Читать книгу Shelter In The Tropics - Cara Lockwood - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

TACK LAY ON the soft bed in his room and stared at the second hand of the clock sitting on his nightstand as it ticked forward. The sunlight streamed in; he’d seen the slow progression of light since dawn. He’d been up since three in the morning, his usual wake-up call. He hadn’t sleep through a night since he’d left Afghanistan. And every time he woke up, he thought of Adeeb, fighting side by side with them in some of the worst firefights.

He sent up a little prayer that he was okay. That he’d eluded the Taliban another day.

Tack had met Adeeb when he was twenty-five and worked with him for three years straight on sensitive ops to find Taliban strongholds in Helmand Province, one of the most dangerous areas of Afghanistan. Adeeb, a lanky and thoughtful man, never once got rattled, not even under heavy gunfire.

Tack had been suspicious of the idea of a local translator at first. After all, what reason did he have to help the Americans? But Adeeb hated the Taliban and everything they stood for. “They are terrible people. They’re not about Islam, they’re about power.”

Adeeb had watched his sister be terrorized by the Taliban, and his family threatened when they tried to send her to school. He had every reason to hate them.

Still, Tack wasn’t sure. How could he trust a translator he just met? Sure, he’d volunteered and been vetted by the military, but still. Tack didn’t like wild cards, especially when the lives of his men were on the line.

On their first mission together, Tack and his team were looking for a Taliban leader who’d been causing a lot of trouble. Adeeb interviewed a local family, and after several minutes of discussion as Tack stood by, not understanding a word they said, Adeeb turned to Tack and said, “They told me he’s not here. But they’re lying, and here’s why. They have a son, and he was kidnapped by the Taliban last year. They’re scared.”

Adeeb had been right about everything from that day forward. He knew the bad guys from the good guys, he was smart, he was a fantastic read of people and he’d saved more marines than Tack could count, all by giving them lifesaving intel. He was worth his weight in gold.

But it didn’t take long after that before the threats from the Taliban came in. Phone calls, notes left at his house. They saw him as a traitor and planned to cut off his head. They said they wouldn’t stop there. They’d kill his entire family, all of his relatives. But nothing ever rattled the man, not the threats, not gunfire. He held firm in his beliefs. He told Tack that he believed the Taliban was ruining his country, and that he’d risk his life if need be to stop them. Let them do what they wanted, but he wasn’t going to let them ruin his country without a fight.

Tack respected the position. It was exactly what he would do if a group of extremists took over his own country.

The marines promised Adeeb and his family a visa to come to America, but they’d reneged on their promise. Scratch that. The marines hadn’t reneged on their promise, Tack’s sniveling coward of a commanding officer, Derek Hollie, had.

He checked his phone and found a message from Adeeb. Relief flooded Tack’s body. He only heard from the former translator a couple of times a week, when the man went close enough to town to get a signal.

We are fine. Wanted to let you know. Medeeha says thanks for the candy.

Medeeha was Adeeb’s little girl, who’d just turned three. Tack had sent a care package, as he did every month, filled with dry goods and treats. None of it would do any good if the Taliban found them. Tack quickly messaged back.

Keep safe, man. I haven’t forgotten my promise.

Tack had promised to bring Adeeb to the United States, and he wasn’t giving up on that. He’d left Helmand Province years ago feeling like he’d left one man behind, something he’d vowed never to do.

Adeeb had saved Tack more than once. Had saved all the men in his company more than once. And he helped the Americans at great personal peril after the Taliban labeled him a traitor. Tack knew better than anyone that the Taliban didn’t make idle threats.

Tack had lobbied his senators, wrote letters, did all he could think of to do to get a visa for his friend. Then he had found out that Rick Allen, major donor to political causes, might be able to get him the visa Adeeb so badly needed. That’s why Tack couldn’t fail. Not to mention, the ten-million-dollar reward money could help Adeeb and so many more resettle in the United States.

Tack breathed a sigh of relief that Adeeb and his family fought to live another day, and focused on the case at hand. Already, he’d taken too long in looking for the missing woman. Every day that went by was a day that Adeeb didn’t have.

He glanced at his watch. Time had slipped by, and he realized he ought to get a move on if he wanted to get to the dock for the promised tour. Better watch your back, Tack. She gets one whiff of who you work for, and she might throw you overboard.

He grinned at the thought. Let her try. He’d faced more cunning enemies before. But maybe not prettier ones, he thought, remembering her clear green eyes. He had to admit that.

He stepped into some swim trunks and an old tee, and then grabbed a baseball cap and shoved it on his head. He reached for his mesh bag where he kept his own flippers, mask and snorkel—he’d been scuba certified since even before he enlisted in the marines—and headed out of his room, maneuvering down the stairs and out to the lobby. The ocean was just past the resort pool and down the short stairs to the smooth, nearly white sand. He saw the twenty-foot boat with the blue canopy floating at the end of a long, wooden dock and headed that way. He expected to see a crowd of tourists but found the dock empty, except for Cate.

