Page 95 of Sunburned

Chapter 35

Laurent sank into the chair at the head of the dining table on the main deck, where we’d all gathered while waiting for him to finish talking to Marcel. It had been only ten minutes, but it had felt like a lifetime, my nerves standing on end while I waited for him to return, knowing that potentially one of the people seated at the table with me wished me dead.

“What the hell was that about?” Cody demanded.

In the soft light of the chandelier, I could see that the confrontation had drained Laurent. He grabbed the bottle of Scotch from the center of the table and topped up his glass. “I own the LLC that sold him the land,” he admitted.

For once, Allison actually appeared surprised. “Wait, you’re Ciel Bleu?”

Out on the water, the lights of the dinghy shrank into the distance, its motor growing quieter as Laurent nodded. “I inherited it from Bruno Leroy. The company was a shell for the land, which I sold most of to Marcel. I kept just enough to build my own home and lease a plot to De-Sal.”

I felt a lightening of the pressure that had settled into my bones when Laurent chased the man onto the deck.So this was his secret.And while I was disappointed that he hadn’t trusted me with it, it didn’t seem a plausible reason to kill Tyson. And if he hadn’t killed Tyson, he likely hadn’t pushed me overboard either.

“Tyson knew about this?” Cody asked.

Laurent nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “As you know, the lease on the center is a percent of revenue, so we both had interest in its approval.”

“But you made tens of millions in that deal,” Cody said. “Why are you still working as his butler?”

Laurent sighed. “Tyson and I had a common interest in the deal going through, and he agreed not to tell anyone I was Ciel Bleu while I worked for him.”

“But he lied,” Cody said.

Laurent nodded. “Marcel will not be back. There is nothing he can do, the deal is done.”

“After this, there may not be a center in St. Barth’s anyway,” Allison muttered.

Laurent rose, extracting a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he looked at me, his gaze an invitation.“I need a smoke.”

Was his admission enough to definitively clear him of Tyson’s murder? Maybe not, but I had to go with my gut instinct, which was screaming at me that I was a lot safer with him than I was with this pack of jackals. Ignoring the glances of the others at the table, I pushed my chair back and followed him.

When we reached the game deck, I paused, looking toward the place where I’d been standing when I was pushed. “I just want to see…”

He nodded, and I exited the stairwell and went through the hatch onto the walkway. Nothing seemed out of place; there was no debris, no sign of a struggle. The railing was hip-height on me, not so high that it would be impossible to fall overboard if you were incredibly drunk or uncoordinated. But I was neither, despite the number oftimes I’d been righted by Laurent’s strong arms in the past few days.

I leaned out, scanning the hull for the kind of bloodstain that might have been left by my head striking the white siding. But the side of the yacht was pristine.

Laurent followed my gaze and understood. “You didn’t hit your head on the boat,” he said heavily.

“I didn’t think I had,” I said. “I just…held out some hope, I guess.”

He gazed down at the inky water. “Whatever they hit you with is down there.”

I nodded. “Unfortunately, the ocean has a way of destroying evidence.”

We were quiet the rest of the way up the stairs, both of us lost in thought as we ascended. When we reached the sun deck, my head wound was pulsating from the exertion of climbing. I stopped, reaching for his Scotch, and tossed back half the glass, the burning in my throat briefly drawing my attention from the searing pain in my skull.

The lights were low, the night balmy as we threaded our way past the glowing spa toward the smoking area at the very precipice of the bow, where a small sign that readZone Fumeurwas affixed to the railing behind two built-in banquettes arranged in a V shape beneath the stars. We sat side by side facing the twinkling lights of the island, where a mix of modern mansions and older bungalows was built into the hillside above the dark beach. I could feel the whisky beginning to work, dulling the throbbing in my head as Laurent lit a hand-rolled cigarette.

“Bruno was the client you used to surf with, that gave you the car?” I asked.

He nodded. “He did not have family. He tried for years to bring De-Sal to the island, and he trusted me to do it once he was gone.”

“Which you did.”

He exhaled a line of smoke. “Sorry I did not tell you before.”

“I understand,” I said. “We’ve only known each other a few days.”Though so much had happened since we met that it felt like much longer than that.

---