Hell or High Water

by Julie Ann Walker

  Leo lifted a brow, chewing thoughtfully on a wad of Big Red. “That sounds serious,” he mused.

  “Hell no,” Bran scoffed. “It’s fun is what it is. There’s nothing physical. No strings. No pesky feelings or emotions to deal with. Just…friends.”

  Leo stopped chewing to narrow his eyes. “Since when have you ever been friends with a woman, Brando?”

  Bran shrugged. “Since Maddy Powers, I guess. First time for everything.”

  “Hmm.” Leo didn’t buy it. Especially since he and Olivia had started out as just friends, teasing and taunting and one-upping each other. And look where that had landed them…

  With her ignoring my emails. Because even if she was on assignment, surely she would’ve had the chance at some point to check her account, right? Although, maybe it was possible—

  “But, yo…” Bran interrupted his thoughts. “I’ve got something that’ll take both our minds off the fairer sex.”

  Leo pushed up from his lazy sprawl, suddenly alert. “It’s here?”

  Bran grinned, nodding. “Just dropped anchor. The others have already taken the dinghy to check it out. Mad Dog and Harper are piloting the skiff back to pick us up.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Like a fucking dream.” Bran wiggled his eyebrows, motioning over his shoulder with his chin. “Come on.”

  Leo was up and out the door in under a second, taking the porch steps two at a time and sliding on his sunglasses. The sun was sinking low in the western sky, painting the clouds in pinks and purples. The fluffy confections were being pushed eastward by the same breeze that rattled the leaves of the palm trees. When he stepped onto the beach, the warm sand sifted between his bare toes. But he didn’t feel it. His eyes were glued to the big salvage ship anchored just past the reef.

  Her hull gleamed a shiny gray on the upper two-thirds and a deep red on the lower one-third. There was a J-frame crane on the aft section and a HIAB hydraulic loader on the bow. She had what looked to be a pilothouse, a laboratory, and a computer room, and that’s just what he could see above deck. What was below was probably just as impressive. She was a beauty. No doubt about it.

  But honestly, he wouldn’t have expected anything less from Michael “Mad Dog” Wainwright. When Morales called the morning after Whackass Wednesday, asking Leo if there was any place he preferred to purchase a new salvage ship—Olivia hadn’t been shitting him; she’d come through like a champ, which was just one more reason on top of the ten billion reasons why he loved her—he hadn’t hesitated to point the man toward the other remaining member of the original Great Eight. Mad Dog’s family had been building ships in Atlantic City since before there was a boardwalk.

  Leo supposed he could have gone on ogling the gorgeous vessel for a good solid six hours, watching his friends and his uncle crawling around the deck inspecting things, if not for the fact that there was an extra person in the dinghy with Mad Dog and his wife, Harper. His former teammate had contacted him last week to say they’d be the ones delivering the ship—a second honeymoon and a chance to see Leo and the boys again. And that extra person was…survey says? Special Agent Olivia Mortier.

  Hot damn! Leo was so happy to see her black hair blowing in the breeze as the little skiff zoomed across the lagoon and up to the beach that he felt dizzy. Would have planted ass right there if not for Bran slinging an arm over his shoulder and keeping him steady.

  “I used to think civilians and operators could never make it work in the long run,” Bran said, watching Mad Dog cut the engine, hop out of the little rubber boat, and pull it onto the sand. “But I gotta say, I think you two have a fighting chance.”

  Leo was able to rip his eyeballs away from Olivia long enough to slide his best friend a glance. “I never said—”

  “You didn’t have to.” Bran chuckled. “It’s written all over your face when you look at her. And all over hers when she looks at you.”

  Leo closed his eyes and blew out a breath. Even though he’d convinced himself he hadn’t misread her, it was still good to hear he wasn’t the only one who thought she felt more for him than could be satisfied by a quick slap-and-tickle in the belly of some billionaire’s yacht.

  “Steady as she goes, bro,” Bran said, giving him a squeeze before jogging toward the trio walking up the beach.

