Читать книгу Shelter In The Tropics - Cara Lockwood - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

St. Anthony’s Island, the Caribbean Sea

WELCOME TO THE Island of Lost Causes.

Tack Reeves couldn’t help but shake his head at the sign that greeted him at St. Anthony’s baggage claim. Looking around at the crowd of tourists in T-shirts and flip-flops, nothing seemed very lost about this tiny Caribbean airport. He grabbed his old faded olive green seabag from the ground near his feet and moved with the tourists, though his jeans and plain black T-shirt looked out of place in the sea of neon around him. People herded together like this reminded him of the markets in Kabul, Afghanistan, where it was impossible to tell the citizens in the crowd from the insurgents. He felt that old familiar steel ball of unease at the center of his stomach.

One redhead wearing too-high platform sandals bumped into him, making him flinch. She looked up, smiling sheepishly as she apologized for the accidental contact. The old Tack, the one before his sixth deployment, would’ve found time to talk to the twentysomething in the barely there sundress. Maybe even had the clothes off that fit little body before she’d managed to get her first tan lines. But those carefree days were long gone.

Besides, he had a job to do.

It was probably another dead end, like the dozens he’d run down in the last year. His target, Cate Allen, was like a ghost. Her billionaire husband had hired him to find her and his son, but after nearly a year of working the case, he was starting to think seriously the woman might be dead.

At the very least, she really, really, didn’t want to be found. He was following the latest lead to this small island, hoping this time he’d finally get a break. But it was a long shot. Cate Allen was a missing wife to a famously reclusive billionaire. He’d quietly offered ten million dollars for her return, but nobody knew about this except a chosen few. How he’d kept it out of the news was anyone’s guess, but Tack figured money had something to do with it. He steered clear of the other tank-top-clad college coeds on their way to spring break. At the end of the gleaming steel baggage carousels stood a group of drivers, holding up signs. One of them bore his name: Reeves.

He looked up at the woman holding it and for a second nearly froze in his tracks.

Could it be...?

On the surface, this woman looked nothing like Cate Allen, the dazzling, overly made-up brunette socialite, always in designer stilettos, Chanel suits and bright red lipstick. This woman screamed quintessential beach bum with the long blond hair in a loose braid down her back, the aviator sunglasses perched casually in the neckline of her scooped tee and the flip-flops on her feet exposing toes that lacked nail polish. But Tack had memorized the photos he’d trolled through online. He knew every laugh line, every little quirk of her face. His gut told him, This was her.

Nobody else had a dimple like that on her right cheek, that flirty “dare you to ask me to dance” upward quirk of her pouty lips. And no matter what she did, the woman couldn’t hide the fact that she was gorgeous. No matter how much she dressed down.

She hadn’t seen him yet, and for that Tack was grateful. He needed a minute to compose himself. He’d been hunting this woman for almost a year, and she’d stymied him at every turn. He couldn’t let himself be carried away. This could still be another dead end, the welling of hope in his chest just another precursor to disappointment.

And everything was riding on this case.

Her eyes met his then, and his knees locked up. They were greener than her photographs—a clear blue-green, like the Caribbean Sea. Damn, but she was so much more beautiful than her pictures. And they were near a perfect ten. He was just a few feet from her. She smiled at him, hesitant.

“Mr. Reeves?” she asked, and then her eyes widened a bit as he took another step closer. “You’re...tall,” she managed.

“Six-four,” Tack said. “Got my dad’s height and my mother’s forearms, just don’t tell her that,” he joked as he always did when people asked him why he was built like a tank. His mother was a big-boned woman who, years ago, didn’t mind getting after her boys with a wooden spoon when they got out of hand. The tough love apparently worked as she was now the proud mother of two marines and an army ranger.

Cate smiled, and the brightness of it took him by surprise. She certainly didn’t look like a woman with a backyard full of buried secrets. But then, the best liars always believed their own tales.

“You’re...?” He deliberately paused, studying her face.

“Cate. Cate Dalton, St. Anthony’s Resort,” she said, not missing a beat, the lie coming out of her mouth as smooth as silk.

Cate. The woman hadn’t even changed her first name. Now it all seemed so obvious, but before, when he’d been rummaging through hundreds of records, he never would’ve guessed she would’ve done something so careless. Everything else, every bit of her trail, had been so carefully scrubbed. She’d left hardly any clues. But she kept her first name.

