Читать книгу Navy Seal To The Rescue - Tawny Weber - Страница 11

Stars scattered over the night sky like buckshot against black velvet. Music rolled out of Casa de Rico’s doors, blending with the crickets’ serenade to the fall of night.

Another day over and done with, and not a damned thing to show for it. He hadn’t even come up with a freaking hint of an idea of what to do with the rest of his damned life.

A beer tucked between his thighs, the braided cotton strands of the hammock digging into his flesh, Travis waited for the tension to leave his body. He’d been waiting so long, he considered it a miracle that he still believed it could happen.

Maybe he should have tried a little harder with the blonde on the beach earlier. A bout or three of hot, sweaty sex would have relaxed him a little.

Maybe it was time to give up the beach and head somewhere else. He just couldn’t quite work up the enthusiasm to figure out where.

“Yo, Hawk.”

“Yo, Manny,” Travis returned laconically, lifting a hand to greet the beanpole of a man so dark that he blended with the night. All but the brilliant white of that smile he was always flashing.

“You had phone calls. I took messages.”

“Thanks, man,” Travis said, taking the scraps of paper he didn’t want.

“One is from Paulo. Others are your SEAL friends. I know their names from times they visited, fished here. But nothing from family,” Manny said in sad tones, as if not having a family calling to add their nagging to his teammates’ was something to mourn.

“No family to be calling,” Travis said, tucking the messages into the front pocket of his cutoffs. “Only child, parents gone before I was twenty.”

“That’s a bummer, man.”

It’d been a decade, but the sympathy hit him hard. He’d thought he was long over the loss. But being around people like Manny, with an extended family so big that he had cousins in every other house in town, really brought it home how alone he was. For years, he’d had his SEAL team for family. But while they weren’t dead like his parents, they weren’t there anymore either.

But all Travis could do was shrug. Nothing else to do, and absolutely nada to say.

“You didn’t have to deliver the messages. I would have come by your place tomorrow.”

Manny ran a small produce market with his brothers. Not quite a store, not quite a stall, it did brisk business with the locals and tourists alike.

“Now’s fine,” the skinny man said before lifting a covered plate. “You want fish? I caught it this morning. Glory cooked it nice.”

Rich spices escaped the dish, its foil glinting in the moonlight as Manny plopped it onto Travis’s bare belly.

Travis grunted. He really didn’t want the fish. Just like he hadn’t wanted the gallo pinto Boon had brought by an hour ago or the cacao fresco that Senora Miguel had forced on him at breakfast. But the upside—or downside in his opinion—of crashing at a friend’s place was the friend’s friends.

“Thanks, to Glory too,” he said as he lifted the plate and, bending at the waist, leaned over to set it on the battered crate that served as his table.

“So what you doing for a job now? I’ll bet you get bored recreating, right?”

Right. There was no appeal in forced recreating. But Travis only shrugged.

“I know the perfect job for you. You should be a private investigator. Or the police. But joining the police means you follow a bunch of rigid rules, that’s no way to get the job done.”

Debating whether to point out the plethora of rules he’d lived by in the military, Travis opted to keep silent. He’d learned in his first week in town that Manny and logic weren’t real close pals.

“You become a PI and solve all the crimes around here. Like I heard yesterday, that a bunch of turistas, they were hit on by two hookers.”

Not surprising. Since it was legal, prostitution was a way of life in some parts of Costa Rica.

“The men, they do the grab and feel, but didn’t like the merchandise. Happens all the time in my market. Everyone squeeze the melons but not everyone want to buy. But these men? When they don’t want a guy, some big bruiser come out and rough them up. Says, ‘You touch, you buy.’ He put one in the hospital.”

Travis frowned. Prostitution might be legal, but pimping wasn’t. Neither were prostitution rings, which was what it sounded like Manny was describing.

“My cousin Luis, he says that a bruiser was the one who came around his store last week. He said Luis pay for protection or there will be trouble. Next day, Luis’s little girl Lupe got lost.”

“She’s missing?”

“Was missing until nighttime. The whole family, we went looking, but nobody could find her. She turned up at the market after dark. Said a big man stole her, tied her up and said she had to give a message. If her papa didn’t pay, she’d get hurt.”

Damn.

Travis grimaced.

Helpless women and children, they’d always been his hot buttons. He was tempted to offer his services. But the reality was that he had no services to offer. Who needed a cripple slowing them down? So Travis forced himself to unclench his jaw and relax instead.

“Sounds like a job for the cops.” He leaned back in his hammock again.

