Julien looked as though he was going to argue, but maybe her pleas gave him the excuse to back off without losing face. Although in a contest between the two . . . there wouldn’t be one.
Julien slid his arm around her waist and drew her against him protectively. But before they turned around to go, he had to get in one last comment. “Your boss is going to hear about this.”
Three
Fucking douche bag.
The man the locals knew as Dan Warren watched the two protesters walk away, glad to see them go. For a minute he thought—maybe even hoped—that the feisty little American whose hand had landed in his lap the night before was going to argue with him. And even though do-gooder, antimilitary, idealistic graduate students weren’t exactly high on his list, sexy, dark-haired, green-eyed, full-mouthed Vampire Diaries chick look-alikes—with the killer body to go along with the rest—definitely were. He could still feel the heat of her hand on him. The speed of his body’s reaction was a painful reminder that he’d neglected certain areas for too long.
The instant attraction had been as surprising as it had been unwelcome—especially after that “machine” comment.
He’d noticed her the moment she walked in. Hell, every straight man in the bar had noticed her. Long, wavy dark hair, big green eyes, flawless suntanned skin, sultry red mouth, and the previously mentioned killer body. Tight ass, long legs, and a good-sized rack—a winning trifecta in his book.
But he’d quickly lost interest when he realized she was with the protest group—and the French guy. Until she’d mentioned that damned article. And her boyfriend and his friends had started in on the “hired killer” crap. He might have appreciated her defense a little more were it not for the “programmed machine too brainwashed—and stupid—to realize what they were doing” angle.
The last thing he wanted to hear was some clueless academic giving his or her point of view on what others did. On what others died for, damn it.
But what the hell was she doing with a little turd like that? Dan didn’t like the looks of him—Julien (talk about a “take my lunch money” name)—and not just because he was French. Although that certainly didn’t hurt. He didn’t usually rely on stereotypes—unless they happened to fit. Dan was good at sizing up people, and everything about that guy rubbed him the wrong way.
He knew the type too well. Smug and condescending, Julien thought culture and education only existed in smooth-talking, upper-crust circles populated by people who liked to hear themselves talk and thought they were smart because they could quote Kierkegaard or listened to opera.
Dan had learned far more working in the real world. He had no use for passive, pretentious pseudointellectuals who probably couldn’t tell north from south on a compass and did nothing for all the freedom they took for granted and let others defend. A jackass like Julien would be the last person Dan would want in his lifeboat when the shit hit the fan, but God knows the little prick would be the first one to knock everyone out of the way to get in.
He wondered what Julien and his buddies were up to. But it wasn’t any of his business. And minding his business was exactly what “Dan” was going to do.
Even if it was driving him fucking crazy.
But he was still pissed off. Probably because the douche bag had gotten the last word—and guessed correctly that Dan was taking orders.
Julien was right. The boss wasn’t going to be happy.
Which was confirmed a short while later when Malcolm MacDonald yelled down the hatch to the engine room, where Dan was working, for him to come up.
The man the locals referred to as “Old MacDonald”—you couldn’t make this shit up—had spent the better part of his sixty-eight years at sea as a fisherman. It was a tough life, and he wore the hardships of it on his face. Grizzled, about a hundred bills overweight—most of it in his gut—and rarely without a cigarette hanging from his mouth, in between coughing fits that made Dan think Old MacDonald would be buying the farm before he saw the other side of seventy, he conversed in grunts, curses, and glowers. Usually.
“You want to explain why I just got off the phone with an angry customer who said you refused to take them on the charter I told you about?”
Dan shrugged. “The guy was an asshole.”
MacDonald exploded. “An asshole who was about to pay two thousand pounds cash for less than two days’ work!”
Dan’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a lot of money. I told you I wouldn’t run drugs for you.”
It had been his one stipulation. What MacDonald did on his own time to make ends meet, he wouldn’t ask. The old guy’s less-than-stellar reputation in town had been one of the reasons Dan had sought him out for employment. People engaged in less-than-legal activity tended not to ask too many questions.
MacDonald’s gaze narrowed right back at him. “Who said anything about drugs? They want a ride out to the drillship.”
“Why?” Dan could think of a handful of reasons—none of which were good.
What was the feisty little American messed up in?
“I didn’t ask. And neither should you. Asking questions isn’t part of my business—you should know that.” The less-than-subtle reference to Dan’s own hazy background was well-taken. “They hired us to take four of them and an inflatable on an overnight dive. I hired you to captain the fucking boat, not make decisions. You got that?”
If this job wasn’t so good—pretty damned perfect actually—Dan would remind the old buzzard that any scrutiny into Dan’s background was likely to provoke scrutiny into MacDonald’s own business “enterprises.” But deciding not to press him, Dan nodded.
But he nearly reconsidered when MacDonald added, “Then I will leave it to you to find them and fix it before they hire another company to take their money.”
Dan knew exactly what “fix it” meant, and every bone in his body balked at the idea of apologizing to that smug asshole. But if he refused, he had no doubt that MacDonald would fire him. He weighed the likelihood of finding another job as good as this one and swore.