He wanted to know why.

A little scar barely the length of a nickel ran across her chin. It hadn’t been in the photographs he’d pored through, and he wondered what it was from. “We spoke on the phone. This is your first time to the Caribbean?”

“That’s right.” He could lie, too. No need to tell her he’d been hopping from island to island for the last four months, on one goose chase after another, starting to think he needed to rethink his new career as a private eye. “Need a little R and R.”

“You’ll find it here. Where are you from?” she asked, beaming at him as she put on her sunglasses.

“Seattle.” The lie came smoothly. No need to tell her he lived in Chicago now, the same city her ex-husband, the real estate mogul, called home these days. Tack’s younger brother lived in Seattle. He visited often enough, and he’d be able to bluff his way through any further questions.

She nodded and beckoned for him to follow as she moved to the exit. She headed out the first sliding door to the bright tropical sunshine. Tack couldn’t help but watch her hips sway like a palm tree on a breezy beach. The sunlight shone on her tanned thighs, the bleached denim cutoffs hitting right at his favorite spot.

“Great view, isn’t it?” she asked him, nodding at the big blue sky above them and, in the distance, the sparkling aquamarine sea.

Tack, who couldn’t take her eyes off Cate’s just-short-enough shorts, nodded once. His view was spectacular.

Distant alarm bells in his brain told him his thoughts were wandering into dangerous territory. He needed to keep this all business. He had a job to do. A job that had more riding on it than just money.

They made their way to the small airport parking lot and an old, slightly battered minibus with St. Anthony’s Resort in faded blue paint on the side. She wasn’t exactly living the luxury resort life he’d thought she would be after taking off with so much cash. Clever, he thought. Wouldn’t be good to be flashing money around that she’d taken. Maybe she was smarter than he thought.

He stuffed his seabag into the luggage caddie behind the bus driver’s seat and settled into a worn blue bench where he could watch her drive. She climbed up into the big bus seat and looked like a child trying to reach the pedals.

“Okay, just want to apologize in advance,” she said. “I don’t normally do shuttle duty. My driver, Henry, is out today.”

Henry the driver? Maybe the socialite hasn’t wandered so far from the money, after all.

“He had to take his wife to the doctor, and I’m all left feet when it comes to driving the beast.”

“The beast?”

Cate patted the old, cracked dash affectionately. “This old girl doesn’t know how to quit, but she does know how to give one heck of a bumpy ride. You might want to fasten your seat belt.” With that, she threw the bus into gear and they launched out on the road, with Tack nearly flattened against the bus window as they jostled down the bumpy asphalt.

“Are you all right there, Mr. Reeves? Hope you don’t get carsick.”

“Nope. And call me Tack.” He stared at her decidedly not manicured nails and felt a flicker of doubt. He was 90 percent sure this was Cate Allen. But that left 10 percent uncertainty, and he didn’t like it.

He met her gaze in the oversize rearview mirror above her head.

“Sure...Tack. Unusual name.”

“Nickname, for tactical, I guess. You could say I’m a planner.” Nobody went over a mission like he did. He thought of every possible scenario far in advance. His unit thought he was crazy, but when the shit hit the fan, he was ready. He was never without a backup plan. “My parents named me Thomas, but nobody calls me that.”

“Tack.” His name sounded good coming from her pink lips. “I like it.”

He ought to be friendly, try to fish out some information, but he didn’t feel like letting down his guard. This woman, if she really was Cate Allen, was cunning and dangerous, he reminded himself, no matter how pretty her smile happened to be.

She shifted gears on the bus, and the beast protested with a black puff of smoke out the back. Tack wasn’t 100 percent sure they’d make it to the resort in this old clunker.

“You in the marines?” she asked nonchalantly, as if somehow his service were emblazoned on his forehead like a tattoo.

“Why do you say that?” He knew he sounded overly defensive. He needed to calm down. There was no way she’d be able to trace him to his employer, no way she’d find out what he was really doing on St. Anthony’s.

Cate glanced at him in the rearview, surprised. “Your luggage,” she said. “The seabag? My dad was a navy man. Let’s just say I saw a few of those in my time.”

Tack glanced at the olive-colored knapsack, wondering if he should lie, but decided not to, remembering the cardinal rule of deep cover: the truth was easier to remember. “Yeah, I used to be in the marines.”

“Where’d you serve?”

