Читать книгу Navy Seal Seduction - Bonnie Vanak - Страница 12
ОглавлениеMuch as he’d wanted to head out at first light, for Jarrett didn’t want to take chances of running into protestors, they didn’t get on the road until nearly noon. Lacey had business in the city, and Jarrett drove her to various stores and did shopping of his own.
They were safe enough for now. She’d monitored the radio, heard reports of burning tires and roadblocks planned for later this afternoon.
Riding shotgun as he steered the rented Montero SUV through the city streets, Lacey fisted her hands atop her backpack. She’d spent a restless night thinking of Jarrett and their past. Once they had deeply loved each other. But life changed her. She wasn’t the naive, sheltered senator’s daughter who thought the sun rose and set on Jarrett. Her horizons had broadened and she wanted more. No longer did she want to sit and wait for him to come home. Sit and worry he would never come home, for he was a SEAL and his missions were dangerous.
Being a military wife hadn’t suited her. She’d spent her time indulging in silly pastimes like manicures and shopping to ease the constant worries about his welfare. And in between remained glued to the twenty-four-hour television news channels to glean the slightest information about volatile parts of the world where Jarrett might be.
No, she didn’t need Jarrett in her life anymore.
Unfortunately, her libido remembered well the pleasure he’d given her in bed and begged her to draw closer. She hadn’t had sex since her last relationship two years ago. Francis Monroe was a great guy, son of a wealthy independent contractor, and exciting.
All the men she’d dated since Jarrett had been dull and safe, except for Francis, who was on the board of directors of her charity. Francis was both wealthy and charming, and his family was connected. Their dads were friends and Lacey knew her father was grooming Alastair Monroe to become the next US ambassador to St. Marc. But as responsible as his dad was, Francis was not. He was more interested in playing the field than a stable relationship.
Lacey was determined to never again get involved with a man who would desert her, both emotionally and physically.
Unfortunately, Jarrett now seemed determined to stick by her side. How could she shake him? And why was he so worried about Augustin?
Maybe when he saw her compound, he’d change his mind and leave. Some people shied away from her charity and the terrible reality of what the women had suffered.
Lacey stole a sideways look. With his long legs encased in blue jeans, gray T-shirt molded to his muscled torso and chest, and his jaw set in a determined line, Jarrett made an imposing figure as he navigated through the tight streets where vendors lined the sidewalks and paraded their wares. Driving through downtown had always frayed her nerves, even after living here. She hated the tight spaces in this most dangerous part of the city one had to drive through to get to the main road leading south to her home.
There was always that element about Jarrett that hinted at calm confidence. Once his overprotective streak had annoyed her. Funny how it didn’t anger her now, but made her feel safe. Maybe because she’d finally found a life of her own, and the confidence she’d lacked when they were married.
She didn’t need designer handbags or dresses to prove her self-worth. Her purpose rested between the concrete walls of her compound with the women who relied on her.
Finally, they cleared the city and accessed the national road hugging the turquoise bay that flanked the capital.
A few abandoned homes that had been bombed years ago during a coup faced the bay, their broken windows looking like sad eyes. “Nice homes. Terrific view of the water. Needs a little work. Perfect for a do-it-yourself,” he murmured.
“Comes complete with running water, when it rains. Air-conditioning when there’s a breeze,” she joked back.
He glanced over and grinned, and the power of that smile made her toes curl. Lacey scolded her raging libido. Sex was on the back burner. She had other priorities.
“We’re in your car and no one can hear us. Can you tell me now why I don’t want Monsieur Augustin as a donor? He’s a very wealthy philanthropist.”
Jarrett checked out his rearview mirror. “He’s wealthy, but his idea of philanthropy isn’t charitable. And his real name isn’t Augustin.”
He shot her a hard look. “It’s Robert Destin. He’s an illegal arms trader who found refuge here. He isn’t interested in your NGO for a tax deduction.”
Lacey’s heart dropped to her stomach. That was news. Jarrett might be overprotective, but he had excellent information. “He’s known around the country as a philanthropist. He donates to several NGOs.”
Jarrett eyed her. “He’s rich because he sold weapons to terror groups, Lace. Intelligence chatter has it that he’s looking to finance a new op out of this country.”
His face tightened. “Perfect place to plan an attack. St. Marc is a Third World country already balancing on chaos, where money can buy a lot of new friends in low places. His cover is doling out money to international charities with global operations.”
