CAPRICORN

"A good wine's value is measured by its vintage;the number of years it took to ferment."
- Cecil Adams/The Count

The instructions I received via locked text yesterday were easy to understand, so long as you knew what you were looking at. Hell, even if you didn't. It wasn't complicated.

0070SGR201

Literally 7am at the Seaglass Resort. Room 201.

I have been summoned! . . . on my honeymoon.

I wasn't upset. Honestly, I wasn't even annoyed; it was a superficial power play – the people holding my leash feeling the need to remind me of who was in control.

This wouldn't take long.

The resort hotel was a clean fifteen minute run from our private villa, along a crushed shell path that meandered away from the ocean, further inland, not far, to an oasis of green rock and sparkling water; then it was just the second star on the right, and straight on 'til morning . . .

Well, no.

I took the trail. Following it to the behemoth of a hotel parked right on the beach. My pace a quick and disciplined jog. Hair pulled back in a secure ponytail. Body in blue jogging pants, and a simple white t-shirt.

I'd left Oliver sleeping in the bed where we had consummated our marriage. It felt strange, in the clear light of day, to entertain that thought. Our marriage had been consummated; full stop. Like the punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Now what? Nothing.

The cacophony of noise that'd permeated every second of these past few months abruptly silenced. There had been so much to do, with so little time to get it done. Eighty-one days, just short of three months, from the afternoon my dad informed me of the proposal, to the I do's.

There were lunches, dinners, appointments kept, calls had to be returned, decisions made – and that damn contract still needed to be drafted, then read, then revised and I swear the negotiations almost broke me.

Progress was made but it was the difference between walking on the side or the road and being in a car going sixty. Forward motion, but only in relative terms.

I almost didn't know what to do with myself, now that it was over.

Even sleeping with Oliver on the first night had essentially freed up the rest of our honeymoon. If we wanted to do it again, we could, but we'd done our part. From here, if we felt like enjoying the next thirteen days lazing about the villa, watching TV and devouring bread by the loaf, well . . .

The thought made me laugh.

My feet hit smooth pavement and I slowed my pace, not only to cool down but also to prolong my solitude. The hotel dominated the horizon, all white and windows, its weight dragging at the sky.

The path bordered on either side by wide, waxy leaves. Rough palms, their high canopies swaying. And flowers. Those incredible, heavy-headed flowers in Crayola colors. In a better world, this would have been a perfect day.

The hotel and surrounding acres of gardens, pools and bungalows, were more reasonably priced to cater to families. Hence the man with his young son, sitting together at a picnic table on the outside patio of a beach-café.

Him, nursing an ice water. The boy holding a bottle of lemonade between both hands, the plastic sweating in the morning heat.

There weren't too many people around, this early in the day. Resort staff, sweeping paths, and a handful of shops, those that opened for breakfast, showing signs of life. But slowly. I was alone on the bright white sidewalk, body coated in a fine sweat.

So of course I was noticed.

The man looked up and I nodded a cheerful good morning. He returned the smile, and the nod.

His son paid me zero attention; totally absorbed by his juice.

I turned away from the hotel, aware that the person I was coming to see would have chafed at having to share a wall with a family of four. There was a small village of individual bungalows in the shadow of the behemoth.

Two-oh-one. Not a room number, an address. It wasn't hard to find, strolling along the winding paths with the sun hot on my shoulders. I paused on the sidewalk, in front of the single-story bungalow, and scanned the street.

The sun had hit that sweet spot in the sky, where no matter which way you turned it was very bright, very hot, and in your eyes. Someone was having a morning barbeque; I could smell the smoke, the grill. Hear their music pumped through outdoor speakers. Not loud.

I swept a trailing strand of hair from my forehead, tucking it back behind my ear. Sucked in a cleansing lungful of warm ocean breeze. Alright, let's do this. I stepped up to the front door, and rapped my knuckles on the cool wood.

Waited. And to their credit they didn't leave me waiting. The door swung open and – oh. I didn't laugh. And it was hard.

"Let me guess," I teased, fighting the laugh, but not the grin "you're new?"

