Harlequin Intrigue June 2015 - Box Set 2 of 2: Navy SEAL NewlywedThe GuardianSecurity Breach

by Elle James

  “Damn it, I don’t want to be afraid in my house. But like it or not, you and I are here alone. We have to be careful. Besides, that’s our dock—your daddy’s dock,” she said, her voice tightening with grief.

  “Oh, Tristan,” she whispered. “I need you so much. I’m doing my best to live without you. Why are you still. Right. Here?” She slapped her forehead with two stiff fingers.

  “Right here in the very front of my brain. Why aren’t you fading, like a perfect memory should—” Her voice cracked and a couple of sobs escaped her throat. She pressed her lips together, hoping to hold in any more sobs. She didn’t want to cry. The more upset she got, the more restless the little bean.

  In all the years she’d been married to Tristan, in all the years she’d known him before that—essentially their whole lives—she’d never been afraid of anything. But the sound of footsteps had spooked her.

  “Don’t worry, bean. I’m not turning into a scaredy-cat. I came back here for the peace and quiet, and no alligator or poacher—or whatever that was—is going to scare me away.” Her brave words made her feel better, and as she relaxed, she realized how tired she was.

  Yawning, she checked the alarm system and armed the doors and windows, then headed toward the master bedroom.

  As she passed the closed door to her office, which they’d converted into a nursery, she realized she hadn’t even thought about checking her email. Too distracted by memories, she supposed.

  When she turned on the light, the desktop was empty. Her laptop wasn’t there, where it always sat. Automatically, she glanced around as if it might have gotten set aside by someone during the time she’d been in Baton Rouge with her mother-in-law.

  But by whom? And when? A chill ran down her spine at the thought of someone coming into her house.

  No, she told herself. Don’t start panicking. Think rationally about who of all the people who must have had access to the house could have done it. Obviously Maddy Tierney or Zach Winter, but Maddy would have told her, right? So...people from the crime scene unit? But all the evidence of Maddy’s kidnapping by the captain of the Pleiades Seagull was in the master bedroom. Why would they need to take her laptop computer?

  But if not them? Then she had a thought that sent her heart hammering. What if it had been Tristan? What if he was out there, hiding, and needed something from the laptop.

  “Stop it!” she cried. “You can’t go there every time something odd happens or you hear a strange sound. He’s dead and nothing is going to bring him back to life!” Blinking, she forced away all her silly romantic thoughts of Tristan out there somewhere, alive and hurt.

  Forget all the evidence about how he had died. Forget everything except one fact. He’d gone overboard into the dark, dangerous water and had never come out. That, if nothing else, told her he was really dead. If he were still alive, he would move heaven and earth to get to her. Tristan would die before he’d allow her to believe he was dead.

  With a quick shake of her head, she forced away thoughts of Tristan and concentrated on the missing laptop.

  Before she jumped to any conclusions, she should check with Maddy and Zach. They may have had to confiscate it so the hard drive and memory cards could be reviewed.

  Maybe Homeland Security or the NSA had needed it for evidence. That made sense, except for the fact that there was nothing on her laptop that could possibly be interesting to anyone other than herself.

  She checked her watch. It was just after ten. That was eleven Eastern time. She hesitated for a second, then pulled out her phone. Maddy had told her to call anytime if she needed anything.

  When her friend answered, she blurted out, “Maddy, did you or Zach take my laptop?”

  “What? Sandy? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Did either of you take my computer, or see someone else take it?”

  “It’s not there?”

  “No. It always sits on my desk in the nursery. Always. And it’s not there.”

  “No, we didn’t. We searched it. Remember, you gave us the password. We went through all the saved files, looking for anything that might have been related to Tristan’s death or the smuggling, but it was there when I left.” Maddy paused for a beat. “Have you seen any other signs that someone has been in your house?”

  Sandy’s tummy did a flip, which woke up the baby. He wriggled and kicked. “I don’t think so. The nursery is the only room I hadn’t been in. You’re sure it was here when you guys left?”

