“A Danish and a spiced chai latte,” I answered then added. “Please.”
“A latte?”
“Thought I’d change it up a bit.”
“Right.” He smiled.
Weston smiled a lot. But when it was aimed in my direction it was different than when he smiled at McKenna. Not softer, but it reached his eyes and changed the meaning. I was quickly becoming addicted. Yesterday, I’d found myself saying silly things just to hear him chuckle or see him smile and shake his head at me like he thought I was amusing.
It was safe to say I was in the danger zone. The warnings were sounding all around me but I was ignoring them. I was no longer close to being in over my head, I was simply there. The pain would be immense and I knew it and was choosing to pretend I was living in a bubble.
It was working. I was open and honest with Weston, he was the same with me, and I was fast forgetting this was temporary.
“You gonna be okay here by yourself?” he asked and I glanced around the office I’d taken over.
Luckily he and Nix had been working downstairs in the conference room because all of my files were spread out over his desk, even yesterday’s to-go cup was still in the corner. Guilt at my inconsiderate takeover assailed me.
“I’m sorry your desk is such a mess,” I blurted out.
“What?”
“Your desk. I’ve moved all of your stuff. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Sweetheart, I could give a shit you moved my stuff aside.”
“Well, I do. It was rude. I didn’t even ask, I just came in here and took over your space.”
Weston pushed off the doorframe and stalked into the room, stopped next to me, swiveled the chair, then crouched so we were eye-to-eye.
God, I loved it when he did stuff like that. Anytime he had something to say, something important, he always made sure he was looking right at me.
“I like you in here,” he said. “I like knowing you’re up here working at my desk, surrounded by my things.”
And I was totally surrounded by him. His office was full of his Navy SEAL memorabilia. There was a handsome SEAL Trident carved out of wood that had pride of place on the wall. Next to that was a framed image of a group of bearded men all dressed in camouflage fatigues, holding rifles. The background was nondescript though it looked to be in the desert. One man, standing in the middle, was proudly holding a US flag. And among the warriors was none other than the President of the United States—Tom Anderson.
It was an awesome picture. Other pictures, similar but different, scattered the walls with other mementos mixed in.
I wouldn’t call it a shrine to Weston’s time in the Navy, but it was a reminder of how proud he was of his service. How much the men in those pictures meant to him.
“I like being in here, too,” I whispered.
“Good.” His hand went to the back of my neck and he gave it a squeeze before he put pressure there and mumbled, “Kiss me before I go.”
I didn’t think about denying his request, I couldn’t. I simply leaned forward and gave him what he wanted. Then he gave me what I wanted. A scorching kiss with lots of tongue and a fair amount of moaning. The sounds may’ve come from me, but the way Weston deepened the kiss I knew he liked them.
“Damn, you can fuckin’ kiss. Makes me lose my mind,” he murmured before he stood. “Be back.”
I watched his jean-covered ass as he moved across the space then disappeared. I did this thinking I obviously didn’t make him lose his mind enough—not like he made me lose mine—or at least not enough to make him want to have sex with me.
My eyes were crossing. I’d spent hours going over a month’s worth of the canal roster and schedules. Every ship that went through the canal was documented: time, date, crew, shipping manifests. Personal crafts were the same, save the cargo lists.
I’d flagged the ships I thought were worth looking into. But one stuck out. It was a personal craft, one that did not require a pilot to board to captain the boat. It was a sixty-foot Hatteras power cruiser. I was familiar with the vessel, I’d lived on one similar. The main deck was the salon, galley, and a head. The lower deck had two staterooms and a head. The sky deck had a lounge and a sky bridge.
In other words, it was a nice motor yacht. Not just luxury but mega-luxury. There was also no reason for the vessel to travel the C&D Canal four times a month. It wasn’t that kind of boat. It was meant for cruising. Fuel was expensive, there was nothing especially beautiful about the canal, and further, no one who had a one-point-eight-million-dollar yacht would waste their time cruising the canal. Even if they had the money to blow.
I gathered the papers I needed and headed down to the conference room to show Weston what I’d found, briefly stopping to poke my head in McKenna’s office asking her if she was ready for lunch. After ascertaining she was and what she wanted me to have the guys order, I went downstairs.
I was wondering how in the world I’d missed the Serafina’s numerous trips, when I walked into the conference room and was surprised to find Holden back.
The look on his face stopped me dead. He didn’t look like a man who’d just had a three-day vacation, he looked like a man who just found out his dog was run over.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Come in,” Nixon offered.
Everything was not okay. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to interrupt whatever conversation had put that kind of devastation in Holden’s eyes.
“Hey. Welcome home,” I chirped.
“Yep.”
Oh, boy, I was right. Something had happened. Though it wasn’t my place to ask, so instead I went about telling the guys what I found.
Weston was looking over the logs when Nixon’s phone rang.
“Swagger,” he clipped, and not for the first time I thought about how cool his last name was. “What the fuck?” His question to whoever was on the other end of the line had Weston standing. “Christ. How big of an issue is this gonna be?” There was a pause then. “Right. I’ll tell her.”