The man who answered was a bodyguard – which I expected; and he looked absolutely ridiculous in his black suit and tie. Glossy black shoes better suited to a boardroom, then a tropical bungalow.

It didn't help that I could see myself reflected in the mirrored lenses of his dark sunglasses.

He wasn't amused. "You're in the wrong place."

"No, I'm not," I said. And, "Dude, you're taking yourself entirely too seriously. Aren't you hot?" I would have been. Would have broiled in that suit – "You look conspicuous." He looked like Secret Service.

He started to shut the door in my face and I wedged my shoe in. Not laughing, now. "Look, either you let me in or I go get breakfast. And you can explain to Capricorn why I left."

"Oh, for chrissake. Duke. Let her in."

The second voice was male. As familiar to me as my own – and annoyed.

A strong hand closed around the edge of the door as if to drag it open and it was actually rather impressive, how a totally impassive face could still exude irritation as Duke started to fight with the door.

I removed my foot. Just in case Hitman-cosplay won, and slammed it.

"So that's a no on breakfast?"

And then he released the door, suddenly and on purpose, letting it fly. Nearly nailing the other man in the face.

Leon held the door, giving me plenty of room to move around new guy. And I did – coolly stepping over the threshold as if my heart hadn't lodged itself in my throat. I was too comfortable in the company of dangerous people.

Duke was carrying. He wouldn't have answered the door if he wasn't. So was Leon though his piece was better positioned, tucked securely in a shoulder holster on top of a dark blue t-shirt.

He was young.

Twenty five, maybe. Twenty six.

A couple inches shorter than Duke, and a good fifty pounds lighter; it took balls the size of church bells to screw with this one. That . . . or new guy just didn't know . . . Leon was dangerous in a way none of the others, hired guards, mercenaries, would ever be.

It was hard, sometimes, to remember the things I knew about him.

But this was Jason Bourne, not the karate kid. Feared, with good reason, and respected – his devotion to the Capricorn name was unrivaled, unquestioned, and she was the only person in the world with the authority to activate him . . .

. . . to the world's immense relief.

He was also my friend.

"She's on deck," Leon said. "I'll take you."

I was trusted.

He was required to escort me there.

Duke swept past us, smelling of sweat, and cologne, and took up position by the patio doors as if he thought Leon couldn't be trusted to take me across thirty feet of open floor and needed to be there to receive us.

Leon shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans, and slid me a glance. Brown eyes in a strong, handsome face. "Guy scared the crap out of the room service girl this morning. Shame you missed it – she's probably up at the hotel right now, convincing herself she's landed on a cartel hit list."

"She thinks you're cartel?"

"She thinks we're something."

They wouldn't have let her in but I could imagine what that poor girl thought she wasn't supposed to have noticed. Nothing was going to happen to her but of course, she didn't know that. Leon ticked his head, motioning for me to get moving.

An islander ceiling fan dominated the main room's high ceiling; leaf-shaped blades rotating sedately. And where the villa had those dramatic sheer curtains, the bungalow had gone for a more natural aesthetic. Wooden blinds, and shuttered windows.

The glossy wood floors were a rich honey brown.

The air inside sweet, and fragrant. Varnish, and wood. Grass and earth, and salt, blown in through windows left open and I found myself caught under the sharp, intelligent gazes of two more guards.

Both armed, both with their hair cut high and tight; neither looked like they really thought I would try anything, or that if I did, that Leon wasn't enough.

Oh! They had a juice bar.

Leon walked me right to the patio doors – such a gentleman. He was too professional, too disciplined, to do something as juvenile as brush shoulders with a bristling Duke . . . but not above standing unnecessarily close.

I stepped past Leon who, in a t-shirt, smelled less like sweat, more like soap, into the buttery tropical morning, marveling at the view so different from the clean, blue ocean vista from our villa.

The bungalow sat right on the water, close enough to the hotel to share a beach, with a comfortable view of the marina and a restaurant festooned in lights. It was beautiful, and exactly the place I might have chosen for myself had our stay at the villa with its slice of private beach not been a wedding gift.

Capricorn sat at a cozy brown wicker table laden with breakfast pastries and bowls of fresh cut fruit. Bulbous glass pitchers of colorful juices, and silver pots steaming in the bright morning sun.

