Mr. Rook Page 3

  “Anytime. Now if you follow me, we’ll get you to your room so you can settle in before the tour starts.”

  Awesome. I’ll be the one complaining about everything.

  “Can’t wait!” I said with a perky tone. Fucking hell. I’m in fucking hell.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My room wasn’t a room. It was a lavishly appointed, A-frame bungalow nestled among the coconut palms and tropical greenery. The bungalow had a private sauna room, a sunken tub, small kitchenette with a table and chairs, and a beautiful living room with a light gray overstuffed couch and armchair. The floors were made of those smooth terracotta tiles that felt cool on my feet, and the glass door in my bedroom opened up to a private garden with a hammock.

  Jesus. This place is gorgeous. There was no television, but the menu of amenities said “Your wish is our command.” With the touch of a button, Julie would arrange for a flat-screen TV and any movie. They would bring you a book from their private library, a picnic for the beach, or arrange for a scuba lesson. Or all of the above. My stay included a one-hour massage every day at any hour of my choosing. There was tennis (partner included), card games, paddle boarding, fine dining, twenty-four-hour room service, open bar, and just about anything under the sun to keep you pampered, fed, drunk, and happy during your stay. For the money I paid, I wasn’t surprised. One hundred thousand dollars.

  Okay, I didn’t pay for it. Not exactly, but I was on the hook to Warner Price. Funny, his name even fit our arrangement. Because the price to get here had been hefty. It all started four months ago after Cici didn’t come home from her mystery “dream vacation,” and I refused to sit on my hands, waiting for news from the police. After doing a little research, I quickly realized that Rook’s Island didn’t exist. Not publically, anyway. So I began scouring social media—Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and everything else under the sun—along with private chat rooms, to obtain any information I could. Then, after two months of searching and the authorities telling us that Cici had likely planned her disappearance—a complete lie—I found a year-old thread regarding “exotic vacations for women.” One woman told another that she knew a place that could “make any dream a reality.” That had to be it. Cici couldn’t stop talking about how fun the island sounded. Of course, before Cici disappeared, I’d been too goddamned focused on graduating from NYU—master of international relations—and preparing for finals to pay attention to anything she’d said. “Great. Have fun,” I’d told her the morning she left, my head buried in a book. “I’ll be here cramming.” She’d disappeared in a taxi and that was the last I saw of her. I hadn’t hugged her or said “I love you.” I didn’t even say goodbye. I just fucking…shrugged her off, too absorbed in my own stupid life. I couldn’t think about it without crying, which was why I didn’t even attend my own graduation. What was the point if Cici wasn’t there?

  Anyway, after I found that chat room thread, I conned that woman into thinking I was an old college friend. She sent me the link to Rook’s website, making me pinky swear never to divulge the source or share it with another human being. This all smells like bullshit, I’d thought. Resorts needed customers. This particular place likely made it all hush-hush to make it feel more exclusive to justify the cost. So I’d filled out the form on their site, which was all of one page.

  Name:

  Place of residence:

  Age:

  Email address:

  Your fantasy:

  Your preferred dates to visit:

  I’d answered with half-truths. Stephanie Brenna—instead of Stephanie Fitzgerald. Age, twenty-six. As for the fantasy, I couldn’t divulge that I wanted to know what happened to my incredibly loving sister, so I went with that tame candlelit-dinner-yacht story. One month later, I received an email thanking me for my request but that they were full at this time and to try again later.

  “Fuck no!” I’d yelled at my phone. “I don’t have time!” Cici had already been gone for three months. Three!

  That was when I’d rolled the dice and replied to the email: I’ll double the price. As a recent grad with only a part-time job, I had absolutely no way to pay for any of it, but I told myself I’d find one.

  The next week, I received an email saying they’d had a cancellation for the end of the month. If I wanted the spot, I would have to immediately deposit one hundred thousand dollars into a bank account somewhere in the Bahamas.

  Looking back, I realized that the entire thing screamed scam, but desperation works terrible wonders on your sense of reasoning. That despair told me no risk was too high. Nothing mattered but Cici. Not money, not breathing, not crying, as I’d done every night for months.