She wore a pair of worn cutoffs and a tank, the bright teal bikini strap tied at the back of her neck poking through. Her back was to him, and she was bent over an old red plastic cooler, working to lug it to the boat. For a few seconds, he watched her struggle with the heavy old red plastic box, admiring her muscled, tanned legs. The sound of the ocean and the rush of waves hitting the beach made it easy to sneak up on her. He put down his mesh snorkel bag.

“Can I help?” he asked, and watched her jump nearly a mile.

“God, you scared me,” she said, pushing her oversize sunglasses up on her nose and flattening the other hand against her chest. “Where did you come from?”

“Iowa,” he joked. “At least, that’s where I was born and raised, before I moved to Seattle.” She sent him a wry smile as she went back to her work with the cooler.

“Here, let me.” He easily lifted the cooler, packed with ice and drinks, and she stepped back, a little surprised.

“Uh...thanks,” she said, and he noticed she kept her attention focused on him. Good, that’s where it needed to be. “Just put it there.” She pointed to the stern, where a carved out little indention fit the cooler perfectly. He set it in. She hopped in after him and fastened straps around the cooler to make sure it didn’t fall overboard.

“I’ve got snorkel gear if you need it...” she began, turning to one of the seats of the boat. She flipped up the cushioned top to reveal mounds of flippers, snorkels and diving masks.

“I came prepared,” he said, nodding back to the dock. He hopped off the boat and grabbed his gear.

“Oh, I see.” She glanced anxiously about, looking unnerved and clearly distracted, or she would’ve noticed he already had gear. She glanced at the sports watch on her wrist and then back at the hotel, as she kept one foot on the dock and one resting on the stern of the boat.

“Where is everyone?” Tack asked, glancing around the empty boat.

“We were supposed to have at least one more couple join us today,” she explained. “The others have already dropped out, which is unusual, but...it happens. Did you see anyone else in the lobby on your way out?”

He shook his head. “No one in the lobby.”

“We can give them a few more minutes,” she said, biting her lip. Then her phone dinged with an incoming message and she pulled it out of the back pocket of her shorts. “Dammit,” she murmured, and then she glanced up apologetically. “Sorry. I...uh...” She peered at the screen of her phone. “Just one minute.”

She tapped her screen and then put the phone against her ear as she made a phone call. “Carol! It’s Cate. Are you sure they canceled?” She stood and anxiously paced the boat, putting a hand on her head and looking unnerved. “You’re sure that they canceled?”

The intonation wasn’t lost on Tack.

“Carol...if...” She stopped, listening. “Yes, but...maybe we should just reschedule the trip?” Tack, on high alert, listened in. She let out a long, defeated-sounding sigh. “All right then. Fine.” She hung up and angrily tucked the phone back in her pocket. Then she grinned at him sheepishly. “Looks like it’s just us.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” Tack grinned, and Cate barked an uneasy laugh. He slung his mesh diver’s bag onto the floor of the boat and as he did so, brushed her arm ever so slightly. She jumped back and almost toppled onto the bench. He reached out a hand to steady her, and he could just make out her wide-eyed surprise behind her tinted lenses. Oh, yes, this would be an interesting morning, of that he had no doubt.

“Uh...thanks.” She withdrew her arm and rubbed it, now looking anywhere but at him.

“Can you get that rope, please?” She tried to be all business, but he could tell she was rattled. He hopped off the boat and easily untied the line holding them to the dock. He stepped back on board and gave the boat a shove with his foot as Cate kicked on the motor and took the boat out to sea. She handled the controls with confidence. The waves slapped against the bow as the ship moved across the green water, sparkling in the sun.

“Where did you learn how to pilot a boat?” he called over the roar of the engine. Of course, he already knew the answer. He’d done his homework on Cate long before now. He already knew she’d grown up in a small town in Louisiana, near Cado Lake, known for cypress trees and a few alligators. While trying to track her down, he’d damn near interviewed every one of her relatives and nearly anybody else who’d ever known her.

Her dad scraped by repairing boats, and probably took her out on the lake more than once. Her mother worked various waitressing jobs. She came from no money. Hers was a typical Cinderella story, if Cinderella tried to murder Prince Charming.

Cate kept her attention on the water. “My dad,” she said. “Dad loved to fish. He taught me how to do both.”

Tack already knew that. He’d interviewed the man, a tattooed sixty-four-year-old who drank beer for breakfast, cursed worse than a sailor and still ran a tiny little bait shop off the small, dirt turnoff for the lake. It had been a shock to his system trying to imagine the spoiled, greedy socialite living in the bayou. Her father, and everybody else he interviewed from her childhood, praised her as having a heart the size of Texas. Tack never could make sense of how she’d gone bad, except that money did funny things to people. Even nice people.

Rick Allen had told him that she plotted to kill him because a prenup meant she’d get nothing if they divorced. His death was the only way she’d get out of the marriage with a single cent.

