His Innocent Lover (Slade Security Team Series Book 3)

by North, Leslie

  Somehow she ended up trying the raw salmon—it was great, not fishy like she’d thought it would be. She’d also ended up talking about herself—a lot.

  How she’d never seen herself living anywhere else than Cheyenne, or doing anything other than marrying her high school sweetheart and becoming Mrs. Sam Collins. But Sam had gone off to serve in Afghanistan, met someone else, and hadn’t come back home. Then Dad’s wreck had brought them both to San Diego.

  Trent had nodded over that. “Best sports docs in the world, if you ask me. A board slammed me, but the docs put me right.” He broke off eating—he’d ordered something called tempura, fried seafood and crispy vegetables cooked in a batter, and the sushi for himself. He rubbed his right shoulder.

  She grinned. “I’m surprised you’d ever admit you couldn’t ride a wave.”

  “Nah—that’s the sport. Sometimes you ride the wave. Sometimes the wave rides you. You gotta be Zen about it. You about done with the food? Wanna walk to the beach? Sun’s going down.”

  Chloe nodded. She reached for the money in her pocket, but Trent was already up and had paid the bill. “My treat. Consider it a kind of late welcome to the big SD.” He leaned closer and held out a hand. “That stands for San Diego.”

  She grinned and took his hand. “Guess I may have to change my mind about raw fish. I can see what the grizzlies see in it now.”

  “Grizzly? That’s no way to talk about your old man. So, just how wrecked was he?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Try completely. Rolled his truck three times, wasn’t wearing his seat belt. The docs said he was lucky to be alive, but he’s not going to be happy unless he can get back on a horse again. We had to lease out the ranch to a hunting outfitter to cover the medical bills, but dad’s going to need a few years here just to get back to being able to walk.”

  She was babbling, she knew, running off at the mouth the way she always did when she was a little nervous. She shouldn’t be spilling everything. She asked him about his work, but he was vague about what he did.

  “I’m happy doing anything that gives me time to catch the good waves when they’re breaking.”

  She nodded. She could imagine he had part time jobs—and maybe rich parents. Her eyes widened at his car. It was a newer Jeep with the top down and two surf boards stuck in the back.

  The wind ruffled her hair as he drove. He found parking close to the shore—not too difficult a feat, given that the sun was going down. During the day, it was almost impossible to find a space.

  She climbed out of the Jeep and turned her face to the ocean. Salt water cooled her cheeks, but she’d never get tired of the sound of the waves breaking, the sea gulls crying, and the sight of all that water. Pulling in a deep breath, she shivered. The kelp-tanged air was cooling down fast and a fog had started to roll in from the sea.

  Trent came over and slung his arm over her shoulder. “Too cold?”

  She laughed. “You’re asking a girl from Wyoming, where the snow can get to be six feet deep, if it’s too cold? This is just a nice breeze.”

  He grinned, but he left his arm over her shoulder. “Snow’s a dry cold. Water chills you to the bone.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been in Wyoming—or at least in deep snow. Do you ski?”

  “Some. I’ve been around. Enough to know that there’s no place like home.” He swept his arm out. The sun was dipping into the Pacific, leaving a streak of orange on the water and in the sky.

  She smiled. “You know, I always loved learning about marine life when I was in school. I used to watch shows about underwater diving, but growing up in Wyoming, the closest you get to that is a few lakes or swimming in some of the cattle drinkers.”

  “Yuck.” Trent’s face screwed up. He walked with her along the shoreline. In this part of La Jolla, the water was mostly rocky cliffs, with only a small strip of sand down near the cove; so they stayed up on top of the cliffs, on the sidewalks. The biggest beaches, she knew, were around Mission Bay. San Diego itself was mostly harbor, fishing boats, marinas, and large Navy ships.

  As they walked, Trent talked about having grown up in San Diego—it sounded like he’d just about grown up on the water and in it. But he steered the conversation around to her again and asked her where she lived. He made a face when she mentioned the street.

  “What? It’s cheap and close to my work.”

  He turned them back toward the Jeep. “It’s dangerous. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard the sirens at all hours of the night.”

  She glanced sideways at him. “I just stay inside after dark.”