It didn’t make sense. “Why would Augustin want to donate cash for my NGO’s irrigation system? I’m a small operation.”
“You have something he wants. I don’t know what. But he’s not interested because he’s a nice guy.”
“Or he needs a tax deduction.” She reached for her cell. “I have to warn Paul.”
“Don’t.” Jarrett stayed her hand. “Tell him not to meet with him, but don’t share what I told you. That’s for your ears only.”
The fact that Jarrett shared such information warned he was deadly serious. In their years of marriage, he never told her anything about his work, his missions or the scumbags he encountered.
Lacey called Paul, telling him she’d handle Monsieur Augustin. As she hung up, wished she could light a fire beneath the bottoms of the State Department workers who were processing the paperwork. I need more time...
The car radio blasted out the news. In St. Marc, Lacey always listened to the radio to get reports of possible protests or roadblocks. But today seemed peaceful, and even more so as they drove farther south.
They entered a small town where a man led a donkey through traffic, ignoring the red light on the main road. A parade of motorcycles streamed past their vehicle like water. Bright red umbrellas with a local phone company’s logo lined the sidewalks, shading the vendors who sold mangoes, breadfruit, candy, gum and other wares. The mountains rose to their left, dotted with trees.
They got stuck behind a tangerine-colored bus. A goat and a man perched on top of the bus, enjoying the view. Two men jumped onto the bus as it pulled into a small town. One held a clear plastic bag filled with bread. The other clutched plastic baggies of water.
Jarrett navigated through a local market, people milling in the street as they examined fruit for sale. Behind his shades, he seemed to study the mood of the street. Outside the city it was peaceful and normal. No torqued crowds. No danger.
Please let it stay that way. Last week someone had firebombed her best truck when she’d parked outside the compound to check out property she’d thought of purchasing. Lacey was doing all she could to expedite the paperwork, but it hadn’t come through yet. Damn red tape...
“See how peaceful it is here?” She needed to assure him she was fine, and he could leave her once he’d driven her home.
“It’s deceptive. The radio said there are strikes planned for Monday. The president is planning to raise fuel prices again and the people are going to march.” Jarrett peered over the top of his shades. “Marching people usually equates to violence, Lace.”
“In the city.”
“There’s been a few protests in the country, as well, along this road.”
She knew it and had taken great care to monitor reports to avoid roadblocks. “Not recently.”
“And that will change when the president raises fuel prices if he’s reelected. The poor are desperate and things are getting worse. I don’t like it. Everything in this country points to another coup and it’ll turn into a royal goat fluster. You really want to take a chance with your life?”
“You’re as bad as my father. He wants me to come home, as well.”
But she couldn’t leave, even if he paid her. Frustration bit her because she suspected Jarrett was right, but she was trapped here. Lacey fished her mobile out of her backpack and thumbed it on. “You don’t like it here? You need to book the next flight out for yourself? Use my credit card.”
He ignored the jab. “Tell me what’s been going on with the locals where you live. Any hot spots?” He lifted his right hand and pantomimed a gun and trigger. “Bang bang much?”
“There’s been hot spots in Danton, the city closest to us, but there’s always hot spots flaring up.”
Mango and palm trees flanked the road as they drove south, past hand-painted signs advertising auto part repairs, billboards in French for local hotels, past the small concrete “banks” where lottery tickets were sold. They passed a herd of motorcycles, their riders waiting for passengers. He glanced to the right and noticed the gas station with its bright yellow-and-green sign remained open.
Calm. So calm. But she knew the peace could shatter as quickly as a fired shot.
Jarrett glanced at her. “Why don’t you get some shut-eye while I drive? You’re nodding off.”
She didn’t want to admit he was right, but he was. Lacey closed her eyes and dozed off.
When she opened her eyes, he was turning onto the unpaved road leading to her compound lined with dusty mango trees. A few dump trucks loaded with rocks rumbled past.
Sitting up straight, struggling to snap to attention, she pointed to a turnoff. “Turn at the sign that says Mangoes For Sale. There’s a quarry not far from here. Reason why the road is so bad. But we got the land very cheap, and it’s right off the main highway to make it easier to find us.”
The vehicle bounced up and down as he drove. “Bounce factor,” he mused. “Makes you feel like a bobble-head doll.”