  Leo was able, just barely, to unstick his feet from the sand and follow. He’d gone no more than ten steps when Mad Dog wrapped him in a bear hug pretty similar to the one he’d just given Bran, pounding him on the back until he feared the man might jostle a lung loose.

  “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, LT, you big piece of shit!” Mad Dog boomed.

  Leo chuckled, hugging him back. “Takes one to know one.” And as soon as Mad Dog set him down, Leo glanced over at his redheaded wife. “Harper,” he said, dipping his chin at her. “It’s good to see you again. Was the sail down from Atlantic City all right?”

  She made a face. “It would’ve been if I wasn’t already green with mornin’ sickness. I think I threw up over the side of her”—she hooked a thumb toward where the new salvage ship was bobbing with the tide—“about fifty times. Consider her good and christened.”

  Leo widened his eyes at Mad Dog. “Pregnant?” Now that’s how you grab life by the balls and really live it. Good for you, man.

  Mad Dog’s face split into the kind of satisfied smile only men who’ve planted a baby in the belly of the woman they adore can pull off. “Ten weeks.”

  “Mazel tov!” Bran crowed at the same time Leo offered the happy couple his congratulations. Then Bran threw his arm around Harper, hugging her until Mad Dog was forced to growl, “Get your dirty mitts off my wife, or find both of them cut off and shoved up your ass.”

  Bran chuckled, bending to kiss Harper’s cheek before dancing out of reach when Mad Dog took a swing at his head.

  Leo couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to look at her. Olivia. His Olivia—if she’d just pull her head out of her ass and admit it. And when he did look at her, he felt like he’d taken a haymaker to his diaphragm. He couldn’t breathe because she was so beautiful. Her inky hair wild around her face. Her soft cheeks pink from the sun. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, giving him a glimpse at her sexy front tooth.

  “Hello, Leo,” she murmured in that smoky voice he’d been hearing in his dreams for three long weeks now. Her subtle perfume drifted on the evening breeze, causing his nostrils to flare.

  “Olivia.” He nodded, giving himself major points for playing it cool when cool was the dead last thing he was feeling.

  “You ever get the feeling we’ve done this before?” she asked, tilting her head and referring to their initial salvos, which were basically the exact same greetings they’d given each other when she first arrived on Wayfarer Island the morning of Whackass Wednesday.

  “I’m beginnin’ to think that when it comes to you and me, it’s a case of as it ever was and—”

  “Ever shall be, darlin’,” she finished for him. “I think we need to get some new material.”

  “You won’t hear any complaints about that from me,” he said, his tone full of innuendo. His point being that simply “leaving it at that,” as she’d said that night before walking away from him, wasn’t going to cut the mustard.

  “Uh.” Bran glanced back and forth between them, no doubt feeling the tension radiating in the air. Quick to change the subject, he turned to Mad Dog. “Did you guys build that beauty in record time or what?”

  “As luck would have it,” Mad Dog said, flicking a look at Leo, then at Olivia, his expression turning contemplative, “we were already ninety percent done with her when the original buyer backed out a little over a month ago. Which is why I could tell Morales it’d only take us a week and a half to build her when he called asking how fast I could get a salvage ship done. And then it took us four more days to add the bells and whistles this one”—he shot a finger gun at Olivia—“insisted on. She was there every step of the way. M
aking sure we got it just right. Even down to the font we used on her name.”

  Leo glanced out at the ship, at the stark red lettering just visible from that distance. It read Deep Six. And it was perfect. The perfect name for the salvage company the six of them had finally gotten around to incorporating. Any other time he would have appreciated that fact. But right now he had something else on his mind.

  “So that’s where you’ve been all this time?” he demanded, feeling his blood pressure rise. “Atlantic City?”

  “Annnnddd that’s our cue,” Bran said to Mad Dog and Harper, motioning for them to head up the beach. “How about you two come up to the house with me? Let’s get something fun to drink. Uh…”—he stopped herding them and shook his head woefully at Harper—“sorry. Mad Dog and I will get something fun to drink and you, Mrs. Wainwright, will get something decidedly unfun to drink.”