“Six tours of duty in Afghanistan.” And a dishonorable discharge. Tack wasn’t proud of that. Who would be? But if it came down to it, he’d do the same damn thing all over again. He’d take that court-martial, again and again. Sometimes, principle outranked rules.

“Well, thank you for your service,” Cate said.

He knew she probably meant well, but he wished she hadn’t said that. He’d served his country, and he’d gone through hell, so what? Lots of guys did. Lots of good men died. Some men served America who weren’t even in the armed forces. He thought of his brave translator, a local Afghan named Adeeb, who’d saved him more than once. Now, he was the one in trouble.

But this job could change all that. Allen had promised to help. That’s all that mattered. Tack had a job to do, and when he did it, everything would be made right.

Tack grew silent, watching as she steered the old clunker down the road. Still, why did she have to be so...nice?

She jostled them down a narrow, barely two-lane road with no lane markers and no shoulders. The tiny road wound up the coast, the view of the water brilliant below them. Cars drove on the left side here, probably because the island used to be British, before it was French and then Dutch. Battered trucks and rental hatchbacks passed them in the opposite direction. Just a line of wildflowers separated them from a plunge down a fairly steep cliff to the water below.

A loud bang shook Tack to his core, and for a second, he was right back in the godforsaken desert. Then he heard the rim of the front left tire hit the road with a deafening screech as they careened sharply to the left.

Cate went silent as her hands gripped the oversize steering wheel. The old minibus lurched dangerously close to the cliff face. Another foot and they’d be taking the shortcut to the beach, grille first. She struggled to keep the three good tires on the asphalt. Tack leaped to his feet. He leaned over the back of Cate’s seat and clutched the wheel. Her hands looked tiny compared to his as he gripped the plastic hard and tugged them away from the cliff. They managed to come to a precarious stop in the middle of the road.

“Oh, my God,” Cate breathed, her chest heaving. “We could’ve...”

“We didn’t,” Tack said, reaching over and throwing the vehicle into Park. “You okay?” He knew shock when he saw it, and Cate looked like she might faint. He moved over beside her in the open area between her and the accordion door of the minibus. “Hey, look at me.”

She stared numbly at him, eyes wide and pupils dilated. For a split second, she wasn’t a mark, and he wasn’t a detective. This was just a scared woman about to hyperventilate sitting in front of him.

“We’re okay,” he said.

Behind them, someone slammed on their brakes, honked and veered around them.

“I know.” She abruptly pulled her hands away and was herself once more, regaining her senses, almost as if she’d woken up from a daydream, or day nightmare. She flipped on her hazard lights and stood. “I’ve got a spare tire in the back. Hopefully, a jack that works.”

The record time she’d taken to recover from the near accident impressed him. This was a woman who didn’t crack under pressure.

Of course, women who try to kill their husbands usually don’t.

Tack glanced out the window and the other cars speeding around them. They wouldn’t be safe for long here, and they needed to get the minibus moving before someone slammed into them on this narrow road. Cate was already at the back panel, wrenching up the trapdoor and lugging out a near bald Michelin.

“Whoa, there,” Tack began. “I can help...”

“What? This old thing?” She grinned at him, a gorgeous, effortlessly flirty smile, and he felt his crotch grow tight. “I’ve got it.”

And it looked like she was going to take that tire and the partly rusted jack with the paint flecking off and fix this thing before Tack could even get a word in about it. When she leaned in to get the tire iron, Tack easily slipped it from her hands. No need to arm the woman. From what he’d heard, she was dangerous enough all on her own.

“Please, ma’am. I insist.”

* * *

CATE EYED THE muscled marine kneeling by the front tire of her ancient minibus and felt a ripple of unease. He attacked the rusted lug nuts, and she tried not to be distracted by the fact that the muscles in his forearms rippled when he loosened the nuts with hardly any effort. He glanced up and met her gaze, showing even white teeth, his brown eyes warm.

Bet he gets any girl he wants, she thought, feeling her own abdomen grow warm as she watched him wrench the old tire free, his biceps engaging as he lifted it up. Sexy ex-marine probably never gets told no. She felt a pull suddenly, a flush of desire run through her. How long had it been since she’d even had sex?

Normally, she was able to push those feelings aside, but watching the marine work made her mind go to places she thought she’d long since forgotten.

Relationships were too risky. One-night stands are fine. Anything more and you’re just asking for trouble, Cate.