  So I’d called a friend who had recently gotten a job at a small investment firm in Brooklyn. The owner had once been investigated for racketeering and money laundering for the mob. I knew this because this friend was my ex, Tim, and we broke up right after he took the job. I told him not to. He said he needed money to pay his student loans. That was that. Soon after, he didn’t have time for me and I didn’t have time for men who only returned calls when they wanted to fuck.

  Thankfully, however, Tim took pity on me and made some calls. “Steph, I couldn’t find anyone willing to loan you that kind of money. Not unsecured. But I spoke to a friend, and he knows a businessman who’s interested in hearing about this island you mentioned.”

  “What kind of business is he in?”

  “The kind you shouldn’t ask questions about.”

  Obviously, that meant illegal stuff, but I didn’t care. A few days later, I was standing in front of Warner Price’s building in Queens. There was no plaque outside on the brick building, and the buzzer only had the initials W.P.

  Shady. Totally shady.

  I went up to the fifth floor, and there he was, Warner Price, a man in his early fifties with a dark smile and a disarmingly handsome face comprised of classic Italian features—black brows, straight nose, and large espresso-brown eyes. His vibe, sterile and cold like the stainless steel of a morgue gurney, said that he was not to be fucked with.

  “So, this, uh…island. Nobody knows about it?” Wearing a dark suit, he leaned his overly beefy frame back into his leather chair.

  “I wouldn’t say that.” I shifted my hips, standing in front of his desk like a schoolgirl being grilled by the principal.

  “Don’t play games, Stephanie. I’m a busy man. One you do not want to irritate.”

  I believed him.

  “No one you care about knows about the island,” I explained, “and the island’s owner works very hard to keep it that way. Obviously, their discreet line of business would fit well with yours.”

  He stared for a moment, his right eye twitching. “What’s in it for you?”

  “You.”

  His ice-cold demeanor shifted instantly, and he began to chuckle. “Well, Miss Fitzgerald, I’m flattered you want me, but I’m not that kind of boy.”

  Yuck. “You know that last part wasn’t what I meant,” I said.

  His laughter died. “Well, I’m waiting.” He flicked his finger like he was trying to launch a booger.

  “Someone on that island killed my sister. At least, I think she’s dead. Either way, I need your money to get there. And then I need you to rectify the situation.”

  “So you,” he made swirls in the air with his hand, “want me to call the police?”

  I glared at his pretty face. “Funny.”

  “So what, then?”

  “You know what, then.” Kill the sonofabitch who hurt Cici.

  He arched a dark brow. “Perhaps. But why would I do that for you?”

  “You want the island or not?” I said. “Because they won’t let you on. Women only. And then you won’t know who’s in charge and how they keep the government so far off their backs that people like my sister, a kindergarten teacher, can disappear without a trace or question.” I pointed at him. “That, Mr. Price, is what I’m offering you: information.” I crossed my arms over my che
st to mask my uneasiness.

  Warner bobbed his head of shiny black hair. “All right. I’ll give you the money, but I have one condition; this will be more than a loan.”

  “More how?”

  He flashed a sinister smile. “If I obtain this island, I can’t have you runnin’ around knowing so much about one of my operations, now can I? I don’t even know you. Although, now that ya brought it up, I wouldn’t mind that changing.”

  I hadn’t brought it up. Not really. But now there was no denying he’d put it on the table, so I could either act awkward and uncomfortable or I could pretend I had huge balls and pray Warner Price would respect that.

  Balls. I’m going for big balls.

  “What, exactly, are you proposing?” I asked. “And before you answer, I’m not interested in becoming your sex toy. I’m sure a person such as yourself can appreciate not mixing business with pleasure.”

  His head tipped back, and he laughed. “I like you, Stephanie. Which is why you would be workin’ for me—permanently. That is, if you prove yourself with this island thing.” He shrugged as if to say that giving away my future and working for a criminal were no big deal.