  Leo watched them go, silently seething. She’d been in Atlantic City the whole time, and she hadn’t taken two minutes to let him know that she—

  “I got your emails,” she said, breaking into his heated thoughts.

  “Right.” He jerked his chin. “And you didn’t respond because?” He made a rolling motion with his hand.

  “Because I d-don’t…” She shook her head and swallowed. “I don’t understand. After everything that’s happened, how could you possibly want to keep seeing me?” And he’d been right about the first reason she’d been so willing to walk away from him. He figured he was right about the second reason too. “I mean, I get that the sex was—”

  “Stop right there,” he warned her, fisting his hands lest he reach out and shake her. Shake some sense into her. “This doesn’t have a cotton-pickin’ thing to do with the sex, and you know it.”

  She searched his face, her expression so damned sad and unsure it nearly had him grabbing his chest and falling to his knees. “Then what does it have to do with, Leo?”

  And having never been a coward, he gave her the straight, unvarnished truth. “It has to do with me lovin’ you and wantin’ to spend the rest of my life with your crazy, stubborn ass.”

  As soon as he got the words out, something awful happened. Her lower lip trembled. Her adorable chin quivered. Her blue eyes got huge. And then she collapsed in the sand, sitting cross-legged as if her knees had given out on her, wrenching sobs shaking her chest.

  He knew then what it took to make brave, fearless, tenderhearted Special Agent Olivia Mortier cry. It was something as simple and as monumental as having someone tell her they wanted her, that they loved her…

  * * *

  “Shh, darlin’,” Leo crooned, sitting next to her in the sand, an arm around her shaking shoulders. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

  And he did have her. But not only that, he loved her and he wanted her. For now. Forever. Oh God! She dissolved into another round of hiccuping sobs that shook her from head to toe. She was a hot mess. There were just no other words for it.

  What the heck is wrong with you, Mortier? When a man says he loves you, you’re supposed to tell him you love him too. Not sit in the sand and turn into a soggy heap of snot and tears.

  “Come here.” He dragged her into his lap so he could tuck her head under his chin and rock her gently, running his big hand over her hair. He was so warm and solid against her. And he smelled like Leo. Another round of blubbering gripped her in a hard fist, shaking her like a rag doll. He groaned. “You’re killin’ me, Olivia. You’ve got to stop that.”

  Yes, she did. She most certainly did. Because besides being inappropriate, it was completely mortifying. But no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t. “I-I’m s-sorry,” she sobbed. “B-but nobody has l-loved me, nobody has wanted me since my m-mother, and…and…”

  “Okay. All right.” He continued to rock her, to pet her, to place warm kisses atop her head, on her brow. “Just let it on out then. Just let it all out. I’ve got you. And I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

  And true to his word, he didn’t. He stayed with her for who knows how long as wave after wave of emotional upheaval crashed through her, over her. It felt like she’d been holding back rivers of tears for years, and his love had broken the dams that contained them. Now, there was no stopping the flood.

  But eventually, it did stop. And after she settled to sniffles and the occasional shudder, he whispered against her hair, “Now, in case part of why you’re so shaken up is because you think everyone’s right when they say there’s no way for this thing we got to work in the long run, I want to assure you I’ve thought all about that. And I figure I’m better suited than most at dealin’ with the repercussions of your job. It’s goin’ to kill me to send you off to—”

  “I’m not shaken up about that,” she interrupted, her heart so full of love and joy and hope that she was amazed it didn’t explode inside her chest and blow apart her rib cage.

  “Good.” He squeezed her tight.

  “Because I quit.”