Nixon disconnected and Weston immediately started, “What happened?”
“That was Alec. Silver’s dad filed a missing persons report.”
“What?” I screeched.
“And went to the media,” Nixon finished.
“Fuck,” Weston growled. “Babe, there a reason your dad would freak out and file a report?”
“No,” I answered. “I barely speak to my dad. He wouldn’t have any idea if I was missing or not. Sometimes we go months without connecting.”
Why would my father think I was missing? Last I spoke to him he was setting off for the Galapagos Islands. That was almost four months ago. He said he’d be gone five and not to expect any calls. That was my dad—always on the move, always out of communication, always thinking of himself and the adventures he could take.
“You need to call him,” Nixon instructed.
“I can try. But last I heard he was in the middle of the Pacific. Can I use someone’s phone?”
My phone was not in my purse—the only thing that had been stolen out of it. My cash had been untouched, my credit cards, I’d even had my expensive watch tucked in the inside zipper and that was still there, too.
When I’d been taken captive the first thing the men did was take my work phone and toss it overboard.
We hadn’t replaced my phone, mainly because there was no reason. I didn’t need one when I was never without Weston and we were either at his house or the office.
“Sure.” Weston pulled his phone out of his back pocket and handed it to me.
Still remembering his code, I unlocked his phone and dialed my dad.
Surprisingly it rang—normally it would go to voicemail when it was out of range. And more shocking, he answered.
“Dad?”
“Silver? Oh, thank God. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“What? Why wouldn’t I be?” I asked, ignoring the panic in my dad’s voice.
“I tried to call you whe
n I got to Florida. A man answered, said he worked with you and you were missing. Just vanished and no one could find you.”
“Someone answered my phone?” I asked, and my gaze went to Weston. His spine snapped straight and his features went to stone. “Hold on, Dad.” I took the phone from my ear and found the speakerphone icon. “I’m back. Start from the beginning. Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Two days ago, I pulled into Florida and called you to tell you I was back early. When I called, a man answered and told me that no one could find you. You’d missed work, you weren’t at your apartment, and your car was in the parking lot at the yard.”
“Did the man tell you his name?” Weston asked.
“Who is that?” my dad asked, anger sliding into his tone.
“A friend,” I told him. “As you can see, I’m fine. Someone lied to you. Did they tell you a name?”
“No. I can’t see anything. Where are you?”
“Dad. Really, I’m fine.”
“Silver. Where are you? Tell me now or I call the police and have them track this phone call so they can come and bust you out.”
I glanced back at Weston with wide eyes. My dad was nuts. He’d call the police. He was also dramatic and used words like “bust out” like he was in some cop show.
Weston shook his head and mouthed the words ‘he can’t track the call.’ At least there was that, but he’d still call the police.
“Don’t call the police, Dad. I’m fine. I ate something bad, got sick at work, now I’m staying with a friend while I recuperate from food poisoning. My work knows, they’ve been notified. So whoever you spoke to is pullin’ a prank and I’d like to know who. It wasn’t cool getting you all upset. But I need you to make whatever calls you have to make and stop the manhunt for your not-so-missing daughter. And the media, Dad, really?”
“Not until I see you.”
“Well, considering you’re in Florida and I’m in Maryland that’s gonna be hard. But seriously, it’s not cool the cops are wasting resources on finding someone who is fine.”
“I’m in Delaware. Meet me at your apartment in twenty minutes.”
“What? Why are you in Delaware?”
“Because my goddamned daughter is missing. Where else would I be?”
Okay. That made me feel good. I didn’t know my dad had it in him to travel on dry land even if his only child was missing. But as nice as that felt, we now had a big problem.
“Fuck,” Nixon muttered.
“Mr. Coyle. Silver isn’t going back to her apartment. If you want to see her you’ll have to come to her.”
“I’ll come there and you let her go. Trade me for her.”
What the hell?
“Dad, this isn’t a hostage situation. I’ve told you I’m with my friends. Jeez, you’ve been watching too much Blue Bloods while out to sea.”
“I don’t know that. It sounds like a trap.”
“Mr. Coyle, it is not a trap. But if you’d feel better, I’ll meet you at the Kent County, Maryland Sheriff’s station,” Nixon entered the conversation. “As a matter of fact, that’s where I want to meet you.”
“Why?”
Great, now my dad was going to argue about where to meet even though Nixon was actually giving him what he wanted by involving the police.
“Because I want to make sure you weren’t followed.”
“Why would someone follow me if my daughter was safe?”
“Didn’t say she was safe,” Nixon told him and I braced for the theatrics.
“I knew it. How much do you want? Name your price—”
“Dad!” I shouted. “Just meet Nixon at the sheriff’s station and I’ll explain everything when I see you. But please be careful, and whatever you do, when you meet him, try and be normal. Just once, do not embarrass me.”
“I embarrass you?” he whispered and pain sliced through me.
