by Brynley Bush
Before I can respond, he grabs my hand and says, “Let’s grab some lunch.”
I’m surprised to find that it’s already after one o’clock and I’m starving.
We make a quick trip to the car to deposit my enormous teddy bear and then we walk along the boardwalk toward Pacific Beach, talking and laughing amidst the roller-bladers and tourists and surfers just like any other couple. We stop at the Fat Fish Cantina where we order fish tacos and ice cold beers. We find a table on the patio and dig into the hot, flaky fish wrapped in corn tortillas. I have to remind myself that although this is kind of a date, we are ultimately here because we have business to discuss. After a few minutes I reluctantly say, “We should talk about your case.”
Griffin takes a long pull of his beer. “Alright,” he says easily. “Shoot.”
Chapter Ten
“Well,” I begin, pushing my food aside so I can concentrate on the conversation, “we’ve hit nothing but dead ends trying to find out who the anonymous donor is.” I look at him curiously. “I’m sure you have connections. Have you tried to find out for yourself?”
He nods. “My contacts haven’t come up with anything either. Which quite honestly makes me nervous,” he adds grimly.
“Me too,” I agree. “Your dad and brother have a legal contract giving them the intellectual property rights to all of their research, but given what you’ve told me about Camille, it still makes me a little nervous, too. There have been occasions where the Supreme Court has found in favor of the employer so to speak—the one financing the research—even when there was a contract in place.”
I take a sip of beer and continue. “Just to give you a little background, intellectual property involves four separate areas. Trademarks protect business identity, like Nike’s ‘just do it’ slogan, while copyrights protect creative expression such as writing, music, movies, and even software. There are patents, which protect inventions, designs, and scientific developments such as new medicines. The problem with your particular case is that, as I told you during our first meeting, natural products can’t be patented. Then there are trade secrets.”
I stop. Griffin is looking at me intently, his eyes sparkling and a small smile playing at his lips. “What?” I say, aware that he is not fully focused on what I’m saying.
He shakes his head, reaching across the table to lace his fingers with mine. “I never knew what a turn on it is to be with a smart woman,” he says, his voice low. “I’m getting hard just listening to you talk.”
Somewhere deep inside of me, the girl who used to try and hide exactly how smart she was stands a little taller.
To Griffin I say teasingly, “What kind of lame ass girls have you dated?”
“None like you,” he says seriously. “I’ve clearly been missing out.”
Taking a deep breath, I pull my hand from his with the pretense of picking up my taco, but the reality is I need to remind myself that this is sexual attraction, pure and simple. I’m starting to realize I could easily fall for Griffin, which would be catastrophic for both of us.
“Anyway,” I continue, clearing my throat. “Trade secrets protect proprietary information such as secret formulas like Coke. Or,” I look at him pointedly, “early-stage clinical development of potential new drugs.”
I have Griffin’s full attention now.
“The Court is very proactive in protecting the research of new drugs. In fact, not too long ago two employees of a well-known pharmaceutical company were charged with multiple counts of trade secret theft and conspiracy for selling research data to a Chinese company. The key is that you have to take ‘reasonable precautions to prevent disclosure’ for the information to be covered by trade secret protection. Reasonable precaution would include limiting access to the lab where they are conducting research and their computer networks, maintaining security policies, stuff like that. I’m sure your dad is familiar with all of this.
“However, you can’t officially file for trade secret protection; you can only seek civil remedies when the information has been misappropriated. Since we can’t apply for a patent since guanabana seeds are natural, the best way to protect your dad’s research is to prove that although he took reasonable precautions to prevent its disclosure, Camille stole the research and is using it to benefit herself and/or Coker. If we can prove that, neither she nor Coker can use any of the research data.
“It’s important to note that if the information can be acquired through independent development then it’s fair game. So if Coker can prove they were able to develop the same thing independently of your dad’s research and do it first, you’re out of luck unless you can prove that trickery, deception, or worse was employed by Camille that aided Coker’s development of the drug; then it may still be considered as misappropriation in the eyes of the law.”
Griffin nods thoughtfully. “So what’s next?” he asks.
“I recommend that we file a civil suit against Camille alleging that she dishonestly obtained your dad’s research and misappropriated his trade secrets. If we are able to prove our case, this will prevent Camille, Coker, and anyone else associated with her from further disclosing and using your dad’s research data and information. Unlike the other forms of intellectual property, trade secrets are protected by state law instead of federal law, so we will have to file suit in Texas. I will have local counsel in Houston to help file papers and avoid issues with local rules, but I will occasionally need to travel there.”
“I’ll take you whenever you need to go,” he says matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean?” I ask in confusion.
“I’m a pilot,” he says. “I have a small plane and I’m on leave from work so I can fly you there.”
“Geez,” I say with a groan. “You are killing me with your perfection. You cook, you fight bad guys, you fly planes, you’re great in bed. What don’t you do?”
“Laundry,” he deadpans, and I dissolve into laughter.
“Were you serious?” I ask a few minutes later. “You want to fly me to Houston yourself?”