“You get used to it.”
He gave her an amused grin, pushed down his sunglasses to peer at her. An impish look of mischief and sex gleamed in his green eyes. “I give great massages to work out the kinks in your body.”
A shiver raced down her spine. Jarrett did give great massages, and the smooth glide of his big hands over her naked skin had always been so arousing, leading to him getting naked, as well, and then...
“I have a vibrator,” she shot back and then flushed as his grin widened.
“A BOB doesn’t substitute for the real thing, Lace.”
“I didn’t mean a battery-operated boyfriend kind of vibrator. I meant a massager. For my neck.”
“Still,” he murmured.
He drove toward the handmade sign, passing several mango and palm trees. Small wood houses peeked through the trees, as goats grazed in the scrub. An abandoned building came into view. Painted on the building was a mural of rows of corn, with happy children peeking out among the stalks.
“Originally that wall had a mural of a young woman being led on a chain before the devil. The man leading her clutched her beating heart.” She sighed, remembering all her hard work to convince the locals she was committed to staying and helping them. “I found the artist, paid him to paint the cornfield because the mural kept spooking people. This farm kept spooking people. They said hoodoo rituals were conducted here, ones where a man cut out a woman’s heart for good luck. We’ve managed to overcome some of the tainted superstition, but it’s been a long process, with lots of patience and working with the locals.”
“You always did have a lot of patience.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “You did with me, especially when I was gone so much. Maybe if I hadn’t been gone all those times, we’d still be together.”
Lacey had wondered the same at times, wondered if he had stayed that one time and given her the support she needed, would they have worked out their problems? But she’d vowed to not regret the past.
“Maybe. Or not. You can’t go back, Jarrett. We’ve both changed and moved on.”
Jarrett drove until reaching a tall concrete wall with an imposing red gate. Lacey’s heart went still. Panic clogged her throat as she stared at the gate.
“You were saying something about hoodoo?” Jarrett turned to her, his expression grim. She’d been gone only a day, and this was bad news. Lacey had thought the other little things that had happened, like the graffiti warnings, were just some kids fooling around. Not this.
The white, hand-painted sign reading Marlee’s Mangoes had been obscured with a splatter of crimson paint. But it wasn’t the vandalism that worried her.
It was the dead chicken impaled on the iron spikes of the gate. The bloody entrails were draped over another spike, along with a clear warning painted on the gate in French.
American, go home before you end up like this.
Lacey swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She beeped the horn and a man in gray trousers and a blue shirt came out, opened the gate. Pierre waved at her, twirling the shotgun in his hands as if it was a baton.
“That’s your security?”
She bit her lip. “I told you, it’s peaceful out here.”
“And that dead chicken and the sign are a welcome home?”
Ignoring him, she rolled down the window and spoke in rapid French to the guard, who stared at the dead chicken. “Pierre, when did this happen? Did you see anything? Hear anything?”
He shook his head, his eyes wide in his face. “Nothing, miss. I was here all night.”
She nodded. “Get some help and clean this up right now. I want it all gone before the kids come home from school.”
Jarrett drove through the opened gate, and looked into the rearview mirror as Pierre shut the gate behind them.
“How long has he worked for you?”
“He’s the cousin of one of the women I’m helping. He’s been here about two months. I don’t pay him much.”
Her budget had already been strained with fixing the outdated irrigation system and the other unexpected expenses.
“It shows. Your security sucks, Lace. He doesn’t even look old enough to shave, damn it.”
The thinly disguised anger in his deep voice fueled her own anger. “My compound is respected by locals. They know the farm provides jobs and teaches skills to women.”
Jarrett snorted. “You call a dead chicken respect?”
“It was probably a prank.” Lacey’s stomach tightened. If he found out about the other incidents, she’d never shake him loose. She couldn’t be certain it was locals causing trouble, or worse.
Jarrett drove into the loose gravel drive, flanked by tall mango trees and colorful hibiscus bushes. He parked before a turquoise two-story house. The white, one-story guesthouse was a short walk away down a gravel pathway.
Lacey jumped out, relieved to see everything looked normal.
He nodded at the solid concrete building. “At least your personal living space looks secure. From a distance, anyway.”
Fumbling in her backpack for her key, she walked up the steps to the front door. “Thanks to Paul. He helped me find the right construction team to expand the house and put in a water system. He’s well connected.”
