Mark laughed nervously, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. “Come on, El, don’t be like that. Jessica is key. We need to wine and dine her.”

Then, she arrived.

Jessica.

She didn’t walk; she prowled. She was young, perhaps twenty-four, wearing a red dress that was less a garment and more a suggestion. Her eyes were sharp, calculating, scanning the room not for beauty, but for prey.

“Mark,” she purred, ignoring me completely. She linked her arm through his, pressing herself against him with a familiarity that made my stomach turn. “I promise not to stay too long. I just love a good view.”

She wasn’t looking at the ocean; she was looking at Mark’s wallet. And Mark, the fool, was beaming.

“Right this way,” Philippe said, his jaw tight. He led us to Table 4, a prime spot by the window, usually reserved for royalty or A-list celebrities.