The much-hated word resonated in her ears. It had been the worst criticism her father could level on someone, and she’d always reacted against it. Just because not all men wanted to play superhero like him didn’t make them weak. And ironically being a superhero had made her father exactly that.
Julien wasn’t weak. He was kind and compassionate and thoughtful. He’d always treated her with consideration and respect. He was always a perfect gentleman—even when they made love. He took his time—foreplay was the national sport of France, he liked to jest—always seeing to her pleasure first. She’d never had someone spend so much time kissing her shoulders and arms. If she sometimes wished he would just hurry up, she told herself not to be ridiculous. She was lucky to have someone so considerate and romantic in her life.
She was being unfair to him. And she realized how much when he reached over to take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before bringing it to his mouth. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. But I was jealous.”
“What?” Annie was incredulous. “Of the scruffy captain?”
Julien gave her a searching look from under his indecently long lashes. “I saw the way he looked at you, and I thought you might be attracted to him.”
He couldn’t be serious. She might have noticed the captain’s longshoreman’s physique and size—it would be hard not to—but that wasn’t what attracted her to a man. Admittedly he had amazingly sharp and piercing eyes, and the part of his face she could see beneath the threadbare cap and heavy beard appeared to be good-looking in that tough-guy fashion that could be appealing, but physical appeal wasn’t what was important to her.
Or rather, it wasn’t usually all that was important to her.
“How could you think that? You are what I’m attracted to. You are drop-dead gorgeous”—not to mention clean-shaven—“sophisticated, cultured, smart, and the most charming man I have ever met.” The captain had about all the charm of a rock. “Not to mention that you care about the same things I do like politics and the environment.” She shook her head. “Didn’t you see him washing out that oily engine part in the sea? God only knows how many carbon emissions that old guzzler of a boat he captains is giving off. He probably has an old pickup truck or SUV to go along with it. A guy like that?” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine anything we’d have to talk about.”
“You seemed to talk about diving long enough,” Julien pointed out. She bit her lip, realizing he was right. She’d felt bad for excluding him, but it was rare she had the opportunity to talk with someone who knew as much about diving as she did. Julien held her gaze and added, “And I don’t think talking was necessarily what he had in mind.”
The realization of what he meant made her blush. And for a moment she imagined what it would be like having that big, muscular body on top of her—naked—and that sizable column she’d had her hand wrapped around slowly pushing inside.
No. She immediately knew that he wouldn’t be slow. He’d be hard and fast and probably a little rough. Just the way she imagined when she was alone in bed at night.
The wave of heat that passed through her was so powerful, so intense, she almost shuddered.
Maybe Julien was a little more right than she wanted him to be. The physical attraction had been stronger than she wanted to admit. But it didn’t mean anything.
She returned the squeeze of his hand with one of her own. She rolled her thumb over his finely boned fingers. He had good hands, even if they were a little soft. But she wasn’t Jerry Seinfeld; she wasn’t going to get skeeved out by something as silly as “man hands”—or rather, the lack thereof.
The captain’s hands had been big and rough with calluses. She frowned, remembering the cuts and burn marks as well. She’d noticed a few marks on one side of his face as well that looked recently healed. Had he been in some kind of accident? Was that why he seemed so grim?
Why was she thinking about this?
She turned back to Julien. “I think you are reading far more into it than there was. I don’t think Captain Dan likes me any better than I like him. But none of that matters. The only man I have in my mind is you.”
Her words seemed to convince him, and things felt back to normal as they walked back to the room hand in hand. She even felt a slight flutter of excitement when he closed the door behind them and started to kiss her. Until he turned on the light and moved on to her neck to begin the long, drawn-out process of unbuttoning her blouse.
With Julien everything was long and drawn out.
He must have sensed her withdrawal. He lifted his head and looked down at her. “What is it?”
He really was good-looking with that dark hair slumped over his brow, his dark eyes, full lips, and clefted chin. If physical attraction was so important to her—she thought with frustration, recalling her reaction to the captain—why wasn’t she into this?
“Nothing,” she said. “Don’t stop.” She tried to move his head down to her breast. She liked the way he circled his tongue on her nipple and sometimes sucked, but apparently it was too soon for that. He began to press slow kisses around her clavicle. Not the clavicle, she nearly groaned. He would be there for an hour.
Impatience rose inside her. She couldn’t hold back and blurted, “Do you think we could, um, go a little faster tonight?”
He lifted his head again, his eyes narrowed. She could tell right away that she’d made a mistake. He looked mortally offended. As if she’d just impugned his honor as a lover and a Frenchman. “What do you mean? Do you not like how I make love to you?”
“Of course I do!” she exclaimed vehemently. “It’s just that I’m a little tired—”
Wrong thing to say. He released her as if she were a . . . box of pink wine. His expression held the coldness that reminded her of his friend Jean Paul’s. “Go to bed, then. But it won’t be with me until you figure out whether you want that. All in—isn’t that how you Americans say it? But you better figure it out fast. I went out on a branch for you, but there are plenty of others who can take your place.”