Looked as if it was time for him to eat some shit.
• • •
This sucked. Dan stood in front of the door with a brass “2” staring at him. It hadn’t been difficult to find out where they were staying. When he hadn’t seen them at the protester camp at the port, he’d guessed that they were at the Harbour Bar & Guest House. He’d wager what he had in his pocket—which, as he’d just cashed a check, was about two weeks of work—that Julien didn’t do roughing it.
He lifted his hand to knock and hesitated. He didn’t need this shit. He could find another boat.
If the door hadn’t opened, he might have turned around.
The gorgeous brunette nearly ran into him. She gasped and then just stood there, clearly surprised to see him, with her killer mouth parted in a way that made him think of all kinds of really inappropriate things.
“Hi,” he said a little more softly—and huskily—than he’d intended.
The simple greeting seemed to take her aback. It was as if she didn’t know what to do with it. He supposed that was his fault. He hadn’t exactly encouraged conversation in their prior exchanges.
She didn’t respond right away. Their eyes met and held—and didn’t let go. He felt the buzz of something hot and unwanted. But the physical attraction was there. From the uncomfortable pause, he guessed that she had felt it, too—and didn’t like it any better than he did.
“Hi,” she finally said.
Christ, her voice was insane. Low and throaty, and sexy as hell. She’d make a killing in phone sex.
The vaguely intimate moment was ruined by the arrival of Julien.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, stepping in front of his girlfriend. From the frown on her face, Dan took it she didn’t appreciate the show of masculine posturing.
Dan kept his express
ion blank. “I came to tell you there was a misunderstanding. The boat is available for you to charter.”
Julien didn’t disappoint, proving Dan’s ability to size people up quickly and accurately. Unfortunately, although he might be a douche bag, he wasn’t a stupid one. He’d quickly figured out that Dan wasn’t here of his own volition and was being forced to make amends. And from the slow sneer that crept up his face, it was clear that he wasn’t going to make that easy.
“A misunderstanding?” Julien repeated. “There wasn’t any misunderstanding. You told us the boat wasn’t available and the deal we had with your boss wasn’t good with you. So if that’s all . . .” He started to shut the door, but Dan held out his hand to stop him.
“That isn’t all. I have the paperwork. All I need is a signature, and a fifty percent deposit.”
“Don’t you have something to say first?” Julien demanded, clearly savoring the prospect of making Dan grovel.
But Dan didn’t engage in power plays with little girls—or men who acted like them. “I’m sorry for the confusion.”
Julien’s satisfied smile was punctuated by a single raised eyebrow. “I’m sure you are. But I’m afraid it’s too late. After your unprofessional behavior yesterday”—Dan’s jaw clenched at being scolded like a toddler—“we contacted another company.”
If Dan needed proof that Julien was lying, his girlfriend’s reaction was enough. Up until that point, he’d sensed her watching them both as if it were a Ping-Pong match. But now her gaze stayed on Julien, a frown between her eyes. She seemed about to object, but then slammed her mouth shut as if she’d thought better of it. Oddly Dan appreciated that. The little bastard needed upbraiding, but not publicly.
“Look. Another company isn’t necessary. The boat is available if you want it.”
Apparently the woman had had enough. She didn’t wait for Julien to make another objection. “That will be fine,” she said. “We spoke to Mr. MacDonald right before you arrived, and he told us about the, uh . . . confusion. We were just on our way to the dock. He didn’t tell us you would be coming in person to apologize. Thank you.”
She smiled, and despite the fact that her boyfriend had just been trying to make him look like an idiot, he found himself smiling back.
It had been so long since he’d had anything to smile about. It felt wrong, and he immediately sobered.
“Annie Henderson,” she said, holding out her hand.
He took it, unable to ignore how small and soft her fingers felt enfolded in his grip—or the sudden heat that spread through him. “Dan Warren,” he said.
She removed her hand from his a little too quickly. The flush on her cheeks told him that she’d noticed the connection, too. She turned to her boyfriend. “This is my, uh, Julien Bernard.”
“Her boyfriend,” Julien said, sliding his arm around her waist to draw her closer. He might as well have lifted his leg and peed.
That little frown between her eyes deepened. She was looking at Julien as if he were a strange beast that she’d never seen before at a zoo.
It was called territorial male.
Clearly she didn’t like it. She shifted away from Julien’s hold under the guise of taking the paperwork. “Should we go downstairs and find a table? I have a few questions about the boat and the dive equipment before we finalize everything.”
Dan lifted his brow, a little surprised by her businesslike tone. But it was clear she took both very seriously, which he could definitely appreciate, as he did as well.
He nodded. “Shoot.”
For the next hour she did exactly that, hitting him with dozens of questions about the equipment: the compressed air and other gas mixes he had available, the backups in place, the water temperature, wind speeds, lights, buoyancy compensation systems—pretty much everything he would have asked in her place.
Maybe even a few he wouldn’t have thought of.
After a few minutes of sulking—probably at being ignored—Julien gave up trying to follow the conversation and stuck his nose in his phone.