  “I am,” Maddy said. “Did you check with the crime scene unit or the sheriff?”

  “No,” Sandy said. “I called you first.”

  “Well, you need to call them. If they took it you should have gotten a receipt, but people forget things.”

  “So it disappeared after you left.” She paused, thinking. “Wait. Come to think of it, the alarm wasn’t set when I came in yesterday. It didn’t beep.”

  “So whoever took the laptop disarmed the alarm. Do a lot of people know the code?”

  Sandy shook her head. “Just me and Tristan.”

  “Maybe the crime scene team didn’t know how to arm it and didn’t realize you weren’t there.”

  “So someone’s been in the house,” Sandy murmured.

  “Listen to me, Sandy. It could be nothing, but just to be on the safe side, maybe you should go into town and stay at the hotel, or go back to Baton Rouge.”

  “No,” Sandy said. “This was probably some kid.”

  “Hold on a minute.”

  She heard Maddy talking to Zach, then suddenly the phone went silent. Maddy must have put it on mute. It didn’t matter, because Sandy knew what they were saying. They were discussing whether there was still any danger to Sandy or anyone else in Bonne Chance.

  “Maddy—” Sandy muttered. “Come on. Hurry up.”

  Finally Maddy unmuted her phone. “Sandy, if anything happens, call us, okay? We’re not on the case anymore, but it hasn’t been closed. So either Homeland Security or the NSA might reactivate it.”

  That quickly, the confidence that Sandy had in knowing that Homeland Security and the NSA had finished with Bonne Chance, the smugglers and Tristan’s death drained away. “Why would they do that?”

  Maddy hesitated—not for long, but it was long enough for Sandy to notice. “Maddy? You told me all the smugglers were arrested and the captain was killed by Boudreau. I thought that was the end of it.”

  “There are some things that we’re not allowed to talk about. There are some things we’re not even allowed to know.”

  “But you do know, don’t you? I knew you and Zach weren’t telling me everything. There’s more to Tristan’s death than you told me, isn’t there?”

  “Sandy, don’t.”

  “Maddy, I swear I will come over there and wring your neck if you don’t tell me what you know.”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  “No! Wait—” But Maddy was gone. Sandy waited impatiently. After about twenty seconds, she came back on the line.

  “Sandy, listen carefully, because I can only say this once. It’s possible—just possible—that your husband’s death was not an accident.”

  Sandy sat down. It was a good thing there was a chair right there. “What? So Zach was right? What happened? Is there some new evidence?”

  “Listen to me. We spent a week in your house while we searched for answers to what happened to Tristan and all we could come up with was that his death was suspicious.” Maddy took a breath. “So now Homeland Security is ramping up listening devices as well as working with the Coast Guard to do more spot inspections of the oil rigs. They’re obviously worried that there may be another group out there that’s planning something. Bonne Chance is probably one of the least populated and least noticed places on the Gulf Coast. It doesn’t even have streetlights e
xcept on Main Street.”

  “I know. Out here, we can barely see lights from the town on clear nights, or if there’s a fire we can see flames and smoke.”

  “Well, the darkness and isolation makes it desirable for smugglers.”

  “Maddy, you have to tell me why Zach—”

  “Sandy!” Maddy snapped. “What did I just tell you?”

  “A lot of vague stuff that you won’t explain. Fine. I’ll let you know if anything happens. That is if I’m able to.” Sandy was being sarcastic, but Maddy had just laid a new and awful truth on her and refused to explain it.

  Her husband may have been murdered.

  “Sandy, call the sheriff and get him to take fingerprints off the desk. That’s the easiest way to figure out who did it.”

  “If their prints are on file. But they probably aren’t.”

  “Call the sheriff, Sandy,” Maddy said.

  “Maddy, this might not make any sense to you, but I don’t want anyone in my house. I just got home. All I want to do is be here with the baby. We have a lot of things to sort out, him and me. There’s no real reason to get fingerprints, is there?”