The compound held acres of corn and a clearing near the cornfield. Construction equipment and stacks of concrete blocks sat in the clearing. Jarrett adjusted his sunglasses and pointed to them. “What’s going on there?”
“Houses. I’m going to build them for twenty-five single moms helped by my charity. I’m in the process of subdividing the land so each woman will have the land and the house in her name and never have to worry about hooking up with a man just to have a place to stay for her and her children. Paul thinks I’m crazy for building homes, though he agreed to try to find funding.”
Jarrett peered over the top of his shades. “Pity the man. He doesn’t know your stubborn streak.”
She smiled and pushed back a stray lock of hair. “I had a lot of opposition. Some of my friends said the women would bolt soon as they found a man. It was tough at first. I couldn’t find funding, so I used alternative sources.”
“You used your trust fund.”
Heat suffused her face. “I needed start-up capital.”
Jarrett reached out and stroked a knuckle down her cheek. The bare caress filled her with yearning. “You have a real heart. Always knew you’d use that fund for something other than designer bags and shoes.”
Lacey turned away, her emotions churning. How could she even share with him that she’d wanted to make some kind of contribution? Jarrett chose the Navy and dedicated his life to serving his country. Her father had entered the diplomatic corps and then became a US senator to serve, as well. And all she’d done was contribute to the United States economy with her shopping sprees, which left her feeling cold and empty afterward.
If she hadn’t lost the baby, maybe then her life would have taken a different turn. But no use agonizing over the past...
“Come inside. I’ll get us some cold water.”
Jarrett followed her into the living room. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. Sighing, she dumped her backpack on the orange sofa.
“The electric’s out. One of the biggest drawbacks to living here outside the capital. I’ll have to use the generator to power the water pump if you need to use the bathroom until the inverter kicks in tonight. I have solar-powered batteries as a backup power system.”
“I’m fine.” He removed his sunglasses and placed them on his shirt.
She grabbed two bottles of cold water from the fridge and gulped down half of one. Jarrett didn’t touch his, but rubbed his bristled jaw. He looked so sexy with the dark beard shadowing his face, but the sexiness was tamped down by his grim expression.
“Why are you so determined to remain here, Lace? Why not return to the States and work with wealthy donors to fund your project?”
She gave him a calm, assessing look as she set down her bottle. “There’s a certain satisfaction in personally cultivating hope among people who have little of it. I don’t grow mangoes, Jarrett. I grow lives. I give a hand up to women who want a better life for their children, and all they need is a fresh start. They need someone to believe in them before they can begin to believe in themselves. But because some nasty ass of a man decided to kick them or beat them, they don’t think they’re worth much. They have no real job skills and I give them the chance to learn self-worth.”
Jarrett’s gaze softened. “You’re something else, Lace.”
She didn’t know what to make of his comment, but knew it was important to show him she was safe and had no intentions of leaving.
“Let me give you the ten-cent tour. This is where I live. The real action is in the outbuildings where the women work.”
Tugging his hand, feeling his calloused fingers beneath hers, she felt a thrill of excitement. Jarrett was the first person from her past to see what she’d done. As they walked down the dirt pathway to a large concrete building, she talked about the coffee company she half owned.
“Paul is my dad’s old friend from the days when we lived on the island, and the CEO of Coffee from the Heart. I got a contract to sell the beans to Dad’s competitors, the local upscale cafés in Washington. They love the fact they’re getting a good deal from the daughter of the man who is their biggest competition.”
“I bet that hurts the old man’s pride.”
“A little.”
At his understanding grin, she remembered the old times, when she and Jarrett boldly made their own way, refusing to take money from her wealthy parents. It was only after his assignments as a SEAL took him away from her so much that she turned to her trust fund for shopping and other empty pursuits to pass the time.
Sometimes she wondered if the extreme measures she’d taken after the divorce—moving here and starting her own nonprofit, had been to prove herself. Prove she was capable of being successful on her own. Prove she wasn’t a failure, like her marriage had been.
They reached the building and she couldn’t help a tinge of pride. Solar cells powered the lights, and the hot water heater was a black plastic tank. Efficient and economical. Jarrett looked impressed as she took him into the processing room. The women washed mangoes at a long sink and looked up and said a shy hello. A tall woman with dark-colored skin in her late thirties came over. She wore low heels, a blue dress and had a white apron tied around her waist.