By the time Annie signed the paperwork and handed Dan the deposit, he was impressed—and not dreading the job as much as he had been. Annie Henderson knew how to dive, and what SEAL—even a supposed-to-be-dead one, he thought grimly—didn’t admire that in a woman?
Four
Annie tried not to squirm as Julien interrogated the poor waitress about the wine list. From what she could tell, the restaurant had a broad selection of wines from Chile, Australia, Spain, Italy, California, and even Argentina. But apparently the handful of reds from France weren’t up to par.
The first time this had happened at a restaurant, Annie told herself that she was being oversensitive. Wine was obviously important to him, and Julien’s worldliness was one of the things that attracted her to him. But right now she just wanted to tell him that he was being an ass. They were in a remote corner of Scotland in a small seafood restaurant, and the waitress was probably eighteen, for goodness’ sake. What kind of extensive knowledge about Bordeaux did he expect?
But after their argument earlier, she didn’t want to ruin the special evening that he’d arranged to make it up to her.
She didn’t like the captain any more than he did, but neither had she liked Julien’s attempt to humiliate the other man, forcing him to apologize and then lying about contacting another company. If she’d noticed that captain’s confident, no-BS, “don’t even try to mess with me” silent strength in the contest between the two men, she didn’t mention it. Nor did she think too long about who had so obviously come out ahead in the exchange.
She didn’t know what was wrong with Julien, but the mean-spirited, childish behavior had reflected poorly on him. She’d told him so and he’d apologized, but it still bothered her.
The waitress finally gave up and the owner came out to talk to him. After a few apologies, the owner brought out the closest thing they had to a Bordeaux. Apparently it met with Julien’s rigorous standards. After going through the long, drawn-out process of tasting it, he nodded his approval. The same process had fascinated her the first time—she’d never gone out with anyone who knew anything about wine—but right now it was just adding to her irritation.
For once she wished he would just order a damned beer.
“Whatever lager you have on tap,” the Canadian captain—Dan—had said when the waitress came by to take their order earlier and Julien had asked whether he wanted a glass of their wine. He’d shaken his head. “Never acquired the taste for it.”
If Julien hadn’t disliked him enough already, that had ensured it. He’d smiled superiorly, and she knew he was thinking something along the lines of “peasant.”
When the waitress started to pour a glass for her, Annie felt a spark of rebellion. “I think I’ll have a glass of the rosé instead.”
Too bad they didn’t have a white zin, but the rosé was almost as “bad” in Julien’s book.
Annie didn’t care. She liked blush wines. She would tell him about the time at college she and some of her friends had done the “Tour de Franzia,” a drinking game played with the boxed “pink” wine, but he’d probably keel over and die of horror.
Instead he only gave a slight frown in her direction, before launching into another long series of questions directed at the waitress about the menu and how everything was prepared. When he started in about his girlfriend being a vegetarian, Annie stopped him. He wasn’t going to make her a part of this.
Smiling apologetically at the girl, who by now was looking as though she wanted to cry, she said, “I’ll just have the rocket salad to start, and the goat cheese and onion tart. Both sound delicious. Thank you.”
The young girl nodded back in gratitude. Annie would make sure to slip her an extra ten pounds the next time she went to the bathroom. Julien wasn’t a bad tipper, but whatever he tipped wouldn’t be enough for that ord
eal.
Eventually he decided on the rabbit starter and the veal entrée—exactly what Annie guessed he would order when she’d first glanced at the menu. He liked cute and fuzzy. Annie couldn’t do it. She wasn’t a vegetarian for health reasons; she just thought that if you ate meat you should be willing to kill for it.
Her father had taught her that the first—and only—time they went hunting together. His lesson had backfired, however, when the ten-year-old Annie refused to pull the trigger and announced that from that moment on she wouldn’t eat meat. Her mother, never much on the hunting bandwagon herself, had thought it was hysterical and told him it was his own fault—Annie hadn’t gotten her stubbornness or fierce set of beliefs from her.
The rare happy memory of her childhood was interrupted by Julien, asking her about her wine.
They made small talk throughout the meal, but it wasn’t until she was pushing around the remnants of her fresh raspberries and chocolate mousse that Julien ventured beyond the “how is your” or “don’t you like your” questions.
“Why are you being like this? I told you I was sorry, and I’m trying to make it up to you.”
From his peeved expression, it was clear he thought she was being unreasonable. Was she? He had gone to the trouble of arranging a romantic dinner rather than having a curry with the rest of their group, and the prices were high for his starving-grad-student budget. But an expensive meal wasn’t what she wanted. What she’d wanted was an explanation.
“I know, and I appreciate it. But I guess what happened earlier bothered me more than I realized. It wasn’t like you.”
At least she didn’t think it was, but then again, how well did she really know him? Maybe that was what was bothering her most of all. She’d run off to Scotland on a wild adventure with a man she had known for two months, and the reality of that was catching up with her. She wasn’t usually impulsive.
He’d been acting different since they arrived. Or had he? Could it be that she was only seeing him clearly now because everything else was different, too? Alone in a way they’d never been before—without her familiar surroundings and other friends around her—what she’d excused as foreign or eccentric was now just rude and . . . weak.