“Is he your husband?”
“If you hurt my dog, I’ll kill you.”
He’d already disarmed her with one fairly light touch, so he doubted she could manage to carry off that threat. Still, he knew she had the watch and he had no reason to piss her off even more.
Very slowly, he inched back and eased the dog to the floor. A noisy gust of wind rattled the whole place, hard enough to make the cheap, raised floor rock underneath them and terrify the dog, who took off to the front of the trailer, barking insanely.
“Nutmeg!” the woman called, jerking away, but Rick slammed his hands on narrow shoulders to hold her in place.
“The watch.”
She looked up at him, searching his face, her expression well guarded. Her hair was wild, fried by a bad home bleach job, and she didn’t wear a speck of makeup. Still, for trailer trash, she wasn’t bad looking. Pretty, even, but for the raw terror on her face. Maybe thirty, with wide-set eyes and southern belle skin. She looked like Hollywood had miscast a starlet for the role of a redneck.
“What’s it worth to you?” she demanded.
Everything. “Double whatever you’re asking.”
Another flicker of response. “How do you know I have it?”
“I know.”
This time there was definite interest in her look. Interest in money, not him.
“Are you seriously offering . . . ” Suddenly, she frowned, jerking away, her attention shifting. “Where’s Nutmeg?”
The dog had stopped barking.
She pushed him with far more force than he expected, wresting out of his grip and running into the darkness of the trailer. “She got out!”
He followed, jolted by the unexpected crack in her voice, and reached the other room in four long strides. She stood at the front door he’d bashed open, the rain falling hard and steady in the headlights he’d left on to help navigate his way.
“Nutmeg!” She screamed into the storm, then turned to him, fire in her eyes. “God damn you, she’s all I have in the whole world! She’ll never survive this!”
Something inside him squeezed tight in his chest. The same pressure he’d felt when he’d gotten the word that Granddad had passed. A punch of helpless guilt, a kick of loss. And he’d been ten thousand miles away from home on a trawler taking down Somalian pirates and couldn’t do a damn thing except kill pirates. Which he did, a lot.
She took a bold step into the downpour to call for the dog again, just as a furious gust ripped a branch off a tree twenty feet away, the wood splintering, the branch blowing inches from her face.
“She can’t be far,” he said, putting two hands on her shoulders, not as a threat this time, but to ease her back into the shelter of the trailer. “I’ll get her. What’s her name? Nutcase?”
She almost smiled, but tears filled her eyes. “Nutmeg. Please. Please find her.”
So blondie could disappear with his watch?
No, scratch that. He’d just offered to double the price, and he’d go four times higher than that if he had to.
She gripped his arms in a death squeeze, her fingers strong, warm, desperate. “Oh my God, I’ll die without her.” Wind buffeted the trailer, making her momentarily lose her balance and tumble into him, the pressure of her body surprisingly pleasant before she jerked away as if he’d burned her.
“Where does she usually walk?” he asked.
“She doesn’t. I mean, she never goes outside without a leash, and I just take her out back a couple times a day. She doesn’t know her way around here. She’ll be lost in minutes.”
“Get back inside.” He nudged her further out of the rain and stepped down into the mud. “I’ll find her.”
“I should go with you. She might come if she hears my voice.”
“Then stand here and call.” He took a few steps away, peering into the downpour and wind. The outer bands of this hurricane had made landfall and another tree branch could snap at any time. “I have a flashlight. Just wait here and stay under the roof. If it gets too bad, get in the bathroom, away from any windows.”
Without waiting for her response, he jogged to the car, opened the passenger side, and dug into the bag he’d brought for his brief mission. Which, except for a dumb dog, could be accomplished now.
“Nutmeg!” The woman had come back outside, the rain flattening that mess of her hair and soaking the thin T-shirt she wore. The headlights beamed right on her wet body, pulling his attention to feminine curves that, like the pretty face, seemed completely out of place in this trailer hiding in the woods.