  He continued with a menacing smile, “But I’m gonna warn you, Stephanie, don’t ever displease me. I know who you are. I know your father’s name and where he works. I know your blood type and social security number. I even have the name of every one of your friends—gotta love Facebook.” He chuckled. “So, do not even think,” his smile melted away and those dark eyes promised death. A painful one, “of double-crossing me or running off with my money. Understand?”

  I swallowed hard, knowing I stood at a crossroads. If I took this money, I would have to be part of Warner Price’s crew. Fucking hell. But what choice did I have? Cici meant everything to me, and it wasn’t like I could get this kind of money elsewhere.

  “I understand,” I said. “Tell me what you need, and I’ll bring it back from the island.”

  “What I need is the owner’s name. A real name. A date of birth. Place of birth. I want to know where the owner lives and summers and fucking winters. I want to know who he knows, who he bribes, who he fucks, and who he loves.” Warner Price leaned forward, savagery in his eyes. “I want to know his secrets.”

  His list, I assumed, would serve to threaten Mr. Rook into selling his island for a “reasonable” price. Or to locate and kill him.

  “Done,” I said, having zero clue how difficult getting this information would be. I’d simply have to figure it out.

  “And, Miss Fitzgerald?” Warner Price said. “I want to know exactly where that fucking dump of an island is—in case I need to make an appearance and persuade the owner to do things my way.”

  I had a moment of doubt. I might’ve been agreeing to more than I could deliver. Too late to back out now. Besides, what else was I going to do? Move on with my life never having tried to find Cici?

  So that was that. I agreed. Warner gave me the money—in cash—and now I’m here. Knee-deep in bullshit paradise.

  My tired eyes scanned the luxury bungalow. It smelled like a spa in heaven—sage and flowers and relaxation.

  I walked over to the kitchen and checked out the cupboards. They were stocked with teas, coffee, cookies, and crackers. The fridge had a bottle of champagne that looked expensive and chilled bottled water. Truly, they thought of everything.

  Cici probably loved this. I sighed. One of her favorite things to do was cut out photos from magazines for her dream boards—collages of things she wanted to do or of places she dreamed of going. There was also Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome, a white wedding dress, puppies, and gardens. She’d even made a board of the perfect Christmas in her perfect New England-style home. Cici would never get to have any of it. There were no words for how angry that made me feel.

  I finished familiarizing myself with the bungalow—walk-in closet, amazing bathroom, and patio—unable to find anything to complain about. Oh no, my room is too beautiful. I demand an uglier one.

  A knock at the door jolted me from my frustration. I went over and opened it, finding a handsome man—tan, muscular, and the most stunning blue eyes.

  “Hello, Ms. Brenna. I have your luggage.”

  “Come on in.” I stepped aside.

  “Where would you like it?” he said in a low, deep voice.

  I stared blankly. His words sounded so sexual. “Like what?”

  “Your suitcase. I can put it in the bedroom or leave it here.”

  “Oh, uh. Here. Here is great.”

  I went for my purse, which I’d left on the little table next to the door.

  “No. That won’t be necessary.” He held out his hand in a stop gesture. “Gratuities are not allowed on the island; however, if you’d like to reward me, I do enjoy foot rubs.”

  “You want me to rub your feet?” Definitely something to complain about.

  “No. I enjoy giving them.” He stepped so close that I could smell his spicy aftershave and hint of fresh sweat on his skin. “It’s my specialty,” he added in a sensual voice.

  “No. Thank you.” I didn’t like being touched, though it hadn’t always been that way. I mean, yes. Intimacy had always been a challenge, but I figured that had more to do with the inexperienced men I’d slept with. Sex had always felt more like an uncomfortable chore. After Cici went missing, however, my discomfort turned into something else. I literally hated physical contact. I’d seen a psychologist for it—once—but she was no help. She’d said that the trauma of losing my sister had created some sort of phobia that made me afraid of letting anyone get close. Her advice was to give myself time to heal and to continue paying her one fifty an hour indefinitely. I’d opted for “giving it time.”

