The first island had been chosen because it was exactly the sort of place people expected Arion and Dean to visit during a winter holiday.
The resort occupied a crescent of pale stone above a dark blue sea, its terraces cut into the hillside and protected from the wind by tall glass screens. White villas descended toward the marina in neat levels, surrounded by cypress trees and winter gardens that remained green despite the season.
By the time their car stopped beneath the main entrance, photographers were already waiting behind the security line.
Dean stepped out first.
He had changed from the heavier clothes he wore in Palatine into black trousers, a cream cashmere sweater, and a long camel coat left open at the front. The collar was high enough to conceal most of Arion's work from that morning, though one mark remained visible close to his jaw.
Dean had stopped caring.