  “Sandy, I mean it. I’m supposed to be in training this whole week, but I’ll take a break and call you if I have to.”

  “All right. I’ll call. Now can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. How are you feeling? Is the baby doing well?”

  “Yes. We’re both doing fine.”

  “Did that little thing ever fall off?”

  “Little thing?” Sandy said. “Oh, right. That’s what the doctor said about the sonogram. Not that I know of. It’s still there.”

  “So did he actually say it’s a boy?”

  “No. Apparently physicians don’t like to actually commit, but he sounded pretty sure. You know,” she said with a sad smile, “Tristan said we were having a boy. He really believed it.”

  “Aw, honey.”

  “I know. Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Sandy forced a laugh.

  “Have you thought of a name yet?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “So you’re back there in Bonne Chance. Are you and the baby going to stay there?”

  “I plan to,” she said. “But I might go back over to Baton Rouge when I’m closer to the delivery date. It might be easier, having Tristan’s mother to help me.”

  She barely listened as Maddy went on and on about what a great idea it was to go back to Baton Rouge. When she had a chance, she broke in and said goodbye, that she was going to sleep. Maddy warned her again what would happen if she didn’t call the sheriff, then they hung up.

  “Okay, bean. How about you? Do you think I should call the sheriff about the computer? Yeah. Me neither. Although I think I’ll go see Boudreau tomorrow. Let him know I’m back. He might have seen someone sneaking around the house.”

  She smiled as she rubbed the side of her tummy. “Although, if Boudreau saw somebody he didn’t know going into Tristan’s house when I wasn’t there, he’d probably shoot them.”

  Chapter Two

  Tristan woke up feeling relaxed. The early-morning sun shone across his bed, warming his legs. He took in a deep breath, scented with gardenias. Sandy. She’d glowed the last time he’d seen her, just as a pregnant woman should.

  As he smiled sleepily and turned toward her, searing pain tore through his calf, igniting painful memories.

  He wasn’t in his bed with his wife beside him. He was on a cot in his old Cajun friend Boudreau’s cabin, where he’d been since Boudreau saved his life.

  A memory of dark water and bright shark’s teeth hit his brain. His muscles tensed and the hot pain in his calf, where muscle had been ripped away by thick, sharp teeth, seized him again.

  Clenching his jaw and groaning quietly, he consciously relaxed his leg. He’d learned the hard way that if he could avoid tightening the tendons and whatever muscles were left on that side, it didn’t hurt quite so bad.

  The pain finally faded, but it was no relief. All he felt was a gaping emptiness inside. He was supposed to be dead. Was dead, as far as his hometown, Bonne Chance, Louisiana, and his family knew.

  He couldn’t have notified his family if he’d wanted to. According to Boudreau, he’d spent nearly two weeks unconscious, then when he finally woke up, he was too weak to stand and walk.

  Since then, he’d forced himself to walk every day, pushing through the awful pain. He couldn’t imagine how his mangled leg would ever work right, but if determination had anything to do with it, he would be successful.

  Every morning, he sent up a prayer of thanks to God for letting him live. He’d been granted quite a few miracles in the past two months, and that one was the greatest.

  He needed another miracle, though. He needed to walk across the dock from Boudreau’s cabin to his family home. The miracle he envisioned was that once he got to the house, Sandy would be there waiting for him, beautiful and happy because he was alive.

  He’d run to her without limping or falling and take her in his arms, feeling the swell of her tummy between them. She would take his hand and place it in just the right spot to feel their baby kick.

  But Sandy wasn’t there. She was in Baton Rouge with his mother, thank God.

  Thank God for several reasons. First, while seeing her might be his fondest dream, that wasn’t his primary motivation to recover as fast as he could. He had to find and bring to justice the man who’d ordered him killed.

  And to do that, he needed to retrieve a vital piece of evidence—at least, he hoped it would be vital. But he had to get his hands on it and it was in the house.

