by Tawny Weber
“You always say that, but you don’t look so good.” With an assessing look somewhere between doubt and pity, Manny shook his head. “My instructions, they’re to watch out for you. You’re healing okay. Good food, good rest, it helps. But good spirits, that’d turn the tide.”
“My spirits are fine,” Travis said somberly.
“Paulo, he’s gonna call me tomorrow. What am I supposed to say to him when he asks how you’re doing? I’ll tell him you won’t party, you barely eat, he’s gonna be peeved.”
Peeved, Travis rolled his eyes, but had to admit—if only to himself—that peeved was the perfect word for Paulo. The chief petty officer didn’t get pissed, he never threw fits, he was the perfect gentleman. Some would say a goody-goody, but only if those some hadn’t ever watched him eviscerate an enemy combatant.
Still...
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“No? Then you need a friend. A lady friend, maybe.”
The sexy blonde’s face flashed through Travis’s mind. She was definitely the kind of friend he’d like to show a good time. For a night, or in her case, two or three.
“I’m fine. I’m gonna eat this good fish, then get some rest.”
“You want me to hang out? Visit and keep you company while you eat. Save you cleaning the dish afterward, cuz I’ll just take it back to Glory to wash.”
“It’s a paper plate,” Travis pointed out. Then, because he knew the man wasn’t going to budge off his damned babysitting duties, Travis made a show of snapping up the plate. He uncovered it, and using his fingers, he snagged a chunk of fish. Spices exploded on his tongue, the flavor reminding his stomach of the good ole days, when he’d liked to eat.
“It’s great, man. Tell Glory thanks for me.”
“You’ll eat it all?”
As much to assure the guy as to get him to leave, Travis tossed back the rest and handed back the plate.
“Yum.”
It took a few more prods to convince Manny that he was fine, he was full, he was comfortable and yes, he would get some sleep. But finally, the guy took his paper plate and left.
Leaving Travis alone with the sound of partyers in the distance, and the ocean nearby. As the moon climbed higher in the sky, he watched the waves with eyes that must have been as empty as his soul felt. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last month, he wondered if recovery at the beach had been a mistake. He’d had friends offer him their cabins in the mountains, a trip to a ranch in Colorado, a condo in Vegas and a high-rise in Manhattan. He could have—should have—crashed at any of them. Instead, here he was watching the one true love of his life.
The ocean, the sea.
For all her fickle whims, all her changeable moods, she was power. She was life.
Some might say that she’d tried to kill him, but Travis figured that just proved she had a dark side.
And watching her from a hammock on a sunset beach was as good a way to heal as any, he supposed.
* * *
Lila loved the job she’d created. She really did.
Here she sat in a deeply cushioned lounge chair, her hair loose, a tray on her lap to hold her computer and a frothy drink, complete with pink umbrella at her elbow. Despite the setting sun, the air was warm and the beach quiet as the sun worshippers had gone in for dinner and the partyers hadn’t yet gathered.
It really was a great job, she reminded herself as she sucked up more Caribbean Punch through an icy straw.
But, holy cow, where was she going to find a female blacksmith? Specifically one with public speaking skills, an affinity for children and a desire to travel with an educational troupe for a year. Scrolling through the database on her laptop, she scanned for any name that’d spark an idea.
But blacksmiths weren’t exactly plentiful in the circles Lila traveled in. So she’d expand them, she decided.
Still, maybe Corinne was right. Matchmaking might be easier. But Lila had less faith in the longevity of love than she did in her ability to track down a buff chick that liked to beat fire and steel.
“Ms. Adrian?”
Her fingers pausing on the keys of her laptop, Lila looked up with a smile. “Yes?”
“Phone for you, ma’am,” the young concierge said, holding out a cordless phone on a bamboo tray.
“For me?”
Corinne would use her cell number. So would any clients, friends or prospects trying to reach her.
There was only one person who’d make a point of tracking her down and calling the hotel to ensure she knew she’d been tracked.
Lips pressed tight, Lila gently closed her laptop. She gave herself an extra few seconds to gather her thoughts, to push away the initial rush of emotions that dealing with her father always incited.
Strongest was the heavy weight of regret that she’d never, not once in her life, lived up to her father’s expectations. She’d like to blame it on her brother. It wasn’t easy to live up to a guy like Lucas. Prep school prince, Annapolis grad, Navy SEAL. Not even leaving the Navy against their father’s express wishes had knocked him off his golden pedestal.
Instead of a pedestal, Lila had a gilded cage.
“I’d prefer to take this in my room,” she stated. He was probably calling to lecture, would likely round that out with a few unreasonable demands. Whatever her father wanted, she knew she’d rather deal with it in private. “Would you transfer it there, please?”
Lila took her time. She took the stairs. Once in her room, she even took a bottle of water from the small refrigerator. Tequila would be better, but she knew she’d want her wits about her.
She didn’t sit on the bed. That’d be too casual, too relaxed. Instead, she pulled out the stiff wooden chair from the small desk and perched on the edge.