Lacey introduced Jarrett to Collette March, the manager of the mango marmalade project. Educated in the States and extremely efficient, Collette was a hard worker and good at motivating the women.
“Are those jars of jam ready for shipping yet?” she asked.
Collette nodded. “Yes, Miss Lacey. And the two you want shipped to the US to your father, as well. They’re all in the storehouse.”
As Collette hurried back over to supervise the women cutting the fruit, Lacey tossed Jarrett a mango. He bit into it, juice running down his chin. She grinned at his surprised look.
“It’s better than the mangoes I’ve had in the States. Tastes like a tropical drink without the alcohol.”
“That’s the special appeal of these mangoes, and what makes the jam so tasty. We buy from local farmers, though we grow our own, as well, on the property.”
As he finished the fruit, she took him into a room where women sat at long tables, hand-peeling the fruit and then slicing it into sections.
“It’s pretty easy to convert this into a large-scale operation because I have the labor. I hire women from the community and I pay them more than they’d make at the local sweat shops. I employ mainly women, and as a condition of employment, they have to attend classes here on Saturdays in reading and writing if they are illiterate.”
At another table women were putting the mango slices into big pots with pectin, the main ingredient needed to make the jelly. Jarrett gave a friendly nod to the women as she showed him the area where the fruit was prepared and cooked.
“The pectin keeps the jam from getting too runny. Next we cook the fruit with the sugar. And we boil the jars to sanitize them before they’re filled and then after they’re filled. Boiling after keeps the fruit from spoiling. We have to set the jars overnight to cool them and then in about ten days the mixture is ready to eat. We ship it out immediately because it lasts a little over a year.”
“How the hell did you learn so much about making jam?” he asked. “You could barely cook.”
“I wasn’t that bad!”
“Sweetheart, you made eggs so hard-boiled they could pound nails.”
At his wicked grin, heat suffused her face. Lace wasn’t certain if the blush was from his teasing or the endearing sweetheart.
“I’m learning, though I have Rose. She’s the best cook in the region. She’s the one who gave me the recipe for the marmalade. The local women I employ have given me new ideas, too. They wanted jobs and they had skills. I learned a lot from them.”
“And I’m sure they’re learning a lot from you,” he murmured.
She shrugged, embarrassed at the praise as they moved outside to the sunshine.
“It’s a lot of work and I can’t do it all, so I appointed one of the women as the manager. Collette is good at motivating the staff. I’m the director who tries to let them alone and give guidance as they need it.”
“This is real nice, Lace. You’ve done a lot.”
Pride filled her at his acknowledgment. She had taken an abandoned farm and turned it into a thriving charity. Jarrett gazed around the compound, but she could tell his mind was working. Quiet, efficient. The man never stopped working, either at home or on the job. Always looking out for threats.
She glanced at her watch. “School’s out and the compound’s children will be home soon. I want to be here to greet them.”
Lacey hurried down the stairs of the building, back to her house and the porch with its pots of colorful tropical flowers. The sun burned bright overhead in the brilliant blue sky. Even though it was February, it was warm.
She only hoped the heat would remain with the weather, and not with the people growing tired of a president who ignored their plight.
Jarrett followed her and stood on the porch. “You always greet the children when they come home?”
Her chest tightened with emotion. “I try to, if I’m not working.”
A door beside the compound gate opened, admitting three little girls, all dressed in red-checked uniforms and carrying backpacks. Two waved at Lacey and called greetings, skipping past them to the mango processing building. But the third child headed for them.
She was tiny, her skin the color of coffee with cream poured into it. Lemon-yellow ribbons were tied into her braided hair. Her bright yellow jumper and white short-sleeved shirt with its Peter Pan collar seemed almost too big on her small frame. The pink backpack she carried was nearly as big as her body. Her black shoes were patent leather and her white socks were cuffed.
She was so tiny and sweet, with a heart-shaped face. But she did not smile.
Lacey put a hand on the girl’s thin shoulders. “This is Fleur.”
Jarrett squatted down and smiled. “Hello, Fleur,” he said in French.
The child’s large, dark eyes regarded him. She said nothing. Jarrett glanced up.
“One of your charges here on the compound?”
Her insides squeezed tight at his words. “Fleur isn’t one of my charges. She’s the reason I can’t leave St. Marc. She’s my daughter.”
