Sam had known she was American.
That meant Sam was a cop or something. She had to be.
She had set Gemma up, with all that sad talk. The ailing father, Eliot, becoming an orphan. Sam had known exactly what to say. She had laid that bait out—"my father is crazy sick"— and Gemma had sucked it all up.
Gemma's face felt hot. She'd been lonely and weak and just plain stupid, to fall for Sam's lines. It was all a ruse, so Gemma would see Sam as a companion, not a foe.
Gemma walked back to her room, looking as relaxed as she could. Once inside, she grabbed her valuables from the safe. She put on jeans, boots, and a T-shirt and threw as many clothes that would fit into her smallest suitcase. The rest she left behind. On the bed, she laid a hundred-dollar tip for the maid she sometimes talked to, Sophie. Then she wheeled the suitcase down the hall and tucked it next to the ice machine.
Back at the poolside bar, Gemma told Larry where the case was. She pushed a US twenty-dollar bill across the counter.
Asked a favor.
She pushed another twenty across and gave some instructions.