One deep breath, and she lifted the phone receiver.
“Hello, Father. How are you?”
“Lila. Your help is required to organize and act as hostess for an event of great import. I’m honoring dignitaries and notable Navy personnel, including your brother.”
Pointing out that Lucas wasn’t in the Navy anymore would have as much impact as her hello had. So Lila didn’t waste her breath.
“It does sound like a worthy event, and honoring our troops—” even the ones who didn’t serve in Special Ops, the ones her father pretended didn’t exist “—is important. But as commendable as I’m sure it will be, I am not available to hostess or attend.”
There. Didn’t that sound officious and professional? Two things her father should easily relate to.
But, instead of understanding—or God, forbid, pride—at her work ethic and business success, her words garnered her a lecture.
Duty. Privilege. Expectations. Failure. Disappointment.
Years of practice helped her keep all of the tension, all of the reaction, in her left hand. Clenching, unclenching, clenching her fist. Over and over. Squeeze the tension, release the stress, she silently chanted.
When he finally wound down, she gave herself a second to make sure her temper was under control before speaking again.
“I have a business to run and commitments that require my time. A concept you should be familiar with. Isn’t that what you always said at every holiday, birthday or potential family occasion?”
So much for control.
“I run a multimillion dollar conglomerate with holdings in twelve countries, producing profits in the billions. You, on the other hand, are playing at running an employment agency for the odd and disenfranchised. Your accrued net earnings for the three years you’ve been in so-called business are a drop in the bucket compared to just the yearly interest on the trust fund you’ve rejected with your little act of faux independence.”
Everything wasn’t about money, Lila wanted to shout. Some things were worth more than dollars and cents. Like independence. Or pride. Or
respect. She’d happily walk away from her trust fund if he’d give her any one of those.
But there was no point in telling him any of that. He never listened.
“As I understand it, you’re in Costa Rica to procure a chef for Joe Martin. That’s no longer necessary.”
“What’d you do?” she asked, her words a furious whisper. “What did you do?”
“My secretary will find them five comparable chefs to choose from, freeing you to come home.”
“The Martins are my clients, and it’s my responsibility to fulfill their request,” she snapped.
“That’s inconsequential. I’ve arranged for a helicopter to transport you to the San José airport where a private plane is scheduled to depart in the morning,” he continued, his tone of absolute confidence the only thing Lila had ever wished she’d inherited. “The itinerary is in your email inbox. I expect you to be here in two days.”
While Lila was choking on her stunned fury, he hung up.
She wanted to call him back and scream.
She wanted to throw the phone through the window.
She wanted to cry.
She shoved her hands through her hair, tugging on it until the urge passed.
Then she got up to pace off her fury.
Her entire damned life, he’d done this. Ordered, demanded or manipulated. She’d tried reason, she’d tried threats, she’d even run away from home. She’d tried to cut herself off from the family, even going so far as to use her late mother’s maiden name in her teens. It hadn’t made any difference.
Nothing got through to the man.
All she could do was focus on her life, and her business. Which meant figuring out what he’d done and undo it, Lila told herself. It still took a couple more paces of the room to calm down enough to listen to herself, though.
When she did, she figured she’d better call Joe Martin and ensure she still had a client. Otherwise she was going to have to rewrite her company’s tag line to guarantee 95 percent satisfaction instead of 100.
Lila opened her laptop to pull up his phone number and saw her email notification flashing.
Flight details.
Her jaw set, her finger shaking, Lila deleted the email without replying. And contacted her client, instead.
“Mr. Martin, hello. This is Lila Adrian.”
Thirty minutes later, she’d smoothed over the trouble her father had caused and promised complete satisfaction in the form of Chef Rodriguez. No substitutes, no replacements, just him.
When she hung up, she knew she was tiptoeing a shaky line, making that kind of promise. But years of watching her father had given her plenty of insights into how the rich and influential operated. She’d built her business on those insights. She might not like the man a whole lot, but she couldn’t deny that his business skills were legendary.
Legends weren’t built on empty promises.
But neither were they built on fear, she told herself as she headed back to the Casa de Rico. She couldn’t wait until morning to talk with Rodriguez. Not with a man like Wayne Adrian making travel plans, whether she liked it or not. She wouldn’t put it past her father to send someone to the hotel to ensure she made that flight. She wasn’t going to comply, but it wouldn’t hurt to nail down the details with the chef tonight.
Snatches of noise rolled out of the buildings, the beat of a steel drum and thrum of guitars playing backup to the sound of Lila’s heels tapping down the sidewalk as she wove her way through the partying crowds.
People poured out of bars, gathered around restaurants and a happy couple danced in front of the hardware store. She’d had no idea that Puerto Viejo was such a party town. But safe enough, she supposed as she returned friendly greetings, refused two cleverly worded propositions and sidestepped a would-be pickpocket with an apologetic grin.
She hadn’t quite worked out her pitch, but she knew it’d be smarter to talk with Rodriguez tonight.
