Page 85 of What Doesn't Kill You…

Above Max, ominous purple and gray clouds filled the sky as far as the eye could see. They hung there, a heavy presence, cloaking the island in anxious anticipation. Across the horizon, a faint sickly green line signaled that all was not well. While the waters churned in a dark green and gray that was far from their usual optimistic blue.

Around Max, wind whipped the tops of the palm trees, as in the distance resort staff could be seen rushing back to the hotel, armed with furniture and umbrellas left behind by guests. The storm wasn't just an ominous portent anymore. It was a visible threat, and it was bearing down on them.

Beneath Max's feet, the paving stones of the patio still held the heat they'd collected that day. Instead of burning his skin, it acted like a balm, soothing some of the roiling emotion threatening to overwhelm him. Literally grounding him in the here-and-now, instead of letting him get lost in the what-could-have-been.

As the warm wind whipped at his face, he felt the first drops of rain on the top of his head. They were heavy, weighted with expectation and dread. Storms came in fast in the Caribbean. They often changed course just as quickly, making them unpredictable and dangerous. What should have been a summer shower could turn out to be a devastating hurricane. You never knew what you were going to get until it started. And by then it was too late to adapt.

Max recalled the facts he'd read on Caribbean weather while he'd been preparing for this trip. He'd filed the information alongside statistics about Wedding Island and St. Patrice, and every detail he'd managed to dig up on Damien Poole. So much information, in preparation for this one day. And it was all for nothing.

How could he have been so foolish as to think he could take on someone like Damien Poole? Sandi had been right, all those years ago in college, when she'd said he was too powerful, too rich, too connected to challenge. She'd seen the truth when he'd only ever seen injustice. Men like Damien got away with whatever they felt like doing, not because they hid it, but because they lived lives that were so large, and so extravagant, and so ludicrous that no one ever believed they were really capable of being evil. Even when confronted with the evidence, most people still shook their heads in disbelief.

The truth Max had never been able to accept was that rich, connected men were insulated from their crimes. They wrapped themselves in lawyers, red tape, legal filings that took up everyone's time, and newspaper reports singing their praises. They were untouchable. They were Teflon.

He had been delusional to think he could bring one of them down.

"You're getting wet," Violet said as she came to stand beside him.

She was still wearing the clothes he'd bought her for their wedding, only now her feet were bare. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that somebody had painted her toenails the palest shade of pink. Must have been her sister, because Violet would never have done it herself.

"The rain's warm," she said looking up at the sky. "It's like standing in a massive outdoor shower. Only, this one might electrocute you at any minute."

As though sensing her words, thunder rumbled in the distance, but no lightning appeared.

"Rodrigo and Abasi have gone," she said. "They're still working on a plan, and there's still a chance Rochelle will manage to get some police support in the water. The meeting is scheduled for ten, so we've got until about nine before Damien leaves the island. Assuming the weather will let him leave. Who knows? He might even cancel and arrange to see his partner tomorrow instead. It's looking pretty choppy out there. I wouldn't want to go sailing tonight."

It dawned on him that Violet was trying to comfort him by taking the time to explain their options. If he'd been able, he would have smiled at her chatting away about plans when he knew she hated to explain anything.

"Abasi suggested we check out the florist's warehouse tonight, when Damien leaves the island. You never know, you might find enough evidence in there to write your story."

He didn't bother explaining he'd be hard pressed to tie it directly to the man even if he did. It would be far too easy for Damien to throw up his hands in horror and claim that whatever they found was the work of his staff, and he was disgusted it happened under his nose.

Teflon.

He had to face facts. A man should know when to quit. And he should tell Violet he was done. Yet, he still couldn't get the words out of his mouth. They stuck in his throat, making it harder to breathe. He might never be able to voice the truth, no matter how long he lived—that Damien Poole had beat him.

"Evan managed to hack the security guard's phone," Violet was saying. "There might be something on there that'll help too. He's going through it now."

Max felt the rain pour through his hair and over his face to soak his shirt. Surface puddles formed around his toes. The weather was washing it all away—his hopes, his purpose, his mission. All gone. Down the drain. Like it'd never even existed.

He turned to face Violet. Man, she was beautiful, standing there soaked through, steely determination in her eyes along with just enough vulnerability to make a man want. He reached out and cupped her face with both of his hands, then slowly, holding her gaze, leaned in to kiss her. Rain mingled with the taste of her lips, feeling like tears on their skin.

Angling her, so her back was to the sea and anyone stupid enough to still be outside in the resort, Max deftly unbuttoned her vest and was unsurprised to find she'd gone to their wedding braless. Grateful there was nothing between them, he covered her breast with his hand. It felt slick and wet and hot in the rain. He massaged the small mound, swallowing down the needy sounds she made, as his other hand slid around to flatten on her back and pull her closer.

Not close enough.

Never close enough.

Thunder rumbled overhead, nearer now. It sounded like the building rage of a massive tyrant. The grumbling before the eruption. The rain became heavier, until it was a waterspout, whipping around them and stinging their skin.

Max reluctantly broke the kiss, and taking Violet's hand, led her back into the bungalow. She clutched her vest closed as she followed, her eyes dark with passion and tinged with understanding.

He closed and locked the door before drawing the drapes, knowing Violet would approve. And then he turned his attention to the woman waiting with uncharacteristic patience beside him. Without so much as a word, he threaded his hands through her drenched hair and kissed her like she was life support, and he was in danger of dying.

Clumsy fingers tangled with the buttons of his shirt before she groaned with frustration and yanked it apart, sending what buttons were left flying around the room. Max was much more restrained as he slid the vest over her shoulders, then unzipped her pants. They slid over her hips and she stepped out of them. All the while they shared desperate hungry kisses that never seemed to satiate their need.

When Violet fumbled with his belt and pants, Max took over and did short work of getting rid of them, kicking off his underwear at the same time. Violet started to lower her lace panties, but he stopped her by gripping her backside in both hands and lifting her off her feet. She wrapped her legs around his hips and her arms around his shoulders. And still the kiss went on.

The lace was a tease that drove him wild, and he slid his hands beneath it, searching for skin as he turned toward the bed. He climbed onto the mattress and pressed her into the soft cotton sheets as he followed her down. The lace was in his way now, so he grabbed it and tore. Violet gasped against his lips and hiked one leg higher over his hips.