  They’d come back to the Jeep. He shook his head and jerked a thumb at it. “Come on. We’re finding you a new place to reside tonight.”

  Chloe backed away a step. “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, well, I know so. That street isn’t safe for the criminals who live there. Trust me. I know an awesome bungalow and it’s only five hundred a month. Bet you’re paying twice that.”

  She winced. She was paying twelve hundred, and that was without utilities. But Trent’s offer sounded too good to be true.

  He seemed to understand her hesitation. He jingled his keys and said, “Look, I’ll drive you over to see it. You don’t like, you don’t take. You can meet the landlady. She’s cool, and, hey, I wouldn’t mind a good neighbor. What do you say?”

  Chapter 5

  Trent kept telling himself that having Chloe nearby made good sense, as far as checking out Guardians of the Earth went. So far, she seemed pretty much up front. But he couldn’t rule out that Chloe knew more than she was saying about whatever was going on behind the scenes.

  He also had to admit, however, that he was attracted to the lovely Chloe, with her baggy clothes and her great smile. She wasn’t the kind of girl he usually dated. He went for party girls who knew the scene and who didn’t mind some casual fun. But something about Chloe—the air of naiveté and vulnerability, maybe—told him his usual methods of flashing a lot of charm might not work on her.

  He was going to go for the long game here. Which started with him showing off the extra bungalow behind his.

  His landlady worked for Slade Security, actually. Mrs. Wilson was a tough old broad, ex-Navy herself, who’d buried two Navy husbands. She smoked, swore like the sailor she’d been—WAC, actually, back in her day—and liked her whiskey. She also kept an eye on the place, which included a spare bungalow which was usually kept empty so that they could use it as a safe house if they needed to.

  Trent pulled up in front of the place and glanced at Chloe. Her eyes lit up. “Flowers.” She breathed out the word like it was a miracle.

  Trent glanced at the bungalows. There were four of them set around a courtyard, with the two back ones kept empty. He lived in the front one on the right and Mrs. Wilson had the left. The back wall was planted in blackberry bushes with razor wire fencing—no one was coming in the back on this place. All highly defensible. Hydrangeas and roses flowered in the front and the courtyard—Mrs. Wilson’s retirement hobby was gardening. She swore she’d spent a long enough time on the water and a body had to put down roots sometime. Trent wasn’t so sure about that.

  He was pretty sure Chloe was already sold on the place. Getting out of the Jeep, he told her, “Come and meet the house mom.” Mrs. Wilson—hair cut short and graying—had on a loud, loose mu-mu dress splashed with color. The TV was on behind her, showing a WWE fight with the sound muted. With a cigarette in one hand, she sized up Chloe, and swapped a stare with Trent.

  “Brought you someone to rent the back bungalow, Mrs. W.,” he said, drawling in his best surfer dude accent. Mrs. Wilson blanked her face—she’d caught the hint that something was up. “She’s like totally not believing it’s only five a month, but I like totally told her it’s not so much the money, as you lookin’ for a renter who won’t trash the place like those UCSD kids.”

  Mrs. W. caught Trent’s stare, she gave a small nod, and stubbed out her cigarette. She came out of her bungalow
, letting the screen door slam behind her. Facing Chloe, she asked, “And you are?”

  Chloe stuck out her hand. “Chloe Baker. I’m from Wyoming.”

  Mrs. W. almost rolled her eyes. Instead, she started shuffling to the back. “Well, come on then, Dorothy, and see the place. Built in the Twenties—you don’t get construction like this anymore. Solid lathe and plaster. Good pipes. My Jimmy used to take care of them. Now I’ve got this for a handyman.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Trent. “You staying long?”

  “Uh…a few months? A couple of years?”

  Mrs. W. glanced at her and swapped another look with Trent that promised he’d be getting a call from her later, asking what the hell was up and if Slade had approved this.

  Then Chloe blurted out, “You have beautiful roses. They’re heirlooms, aren’t they; and is that an Empress Josephine?”