“The cops, they are no good here. That’s why we need you, Hawk. You can be a PI, you can help with the crimes.”

“Thanks for the food,” he made himself say.

Manny’s face fell, but he didn’t push the subject.

“You eat. It’s good. Then you go have fun.”

Travis grunted, hoping Manny would take that as an affirmative and go.

No such luck.

Instead, the other guy squatted in the sand next to the hammock and grinned.

“You gonna party like a wild thing, yes? Lots to choose from tonight, Hawk. There’s a bonfire at the big hotel, a band tuning at Lolo’s and the dancing is already kicking over at the Catfish bar.”

Not too long ago, he’d have hit all three party spots in a single night. All three and more.

But that was then.

“No, thanks.”

“You really should have some fun. Loosen up and have a good time.”

“I’m close enough to Lolo’s to hear the music,” Travis pointed out, gesturing to the bar on the other side of the small dune. “I’ll join in if I feel like it.”

“You always say that, but you don’t look so good.” With an assessing look somewhere between doubt and pity, Manny shook his head. “My instructions, they’re to watch out for you. You’re healing okay. Good food, good rest, it helps. But good spirits, that’d turn the tide.”

“My spirits are fine,” Travis said somberly.

“Paulo, he’s gonna call me tomorrow. What am I supposed to say to him when he asks how you’re doing? I’ll tell him you won’t party, you barely eat, he’s gonna be peeved.”

Peeved, Travis rolled his eyes, but had to admit—if only to himself—that peeved was the perfect word for Paulo. The chief petty officer didn’t get pissed, he never threw fits, he was the perfect gentleman. Some would say a goody-goody, but only if those some hadn’t ever watched him eviscerate an enemy combatant.

Still...

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No? Then you need a friend. A lady friend, maybe.”

The sexy blonde’s face flashed through Travis’s mind. She was definitely the kind of friend he’d like to show a good time. For a night, or in her case, two or three.

“I’m fine. I’m gonna eat this good fish, then get some rest.”

“You want me to hang out? Visit and keep you company while you eat. Save you cleaning the dish afterward, cuz I’ll just take it back to Glory to wash.”

“It’s a paper plate,” Travis pointed out. Then, because he knew the man wasn’t going to budge off his damned babysitting duties, Travis made a show of snapping up the plate. He uncovered it, and using his fingers, he snagged a chunk of fish. Spices exploded on his tongue, the flavor reminding his stomach of the good ole days, when he’d liked to eat.

“It’s great, man. Tell Glory thanks for me.”

“You’ll eat it all?”

As much to assure the guy as to get him to leave, Travis tossed back the rest and handed back the plate.

“Yum.”

It took a few more prods to convince Manny that he was fine, he was full, he was comfortable and yes, he would get some sleep. But finally, the guy took his paper plate and left.

Leaving Travis alone with the sound of partyers in the distance, and the ocean nearby. As the moon climbed higher in the sky, he watched the waves with eyes that must have been as empty as his soul felt. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last month, he wondered if recovery at the beach had been a mistake. He’d had friends offer him their cabins in the mountains, a trip to a ranch in Colorado, a condo in Vegas and a high-rise in Manhattan. He could have—should have—crashed at any of them. Instead, here he was watching the one true love of his life.

The ocean, the sea.

For all her fickle whims, all her changeable moods, she was power. She was life.

Some might say that she’d tried to kill him, but Travis figured that just proved she had a dark side.

And watching her from a hammock on a sunset beach was as good a way to heal as any, he supposed.

* * *

Lila loved the job she’d created. She really did.

Here she sat in a deeply cushioned lounge chair, her hair loose, a tray on her lap to hold her computer and a frothy drink, complete with pink umbrella at her elbow. Despite the setting sun, the air was warm and the beach quiet as the sun worshippers had gone in for dinner and the partyers hadn’t yet gathered.

It really was a great job, she reminded herself as she sucked up more Caribbean Punch through an icy straw.

But, holy cow, where was she going to find a female blacksmith? Specifically one with public speaking skills, an affinity for children and a desire to travel with an educational troupe for a year. Scrolling through the database on her laptop, she scanned for any name that’d spark an idea.

But blacksmiths weren’t exactly plentiful in the circles Lila traveled in. So she’d expand them, she decided.

Still, maybe Corinne was right. Matchmaking might be easier. But Lila had less faith in the longevity of love than she did in her ability to track down a buff chick that liked to beat fire and steel.

“Ms. Adrian?”

Her fingers pausing on the keys of her laptop, Lila looked up with a smile. “Yes?”