Or maybe the trailer wasn’t hiding . . . maybe she was.
“Go back in,” he hollered over the wind. “I’ll find her.”
But would he get what he came for, or would this little enigma keep pretending she didn’t have it? “And you’ll give me my grandfather’s watch when I come back,” he added, as insurance.
Her eyes flashed wide open and she swiped water out of her eyes. “If you find my dog.”
He flipped on the flashlight to scan the scrub and brush. Nutmeg. Damn it, he’d find her if it killed him.
“Wait!” she called out, making him turn to look at her soaked silhouette again. “What’s your name?”
“Lieutenant Richard M. Stone, United States Navy SEAL, ma’am.”
She practically buckled with something that could only be called relief. “Oh. That’s . . . good.”
Usually, it was. “And you?”
“I’m . . . Billie Jo.”
Billie Jo. As in William Josephs, owner of the P.O. Box where Rick’s watch had just been shipped. “I’ll be back, Billie Jo,” he promised. “And I’ll have your dog.”
She disappeared in the house, hopefully to retrieve his watch. He couldn’t help noticing that she didn’t make any promises, though.
Inside, Billie took just one minute to catch her breath and count her blessings. He wasn’t hired by Frank, that would be her first blessing. He wanted that watch badly enough to pay good money, and that was another blessing because she could leave right away without waiting for a sale online. And if Nutmeg had to run away in a storm, who better to rescue her than a big, burly, Navy SEAL? The third blessing was the most intriguing, no doubt about it.
She headed back into the bedroom, disregarding the pools of muddy water left by her soaking wet clothes and the pounding rain that blew in the open door. Another gust made the cheap aluminum roof scream as it fought to stay on, reminding her that nothing was safe in this trailer, but she couldn’t leave now. She couldn’t leave Nutmeg or the Navy SEAL who was risking his life to save her dog.
Slipping into the bathroom, she dug through the duffle bag and pulled out the watch. The piece was in its original box, too, which added to the value. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she snapped the box open and took the watch off soft satin casing, turning it.
I am what you will be. I was what you are. R.M.S.
His voice echoed in her heart.
Richard M. Stone, United States Navy SEAL, ma’am.
An inexplicable thrill danced through her, making her crackle like a live wire had touched her wet skin. Of course, she needed the money, but what she wanted most was to see Richard M. Stone’s raw-boned face soften, because she just knew it would.
RMS . . . this belonged to him.
Footsteps pounded hard enough to wobble the whole trailer. She jumped, and the box fell off her lap, but she ran toward the front, stuffing the watch into her pocket because the minute he handed her Nutmeg, she’d hand him his treasure. Not for money, but because . . . he owned this.
And because he was a good man. A Navy SEAL, a hero, no doubt related to the original RMS. He was a man unlike—
“I knew you were too stupid to evacuate during a hurricane.”
Frank Perlow.
She didn’t even think, just launched herself right past him so fast she was practically airborne on her way out the door. He spun, but she heard him thud to the floor and swear, sliding in the puddle
s on the linoleum floor.
Billie didn’t bother to look back, she just took off as fast as she could go, directly into the storm, directly into the brush that scraped and tore at her skin and clothes. Nothing mattered but to run as far and as fast from Frank Perlow as she could. It was the only way to stay alive.
Nutmeg was a squirmy thing, but Rick held tight to his captive and muscled his way through the blinding rain toward the little trailer. It hadn’t taken that long to find the freaked out little pup, hidden under a thicket of mangroves, crying like a banshee. But in the time he’d searched, the next, more serious band of the storm had moved in. The flying leaves and small branches were blinding and dangerous.
He’d have to get both Billie and Nutmeg out of there, and fast, before the next gust took the place apart.
He powered on, waiting to get closer so she’d hear his victorious hoot. She’d be happy. Why that mattered to him, he had no clue. All he wanted was the watch that had been on his father’s wrist when he died.