  That did it. Mrs. W. lit up like a tipsy Christmas tree—the smell of whiskey on her couldn’t be missed—and the girls bonded over flowers. Trent let them. He figured Chloe was already sold on the place, but he let Mrs. W. give her the tour. She set ground rules, too—no men friends overnight. “It’s only a single bedroom, and if you want to be a hussy, go do it at their place.”

  Chloe actually blushed. “Oh, no, ma’am.”

  “Good girl.” Mrs. W. patted her wrist. “Parking’s out front. You don’t need a permit on this street, but trash guys come on Thursday, so make sure you don’t block ‘em. Utilities are extra, but usually don’t run more than fifty if you’re smart and don’t waste water. Place comes furnished. You can paint if you want. You want to move in tonight, you have this young man here do the heavy lifting. We can do paperwork in the morning. We got a deal?” Mrs. W. stuck out her hand, took Chloe’s, and shook it. “Course we do. Oh, and you can play music as loud as you want.” She knocked on a wall. “Solid lathe and plaster.”

  Chloe blinked. Before she could protest, Trent had ahold of her arm and was steering her back to his Jeep. “Let’s get your stuff, dude.”

  He parked in front of Chloe’s place, left the engine running, and asked for her key to get her stuff. She hesitated and he told her, “You stay here. I’ll pack you up. I did a stint as a moving guy, so I’m like pro at this. Keep an eye on my Jeep, will ya? I leave it here and I’ll be missing my rims and my radio in like five minutes.”

  She gave a sigh and handed over her keys. “It’s apartment 101. First one on the left.”

  He headed into the place. Half the porch lights were burned out, the pool smelled like a swamp, and the shabby room he walked into offered up an orange shag carpet and polyester on the beds. The old-style tube television had seen better days and he’d bet a twenty it didn’t work.

  He found a suitcase still unpacked—smart girl—closed it, got her things from the bathroom, and glanced around. A photograph of a guy on a horse sat next to the bed, along with an alarm clock. He grabbed those and that was that.

  He headed back outside. Throwing the suitcase into the back, he handed her the photo and the clock. “That it?”

  She nodded. “I left most of my stuff in Wyoming.”

  Hoping it’ll pull her back someday, Trent thought. Or not wanting the memories that came with the baggage.

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  She bit down on her lower lip—a nice, lush lip that didn’t deserve such abuse. “Uh…I don’t have one. Yet.”

  He nodded. “That’s cool. You can ride with me ‘till you find a ride.”

  She turned in her seat, the fabric of her clothing brushing against the upholstery. He caught that scent of hers again—that touch of patchouli that was spicy and also a touch of her own smell. It was a heady combination, and one he wouldn’t mind smelling on a regular basis. “Why are you doing this? Do you just…just go around rescuing people?”

  He pulled his mind back to the job. “Yeah, guess you could say that.”

  Pulling up in front of the bungalows, he grabbed her suitcase. At the front door, she stopped and faced him. She was shorter than he was—way shorter. With her baggy T-shirt and jeans, she looked more like a teenager. But he could see the swell of pert breasts as she hugged her photo and her clock.

  “Thank you. I…well, I’ve been here a month and no one’s been this nice to me or thoughtful, and…well, thank you. Really.”

  He put down her suitcase. Now he felt like a heel—he wasn’t doing this to be kind. He was doing this to get her to trust him so he could use her to be his inside man on the job. Damn.

  For a moment, he thought about trashing his plan. He’d tell her he was a phony—he wasn’t a surfer and she was working for the wrong people. But he couldn’t do that. Too many other people were depending on him—including Slade and Travis.

  He put on a smile. “We still on for Saturday and getting you up on a board?”

  “Sure. The office closes at noon on Saturday.”

  Trent raised his eyebrows. “Cool. Sounds like a nice perk.”

  “More like I’m in the way. That’s when they normally meet with their lawyers and the really rich donors. Everyone seems to talk quietly when I’m nearby, and I always feel like they can’t wait for me to leave.”

  Leaning against the door jam, Trent smiled. “Hey, sounds like maybe they’re trying to hide things. Ever think they could be up to something? Money laundering? Drug running? Terrorist activities?”

  She laughed. “Very funny. Yeah, Guardians of the Earth is a front for a group trying to take over the world. They’re good people.”

