but Chaucer had no doubt that it was there.

  The whole place was unassuming.

  Except for the guards.

  Tempest saw them too, because she put a hand on the rudder to turn the Sunray back toward the bay.

  She asked him, “Did you clock them?”

  Chaucer nodded. “Four men stationed on that high deck.”

  “The one facing our way definitely spotted us.”

  “That’s a lot of security for a place that’s under renovation, don’t you think?”

  Tempest shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they’re just hot tub installers on a coffee break. You know, like your friend Carl.”

  “I didn’t say he wasn’t suspicious. I just said we didn’t have enough evidence.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Chaucer sailed them back into the quarter-moon bay and toward the resort. “So, what’s the plan?”

  Tempest plastered a smile on her face, maintaining their cover. “The resort’s got a dive shop, right? How about a romantic night dive, lover?”

  At that moment, as he stared into Tempest’s eyes, Chaucer couldn’t think of anything better.

  After their sailing trip, they headed back to their room. Chaucer said, “Do you think⁠—”

  Tempest raised a finger in warning.

  Chaucer rolled his eyes and plopped down on the bed. Again, Tempest did the electronic sweep of the room. Chaucer marveled at her tenacity. Her single-minded dedication to this futile routine.

  Only this time, her phone glowed red.

  The electronic sweep revealed two bugs in all, both audio. One was built into the nightstand next to their bed, but not previously active, and the other was one that someone had placed that morning, in the bathroom under the sink. That one Chaucer and Tempest could get a look at.