She was waiting for me.

The table was set for two.

"I can never remember if you take tea, or coffee, with your breakfast."

"I don't drink coffee," I said, accepting her open-handed invitation to sit.

"Of course you don't," she said and, to Leon, "Bring our guest a bottle of Saratoga Spring, would you, please?"

A lesser man would have chafed, being asked to fetch me water. Leon just ticked his head and left to do what he was told. His obedience discipline, not passivism and like the sound of distant thunder, there was power there.

And in the pause that followed, as we waited for Leon to return, I studied the woman sitting across from me. She looked good. In a blush-colored silk robe, dark hair left to fall loose over narrow shoulders; still that heavy curtain of glossy strands.

Well past middle aged, her years showed in the webbing around her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth. The roughness of her hands. Credit where it was deserved – with the exception of moisturizers Capricorn did nothing to resist the passage of time.

I often thought that might explain how she wore it so well.

A mirror of the beauty she'd been in her youth; it hadn't faded but sharpened with time, matured, and if things had been just a touch different between us, I might have admired her.

She might have been someone worth admiring.

We sat in perfect silence until Leon came back, and I accepted the glass bottle he passed to me with a quiet thank you. Duke tossed a mocking smirk at the younger man, which Leon smoothly ignored though I stole a glance; noting his eyes, carefully concealed behind those mirrored glasses.

Hm.

"So," I said "how's your day going? Better than mine, I hope."

Capricorn picked at a pecan tart, setting it centre-plate in front of her and offered me the small tongs, which I politely declined. She asked, "Has your morning gone poorly?"

"It's seven a.m., and I'm on my honeymoon. By every right I should still be asleep in my brand new husband's arms – instead, I'm here with you." Careful, Ames. "I may be feeling a little . . . inconvenienced."

"And did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Sleep with him."

I offered a sweet smile and said, "Of course I slept with him," as if there was never any question. "It was required."

Capricorn's answering smile was as sweet, and plastic, as mine. "Duty is a burden; coupled with the weight of expectation . . . my poor girl. I do hope you remembered to enjoy it."

Uh-huh.

"You read my contract."

"Of course I read your contract."

I held the slim glass bottle and cracked the top, listening to the crackle of its little metal pins breaking; the release of pressure fizzing the water, along with the smell of limes. Flavored.

"Or did you think I'd let you surrender yourself to this union, without reviewing the document for you ahead of the signing of it?"

I poured the sparkling water, bright as a fistful of diamonds, into a tall, clear glass.

"I'm touched," I said, re-capping the bottle. "I didn't know you cared."

Capricorn sipped at her glass of sweet mango juice, and then set it down on the pretty wicker table next to her breakfast of delicate pastries. "What possible reason might I have not to care? Between the time, effort and expense that's gone into you Amelia, darling . . . I'm protecting my investment."

I wasn't offended.

Over her shoulder, lingering by the juice bar with the tropical breeze playing in his soft, dark hair, Leon offered a ghost of a smile. His focus unwavering as he eavesdropped.

Capricorn's trio of bodyguards; Duke still standing by the folding screen door, looking painfully conspicuous in his suit and shades, was taking himself entirely too seriously – and the other two, more experienced, off chilling on the cool white sofas.

At least the flatscreen was off.

Idly, I wondered how much precision it'd take to flip the butter knife and drive it into Capricorn's delicate throat . . . I wasn't a fighter . . .

The early morning sun hot, the breeze refreshingly cool – the smell of sea and salt, and the spice of exotic flowers flavoring every lazy breath, something occurred to me in the space of one second and the next that hadn't before now.

And should have.

"Did the Syndicate arrange my marriage?"

"Oh, heavens no," Capricorn laughed, delighted, and picked a ripe, red strawberry from the bowl. "If we'd had half a mind to position an asset within the Queen family you wouldn't have even made the list of potentials."

Oh, well. That was reassuring.

She ticked one perfectly plucked brow, amusement lighting in her dark, dark eyes. "Were you hoping that we had?"