“Dead serious,” he says. “Anytime. Just tell me when.”
“So…is it a teeny plane?” I ask.
“Kind of teeny,” he says with a smile. “Why? Is my fearless girl afraid of flying?”
My heart trips a little at him referring to me as his.
“Maybe a little,” I confess.
He leans across the table and places his hands on either side of my face, much like he did when I was afraid in the dark ocean. He looks me straight in the eye and says, “I will protect you with my life, Mila. You are safe with me.”
As I fall into the depths of his warm, golden eyes, I’m afraid nothing could be further from the truth. I’m far from safe with him.
After lunch, we leisurely stroll back down the boardwalk toward Mission Beach, stopping in a few of the funky shops along the way, including one where you can get henna tattoos.
“Ooh, I want one,” I say, reaching into my bag for my wallet. Griffin refuses to let me pay for it, insisting that it’s part of our date, and I laughingly concede even though he leverages his financial interest by talking me out of an anklet design in favor or an intricate swirl of flowers that starts under my belly button and ends just under the curve of my left breast. Griffin sits next to me, his eyes hooded as he watches an Indian woman painstakingly paint my body.
“I’m going to enjoy seeing this tonight,” he murmurs in my ear, and my insides clench deliciously at the thought.
“Why don’t you have any tattoos?” I ask him curiously. “I thought in your, um, line of business they were practically required.”
“That’s a common misconception,” he says, tearing his eyes away from my torso to look at me. His eyes narrow slightly. “Although some of the guys do have them, in my…business…it can be dangerous to have any identifying marks.”
I nod, amazed that I’m becoming comfortable with, and even impressed by the fact that Griffin is a Navy SEAL. Olivia w
ill have a heyday when she’s hears about this, I think wryly.
Because it takes the henna awhile to dry completely, I exchange my shirt for my bikini top, much to Griffin’s delight. Luckily, the afternoon sun is warm and I fit right in with the tourists, surfers, and beach goers who frequent the boardwalk in an assortment of swimwear.
When we get to Santa Clara Boulevard, Griffin tugs me to the left, leading me away from the boardwalk until we’re at the Mission Bay Aquatic Center. I look at him questioningly.
“I thought we’d take a sail and catch the sunset over the Pacific,” he says nonchalantly, as if sailing were as commonplace as going out to dinner. Maybe for him it is. For me, this is the cherry on top of the most perfect day ever, which I tell him.
“Good,” he says, his eyes warming at the compliment. He lowers his voice and adds, “But it’s far from over, Mila.”
I flush, remembering his promises about this evening, as he effortless hops aboard a small sailboat moored at the dock. Turning toward me, he places his hands around my bare waist and effortlessly lifts me, depositing me on the deck next to him.
“Do I even dare ask whose boat this is?” I sigh, looking around at the pristine yacht with its tall sails.
“It belongs to a buddy of mine,” he says as he expertly unwinds the rope that is keeping the boat moored. “He lets me borrow it in exchange for helping him with the upkeep.”
He pushes off with his foot, and within seconds we’re drifting away from the dock.
“C’mere,” he says as he deftly crosses the boat and takes a seat behind the wheel, patting the seat next to him. “Let me get us out of the marina, and then I’ll hoist the sail and we can relax a little.”
Given that he’s a sailor by trade, it shouldn’t surprise me that he’s completely in his element on the sailboat, but the easy way he maneuvers the boat and unfurls the sail is a total turn on. He’s confident and in absolute control, and I can’t help but admire the way his muscles flex as he goes about the business of sailing.
Once we’re out in open water, he walks around barefoot doing who knows what on the boat as I watch with barely concealed lust. Finally, he beckons me to the front of the boat where he spreads out a blanket and sits down on it, pulling me down with him until I’m snuggled in his arms. Sometimes in life there are moments of such pure perfection and absolute bliss that you want to take a snapshot, to freeze that moment so that you will never forget it. This is one of those moments—the smell of the sea and the wind in my hair, the glistening water, the soothing rocking of the boat, the endless Pacific before me, the San Diego skyline behind me, and Griffin’s arms around me.
We sit together in companionable silence for a while, enjoying each other and being on the ocean, before I ask curiously, “So what really made you decide to be a Navy SEAL?”
“I love the water,” he says simply.
“Lots of people love the water,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Very few of them become Navy SEALs.”
He smiles at me. “I’ve always loved what being a Navy SEAL meant. To me it meant being the toughest of the tough, invincible, untouchable.”
He runs his hand up my thigh, stopping to rest at the hem of my shorts, and I thrill at the warm intimacy of his touch.
“I was sick a lot as a kid,” he says quietly. “And I hated it. I hated that I couldn’t go out and play with my brothers, and I hated it that when I did, I couldn’t keep up. I hated going to the doctor and having blood drawn all the time and everyone treating me like I might break. I vowed that one day I would be faster and tougher and more bad-ass than anyone, so that no one would ever treat me like I was fragile again.”