“Phone for you, ma’am,” the young concierge said, holding out a cordless phone on a bamboo tray.

“For me?”

Corinne would use her cell number. So would any clients, friends or prospects trying to reach her.

There was only one person who’d make a point of tracking her down and calling the hotel to ensure she knew she’d been tracked.

Lips pressed tight, Lila gently closed her laptop. She gave herself an extra few seconds to gather her thoughts, to push away the initial rush of emotions that dealing with her father always incited.

Strongest was the heavy weight of regret that she’d never, not once in her life, lived up to her father’s expectations. She’d like to blame it on her brother. It wasn’t easy to live up to a guy like Lucas. Prep school prince, Annapolis grad, Navy SEAL. Not even leaving the Navy against their father’s express wishes had knocked him off his golden pedestal.

Instead of a pedestal, Lila had a gilded cage.

“I’d prefer to take this in my room,” she stated. He was probably calling to lecture, would likely round that out with a few unreasonable demands. Whatever her father wanted, she knew she’d rather deal with it in private. “Would you transfer it there, please?”

Lila took her time. She took the stairs. Once in her room, she even took a bottle of water from the small refrigerator. Tequila would be better, but she knew she’d want her wits about her.

She didn’t sit on the bed. That’d be too casual, too relaxed. Instead, she pulled out the stiff wooden chair from the small desk and perched on the edge.

One deep breath, and she lifted the phone receiver.

“Hello, Father. How are you?”

“Lila. Your help is required to organize and act as hostess for an event of great import. I’m honoring dignitaries and notable Navy personnel, including your brother.”

Pointing out that Lucas wasn’t in the Navy anymore would have as much impact as her hello had. So Lila didn’t waste her breath.

“It does sound like a worthy event, and honoring our troops—” even the ones who didn’t serve in Special Ops, the ones her father pretended didn’t exist “—is important. But as commendable as I’m sure it will be, I am not available to hostess or attend.”

There. Didn’t that sound officious and professional? Two things her father should easily relate to.

But, instead of understanding—or God, forbid, pride—at her work ethic and business success, her words garnered her a lecture.

Duty. Privilege. Expectations. Failure. Disappointment.

Years of practice helped her keep all of the tension, all of the reaction, in her left hand. Clenching, unclenching, clenching her fist. Over and over. Squeeze the tension, release the stress, she silently chanted.

When he finally wound down, she gave herself a second to make sure her temper was under control before speaking again.

“I have a business to run and commitments that require my time. A concept you should be familiar with. Isn’t that what you always said at every holiday, birthday or potential family occasion?”

So much for control.

“I run a multimillion dollar conglomerate with holdings in twelve countries, producing profits in the billions. You, on the other hand, are playing at running an employment agency for the odd and disenfranchised. Your accrued net earnings for the three years you’ve been in so-called business are a drop in the bucket compared to just the yearly interest on the trust fund you’ve rejected with your little act of faux independence.”

Everything wasn’t about money, Lila wanted to shout. Some things were worth more than dollars and cents. Like independence. Or pride. Or respect. She’d happily walk away from her trust fund if he’d give her any one of those.

But there was no point in telling him any of that. He never listened.

“As I understand it, you’re in Costa Rica to procure a chef for Joe Martin. That’s no longer necessary.”

“What’d you do?” she asked, her words a furious whisper. “What did you do?”

“My secretary will find them five comparable chefs to choose from, freeing you to come home.”

“The Martins are my clients, and it’s my responsibility to fulfill their request,” she snapped.

“That’s inconsequential. I’ve arranged for a helicopter to transport you to the San José airport where a private plane is scheduled to depart in the morning,” he continued, his tone of absolute confidence the only thing Lila had ever wished she’d inherited. “The itinerary is in your email inbox. I expect you to be here in two days.”

While Lila was choking on her stunned fury, he hung up.

She wanted to call him back and scream.

She wanted to throw the phone through the window.

She wanted to cry.

She shoved her hands through her hair, tugging on it until the urge passed.

Then she got up to pace off her fury.

Her entire damned life, he’d done this. Ordered, demanded or manipulated. She’d tried reason, she’d tried threats, she’d even run away from home. She’d tried to cut herself off from the family, even going so far as to use her late mother’s maiden name in her teens. It hadn’t made any difference.

Nothing got through to the man.

All she could do was focus on her life, and her business. Which meant figuring out what he’d done and undo it, Lila told herself. It still took a couple more paces of the room to calm down enough to listen to herself, though.