No. Though it did make me wonder why, if the decision really was her own, had Moira Queen chosen me. The second-daughter of a significantly less influential family.

I set my glass of sparkling water aside and brazenly took a strawberry for myself. The skin firm between my fingers. Tempted to nibble on it, I instead folded my hands neatly in my lap and let the sun warm my skin.

"You so do think the worst of me," Capricorn observed, and popped her strawberry, whole, into her mouth. She chewed, and I waited – "Why is that?"

"Precedent."

"You're no fool, darling," she chided. "Don't act the fool – we both know that if the Syndicate had objected to this marriage, then we would have torpedoed any chance at a union –" her clean, red-lipsticked smile curled. A wolf, baring her fangs, "no matter the financial cost of your loss to this organization."

They would have ruined me.

My reputation. My social standing. The trust, and respect, of the people I loved. They would have made me wholly, and eternally, unsuitable if that's what it would have taken to stop this marriage from happening.

The Syndicate played its games, maneuvering its pieces across a global board – and I would have been too stupid to keep to think they wouldn't sacrifice a pawn.

It was never a wire I walked on, but a razor's edge . . .

Some of what I was thinking must have showed, in my eyes, in my silence, prompting Capricorn to add, "That was not a threat, and should not be taken as one. I'm reminding you that had we objected, you would know it."

Oh, yes. That I knew – and I hid a smile, as the real reason for this summons came to me.

She was pissed off at the speed with which my marriage had occurred; and doubly-so that in the three months between the proposal and the 'I do's' I hadn't informed her that any of this was going down.

I was sitting here now, at a pretty table, infront of a pretty breakfast, solely because Capricorn was feeling the need toreinforce her position with an unsubtle reminder that she knew where I was –and that I was far from beyond her reach . . .

Breakfast was a study in patience.

Capricorn ate her pecan tart with a pretentiously tiny fork and then followed that with a fruit salad chaser. I didn't eat, though she would have let me. I sipped at my fizzy water and watched sunlight play off the ocean.

Finally, she grew bored of my company and I was allowed to leave.

Leon peeled himself off the wall where he'd been leaning, ankles crossed, arms folded, to walk with me. Dark and lithe as a panther. He waited until we were at the door to slide his palm in mine, pressing hard plastic into my hand.

"When you get back to Starling City, deliver this to Fyfe," he said. "He'll be expecting you."

"She wants me to smuggle a thumb drive into the country."

"It's not a thumb drive."

I blinked and turned my hand over, revealing a tiny, black plastic case like a pillbox carefully sealed. Hm. Leon slipped off his shoulder holster, leaving it, and his gun, inside, then followed me out the front door.

"I don't want to hear it."

"I don't know what you thought was going on in there, but that whole song and dance was Capricorn deciding if you needed to be put down." Cold fear settled in my stomach, not of him, but in hearing it said. "What were you thinking?"

"The marriage was arranged, Leon."

"Arranged," he said "not coerced. You had a choice and you said yes, and now she thinks you're a loose cannon."

"What do you think?"

"I think you're overplaying your hand."

No, not yet.

"Amy," he didn't touch me, he didn't move. I felt the heat from his body pressing closer, "kill order comes down, and I'm the one coming for you."

Dappled light and shadow danced on the lawn, the concrete walk. Birds thrilled from the trees, the shrubbery, it was very green here . . . the sky like a pane of glass, the weight of it pressing down. Too blue. I sucked in a breath, forcing a looseness into my chest . . .

"You watch yourself," I said, quietly, "Duke's not trying too hard, but he wants you to think that he is. Figure out what game he's playing, and decide if you want to let it play out."

Leon's eyes flashed hard humor.

"No shit."

Vanilla cream puffs.

The delicate pastry dipped in chocolate.

I bought a dozen, fresh off the rack from a small bakery right inside the resort hotel; standing shoulder to shoulder with guests who smelled of sunscreen and pool chlorine, with the voices of small children, their parents, resort staff . . . and the radio . . .

I could happily have spent the entire day there, just people watching. Letting their lives brush mine, the warmth, the vibrancy. But I couldn't stay here.