  As much as he longed for Sandy, he prayed she wouldn’t come back to Bonne Chance. Not until he’d tracked down the person who had tried to kill him and wanted him dead.

  While he’d been daydreaming about Sandy and their baby, the sun had risen above the window casing. From the floor, he picked up the bumpy cypress walking stick Boudreau had whittled for him,

  He took a deep, fortifying breath, then slowly sat up and swung his feet off the bed to the floor. Putting on his shoes was a painful chore, but not as painful as standing.

  He used the stick to lever himself upright. As he balanced, putting weight on his right leg, he grimaced in anticipation.

  And there it was. The pain. He cringed and tightened his grip on the walking stick. Outside, the morning sun shone through leaves and sent dappled shadows dancing across the ground.

  Tristan lifted his face and let the energizing sun’s heat soak through him, trying to keep his mind clear and open, trying to be glad he was alive.

  But as hard as he tried to stay in the warm, bright present, the nightmare of his struggle with death clutched at him. He couldn’t shake the memory of plunging into the dark, churning water off the oil rig.

  He relived each terrifying moment, as dark, chill salt water seeped in through his mouth and nose and the shock of cold on his skin paralyzed his muscles.

  He’d felt but hadn’t reacted to the bumps and nibbles and flesh-ripping bites of the sharks that circled him until he’d opened his eyes and saw blood everywhere. His blood. It had swirled and wafted past him like ink dripped in water, darker than the brownish water of the Gulf.

  Tristan gagged and coughed reflexively, and greedily sucked in fresh air until the horrible memories began to fade. He was beginning to appreciate the small things in life, like breathing. A wry smile touched his lips for a second as he limped over to a rough-hewn bench Boudreau had built under a pecan tree.

  He didn’t sit, because then he’d have to stand up again. Instead, he propped the walking stick against the bench and watched the morning come alive. Birds circled the yard, stopping to peck for seeds and nuts and insects.

  Boudreau had a goat tethered to a tree with a generous a
mount of line so it could wander almost uninhibited. A vague memory of cool milk sliding down his throat took away the remembered burn of salt water.

  As the quiet of dawn turned into the hustle and bustle of daytime in the bayou, Tristan made a decision. There was no more time for rest and recuperation. He had to solve the mystery of his near murder, and there was no better time than now. He would walk a mile today, all the way down to the dock and back. He was ready to walk that far. He had to be.

  When Boudreau appeared, carrying a bucketful of water from a hidden artesian spring, Tristan told him his plan.

  “What for you thinking about going down there?” Boudreau shook a finger at him. “You ain’t got the stamina yet, you. You want somewhere to go? Strip the sheets off that cot and take them down to the spring and wash them. Use that Ivory soap. It don’t hurt the water too much.” He stalked past Tristan into the house and within a moment came back out, carrying the bucket, now empty.

  “Haul up a bucketful of water when you’re done washing. See how that goes, then we’ll talk about how far you think you can walk.”

  “Boudreau,” Tristan said. “You saved my life. If you hadn’t been out fishing that morning and stopped the bleeding in my leg, I wouldn’t be alive now. I owe you too much and respect you too much to argue with you, but I can’t lie in bed any longer. I’ve got to strengthen this leg as much as I can, although I know it’s never going to be as good as it was.” He sighed. “There’s enough I won’t be able to do. I don’t want it to wither down to complete uselessness.”

  “Wither? Son, ain’t no use making up stories about what ain’t happened yet. The future gonna happen, yeah, but its story ain’t been writ yet. You start pushing yourself too much, you’ll undo the good you’ve done and, before you know it, you’ll accidently throw yourself into that future of your own making. See?”

  “So what should I picture, rather than the truth that without most of the muscle in my calf, I’ll never do better than a slow and painful limp for the rest of my life?” he asked bitterly.

  Boudreau studied him for a moment. “How ’bout you picture that pretty little wife of yours back home and mourning for you. See if that’s a better motivation.”