“That’s not what I meant, Dad,” I sighed. “But you tend to lean toward drama worthy of an Academy Award. These are my friends, they’re going out of their way to keep me safe, and I don’t want to repay that with you going all Colombo on them.”
“Fine. I’ll meet them at the sheriff's station.”
“Do you need directions?” I asked.
“No, I’ll find it.”
“Bye, Dad, see you soon.”
“If there is one hair on my daughter’s head that’s hurt, no one will have to worry about Colombo. I’ll go all Clint Eastwood and paint the town red and you can take that to the bank.”
My dad disconnected and I rolled my eyes.
“Something we should worry about?” Nixon asked with his lips twitching. “Him going all Clint Eastwood?”
“If he has a harpoon, possibly. But other than that I think the only thing you’re gonna have to worry about is his flair for crazy.”
“You okay?” Weston asked.
My eyes swung to him and he wasn’t smiling—unlike Nixon, he didn’t find anything funny about my dad calling the police then acting like he was living out a scene from the movie Taken. He looked concerned. And once again, I liked it. I liked that he cared and showed it. I liked that he was worried how my dad’s unexpected appearance would make me feel.
I liked all of that so much, I did what I always did when Weston asked me something. I answered with one hundred percent honesty.
“I don’t know.”
“Right.” He moved around the table, walked right to me, and pulled me into his arms. “Whatever happens, I have your back.”
“I know,” I mumbled against his chest.
And I did know. Weston would never let me swing.
17
Dale Coyle was fucking nuts.
Weston was thrilled Nixon had met him at the sheriff’s station with Holden and that he’d stayed behind with Silver. She’d tried her best to cover up how nervous she was her dad was in town. But she was open about how freaked she was someone had answered her phone. And Weston had to admit that was fucked.
The only good news was, whoever was playing this game was an amateur. They couldn’t find Silver, therefore they were willing to use whatever they could—even the police and media—to get her out of hiding.
While Nix and Holden had been gone, Silver warned the rest of them about her father. She’d looked embarrassed when she told them he was a little over-the-top—which was an understatement—and he tended to lean on the side of drama—again, understatement.
They’d decided to meet back at the house and it was a good thing they had. Dale was loud, he was drama, and it had taken a solid hour to get him to understand they were not in some fucked-up action adventure Hollywood movie. And the only reason he finally stopped accusing the team of kidnapping and brainwashing his daughter was because Silver had stopped sugar-coating what had happened to her and laid it out.
After that, the man had looked freaked and pissed. Then he looked impressed his daughter had singlehandedly figured out the C&D canal was being used to run drugs. Then he’d gone back to freaked.
And that brought them to now—Dale trying to convince Silver to go back to Florida with him, get on his boat, and sail off to parts unknown.
“Dad, that’s not gonna happen,” Silver told him after the fifth time Dale had asked her to leave with him.
“You know I have room. And I’ve been waiting for you to take over,” Dale returned.
“And I’ve told you, I don’t want to take over.”
“Come on, Scout, it’s time. Give your old man a break. I want to retire.”
Something in Silver changed. It was subtle, but it was there. She lost the exasperated but friendly look and it went straight to stubborn.
“Then retire. But I am not taking over your business and I am not going to Florida with you to jump on your boat and run away from my problems. I’m staying right here.”
“Scout—”
“Enough, Dad. Weston has everything under control. I’m safe right here.”
Weston has everythin
g under control.
The single sentence echoed in his head like an invocation. A spell that tethered around his heart and squeezed until the organ damn near stopped beating.
“Are you? Do you even know these people?” Dale inquired.
The new change in Silver wasn’t subtle, it was immediate and fierce.
Weston didn’t have time to look around the room at his teammates, nor did he need to, to know they were just as annoyed as he was. But before he could speak, Silver beat him to it.
“You are unbelievable,” she seethed. “You’ve been gone for four months. During that time I haven’t heard hide nor hair from you. Not a call. Not an email. Not a text. Dale Coyle comes and goes as he pleases. Been that way my whole life, Dad. Only when I was a kid you had no choice but to drag me along. Now suddenly you’re here and worried about my safety? But you don’t pull me aside and have a rational, caring conversation. Instead, you do what you always do, make it about you. Me coming with you to take over your business so you can retire, making it not about me and whether or not I’m safe. And in the process of trying to get me to do what you want, you insult my friends. The very men who saved your daughter’s life. But do you thank them for that? No. You throw your drama, pitch a fit, and insult them.”
Time to shut this shit down.
“Dale,” Weston started and waited for the man to look at him before he continued. “Not only is Silver safer with us, but she’s also needed. Her knowledge and insight is invaluable.”
“So you’re using my daughter to help you find these drug dealers and you want me to believe she’d be safer in Maryland than on a boat in the middle of the Caribbean far away from all of this?”
Weston wasn’t about to explain himself or the operation to the man. He was irrational, selfish, and now Weston fully understood where Silver had learned to be stubborn. Only when she did it, it took very little to talk her around. And once she saw the truth she backed down. Not in a spineless, helpless way—in a rational, intelligent sense.
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