Packed loosely in a blue cardboard box, with the bakery name stamped in gold leaf on the top, the cream puffs were fragrant and still just a bit warm. I set out the same way I'd come in, my clean white sneakers crunching along that shell path –

I was valuable, but no less replaceable.

Capricorn's warning hummed across my skin. A current of foreboding.

I needed this marriage and the inherent protections of the Queen family. You've overplayed your hand. Maybe. But you don't play these game without the spine to risk everything on a single move and I had too much to lose to fear.

Walter Steele was paying for this honeymoon.

His wedding gift to us; his step-son, and me. And though I preferred the resort, and the people, it was a beautiful villa with an absolutely stunning view of the ocean.

The clean walk up to the front door was paved with cobblestone and the swaying fronds of waxy green leaves. The heavy heads of flowers. I used my hip to bump the door and slid inside, already grinning, my hair swept back in a neat ponytail, in my jogging clothes.

Oliver was awake, washed, dressed, and looking very comfortable sitting with his bare feet up on the green glass coffee table in the sunken living room. The TV was on. A slim silver remote in his hand, on his knee.

"Good morning," I hefted the cardboard box "I come baring gifts!"

"You come baring gifts," he agreed, those incredible bright eyes dropping to the box in my hands. He pressed his thumb to the remote, muting the TV.

I kicked off my shoes and padded over. "What're we watching?"

"What's in the box?"

"Well," I sat on the couch and pulled my feet up, comfortable on the firm cushions, "I couldn't find nachos this early, so I thought something sweet to kick off the day instead."

I set the box on the cushion between us and flipped up the lid, revealing the rounds of chocolate-dipped pastry packed in little foil cups. Oliver watched me, tentative humor softening around the corners of his mouth.

Nachos. Of course I remembered that he mentioned wanting nachos at our reception dinner. It was only a day ago.

I plucked one crème puff from the box, the chocolate coating sticky, not yet set.

"Alright, so, before we go any further I have something to confess. A terrible secret," I said, and watched the weariness edge into his eyes. I the puff in my mouth, delighting in how the pastry seemed to dissolve on my tongue.

Let him sweat.

But I liked him, so not for too long.

"I have an epic sweet tooth," I declared, laughing while Oliver seemed to deflate at the banality of that confession. "No, they should have warned you before we were married. I have a problem. I love sugar almost more than anything."

"Almost?"

Well, I mean, if I had to choose between a cookie and my sister, I would pick my sister. Of course."

"Of course."

"You think I'm joking? My favorite food is white chocolate," I said, plucking a fresh puff from the box. "But real white chocolate, there, not the cheap stuff they sell for Easter – tastes like plastic. I must have marshmallows in my hot cocoa . . . and you're allowed to take a crème puff, Oliver. I know you want one."

He smiled, quick and easy.

Oliver reached for one, his large hand tanned, golden in the bright morning sun spilling in through that wall of windows. The soothing rush of the ocean, invisible, from where we were sitting but the sky seemed to fill the room with light.

The TV showed a sweeping aerial view of the islands; rich greens and sparkling white beaches. Soft fade to footage of a sea turtle gliding through turquoise water, and schools of tropical fish. Discover Turks & Caicos scrolled across the screen.

Ah. He was watching ads.

Oliver didn't pop the whole puff in his mouth like I had; instead biting down on it, and it was all I could do not to avert my gaze as a smear of vanilla cream caught on his bottom lip.

I would have thought he'd done it on purpose, especially as he wiped it off on the end of a hard thumb with the most unnecessarily languid stroke and I remembered how it felt – those strong fingers on my inner thigh, that daring sweep higher . . .

But he wasn't even looking at me.

I let a smile wink as I watched him blithely chew, swallow, and then pop the other half of that cream puff in his mouth.

"So," I nodded toward the soundless TV, showing a charcoal grill sizzling in the foreground, bright-lit nightlife in the back, with the words Mango Reef Bar & Grill sliding into frame "have you decided what we're doing today?"

His lip twitched with amusement.

"Want to visit the bar and grill?"

"Not really," I admitted.

"It's the resort's channel," he explained. "Same fifteen or so commercials playing on a loop – they have snorkeling."