He laughs, but I can hear a trace of the little boy who so desperately wanted to control his world and make himself strong and invincible. He glances out across the water. “When I first heard about the Navy SEAL program, I knew that was what I wanted to do. I think I was about twelve. I was better by then, so I started running after school and working out. I joined the swim team, worked hard at school, graduated at the top of my high school class and got my degree in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Virginia. I enlisted the day after graduation.”
My heart aches for the little boy he used to be that has made him the hero that he is today, but I know that the last thing he wants is pity. Instead, I lean forward and kiss him, gently at first and then more insistently, my tongue sliding into his mouth. He kisses me back hungrily, his fingers tangling in my hair as his tongue meets mine. We’re both lost in the kiss, his hand traveling up my bare back to the clasp at the back of my bikini top, when we hear wolf whistles from another boat passing by. Startled, I pull away. I can’t believe I almost let him take my top off in public! I blush and look away, but Griffin waves cheerfully and gives the other boat a thumbs up.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, extending his hand to help me up.
He adjusts the sails and goes below deck briefly, coming back with a picnic basket.
“You thought of everything,” I marvel as he opens the basket, revealing squares of cheese, luscious red strawberries, an assortment of crackers, a delicious smelling baguette, and slices of cold grilled chicken.
“I wanted our day together to be perfect,” he says simply, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Particularly since you insist that it may be the only one.” The look on his face implies he doesn’t believe that at all, and I realize that every moment I spend with him is only going to make it harder to leave.
He uncorks the wine and pours us each a glass. We eat and drink and talk. I tell him about growing up in the suburbs of Chicago with an overprotective Russian mother, going to college at Northwestern, and then law school at Stanford.
“I’ll bet it’s a kick to see the faces in the courtroom when you try a case,” he says with a huge grin. I’m lying on my back and he is stretched out on his side next to me, feeding me strawberries.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I say indignantly, sitting up.
“Mila, surely you know that with that face and that body, you sort of defy the stereotypes. It must be fun to bust them.”
He pulls me back down next to him and I let him. “It is,” I concede with an impish smile. “It was the same in school. I was on the drill team in high school, which made teachers assume that I was an airhead. It was always fun to see the look on their face when they handed back my first test of the class. They were always shocked when I got straight A's.”
“And you say I’m perfect,” he teases. “You’re smart, beautiful, sexy, brave…And ballsy,” he adds admiringly. “You about crushed me when you left me standing on the dance floor.”
“You are such a liar,” I say with a laugh.
“Would I lie to you?”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “You lie to me repeatedly.”
He looks offended. “When?” he challenges.
“For starters, when you told me you were in the security business,” I say pointedly.
“I am in the security business,” he protests. “My client just happens to be the United States.”
“And then there was your lie about leaving the country,” I continue.
“Listen, Mila,” he says, serious now as he holds my hand tightly, playing absentmindedly with my fingers. “That wasn’t a lie. I can’t explain or give you the details, not even Marcus knows about this, but as much as I hate it, it’s a very real possibility. If I could stay and be with you, I would do it.” A look of regret crosses his handsome features, followed by a steely resoluteness. “But I have to do what I have to do,” he says softly. He tilts my chin up and looks straight into my eyes. “Remember this, Mila. I have never lied to you and I never will. It’s not how I’m made.”
Although I want to deny what he’s saying, I know it’s true. I have never met a man with a higher code of ethics than Griffin. Even if he knew he could lie and get away with it, he wouldn’t.
“Okay,” I say softly.
It’s getting close to sunset, so
he maneuvers the boat out into the open water of the Pacific to give us the best vantage point to watch the spectacular show in the western sky. We sit together on the edge of the boat, our feet dangling in the water and Griffin’s arm comfortably around me as we watch the sun’s magnificent descent into the ocean.
Our talk turns back to his case, and I bring up what I was reluctant to mention at lunch.
“There is one way your dad and brother could unequivocally protect their research from Coker and Camille and every other pharmaceutical company,” I say cautiously.
He looks at me in surprise. “Okay. What’s the catch?”
I explain to him what I’d told Marcus earlier in the week—if they can isolate a molecule that’s close to the natural product they can easily get a patent that will stop anyone else from creating a similar drug.
“The problem,” I explain, “is that then they’re no longer marketing the natural guanabana seeds. They’re creating a synthetic drug.”
Griffin nods thoughtfully. “It’s definitely something to consider.”
“If you want, I could explain all of this to your dad and brother in person when I’m in Houston,” I offer.
“I think that’s a great idea. We could fly down next weekend.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” I say woefully. “It’s Labor Day weekend and I already have a plane ticket home to visit my family for the long weekend. Could we go the week after that? I should have the petition filed by then.”
“No worries,” he says lightly, kissing the hollow behind my ear. “We’ll go when you get back.”
His lips move lightly down my jawbone. “But if I can’t have you next weekend, I’m going to have to get as much of you as I can tonight.”
Chapter Eleven
Griffin has one more surprise for me after we’ve docked at the marina and are back on dry land. We walk from the marina over to Mission Beach, where Griffin has procured one of the fire pits on the beach. Within minutes he has a roaring fire going, and I am once again enfolded in the protective circle of his arms, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite places to be.