Limb, not branch. But she didn’t correct him. She’d never seen him so angry. But what was he talking about? “Julien, wait!”
But it was too late. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
• • •
It was after midnight when Annie realized that she was going to have to find Julien and apologize. In addition to being sensitive, he apparently had a stubborn streak. As that was a character trait she understood, she figured it was up to her to make it right—even though she hadn’t really done anything wrong.
But she was feeling guilty, suspecting that her less-than-amorous response to Julien might have more to do with her illicit thoughts about Captain Dan than she wanted to admit.
She didn’t know what had come over her; she never should have blurted out her request like that. It was easy to see how Julien had taken it the wrong way. She hadn’t been rejecting him or criticizing his lovemaking . . . exactly. She’d just wanted a little more “rip off the clothes” and not quite as much “romance.”
He’d clearly overreacted—and she didn’t appreciate his threat to find another woman to “replace” her if that was what he meant by that strange comment—but guilt propelled her to throw on jeans and a sweatshirt, head down into the still-crowded bar, where Sergio and Marie told her Julien had gone down to the camp with Jean Paul and some of the others, and venture out into the cool, starry night.
She sighed at the fresh brace of air. She could definitely get used to this. She loved how the temperature dropped at night here even in the summer. Because she had only lived in the South—Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and Louisiana—it was a new experience for her. Summer in the South meant hot and humid—day or night. Although at this time of year, Scotland didn’t have much night. Even though it was after midnight, the sun had set only a couple of hours ago, and would rise again
in about four hours. It never really got that dark in the summer—it was more like perpetual twilight.
Unfortunately, despite the more temperate weather, she hadn’t escaped bugs. Instead of annoying mosquitoes, the Isle of Lewis had midges—which might even be worse. The dreaded things had swarmed them on their walk back from the restaurant earlier in the evening.
Conscious of the late hour, and used to big cities, where walking alone at night was never a good idea, Annie hurried down the waterfront street toward the ferry building. She had to go past a bar with a few men standing around smoking outside, but other than stare a little too long for politeness’ sake, they didn’t bother her. Her confident smile and bold “Hi” had done the trick, making them turn away like startled rabbits. Objects weren’t supposed to talk.
Still, her heart was beating a little fast by the time she reached the makeshift campground and started to look around for Julien in the throng of activists. There were probably around a hundred people here now. Her nose wrinkled. From the stench, most of them seemed to enjoy smoking pot. It was a part of activist culture—which definitely leaned toward hippie—but drugs had never been her thing.
Tents filled most of the cement parking lot, but in the center a large area had been left as a communal area for cooking and eating. To one side was a large fire pit—ironically fashioned out of an old oil drum—with blankets, cheap lawn chairs, and a few ratty pieces of upholstered furniture probably recycled from a Dumpster strewn around it.
It took her a while to find Julien. With good reason. He and Jean Paul were off to the side seated opposite each other at a picnic table where the light from the fire didn’t quite reach them. But she recognized the shadowy profiles of the two men. What she didn’t recognize, however, was the third profile. The third profile that was bent very close to Julien’s and belonged to a woman. The three of them appeared to be deep in conversation.
Thick as thieves.
Annie felt her skin prickle. There was something about the intensity of the conversation that made her uneasy. What were they talking about? And who was the blond-haired woman who was practically sitting on Julien’s lap?
It couldn’t be what Annie was thinking. But there was something intimate about the way they sat together that didn’t feel right.
The woman inhaled from a cigarette before tapping the ash into a soda can. Annie didn’t miss the three bottles of wine and the half-full glasses that were next to them. They’d obviously been here for some time. To Annie’s surprise, the woman passed the cigarette to Julien. He took a long drag before handing it back as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Since when did he smoke?
Strangely it was the sight of Julien smoking rather than the proximity of and the apparent intimacy with the woman that upset her. He’d told her he didn’t smoke. Like her, he’d claimed to have a grandmother who died of lung cancer. Had he lied to her or was there another explanation?
As much as Annie wanted to storm over there and confront him, she forced herself to take a few deep breaths before she made her way around the bonfire.
“Make it happen,” she heard the woman say as she approached the table from behind Julien and the woman. “I have faith in your persuasive abilities.”
Something about the way she said “persuasive” made Annie’s breath catch. Jean Paul, who was opposite her, looked up at the sound.
Clearly her sudden appearance had startled him. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Overhear anything interesting, Mademoiselle Henderson?”
She didn’t like the way he was looking at her—or his threatening tone. He made it seem as if she were intentionally spying on them. She hadn’t intended to overhear anything. It was they who’d been too caught up in their conversation to notice her.
So much for trying to give Julien’s teacher another chance. She didn’t like him.