  Trent straightened. She sounded defensive—meaning, he was going to have to work hard to get her over to his side. He was also going to have to be careful. She could blow everything for him. “First surfing lesson tomorrow at one. You do know how to swim, right? I mean, not with cows?”

  Chloe smiled. “Hey, you have to go out into deep water sometimes! I’ll be ready.”

  Trent nodded. But he wasn’t sure she was ever going to be ready for the kind of lessons he was going to give her.

  Chapter 6

  Trent couldn’t have been more wrong about Chloe.

  He figured that out the next day when he met up with her at the cove. Sure, he expected her to have on a swimsuit—something sensible and one piece, or something to match that baggy T-shirt and jeans. Instead, her bikini was one of the skimpier ones he’d seen, and he’d seen a lot.

  Chloe’s body looked like it had been made for the suit. Small triangles of fabric covered her breasts, making his mouth water. The bottoms covered the necessities and left her hips just about bare. She’d pulled her hair into a high ponytail. It swished as she walked towards him, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of the sway of her hips. She was wearing a green cover-up, but instead of hiding her body, it only seemed to highlight her assets.

  He was instantly hard, his palms itching to put his hands on her. She leaned on his Jeep’s door and grinned. “You ready?”

  Boy was he. He forced a smile and cleared his dry throat. “Where did a girl from Wyoming find a suit like that?”

  Chloe glanced down at herself. “Do you like it? I wasn’t sure if it was okay or not. I bought a copy of the swimsuit edition of that sports magazine and went shopping. It was kind of expensive, but the girl at the store said I had the perfect body for it.”

  “I’ll say.” Her cheeks pinked. “Climb in.”

  She glanced behind her. “Aren’t we surfing here?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “Dude—I said meet at the cove, not surf it to start. You really want to begin with rocks at your back and gnarly waves? Thought you might like to try stylin’ at the Shores to start with.”

  “Oh…maybe you’re right.” She got in. Her cover up fluttered in the sea breeze and Trent had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road and off of her legs.

  “We should have calm to light winds offering up glassy, clean conditions with surf around the knee high range for most spots and a few rideable corners early on. Tide is pushing in at around four f
eet.”

  She grinned. “You sound like a weather reporter.”

  “Surf report. Check it every day.” He found a spot near the beaches of the Shore and parked. Climbing out, he grabbed his wet suit and one for Chloe. “Sorry to have to cover up that great suit, but you’ll be thanking me. The Pacific ain’t all that warm.” He showed her how to pull on the wet suit. He always kept a spare, because, yeah, surfing lessons were a great way to catch a date. The suit was big on her, but sleeveless, and hugged her like a second skin. It gave him the chance to lean close, catch a whiff of her scent, and put his hands on her. It was hard not to do more. She was so dang cute.

  She had her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth and a small frown tugging her eyebrows together. Trent wanted to kiss that small line. Instead, he touched a finger to her nose. “You got sunscreen on? Water fries you like tempura if you don’t watch it.”

  She nodded and put her hands on her hips. “I’m good.”

  He pulled a board from the back of his Jeep and pushed it at her. He grabbed the other one. “First lesson—how to carry your board and not drop it.”

  He’d brought body boards along, too, but he left them in the Jeep. He showed her how to carry her board—tucked under her arm, the front dipping a little, but not so low that it dragged. “We’re using short boards today—not the big old heavy ones. You can keep an eye on the front, but not the back; and watch how you turn, or you’re going to smack someone. Now let’s get to the beach and start with the basics.”

  ***

  “When do we get in the water?” Chloe put a hand over her eyes to shade them. The day was perfect. A blue sky, sea gulls wheeling overhead and calling out, low waves, and blue ocean. She’d walked down to the shoreline with her heart thudding, but Trent had her put her board on the sand and then spent way too long talking about balance and where to stand and how to use her hips and arms. He made her walk up and down the board—but all on sand. She wanted to get wet.

  The beach was crowded with those who came here for the sun. Colorful towels and umbrellas dotted the white sand. Kids could be heard laughing, playing in the sand and surf. Music drifted to her from various boom boxes and the wind brushed her ears. A few surfers waited out past the low swell of waves, looking for the big one they’d ride into shore.