When she did, she figured she’d better call Joe Martin and ensure she still had a client. Otherwise she was going to have to rewrite her company’s tag line to guarantee 95 percent satisfaction instead of 100.

Lila opened her laptop to pull up his phone number and saw her email notification flashing.

Flight details.

Her jaw set, her finger shaking, Lila deleted the email without replying. And contacted her client, instead.

“Mr. Martin, hello. This is Lila Adrian.”

Thirty minutes later, she’d smoothed over the trouble her father had caused and promised complete satisfaction in the form of Chef Rodriguez. No substitutes, no replacements, just him.

When she hung up, she knew she was tiptoeing a shaky line, making that kind of promise. But years of watching her father had given her plenty of insights into how the rich and influential operated. She’d built her business on those insights. She might not like the man a whole lot, but she couldn’t deny that his business skills were legendary.

Legends weren’t built on empty promises.

But neither were they built on fear, she told herself as she headed back to the Casa de Rico. She couldn’t wait until morning to talk with Rodriguez. Not with a man like Wayne Adrian making travel plans, whether she liked it or not. She wouldn’t put it past her father to send someone to the hotel to ensure she made that flight. She wasn’t going to comply, but it wouldn’t hurt to nail down the details with the chef tonight.

Snatches of noise rolled out of the buildings, the beat of a steel drum and thrum of guitars playing backup to the sound of Lila’s heels tapping down the sidewalk as she wove her way through the partying crowds.

People poured out of bars, gathered around restaurants and a happy couple danced in front of the hardware store. She’d had no idea that Puerto Viejo was such a party town. But safe enough, she supposed as she returned friendly greetings, refused two cleverly worded propositions and sidestepped a would-be pickpocket with an apologetic grin.

She hadn’t quite worked out her pitch, but she knew it’d be smarter to talk with Rodriguez tonight.

Maybe.

Two steps inside the restaurant and she could barely move. It obviously did a better dinner service than lunch, because it had wall-to-wall bodies.

Still, she gave the bartender a friendly look when she finally wiggled her way to the counter.

“Hi, there. Bar or restaurant?” the woman asked, giggling as a passing customer patted her on the butt.

Lila angled her head to peer around the column and check out the crowds. The small bar was three people deep, with the bodies spilling into the restaurant.

“I’d love to chat to Chef Rodriguez instead.” Lila tried a wide-eyed, innocent smile when the woman arched one brow. “I’m working on an article and was in earlier. I had the ceviche. It was great. I was hoping to ask him about a few follow-up questions.”

The woman gave her a narrow-eyed look, but finally shrugged.

“Sure. Go on back.”

Fighting her way through the crowd, Lila took a deep, grateful breath once through the kitchen doors.

A dozen faces turned to stare at her in surprise. But none was the one she was looking for.

“Chef Rodriguez?”

She got a series of shrugs, a couple of scowls and one frown from the dishwasher, who jerked his chin toward a door leading to a narrow hallway.

“Try his office.”

“Thanks.”

Remembering the chef’s earlier reluctance to talk, Lila closed the door behind her. The grumble of voices hit her when she was halfway down the hall. Men. They were speaking Spanish, but it was a dialect she wasn’t familiar with. But the rage in their tone came through loud and clear.

Biting her lip, Lila paused. She took one step back toward the kitchen, then spotted a door leading outside. Probably better to go out the side, she supposed, ignoring the frustration tightening her jaw. She wanted to talk with Rodriguez tonight, to get her offer in first.

The voices rose. She recognized enough to know that one man was pleading, another cursing. She’d just talk with the chef in the morning, as planned, she decided, nervously sidling over to the door.

Before she could turn the knob, there was a whine and a pop. Lila jumped, barely choking back her scream at the loud crash, the sight of papers winging through the air.

Another pop, and the partially closed door burst open, slamming into the wall. Before it could ricochet back again, a body flew out, landing in the hallway with a sickening thud. Something splattered, spraying the walls, spewing across the floor.

Blood?

Was that blood?

Hers drained out of her head, leaving her dizzy and blinking against the tiny black dots dancing in front of her eyes.

Chef Rodriguez, she realized with a silent scream, recognizing the body that splattered blood over the floor. A very dead Chef Rodriguez.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Lila’s whole body shook. She swiped at the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. She swiped again, trying to get a good hold on the metal with her sweat-slicked hand.

Get out, get out, get out, she mentally chanted, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Get out before they see you.

She heard footsteps.

The sound of something hitting the wall.

They were coming.

She let out a squeal of panicked relief when the door opened. She tried to run, but her knees were as useful as Jell-O, so she hung on to the doorjamb to keep from falling on her face.

