Chapter EightWhere am I?” Nikita was used to waking up in strange places: barracks, barns, blown-out buildings they were hiding in, African huts, and the backs of military transports on sea, air, and land. She couldn’t begin to make sense of luxurious sheets, fine wood furniture, and the crystal vase on her night table—she had a night table—filled with tropical flowers. That was the strangest thing of all.
She flopped over and was greeted with a sweeping view of an island and turquoise-colored waters. Sheer curtains fluttered in a sea-scented breeze. And when they fluttered aside, she could see Zoe stretched out on a lounger in the sun, wearing a bikini that was as scant as she was.
Nikita grabbed sunglasses, then stumbled out and flopped into a chair on the suite’s verandah. It offered