  The luggage guy dipped his head of thick brown hair. “All right. If you change your mind about that foot rub, my name is Rick. Call R-I-C-K on your cell phone. I’m also available for full-body massages, watching movies, playing tennis—just let Julie know, and she’ll book me.”

  I honestly didn’t know what to say. If I weren’t all fucked up inside, or terrified of the place, I might be into this. I certainly had a few girlfriends who would be dying of joy right now.

  “Thanks, Rick,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”

  He turned for the door.

  “I do have one question, though,” I said.

  “Sure.”

  “Mr. Rook. I hear he doesn’t really mingle with the guests?”

  “He usually makes an appearance at the welcome dinner tonight, but for the rest of the week, he’s focused on the VIPs.”

  “VIPs? I thought we were all important guests.”

  Rick’s blue eyes widened. “Oh. Yes. Yes, you are. I didn’t mean to imply anything. It’s just—some clients visit frequently or they’re here for the special fantasy week.” He leaned in. “I hear that package costs a million bucks.”

  So those happy little reception bitches lied to me. Mr. Rook did mingle, just not with people like me.

  “So what kind of fantasies do the VIPs get?”

  Rick shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, but I could ask Julie to give you the information.”

  I held out my hand. “No. No, thank you. I don’t have that kind of cash to throw away on a vacation.”

  “Well, if you change your mind about anything,” he lifted his hand to his face, mimicking a phone, “just call. I’m here for you day and night, all week. Even if it’s only for applying sunscreen or making you tea.”

  “So you’re my bungalow boy.”

  He flashed a practiced smile. “More like bungalow man.”

  I made a little laugh, trying to play the role of happy tourist. “I bet you are, Rick.” I moved past him and opened the door to let him out. “See you later.”

  With the door closed, I let out a breath. Everything felt so overwhelming. I had this choked thirst for justice inside my heart, a crippling sadness in my soul, and a goddamned bowling ball in my gut.

  I pinched the bridge of my nos
e. “Get your shit together, Stephanie.” My only job was to pretend to be a guest and get answers, which meant probing the staff and getting one-on-one time with Mr. Rook. I needed to look that son of a bitch in the eyes and ask him what the fuck happened to my sister.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The carefully orchestrated tour, comprised of fruity cocktails garnished with tiny umbrellas and shuffling us around in golf carts, had been a complete waste of time. They only showed us the places we were allowed to go—the white sandy beach, luxurious day spa, gym, and tennis courts, all nestled between immaculate gardens and a lush tropical forest. I had wanted some behind-the-scenes action.

  That said, the tour made me realize that our portion of paradise was quite small compared to the rest of the island. It was also enough to realize that the employees lied about everything.

  For example, the off-limits portion of the island wasn’t a nature preserve. It couldn’t be. Rook’s island provided hundreds of fantasies. At least, I assumed so after hearing more details from the eleven other guests during our tour. Not one woman had the same fantasy between them. Then, earlier, Rick had told me we weren’t the only group. There were VIPs, too, though I wasn’t sure how many. So, by my calculations, the island put on several dozen “shows” a month, with each fantasy being as unique as the guests. There was no way an island this small could accommodate so many “sets,” so to speak, plus staff housing and a nature preserve.

  Anyway, the tour took all of one hour and helped me get my bearings. We were to the north along a little peninsula and a small bay that kept us away from strong currents, just perfect for snorkeling and swimming. The rest of the island was really another little island connected by a narrow bridge. That had to be the fantasy portion and where everyone else lived, including Mr. Rook.

  Yeah, I know where you live, buddy. If he didn’t come to me, I’d go to him.

  After the tour, I returned to my bungalow and began preparing for tonight’s welcome dinner.

  I looked at my shiny, sun-kissed face in the bathroom mirror, noticing how my tan from today’s activities had made my dark eyes appear darker, while making my brown hair seem lighter. I already looked the part of tourist ready for a little scandalous fun. And tonight, I’d wear something sexy that might catch Rook’s eye—I hoped. Then, of course, there was my insurance policy of making noise. Either way, I’d be getting his attention, because I had only six days to get what I came for.