But she wasn’t going to let him bully her. She gave him an overly cheeky smile. “Not yet, but don’t stop on my account. You all seemed enthralled by something.” Julien and the woman next to him had turned to stare at her as soon as Jean Paul spoke. Annie turned to the woman, who was older than her long blond hair had suggested. Late thirties or maybe even forty. But whatever number, she was striking, with the ageless beauty afforded by good bone structure. “We haven’t met,” she said to her. “I’m Annie.”
“Sofie,” the other woman said, briefly meeting her gaze in the dim light before turning back to Julien. “Your boyfriend has been telling me all about you.”
Annie couldn’t place the accent, but it definitely wasn’t French like Jean Paul’s and Julien’s. She would guess some part of Scandinavia. Swedish maybe?
“He has?” Annie looked at Julien, who wasn’t quite as good at hiding his emotions as the other two. He definitely looked anxious about something.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to find you. I was worried. It was getting late.” She turned to the other woman, who had lit another cigarette. “How do you all know each other?”
The woman shrugged. “Here and there. It’s a small world with what we do.” She started to get up. “I should go.”
Julien and Jean Paul started to object.
“Don’t go on my account,” Annie said. “I’m not staying.”
She looked hopefully at Julien, but he either hadn’t gotten the hint or had chosen to ignore it. Instead he looked relieved that she wasn’t going to ruin his night. “Don’t wait up for me. Some of the guys are going to sing later, and they asked me to play.”
Julien played guitar. Not well, but enough to strum along.
“I can walk you back if you’d like,” Jean Paul offered.
Good God, no! Every instinct revolted at the thought.
Annie shook her head—hopefully with less vehemence than she felt. “That’s all right. I’ll be fine. It’s only a few blocks.”
Before anyone could argue, she gave a short wave. “See you later.” And took off back through the crowded parking lot of partiers.
She had a few offers to stay along the way—“Hey, beautiful, what’s the hurry?”—but after extracting her arm from a couple of playful grabs, she was back out on the waterfront street inhaling fresh, un-cannabis-laced air.
Angry, and more than a little hurt by Julien’s dismissiveness, she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. Too late, she realized someone was behind her.
Five
Dan Warren, aka Senior Chief Dean Baylor, needed a drink. Which was exactly why he wasn’t going to get one. Having a drunk for a mother had taught him a few things at least.
It was what had kept him from the bottle these past two months after the goat fuck in Russia. Men dying was part of the gig. They all knew that. Dean had had men die on him before. But not like this. Not so many. It wasn’t the kind of thing you got over. Process? Accept? Maybe. But get over? Never.
The fact that any of them had walked out of there at all was something of a miracle. They should all be dead. And whoever was responsible for this was going to wish they were. Dean was going to make damned sure of it.
But not from here. Not doing this. And the frustration of having his hands tied was getting to him.
As he walked along the waterfront, leaving the boat tied up on the dock behind him, he knew he’d better find another outlet for his foul mood or he was going to explode.
At 0130 hours his choices were pretty limited. He thought about returning to the dock and going for a swim but didn’t want to take the chance that someone would see him, and wonder what the hell he was doing swimming in the ocean in the middle of the night.
Maybe a run? A long hike?
Sex?
He nearly groaned. God, that sounded perfect.
But knowing it wasn’t in the cards, he cursed. Great. Now his body was teeming with even more frustration, which wasn’t
what he needed after another long, fruitless night patrolling the shipping lanes around Scotland looking for . . .
He had no fucking idea.
A needle in the proverbial haystack?
Keyser Söze?
It felt like a little of both. Even if the Russian sub seen in these waters a few months ago was here now, finding it would take something along the lines of a miracle.
Dean’s nighttime forays over the past few weeks when the dive boat wasn’t being used sure as hell weren’t getting him any closer to an answer.
But he had to start somewhere. That his best option was returning to the place of the platoon’s last deployment before the op to Russia said a hell of a lot about what he had to go on. Which—other than that the Russians had known they were coming—was squat. But the British government had sought their help in tracking down Russian sub incursions in the waters around Scotland about a month before the mission to Russia, so here he was.
Like a fucking jerk-off.
Literally and figuratively.
The lack of progress in finding out who was responsible for the deaths of his comrades in Retiarius Platoon was eating away at him. Lying low. Disappearing. Standing by. Playing dead. They went against every bone in his body. He wanted to do something. And this wild-goose chase wasn’t it.
The Russians had been tipped off to their op. But by whom and why? Had it been an accidental leak or had someone set them up?
His fists squeezed. When he found out who was responsible . . .
Unconsciously his thumb rolled over the scarred knuckle of his right hand where a thick fragment of glass had been embedded. It was one of dozens. He’d been a human pincushion, pummeled by fragments of metal, glass, and wood from the explosion. His ballistic FAST helmet, which he didn’t usually wear, and SPEAR body armor with the plates that he’d debated not wearing because of the added weight had probably saved his life. He’d been lucky.