But Cate wasn’t a one-night-stand kind of girl. Of course, after Rick Allen, she wasn’t sure forever love even existed. And, now, I can’t try for it, either. It’s too much of a risk.

She knew she’d be giving up things when she took her boy and ran. She’d gladly sacrifice forever love if it meant her boy would be safe. If it meant Rick Allen could never hurt him—or her—again. Being alone was better than being hurt. Better than being...controlled, imprisoned in her own house.

You’re mine, he’d said the night she left. You belong to me. You’ll never get away.

That had been more than three years ago. I did get away, Rick. I did. And I’m never going back.

She focused on Tack’s lean back, the muscles of his broad shoulders taut against the thin fabric of his shirt as he slipped the spare tire on the minibus. The loud whoosh of cars passing at speeds faster than they should whirred in her ears, yet she paid them no heed. Her whole focus was on Tack.

Something about this man made her feel distinctly off balance, and it wasn’t the fact that he had the body of a Greek god, either. He was tan, far too tan to be a mainlander who’d only just come to St. Anthony’s for a little getaway. As he turned his attention back to the tire, she saw the strip of red on his neck—a fresh sunburn. That’s not the kind of tan anybody gets in Seattle in February, she reasoned.

Could he be working for Rick?

As soon as the panic rose in in her throat, she swallowed it. Don’t be paranoid. Guilty people do that. Guilty people get jumpy, and jumpy people get caught. And you’re just being paranoid.

Of course he’s not working for Rick. Rick doesn’t know where you are. You’re fine.

For a bright second, she was back in her husband’s house, standing at the top of the stairs, clutching her baby boy. She’d never forget the sight of Rick’s body, lying motionless at the bottom of the marble landing, the fear and horror in her throat suffocating her. He’d been so terribly still, lying in that unnatural way, his leg bent at the wrong angle.

She felt her heart speed up, the blood thrumming through her veins, the panic of that night fresh in her mind. She had to will herself to calm down. She wasn’t there. She’d never be there again. Not if I can help it.

He glanced up at her, squinting against the sun, and flashed another smile. She forced herself to relax.

“So you live in Seattle. I love that city,” she said, trying not to sound like she was probing his backstory, which she was. “I went there once, after college. My roommate’s house overlooked the Sound. Was gorgeous. Where do you live?”

“A neighborhood called Wallingford,” he said, without so much as a hitch. “I’ve got a condo that looks out over Woodland Park. Ever been there?”

“No, I don’t think so. It was a long time since I went.” She bit her lip. So he passed the first test. He’s just a tourist, like any other tourist. Don’t go looking for trouble where there’s none. He tightened the lug nuts on the new tire, a small bead of sweat visible on his smooth forehead. He lowered the bus on the jack and popped up, swiping his hands free of dirt.

“That ought to get us there,” he said, and straightened. He was so damn tall. And those muscles. He took a step closer to her and without thinking, Cate backed up. He was too big, too...muscled... Too damn attractive. She felt his gravitational pull and the only way to break the spell was to somehow get out of his orbit. She took another step backward and a flash of alarm lit his face as he looked over her shoulder.

Before Cate knew it, he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pressed her against the side of the minibus. Before she could even squeak, an oversize white delivery truck rumbled past. Too big for any one lane, its white cab would’ve knocked Cate flat if it weren’t for Tack.

She could feel him breathing as hard as she was, his fit, muscled stomach against her, her face nearly eye to eye with his chest. She could smell him—sweat and salt and the hint of some fresh scent, like laundry drying on the line. Cate ought to have been thinking about how she’d almost been killed by a truck, but instead, all she could think about was Tack’s hard body against hers, how every nerve ending in her body seemed to come alive. It felt like her body had been sleeping, and now, suddenly, every cell was awake, and they all wanted one thing. All she wanted to do was to press herself closer to him, to wrap her arms around his back and feel his sturdiness. She could feel his chest rise and fall and wondered if he felt it, too, this electric rush, this sudden, powerful want.

As she glanced up at his face, she saw his brown eyes studying hers, his eyebrows crinkled with worry.

“Are you okay?” he asked, keeping his body against hers, his bulk still protecting her from the rush of traffic behind him.

Considering all she wanted to do right at that moment was stand on her tiptoes and see if she could taste his lips, she already knew the answer to that question. I might never be okay again.