  “What do you mean? Did somethin’ happen with Jonathan Wilson? I haven’t seen anything in the news about—”

  “No,” she was quick to assure him. “It doesn’t have anything to do with that. Agent Wilson is still being held and questioned. At first, he insisted he wasn’t going to say anything until his trial, wanting to martyr himself so that he would make big, splashy headlines.” She twisted her lips in disgust. “But that only lasted a couple of days. When the reality of lethal injection set in, he caved. He made a deal to give up his assets and divulge all the information he ever gave our enemies in exchange for a commuted sentence of life in prison. And you probably won’t see much in the headlines. The Company and all involved are doing their best to keep everything about him and his perfidy on the down-low.”

  “So then…I don’t understand. Why did you quit? When did you quit?”

  “I turned in my resignation to Morales the day I got back to DC.” And that had been one of the scariest and most freeing decisions she’d ever made.

  She could feel him hesitate, sense him holding back, not knowing if he should congratulate her or give her his condolences. “Why would you do that?” he asked cautiously.

  “Because I…well, I didn’t like it anymore.” She frowned, shaking her head. “I think maybe I never liked it. Not really. And I hated the violence,” she admitted with a shudder. Every night since it happened, she’d had nightmares about killing that terrorist, about the AK-47 jumping in her grip, about his neck flaying open. “I realized I wanted something more from my life than assets and assignments. I wanted…” She trailed off. A home. A family. People to love me. People I could love.

  “What?” he prodded.

  And it was then she realized all those things she wanted were bundled up in just one thing. One person. One man. “You,” she admitted. “I wanted you. I love you so damn much, Leo.”

  He sucked in a breath and got very still. She could hear his heart beating steadily beneath her ear, its rhythm matching the advance and retreat of the waves shushing against the beach.

  “Say it again,” he demanded, his low, syrupy accent sliding into her, traveling down to swirl delightfully her belly.

  “I love you.”

  He kissed her then. All deep, slow glides of his tongue and cinnamon-flavored deliciousness filling her mouth. His scratchy beard stubble abrading her cheeks and lips. She gave herself over to the moment, reveling in the feel of his strong arms around her, holding her tight. Imagining what it would be like to have those arms wrapped around her every day of her life. Her happiness was so complete she wondered if she was glowing, lit up like a roman candle. And just when the kiss changed, when it went from one of tenderness and warmth to one of passion and heat, a low buzz sounded in the sky to the south.

  They broke apart, and she was breathless. She glanced up in time to see a floatplane coming in for a landing in the lagoon. “Are you expecting company?” The aircraft’s pontoons hit the water with a sploosh and a hiss.

  “Christ on the cross
,” he grumbled. “I forgot all about that.”

  “What?”

  “That historian I hired to translate the documents from the Spanish Archives emailed yesterday to say he’d be headed our way. He thinks he’s found somethin’ that might interest me.”

  Olivia could feel the sudden excitement in Leo, a buzz that radiated through him. It was clearly catching. Because she was unexpectedly anxious, itching to hear what the historian had found. Scooting off his lap, she stood and wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks as the plane nosed onto the beach. It was a Seaplane Charters aircraft, and the minute the propeller clicked off, the captain propped open the door and hopped out. He was barefoot, wearing a wifebeater and sporting a scraggly beard that hung down to his beer belly. He looked more beach bum than pilot.

  Only in the Keys, Olivia thought with a snort.

  “Larry!” Leo called, pushing to a stand and dusting the sand from his shorts. She was appalled to discover the front of his white T-shirt was soaked with her tears. “How’s the wife?”

  “Got a pot roast waiting on me back home,” Larry called, opening the door to the fuselage. A giant duffel bag was handed out to him. Following that were the shapely legs of a woman. She hopped from the aircraft and took the bag from the pilot, saying a few words to him before heading up the beach toward them. If she was one inch over five feet, Olivia would eat her flip-flops for breakfast. And the woman looked about twelve years old.

  No one else exited the plane. And then Larry lifted himself back inside, cranking the engine.

  Oh, this should be good. Olivia quirked a brow at Leo. “I thought you said this historian you hired was a him not a her.”

  “Uhhh,” was all he managed before the flame-haired woman was standing in front of them, dropping the duffel and extending her hand.