Well, not all he wanted, he admitted to himself. In the last half hour, he’d wanted something else, too. He wanted to get to know Nutmeg’s owner a little better. Something about her intrigued him. What was she doing in the middle of nowhere, hiding in a rusty trailer?
“Let’s go see your pretty mistress, Nutcase. She’s got something I want.” As he came around the last grouping of thick scrub and oak, he slowed his step, frowning at the door he’d kicked open. Why was it open again?
Shaking off as much water as he could, he stepped inside. “Billie Jo?”
Nutmeg practically launched out of his hands with excitement, but there was no other response.
“Billie?” He closed the front door before putting the dog down and heading to the back. She must be hiding in the bathroom, maybe in the tub with a mattress over her head, which would be smart.
The wind was screaming now, loud as a freight train, and compounded by the noisy drumbeat of the downpour on the roof. This place wouldn’t last another hour, that was for sure.
“Billie!” he called one more time as he walked into the bedroom. Nutmeg barked loud and furious, so she must have known he’d rescued the dog. So where . . .
His gaze landed on the box on the floor next to the bed. Reaching down, he picked up the familiar case, the leather as soft and worn as he remembered, the inside still creamy satin. And empty.
Damn it, Rick. How could you be so fucking naïve?
For a moment, he just stared at the box, memories pouring over him like the rain on this tin trailer, flooding his senses. He’d held this case as a child, when his father first showed him the watch and promised if he went into the Navy, the watch would be handed down to him someday. He’d held the case when he sat with Granddad, after Dad had been shot down and Rick became next in line for the watch. He’d held the case when he left for BUD/S training, asking Granddad to keep the watch for him.
Then Granddad died while Rick was in Somalia, and his shit-for-brains cousin Dan sold everything he could get his hands on. For the past six months, Rick had a friend up in Boston tracking this thing, and it finally showed up on eBay, shipped here.
To William Josephs . . . or Billie Jo, the scam artist who had no last name, who had taken his watch and run.
Despite the roar of the wind and the smack of a good size branch against the mobile home, he stood there for a moment, frowning. What was wrong with this picture? She’d left on foot? The poor excuse for a truck was still parked in the back; he’d just seen it on his way in with the dog. So, unless someone came and picked her up, she was out there on her own.
Looking for the dog? Hiding the watch? Running . . . from him? Hadn’t he proved he was legit?
The shatter of glass and crunch of metal spurred him into action, the sound of a tree smashing that junky truck. Dropping the box, he snagged the dog and took off. This place was about to get eaten by Hurricane Damien.
He tossed the ball of fur onto his passenger seat before he climbed in to drive away. Just as he did, a powerful gust buffeted the car, so strong he swore the vehicle lifted up on two tires for a second, and so massive that the whole roof of the trailer ripped away and curled like the top of a sardine can.
If she’d hidden the watch inside somewhere, then he’d never find it when this storm was over. If she’d run off with it . . . well, she might not make it until morning. At which point, he’d deal with the coroner or law enforcement.
Billie Jo With No Last Name wasn’t his fucking problem.
Nutcase barked.
“Neither are you,” Rick muttered, turning the ignition on. “But you’re stuck with me now.”
Billie could barely drag her legs forward, her feet were so stuck in mud and her body was so soaked through to the bone. Still, she forced herself deeper into the mangroves and pepper trees that formed the forest of scrub.
She thought about running to the beach, but, for one thing, she couldn’t fight the wind. For another, the beach would be too out in the open. The nearest house was way down on the bay, but that’s where Frank would look for her. She couldn’t bring that lady and her teenage daughter into this if they were still there, riding out the storm. Frank would kill them, too.
A burst of body-flattening wind exploded through the scrub, ripping leaves and branches and throwing Billie backwards on her rear end. She cried out, but that just got her a mouthful of dirty, sandy water. She spit it out, peering into the blackness, laying on the bramble, not sure which death was scarier: the one inflicted by Frank or the one from mother nature.