Cate’s father had told him in no uncertain terms that he had no idea where she’d gone. Hadn’t heard from her since she’d disappeared and hoped she was doing well, wherever she was.

Tack had assumed, given how drunk the man was by the end of the interview, that her daddy issues ran deep. Probably what made her so focused on squeezing her husband dry.

“Your dad taught you?” Tack still couldn’t see how the old man managed it. Unless he wasn’t drinking so much then. “That must’ve been nice.”

“Well, sure, but Dad always got so drunk he’d pass out, and I’d have to steer the boat back to the dock. What I really learned was how to handle a boat,” she said, without a trace of self-pity, which Tack found remarkable. Tack grew up on a farm in Iowa where self-pity was about the worst sin you could manage. Despite his better judgment, he found himself admiring Cate’s no-nonsense approach to her clearly less-than-stellar childhood.

“You don’t sound mad about it.”

Cate shrugged. “Just the way things were. Like my gran said, ‘You can cry about it, or you can get over it.’ And I never much liked crying.” Right then, Tack heard just the faintest trace of Louisiana in her accent, which in other times she so carefully tamped down. Before now, he never could imagine Cate fitting in down in the bayou, no matter the old picture her father had shown him of her in cutoff jeans and bare feet.

Of course, this Cate before him, the one who kicked off her flip-flips now and stood barefoot in her boat, maybe this Cate could’ve come from the bayou. He could imagine her, maybe, walking barefoot down by the muddy lakeshore.

This Cate reminded him of the girls back home in Iowa. Unassuming, no makeup, living on the family farm. It was the kind of girl he’d had a weak spot for since eighth grade.

He saw her shift her weight, the deliciously firm muscles in her calves rippling ever so slightly. He imagined what they’d feel like wrapped tightly around his waist, and felt himself becoming aroused. This woman was a walking visa to the United States for a brave man and his family, and he couldn’t forget it.

He rummaged around in his bag and dug out the waterproof camera and began clicking pictures of the resort. His mission today was to get as many of Cate as he could. He’d need some to send to his employer, to see if he thought the resemblance was as strong as he did. Granted, Mr. Allen had asked for a DNA sample, which Tack had yet to get, but in the meantime, pictures would be a start. He turned the camera toward Cate, and instantly she held up her hand in front of her face.

“Not me! You don’t want me in there ruining your shots.” She laughed, but there was a hard edge to her voice, a warning.

“But you’re the prettiest thing out here,” he said, and for a second she hesitated.

“I hate having my picture taken,” she said. And he knew it wasn’t a lie. You couldn’t hide too well if people started posting your picture on Facebook. Not when there’s a ten-million-dollar bounty on your safe return to the States.

Tack tried to click a few more, but she’d turned, showing him her back.

Cate kicked up the motor, making any more conversation futile as the wind whipped across the bow of the boat and the maw of the engine buzzed loudly in his ears. Soon enough, Cate turned the boat into a small cove and slowed.

“Welcome to Blue Bay,” she said, cutting the engine as the boat pulled into the small inlet, where she let it drift about twenty feet from shore. She released the anchor to steady the vessel. The bay was aptly named—the clear water looked more blue than green here, and when he glanced over the side of the boat, he could see brightly colored fish darting just below the surface along a large expanse of blue coral reefs.

Cate threw down the ladder from the back of the boat.

“Help yourself,” she said, gesturing to the water. “We can stay here as long as you’d like.”

Tack whipped off his T-shirt and noticed that Cate gawked at his bare chest before she quickly turned away. He worked hard keeping himself in shape, and he smiled to himself as he noticed her flushed face.

“You’re not coming in?” he asked.

“Oh...” She looked genuinely taken off guard. “Well, I...”

“I thought I paid for a guided tour.” He sat on the bench at the back of the boat, slipping on his flippers.

Cate studied him a moment as if trying to figure out a problem. “Sure. I’ll join you.” She kept her voice neutral as she unbuttoned her cutoffs and slipped out of them. She pulled her tank over her head and now it was Tack’s turn to stare. The woman was a tanned, toned masterpiece in perfect symmetry. He couldn’t help but stare at her belly button and the firm stomach that slipped down into her bright blue string bikini bottom. She sat and busied herself putting on her own gear. She attached a small knife belt to her thigh, and grabbed a small mesh bag.

“Fish food,” she explained as she held it up. “You ready?” He swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry as he tried his best not to look at how well she filled out her bikini top.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said as he maneuvered to the end of the boat, bypassed the ladder and leaped into the warm Caribbean Sea.

The rush of warm water enveloped him, and when Cate jumped in a few feet nearby, he swam to her, playfully splashing her with water.

“Hey!” she called, retaliating by slapping the water up to his face. He coughed and swiped at his eyes, and as she advanced, he caught her off guard by diving beneath the waves and grabbing hold of her waist.

He realized how fit she was, how taut her skin felt beneath his hands. When they came up for air, their bodies pressed together, water ran down their faces. All he really wanted to do was kiss her.