Oh, jeez.

"I was kidding," I said, "about the snorkeling."

"So that's a no?"

"That's a no – . . . unless you're serious? If you want to go, then sure." I wasn't averse to snorkeling. "We can do that."

"Maybe later," he said, easing back on the couch cushions. His shirt pulling across a tight chest, flustering me in a way Capricorn's baiting could never. "I want to hear the rest of where you were going with that barbeque story."

What barbeque stor–

O-oh.

Oliver flashed me a wicked grin, his eyes positively shining in the bright, bright sunshine. "Or if you'd rather we can talk about what happened next. That part was interesting, too."

I was tempted to take him up on that, and find out exactly how long it'd take to make him blush. See how quick I could make those snug jeans uncomfortable.

How daring did I dare to get?

I moved the box of cream puffs off the cushion between us, setting it on the glass coffee table and Oliver pulled his feet down. That amused little smile playing on his face all the encouragement I needed to climb into his lap.

"Amy."

"Let's talk," I teased, bracing both legs on either side of him, settling myself, "see if you can keep up."

Game on. Oliver's hands flattened on my hips, strong hands, his touch infinitely gentle. A promise, without the demand.

He tilted his face up, meeting me there, and I inhaled, drinking in the warmth of his skin.

"Like I was saying," – what was I saying? "Business barbeques don't matter. The one that does is the first of the season, which is ours. For family. And just as much as the rest don't mean anything, I think my dad would be pretty hurt if I just up and decided not to come one year."

"Coming," he slipped his thumb under the hem of my t-shirt, stroking bare skin, teasing the memory of last night and every nerve in my body narrowed to that touch, "is important."

"So is going," I breathed, brushing my lips, feather-light, not quite touching, across his. "My point is that it does matter." Letting him taste, daring him to take. "My point," I reiterated, "is that if you play your cards right, I'm sure I could net you an invite."

Humor flickered like a crack of lightning in his eyes, which of course were mirroring the exact color of the sky. A clean, hard blue.

"Marrying you doesn't net me that invite?"

"My brother-in-law dated my sister for six years, and they were married for one, with my niece on the way, and Liz still had to threaten that she wasn't going without him before dad finally decided 'okay, fine. Bring the husband, but he's buying the beer.'"

Oliver laughed. "Admission?"

"Oh, absolutely. Owen could join us at our sacred," and here, I laughed too, "family barbecue, but he was going to pay admission for the privilege." I dragged both hands down the front of him, marveling at the solid weight of his body beneath my hands.

And grinned at the tremor that raced over his skin.

I had been so cold, so lonely, for so long, and my body thrummed at the contact; today must have scared me more than I would admit. Even to myself. Because something in me came alive at the coiled strength of his body under mine.

"Now, see, if he were me," I went on, having to collect my scattered thoughts, "I would have dropped in with a case of Budweiser, or Molson. Something cheap and passive aggressive."

A low, taunting chuckle.

"Owen." I ran my fingers through Oliver's soft dark hair. "Let me tell you something about Owen – he's a great guy. He brought imported German beers. A name I can't remember, and couldn't pronounce. Quality. And –"

I swallowed, mouth going dry, as Oliver swept his hand along the inside of my thigh in a long, luxurious stroke.

"And?" Oliver prompted.

. . . and what?

"And we had a great evening."

His eyes held mine as he leaned forward to brush his mouth on mine, my lips tingling where they made contact – no music, no sound, beyond sounds of the ocean and I wanted this. Wanted him. To sweep that tremor of fear from my heart.

Valuable, but no less replaceable.

A razor's edge.

Always.

"Is that it?" Oliver asked, his breath warm. His eyes, only inches from mine, were as deep and hot as summer.

I breathed, inhaling the scent of his skin. Salt and a deliciously masculine heat, over the lemon and herbs from the soap he'd used this morning. Stinging sweat broke out down the centre of my back. I let it. Just like last night, I surrendered to my body and felt more, not less, powerful for doing so.

So I licked my lips, plumping them a little, moistening them, and said, "Yeah, I think that's enough."

Oliver sealed his mouth on mine in asoul-searing kiss.