Either way, she wasn’t going to make it through the night.
And what about Nutmeg? Another wave of misery, as strong as the wind, blew over her. Even if the Navy SEAL had rescued her, Frank would kill him and Nutmeg when they got back.
Maybe not. Maybe he’d kill Frank.
A flicker of hope sparked in her chest, enough to push her up, despite the impossible wind trying to grind her back down. A tree next to her cracked and sailed into the air, a whirlwind of leaves whipping wildly around her head. She sank again, using her arms to cover her face, rolling into a ball, sliding along the mud.
She didn’t even react to the thump on her back, so many stones and branches had hit her.
But she saw stars when a man’s hand snagged her wet hair and snapped her head backwards. And through the rain and swirling leaves, she saw the face of Frank Perlow.
“You little bitch,” he spat at her. “You thought you could hide?”
She jerked to the side, just wet enough to slip out of his hand, scrambling away. He caught up in two strides, the wind at his back, propelling him toward her.
“Leave me alone!” she managed to scream.
“I have been, Billie.”
He was so close now she could smell him. Despite the musky scent of wet earth and salt water in the air, every breath was full of the filthy, foul stench of a murderer. She managed a few more steps, just out of his reach.
“I’ve been waiting for the perfect opportunity,” he said, his words caught in the wind. “Now I can kill you and this storm will wipe away every bit of evidence.”
Of course. That’s what he was good at—killing without leaving a trace. Except that one time she had been the trace. She was the witness.
He lunged toward her, a knife flashing wet from the rain. She rolled further away, branches slicing her face, making her cry out in pain.
“This is gonna hurt more, Billie.” He brandished the knife, momentarily frozen by a gust of wind circling the other way. She used the delay to cling to a tree trunk to keep from blowing right into him and his knife.
He smiled. “I’m going to slide this blade across your throat.”
She tried to swallow, just imagining the horror and knowing he could and would make good on the threat.
He leaped forward, grabbing her shoulder and tearing her from the tree, tossing her to the ground. In an instant, he was above her, his knee jammed into her chest.
She
fought wildly, turning so she could scream, kicking, pushing, opening her mouth to chomp on his wrist but getting nothing but a downpour that choked her.
He was stronger and had the wind at his back now, leaning over her, lifting the knife, his steely gray eyes full of hate and the determination to silence the witness to his heinous crime.
The next gust pushed him closer, her punches useless against his much more substantive size.
“You’ll never tell anyone what you saw!” Once more, he lifted the knife, aimed directly at her throat. She twisted, moaned, and tried to jerk so he’d miss her. The knife came down and so did he, his weight landing hard on her while an echo of something sharp and loud and deafening rang in her ears.
A gunshot? Had she just heard a—
The pressure of his body suddenly disappeared as he was lifted by . . . the wind?
No, by a hero who held Frank’s bloodied body in one hand and a pistol in the other.
“Did he hurt you?” Rick dropped to his knees next to Billie, tossing Frank aside and reaching for her with hands so gentle and strong it was impossible to believe he’d fired the bullet that went into Frank’s head.
Impossible, but . . . amazing.
“No,” she managed to whisper, finally able to see him as he leaned over her protectively. “You killed him.”
“I saved you. Big difference.”
“You killed him,” she repeated, still unable to grasp the simple fact that was about to change her life back to normal.
“If that’s a big problem for you—”
She yanked his head closer, kissing him with all the fire and joy and relief and gratitude that rocked her with more force than the hurricane winds. And he kissed her back, opening his mouth, transferring the same tsunami of emotions, the same amount of need.
“I’ve been hiding from him for months,” she whimpered into his kiss.
He eased her up, so close that she could see cuts on his face, evidence of what he’d just battled to save her. “I knew it,” he said softly.
“You knew I was hiding from him?”
“I knew you wouldn’t run with my watch.”
She smiled. “It’s in my pocket. Where’s my dog?”
SEAL of My Dreams Page 37