“Hey!”

Lila heard the office door ricochet off the wall again, the horrible squelching sound of someone sliding in blood, a big body hitting the wall.

They’d seen her.

Lila considered herself to be a smart woman. A world traveler trained in self-defense. A woman who followed and respected the law.

She knew she should scream. Call for help, yell for the police. There were at least fifty people twenty feet away. Someone would help her. Someone would save her.

“Hey. You.”

Lila didn’t even wait a heartbeat. She didn’t scream. She didn’t head for the kitchen.

Nope.

She ran like hell.

* * *

Ripped out of a dream, Travis jerked awake, instantly coming to full alert.

Where was he? What’d happened?

Hammock.

The beach.

In Costa Rica.

Shit.

He rubbed his hands over his face, cleaning the fatigue away before glancing at the sky. From the angle of the moon, the position of the stars, he estimated that he’d slept for about three hours.

Three uninterrupted, peaceful hours.

Not bad, he decided as he swung his legs out of the hammock and, balancing carefully, got to his feet. He doubted he’d get any more tonight, but three was good enough.

He’d go back to Paulo’s house—a hut, really—and chill. He was a man skilled in keeping his mind occupied and hands busy. A talent that came in handy before a battle. And, apparently, while mulling what the hell to do with the rest of his life.

Because the life of a beach bum was getting old.

Grinning a little because, yeah, those had been a great three hours of sleep, Travis headed for his temporary home.

But before he had taken ten steps toward the hut, he had his hands full of a hysterical blonde. Her hair flew around him in silken ropes. He felt rather than heard the loud crack as his knee gave out, but the woman continued to grab at him, her fingers clutching his back like he was a lifeline.

Despite her violent shaking and gasping sobs, he knew the only thing keeping him from planting his face in the sand was the woman grabbing at him.

If that wasn’t annoying, he didn’t know what was.

Travis gritted his teeth against the pain and grabbed her right back. He damned well wasn’t letting go until he had his footing. After a few seconds, her continual squirming and wriggling had a different effect on his body than vicious, shooting pain.

Whoa. Now that was a sensation he hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. Too long, he figured, if a panicked woman hell-bent on knocking him on his ass was a turn on.

“Nice to meet you and all,” he said, reaching around to grasp her wrists and unleash himself from her hold. “But I think that’s enough for now.”

“No. No, no, no,” she gasped, her words breathy with terror. “You’ve got to help me.”

“As soon as you let me go.”

But instead of releasing her hold, she tried to burrow deeper.

“Lady, you grab me much harder, you’re going to be inside my skin.”

He managed to break her arm’s lock on his waist, but before he could unwrap himself, she jumped in his arms, shoving him off balance again.

Travis didn’t bother to censor his curses as he struggled to find his balance.

“What the hell is your problem?” he finally snapped, getting a firm grip on her shoulders and pushing her to arm’s length. She shook harder, her hair flying as she looked behind her then back at him.

It was the sexy blonde from earlier that afternoon, he realized. The one he’d flirted with. If this was her follow-up, it was seriously twisted.

And, based on his body’s reaction, it kinda worked.

“They’re after me. Bad men. They saw me. Police. We need the police.”

Seriously? Adjusting his weight onto his left leg, Travis rolled his eyes.

“Get a grip,” he told her.

“Dead,” she gasped, almost sobbing the words. “They killed him. He’s dead.”

“What?” Dead? His senses hitting high alert, Travis looked over her shoulder, tracking the path she’d run. He could see the furrow of her steps in the sand and the lights of Casa de Rico beyond. There was a handful of people on the beach, but they all looked to be alive. “Who do you think is dead?”

“He’s dead. They shot him. Oh, God, there was blood everywhere.” Swallowing so hard he heard the click in her throat, the woman had to take a couple of deep breaths before she could finish. “They killed Rodriguez. The chef at Casa de Rico.”

Her thick lashes were spiked with tears over eyes of a misty, sea green that might be pretty when they didn’t have that glassy sheen.

Someone down the beach shouted. She gave a short scream and jumped, turning so fast that her hair slapped him in the face.

“Is that them? They’re going to come after me. Oh, God. I need to get out of here. I have to get away.”

Her voice was so thick with panic, he could barely make out her words. He reached out to grab her when her body sagged, not surprised to feel her shaking like an earthquake. She screamed again as soon as he touched her.

“Calm the hell down,” Travis snapped. Then, seeing no other option that didn’t make him a complete jerk, he grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you somewhere safe.”