Maybe.
Two steps inside the restaurant and she could barely move. It obviously did a better dinner service than lunch, because it had wall-to-wall bodies.
Still, she gave the bartender a friendly look when she finally wiggled her way to the counter.
“Hi, there. Bar or restaurant?” the woman asked, giggling as a passing customer patted her on the butt.
Lila angled her head to peer around the column and check out the crowds. The small bar was three people deep, with the bodies spilling into the restaurant.
“I’d love to chat to Chef Rodriguez instead.” Lila tried a wide-eyed, innocent smile when the woman arched one brow. “I’m working on an article and was in earlier. I had the ceviche. It was great. I was hoping to ask him about a few follow-up questions.”
The woman gave her a narrow-eyed look, but finally shrugged.
“Sure. Go on back.”
Fighting her way through the crowd, Lila took a deep, grateful breath once through the kitchen doors.
A dozen faces turned to stare at her in surprise. But none was the one she was looking for.
“Chef Rodriguez?”
She got a series of shrugs, a couple of scowls and one frown from the dishwasher, who jerked his chin toward a door leading to a narrow hallway.
“Try his office.”
“Thanks.”
Remembering the chef’s earlier reluctance to talk, Lila closed the door behind her. The grumble of voices hit her when she was halfway down the hall. Men. They were speaking Spanish, but it was a dialect she wasn’t familiar with. But the rage in their tone came through loud and clear.
Biting her lip, Lila paused. She took one step back toward the kitchen, then spotted a door leading outside. Probably better to go out the side, she supposed, ignoring the frustration tightening her jaw. She wanted to talk with Rodriguez tonight, to get her offer in first.
The voices rose. She recognized enough to know that one man was pleading, another cursing. She’d just talk with the chef in the morning, as planned, she decided, nervously sidling over to the door.
Before she could turn the knob, there was a whine and a pop. Lila jumped, barely choking back her scream at the loud crash, the sight of papers winging through the air.
Another pop, and the partially closed door burst open, slamming into the wall. Before it could ricochet back again, a body flew out, landing in the hallway with a sickening thud. Something splattered, spraying the walls, spewing across the floor.
Blood?
Was that blood?
Hers drained out of her head, leaving her dizzy and blinking against the tiny black dots dancing in front of her eyes.
Chef Rodriguez, she realized with a silent scream, recognizing the body that splattered blood over the floor. A very dead Chef Rodriguez.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
Oh, God.
Lila’s whole body shook. She swiped at the doorknob, but it wouldn’t turn. She swiped again, trying to get a good hold on the metal with her sweat-slicked hand.
Get out, get out, get out, she mentally chanted, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Get out before they see you.
She heard footsteps.
The sound of something hitting the wall.
They were coming.
She let out a squeal of panicked relief when the door opened. She tried to run, but her knees were as useful as Jell-O, so she hung on to the doorjamb to keep from falling on her face.
“Hey!”
Lila heard the office door ricochet off the wall again, the horrible squelching sound of someone sliding in blood, a big body hitting the wall.
They’d seen her.
Lila considered herself to be a smart woman. A world traveler trained in self-defense. A woman who followed and respected the law.
She knew she should scream. Call for help, yell for the police. There were at lea
st fifty people twenty feet away. Someone would help her. Someone would save her.
“Hey. You.”
Lila didn’t even wait a heartbeat. She didn’t scream. She didn’t head for the kitchen.
Nope.
She ran like hell.
* * *
Ripped out of a dream, Travis jerked awake, instantly coming to full alert.
Where was he? What’d happened?
Hammock.
The beach.
In Costa Rica.
Shit.
He rubbed his hands over his face, cleaning the fatigue away before glancing at the sky. From the angle of the moon, the position of the stars, he estimated that he’d slept for about three hours.
Three uninterrupted, peaceful hours.
Not bad, he decided as he swung his legs out of the hammock and, balancing carefully, got to his feet. He doubted he’d get any more tonight, but three was good enough.
He’d go back to Paulo’s house—a hut, really—and chill. He was a man skilled in keeping his mind occupied and hands busy. A talent that came in handy before a battle. And, apparently, while mulling what the hell to do with the rest of his life.
Because the life of a beach bum was getting old.
Grinning a little because, yeah, those had been a great three hours of sleep, Travis headed for his temporary home.
But before he had taken ten steps toward the hut, he had his hands full of a hysterical blonde. Her hair flew around him in silken ropes. He felt rather than heard the loud crack as his knee gave out, but the woman continued to grab at him, her fingers clutching his back like he was a lifeline.
Despite her violent shaking and gasping sobs, he knew the only thing keeping him from planting his face in the sand was the woman grabbing at him.
If that wasn’t annoying, he didn’t know what was.
Travis gritted his teeth against the pain and grabbed her right back. He damned well wasn’t letting go until he had his footing. After a few seconds, her continual squirming and wriggling had a different effect on his body than vicious, shooting pain.